Lyla is the star of the St. Beatrice girls’ basketball team—or at least, she was last year, before she went on leave for some mysterious illness. Watching her play was like watching a star being born. She could net a ball from halfway across the court and already had college scouts coming to her games.
“Are we really talking about basketball right now?” the black girl next to her says. She’s got her hair pulled back into an elegant bun above the stiff collar of her starched white shirt, which is tucked into a yellow plaid skirt that looks like a boarding school uniform but I suspect isn’t. She looks vaguely familiar, but when I try to place her, I can’t. “How about we stick to the salient point?” she continues. “It’s Hope, right? When did you get your invitation? Was it an evite too? Because maybe we can trace it.”
And all at once it hits me who she is: Nicole Morgan, the president of every committee possible at St. Beatrice and the girl Ethan was interested in for about five minutes until he realized she was wound tighter than a spring. He’s still haunted by their awkward first—and only—date, to the East End Grill, where Nikki spent the whole hour one-upping everything he said and spinning every conversation so it revolved around her—when she wasn’t worrying incessantly about her impending curfew. “I’m pretty sure she thought she was going to be graded on the date,” Ethan had said.
“What am I doing here?” I ask, my voice high with tension.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Who invited us here and why?” A girl steps from the shadows, and now I know who the BMW belongs to. Farrah Weir-Montgomery has her sleek dark hair pulled into a loose braid, and her enviable curves are on full display in a fitted pair of designer jeans and a tank top she somehow manages to make look cutting-edge. She tosses her braid over her golden brown shoulder, and even in the dim, flickering light of the warehouse, it shines. I get the feeling it would shine in the dark. Farrah is the definition of shiny.
A strange sense of relief pours through me. Seeing her here, a member of high school royalty, from a family who practically owns New Orleans—seeing all these girls I know, even if peripherally—makes the warehouse seem a bit less scary.
“I got an invitation—an evite, like Nikki said.” I reach for my bag and realize it’s missing.
“Looking for this?” Hartley holds up my purse, mischief written all over her face.
“What the hell—give that back!” I leap for it, but she snatches it away, cackle-laughing.
“Hartley, you’re wasting time,” Nikki says. “Every minute is a minute I don’t want to be here.” She presses a hand against her temple, pacing quickly over the dusty floors. “Oh God, my mom will freak if she sees I’m gone. And I’m volunteering for extra credit at eight in the morning.” She looks at her watch and hisses.
“Oh, relax.” Hartley tosses my purse to me. I’m not prepared for it, and it smacks me in the chest before hitting the ground. I drop to my knees and frantically sift through my bag, sighing with relief when I find my inhaler undamaged. I send Hartley a withering glare, then set the inhaler aside and pull out my phone, bringing up the invitation on the screen with shaky fingers. “See?” I wave it triumphantly.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t for every one of them to produce their own phones and their own invitations.
I grab the cell nearest to me and manage to catch the words “wouldn’t want anyone to find out about” at the bottom of the invite before Farrah snatches it back.
“Find out about what?” I ask.
“None of your business.” Farrah quickly stows her phone in her jeweled clutch.
“We all got one,” Lyla points out helpfully. Her accent is real Louisiana. The kind I envied when we moved here, all soft edges and warmth.
The Bad Girl, the Smart Girl, the Rich Girl, the Sporty Girl, and the Sick Girl. It’s such a strange and random assortment of people, I wonder if we were invited here for some sort of Breakfast Club redux.
“I got here first and found this.” Lyla holds out a letter. I grab it from her, then wish I hadn’t when I can’t conceal my shaking hands.
“?‘Congratulations,’?” I say, reading aloud. I glance up. Lyla nods, and I clear my voice and continue.
You have been selected to be a part of a unique and thrilling experience. Over the next two weeks, each of you will compete in a series of dares. The rules are simple: complete the dare, move to the next round. The winner of the game will take home a grand prize of $100,000. Fail the dare, and you will be eliminated. Tell anyone about the game, and you will be punished. Cheat in the game, and you will be punished. Refuse to play the game?
We think you know what happens.
Of course, we understand that some of you may have some reservations about the legitimacy of this game. To put your minds at ease and to thank you for coming, please accept this gift on behalf of your grateful Society.
Which of you is bravest? Who will take home the prize?
Take the challenge. Play the game. If you dare.