Inside Straight

Caroline Spector Metagames

“You lose.”

Are there worse words in the universe to hear?

Sure. “You’ve got cancer” tops it, but the odds are low that I’ve got cancer at age nineteen. Right now, though, I’m a loser.

The Diamonds are losers. And we’re doing it on national television. Not to mention the coverage we’re getting on YouTube.com and every freaking blog in the universe.

And now we’re going to Discard. Again.

I hate Discard.

“This sucks.”

That was Tiffani, and her West Virginia accent got thicker when she was mad. She was changing out of her show clothes into her sweats. I tried not to sneak a look at her, but she wasn’t being shy about changing in front of me. And why would she be anyway? It was just us girls here. Her skin was the color of white oleanders, and she smelled like sweet sweat and musky roses.

“I am sick of losing challenges,” she said as she hooked her bra. “We would have won if Matryoshka had kept control of his copies.”

“Yeah, I hate losing, too.” I didn’t like the camera being on us as we changed, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was in the contract. The only time you could be alone was in the bathroom. And then you had to be alone. No one could come in with you unless there was a camera following. No wonder I felt like I was going crazy.

Of course, in my pre-wild-card life I’d been shot almost naked by some of the best photographers in the business. Not that any of them would recognize me now. I’m big as a house.

I grunted as I pulled on my pants. I was still pretty large, even after all the bubbling in the last challenge. There had been one last hard hit before we lost, and it had plumped me up.

There was a knock on the door. Ink stuck her head in the room. She was a tiny girl with spiky black hair and tattoos writhing across her body. “They’re set up and ready for the Discard ceremony,” she said.

Tiffani glanced in the mirror. She looked amazing—her cloud of fiery hair a sharp contrast to her milky skin.

I didn’t bother to look at myself. I knew I’d be disappointed.

Jetman and Matryoshka were sitting at the table when we arrived. Matryoshka had recombined himself, so he was at his full intellect. Not that his full intellect was any great shakes, but he was a nice guy, and he made great pierogi. Not as good as the late, lamented Second Avenue Deli in New York, but damn good nonetheless. We were the same age, but I always felt as if I were older than him. Like a big sister.

“Come along, children,” said the Harlem Hammer. He was the one judge I actually liked.

Tiffani and I took our seats. The Hammer had a deck of cards in front of him. The Discard deck. Blarg.

I glanced at Tiffani. Her mouth was pulled in a tight line. Losing that last challenge had been horrible. We all hated losing.

“I think we did okay, until the end,” said Matryoshka.

Tiff shot him a look that could have melted glass. “Well, it doesn’t matter how we did up until the part where we lost, does it?” she snapped.

Matryoshka looked at her like a wounded puppy. I felt bad for him.

“I think you’re being too harsh on Ivan,” Jetman said. He was slightly older than the rest of us and, because of his obsession with Jetboy, he tended to have old-fashioned notions about things. “He can’t help getting kind of, well, er, uhm…”

“Stupid?” I said and immediately hated myself. It was true, but…

“I’m sorry, Ivan.”

Matryoshka shrugged. He was stoic, I’ll say that for him. The Harlem Hammer tried to get us talking about the challenge, but we weren’t much help. We’d lost every one thus far. Our team was pretty much decimated. And now we had to throw another person under the bus.

The cards were dealt and I slowly picked up my hand. Tiffani, Jetman, Matryoshka, and my own face stared back at me. Tiffani had plucked her card out, and it was already lying facedown on the table. She looked calm and cool, and I wished I felt as certain about whom to choose.

I doubted I would be chosen. I was the only one who had performed well on all the challenges. I figured, if the Diamonds ever hoped to win one, they needed to keep me.

Jetman had a way with gadgets and he always managed to come up with the right gizmo during challenges. And he could fly with his jetpack, which came in handy. Oh, and his guns were good, too. One shot sleeping gas and the other a net.

I fiddled with the edge of Matryoshka’s card. Despite the fact that his Mini-Me’s got dumber and dumber as he divided, they could be effective at overwhelming opponents. I looked at Tiffani’s card. There was a slight smile on her face in the photo. It made the corners of her aquamarine eyes crinkle. She was pretty much impervious to harm, and that was great except… well, she sucked in a fight.

I pushed that thought away. It wasn’t really fair. She didn’t choose to have a power with no real offensive capabilities. And Tiffani and I had been together since the Atlanta tryouts. We were the only two who had made the show from Atlanta. She’d never voted against me, and I’d never voted against her. I guess we had a sort of unspoken alliance.

I glanced up and caught Jetman looking at me. I felt a stab of fear in my stomach. Maybe he was thinking of putting me in the Discards.

“You need to make your selections,” the Harlem Hammer said. His voice was deep and reminded me of the Barry White albums my parents used to play. I shoved that away, too. I tried not to think about my parents anymore.

Matryoshka pulled a card from his hand and placed it facedown on the table. Jetman followed.

“What’s it going to be, Bubbles?” the Hammer asked me. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I sighed and picked a card. The Harlem Hammer gathered our discards, shuffled them, and made a small deck.

He turned the first card over. Tiffani’s face stared up at us. I glanced at her. She gave me a tight smile, then looked back at the board.

The next card was Matryoshka. He frowned and shook his head slightly. Another card turned. Matryoshka again.

“One vote left. Is it going to be two pair or a set?”

With quick efficiency, The Hammer dealt the last card.

Matryoshka.

Tiffani breathed a sigh of relief. So did I.

Matryoshka and Jetman were already standing, shaking hands, and doing that back-slapping thing guys did to prove that they liked each other, but not in a “gay” way. I stood and walked around the table. Matryoshka and I hugged. He was a big guy, but his arms barely made it around my girth. I felt terrible that I had chosen him, but I had to think of the team—and who would be the best American Hero.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection, depressed about voting Matryoshka off. I started thinking about all the other nice people I’d voted to discard. Blrr and the Maharajah were both really decent. Joe Twitch had some issues, though, and I knew he had pissed Tiff off.

“Michelle, you know you can’t be in there for too long.” It was Ink—again.

I glowered at my reflection. I’d been using a colored hair spray to change my platinum hair to black. The shade did nothing for me—turning my skin sallow rather than the pale olive luminescence which had earned me hundreds of thousands of dollars in modeling contracts. But no one had recognized me thus far. The dark hair alone wouldn’t have masked my identity—but my wild card did.

The face staring back wasn’t the one I knew. The upward-slashing cheekbones, so beloved by photographers, were buried under chubby pink flesh. The sculpted jaw line that had once made my neck look even more swanlike was obscured by a roll of fat. Only my eyes were unchanged. I called them dog-shit brown. They were fringed with one of my genetic quirks—a double row of long black lashes.

I was a freak of nature long before my card turned. I’m taller than average, and my legs and arms are abnormally long for my body. In short, I was a photographer’s dream. I’d been modeling since I was a child. My parents had leased me out to the highest bidder and exploited me like carnival barkers peddling Siamese twins.

But then my card had turned.

Things were different now. People didn’t stare at me in the same way. And when I did catch someone’s eye, now there was usually a breathtaking look of pity there.

Ink banged on the door again. “Michelle, you have a contract. Everyone else has already done their Confessional.”

“Can’t I go to the bathroom in peace?” I put the toilet lid up and let a small bubble rise on my fingertip, then let it drop into the water with a satisfying plop. It looked pretty until it hit—as iridescent and apparently insubstantial as any soap bubble. But I’d given it plenty of density, and it sounded convincingly turdlike. Unfortunately, it was heavy enough that it chipped the porcelain, but I decided that no one would be likely to notice. That should keep Ink from bugging me for a few minutes.

Then I felt crummy. Ink had been nice to me.

At least it still felt good to bubble. It tingled and sang in my bones and skin. Bubbling pulsed through my blood and throbbed like another heartbeat. Sometimes I thought I’d go crazy if I didn’t get to bubble more often—but the bubbling made me skinnier, and I couldn’t afford to be recognized.

“Are you okay?” Ink sounded worried.

“What’s going on?” I heard Tiffani ask.

I flushed the toilet and opened the door.

“You’re supposed to do a Confessional after Discard,” Ink said. She had changed her tattoos, and they scrolled across her arms like a crazy Mayan tally board.

“Are you okay?” Tiffani asked. She gave Ink a pleading look. “Can you guys give us just a few minutes?” If she had looked at me the way she was looking at Ink, I’d’ve agreed to anything. “Just have them turn on the shower cam. We’ll keep in range. I mean, it’s the bathroom. How far are we going to go?”

Ink snorted. “Fine. You have five minutes, and then I’m coming in with the whole crew.”

Tiffani and I went back into the bathroom and closed the door. The light on the shower cam blinked on.

“Okay, so why are you so depressed?” Tiff asked.

I sighed. “I guess it’s mostly getting rid of Matryoshka. He was a great guy. He didn’t deserve to go.”

Tiffani glanced in the mirror, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. “I hate the way I look,” she said, then turned back to me. “Listen, this is a competition. There are rules, and we have to play by them. If we lose challenges, we lose teammates.”

There was a towel on the floor, and I picked it up and began folding it. “I know, I know. I just don’t get why we’ve been losing every challenge. I mean, we all try so hard. I just hate that we have to vote people off.”

Tiff grabbed a brush from my basket of toiletries on the counter. She closed the toilet lid, then sat me down and started working on my hair. “I don’t understand why you keep making your hair black with that crappy spray dye. You’ve got nice hair under this mess.” She sectioned off a chunk and started to braid it. It felt good to have her hands on me, even if she was just doing it out of habit. She had a bunch of sisters, and she’d told me they’d always braided each other’s hair.

The braiding was relaxing. “I’ve been feeling bad since Blrr,” I said. “Joe Twitch was… well, after he stripped you naked in like five seconds, I wasn’t going to have him in the house anymore, but Blrr was a good kid and a great housemate.”

“Her power was useless without the right conditions,” Tiffani said as she started braiding the other section of my hair. “The other teams are all thinking the same way. Who’s good in challenges, and who you can’t stand to live with. Though how any one could live with Stuntman is beyond me. He’s such a jerk.”

Tiff tied off my braid. I stood up and looked in the mirror. I used to love the way I looked in braids, but not now. They just made my face look rounder.

“You don’t like them,” Tiff said sadly. “It’s not them. It’s my face.”

Tiff stood on tiptoe and gave me a quick kiss on my cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with your face, Michelle.”

I blushed and looked down. I didn’t know if she felt the same way about me as I did about her, but my cheek was burning where her lips had touched it.

There was a hard bang on the bathroom door. “All right, you guys,” Ink said. “We’re coming in.”

The door swung open, and the floating camera crew started to file in.

“We were just leaving,” Tiff said as she slipped past them. I couldn’t slip past anyone anymore and had to stand there, like an idiot, until they backed out of the room.

The sound guy clipped a mic onto the neck of my hoodie. I sat in the Confessional chair and started pulling the braids out of my hair.

“You don’t need to do that.” Ink had changed her tats again. Now there were a series of typewritten questions on her arms. But she had kept the Mayan images on her face and legs. “They look nice. You’re one of the prettiest girls on the show.”

I shrank back in the chair. Well, as much as my girth would allow me to. No one thought I was pretty anymore.

“So, why do we always have to drag you into doing your Confessionals?” Ink asked.

The red eye of the camera blinked on. They were rolling again, sucking me into that meat grinder. I looked at Ink so I wouldn’t have to look in the camera again. It didn’t love me anymore. “I know I haven’t done as many Confessionals as everyone else. I guess I just didn’t have much to say.”

A disappointed expression slipped across Ink’s face. I knew I was making her job more difficult, but of all the things we did on the show, this was the one that made me most uncomfortable. Tiffani loved Confessional. I don’t know why. The Maharajah had started calling her the Little Nun because she was always in there. So we had all called her that—until the Maharajah got voted off.

“So, what do you think about the other contestants, now that we’re getting close to a reshuffle?”

I noticed that the end of one of the ties on my hoodie was frayed, and I started to worry it. My hands had been so beautiful. Now the nails were ragged and the cuticles raw. I heard Ink make a throat-clearing noise, and I knew I had to answer her.

“I guess… I guess I like most of the other players.” I glanced up and saw Ink frown at me. “I mean, I like my teammates. The ones that are left. And I think Dragon Girl is sweet, even if she is, you know, kinda young to be on the show.”

“What about Rosa Loteria?”

I looked away from the camera. I wished she hadn’t asked about Rosa. “Well, I don’t know her all that well,” I said. “I’ve only really seen her at press stuff.”

“But how do you feel about her?”

I sighed. I had to talk—it was in that damned contract. “I don’t think she cares about being a hero. She only cares about making money and being famous.”

“And that’s bad, right?”

I looked up at the camera this time. “No, it’s not bad to want those things. But this isn’t about getting money or being famous. It’s about being a hero.”

“Do you think Tiffani is heroic?”

“I think she tries to be.” I assumed Tiff felt the same way about American Hero that I did. She had had my back. She’d told me she had never voted against me, not once.

“Well, what do you think a hero is?” Ink asked.

“It’s not just acts of physical courage. What’s a hero, if you can’t trust them to keep their word? What’s a hero, if they would betray a friend? What’s a hero, if they think of themselves before anyone else?” I looked Ink straight in the eye. “That’s not being a hero. Anyone can do that. We all do that. But a hero tries to do better.”

I dropped my head again, and my hair covered most of my face. I scrunched down into the chair and didn’t say anything else. After a few minutes, Ink told the camera crew to stop rolling.

“You did great, Michelle,” she said.

“You’re supposed to be calling me Bubbles,” I reminded her. She gave me a funny smile.

“What’re you working on now?” I asked.

Jetman was in the garage tinkering with yet another of his gadgets. Since the Maharajah had been voted off, Jetman pretty much kept to himself.

“I’m not sure what it is yet,” he replied. “Things just… change as I’m working on them.”

He started looking for something in his toolbox, and I handed him a Phillips head screwdriver. He grunted and took it from me. Sometimes I hung out with Jetman when he was gadgeting. Whenever he couldn’t find something in his toolbox, I gave him a random screwdriver. It seemed to work. Or maybe he was just humoring me.

“You know, I thought you were going to vote me off during Discard,” I said.

“Actually, I was thinking about voting Tiffani off,” he said. “But then I thought you might get pissed.”

It took me aback. I would never get pissed at Jetman for voting the way he wanted to. I told him that.

“Yeah, I realized that,” he said. “But I knew that you and Tiff were planning to get rid of Matryoshka after the last challenge. So I figured, go along to get along.”

I leaned against the bench running along the west wall of the garage. I was baffled. “But we didn’t ha—”

‘C’mon, Diamonds!” Tiffani yelled from the end of the driveway. “We’re going on a mysterious ride.”

“Our master’s voice.” Jetman wiped his hands on a greasy rag. We went outside, and he pulled the garage door shut behind us. There was an SUV limo waiting for us. Tiff was already inside, and Jetman and I piled into the spacious backseat. It was roomier now that there were only three of us left on the team. “Where do you think we’re going?” I asked.

Tiff shrugged. “Reshuffle. After all, all the teams have lost at least two players.”

“I hope it’s a reshuffle,” Jetman said. “We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

The limo took us to the Warners back lot, where American Hero was taped.

We piled out of the back of the SUV, and Ink led us through one of the soundstages to makeup.

Peregrine was standing under a spotlight, arguing with one of the directors about her lighting. “I’m telling you, if you don’t put a decent filter on that thing I’m going to look like a crone,” she said.

“Peregrine, my goddess,” the director replied. “You will never look like a crone. I don’t care how hard you try.”

Peregrine gave him a lethal glare. “Shameless flattery is one way to get around me, but don’t think I’m not going to notice if you don’t fix that.”

Ink left us at the makeup area backstage. We were used to doing the whole makeup, blocking, hurry-up-and-wait routine that was part of the show taping.

The hair and makeup guys finished with us, and we took one last good look in the mirror.

Jetman looked as if he’d had no makeup done at all. He was a kinda plain-looking guy, but they’d made his skin perfect, as if a blemish had never been allowed to mar his face. And Tiffani… well, she was as beautiful as ever. It was a pity she was so short. Had she been taller, she would have made a great model. I took a quick glance at myself. My eyes did look great, and they did bring out the best in my skin—as much as they could, given how crappy my black hair made it look.

Ink finally came back. “Okay, guys,” she said. “We’ll be taping a short segment with Peregrine.”

When we arrived back onstage, the Hearts were sitting in a row of director’s chairs. Three empty chairs faced them. Hearts had won the most challenges; there were five of them, and only three of us.

We sat in our chairs. Mine gave a loud groan. I heard a Heart laugh, blushed, and hung my head.

“Asshole,” I heard Jetman say softly.

Peregrine swept onto the stage. When I’d been younger, I’d really admired her. Not only was she a great model, but she still went out and did things with her wild card ability. I guessed she must be in her fifties now, but you’d never know it. She usually wore very revealing couture gowns, but today she had on long palazzo pants, a gold-sequined halter top, and four-inch-high sandals. Her wings fluttered behind her, making her look like a disco angel. “Are we ready to shoot this?” she asked.

“We’re rolling,” said the director. “Start anytime.”

“Welcome to American Hero,” Peregrin said, looking into camera one. “We’re halfway through the competition, and we’ve lost quite a few of our heroes. But some of the teams have fared better than others.” She turned to camera three and her wings fluttered. “I know that some of the players here think we might be reshuffling the teams tonight.”

There were groans from the Hearts.

“But we’ve decided to keep the suits separated for now.”

The Hearts gave a small cheer. “However,” Peregrine continued, “our Diamonds team has not done well, and they are at a distinct disadvantage. So we’ve decided to let them draw one member from Hearts to even the teams up.”

There was stunned silence from the Hearts, and then an angry murmur bubbled up. “You’ve got to be kidding!” shouted Drummer Boy, jumping to his feet. “We’re being penalized because they suck?”

Curveball placed a hand on one of Drummer Boy’s lower arms. “Calm down. It’s just part of the game.”

“It’s bullshit,” he said.

I glanced at Tiff to see how she was reacting. There was a Mona Lisa smile on her face. “Do we have to choose now?” Tiffani asked.

“No, you have twenty-four hours to decide. We’ll be bringing you back tomorrow night for the pick.”

“And cut,” came the director’s voice.

Peregrine cupped her hands over her eyes and squinted up at the lights. “Did you put the filter on that spotlight?” she asked.

“So, who do you want to bring over from the Hearts team?” I asked when we were back in the limo.

“Drummer Boy,” Tiffani said at once. “He makes the most sense. He’s the most powerful player on their team.”

Jetman opened the fridge in the limo bar and took out a beer. “You think he’s more powerful than Hardhat or Earth Witch?” he asked.

“Well, how handy is making steel thingamabobbies?” Tiffani asked. “Are we really going to need a trench anytime soon? And Wild Fox? Don’t even get me started on how crappy his power is.”

“We could take Curveball,” I suggested.

Tiff made a face. “Michelle, you and she have almost the same power. Why would we duplicate that? We’ve got to get someone who’ll work well with our team.” She leaned forward and touched my leg. “Taking DB will demoralize Hearts. It’ll break up their alliances. And if he’s got any showmances going, it’ll stop them, too.”

“Showmances?” Jetman asked.

“You know, when two people on a reality show become romantically involved for the duration of the show. Sometimes they stick—like Boston Rob and that joker chick from Survivor, what was her name?”

“Amber,” Jetman replied. “She looked like she was a big chunk of amber. She even had bugs stuck in her skin. It was pretty gross, but I guess you never know what’s going to float someone’s boat.”

Tiff gave Jetman a big smile. “They won the money because they had this amazing alliance. I heard one of the PAs say that Drummer Boy’s been making time with every willing girl on the show. Ever since Curveball dumped him, that is. And they may be getting back together after that little scene when we were taping.”

Aside from Curveball calming him down at the studio, I didn’t really see much going on. But, honestly, I’m bad about picking up on that who’s-doing-whom stuff.

“I just don’t get all this intrigue,” Jetman said. “I think Drummer Boy’s a conceited jerk.”

“He’s a big guy, though,” Tiff said. “He could probably be handy in a brawl. Besides, if we lose again, we can get rid of him instead of one of us.”

I had to admit, Tiffani’s plan sounded good, especially the last part. I hated the idea of one of the last three Diamonds going home.

Jetman was fixing breakfast in the kitchen the next morning. He’d started doing that after we lost our first challenge. His cooking was a bit uneven—and he couldn’t seem to make breakfast without dirtying every dish in the house.

He was just scooping eggs into a serving bowl when I came in. “Morning, Bubbles,” he said, passing the eggs to me. “You want pancakes or waffles this morning?”

I looked at the table. A stack of bacon and about twelve sausages were piled on one plate. A large bowl of fresh fruit salad sat next to it. There was a basket overflowing with pastries—croissants, cinnamon buns, kolaches, and muffins.

“Uhm, I think I can find plenty of stuff to eat. You really don’t need to make anything else.”

“Oh,” he said. I turned toward him and saw a hangdog expression on his face.

Crap.

“But you know I can’t resist your pancakes,” I said. Actually, his pancakes were really bad. But he brightened and pulled another bowl out of the cabinet.

I sat down, put the bowl of eggs on the table, and loaded my plate with pastries, bacon, eggs, and fruit.

“Remember, you’ve got pancakes coming,” he said.

“Herummm,” I replied around a mouthful of food. My wild card power made me fat, but otherwise, I could eat anything I wanted and stay skinny.

Tiffani straggled in a few minutes later. Her face was sleep-swollen. I thought she looked adorable. With her kimono-style robe wrapped around her, she appeared tiny and delicate.

“Pancakes, Tiff?” Jetman asked.

“Gah, no,” she said. “Just coffee until I can get my heart going.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“And caffeine is my drug of choice. Don’t get between me and my fix.”

I poured her a cup from the carafe on the table, put three sugars and a dollop of cream in it, and then passed it to her. She took a long pull and smiled at me. I felt my stomach flip-flop.

“I’m glad you’re all up,” said Ink as she sauntered in with one of the mobile crews. “The producers think all the heroes need a break from the competition.”

Tiff took another hit off her coffee. “How about three days and four nights in Jamaica?” she said.

“No can do,” Ink replied. “We’re shooting ‘Diamonds Pick a Heart’ tonight.”

“So, what’s the ‘break’?” I asked, using my ironic air quotes.

“You have a choice,” Ink replied. “You can have a thousand-dollar shopping spree, a trip to Disneyland, or a spa day.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t an off-camera event,” I said.

“Nope. It’s going to make for some great footage. But you do get out of the house for the whole day. And, even better, no press obligations and no workouts.”

Jetman and Tiff both looked chipper at that. Neither of them liked working out.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyland,” Jetman said as he ladled pancake batter into a pan. “I think I’d like to do that.”

Ink smiled at him. It was a great smile. “You’ll be getting the VIP treatment while you’re there. I think you’re going to have a wonderful time.” She turned toward Tiff and me. “And what are you two going to do?”

“I’d like to go shopping,” Tiffani said. “I’ve never even seen a thousand dollars in one place. But I don’t want to go alone.” She looked at me hopefully.

I was torn. I had plenty of clothes—even if most of them didn’t fit me anymore. And Disneyland sounded like fun. So did having a spa day. But Tiff gave me a pleading look, and I couldn’t resist. “I guess I’ll go with Tiffani,” I said.

Ink looked disappointed. I guess they hoped we’d each take a different “prize” so there would be more diverse footage to work with. “Be ready in half an hour.”

The Beverly Center wasn’t as swank as Rodeo Drive, or as trendy as Melrose Avenue, but there was a great variety of stores. We decided to start at Bergdorf’s and work our way through the mall from there.

“Oh my God,” Tiffani said, stroking a bright red cashmere wrap. “You’ve got to feel this.”

I smiled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that excited about shopping. After all the modeling, I’d started to hate clothes. I usually wore inexpensive off-the-rack stuff and some of the nicer pieces that the designers would send around. That was one of the perks of the job. I had loads of status symbol accessories that were only mine because some designer thought Jill Blow would covet his $500 sunglasses because she saw me wearing them in In Style magazine.

Tiff picked up the price tag and blanched. “It’s four hundred and fifty dollars. Every bit of clothing my sisters and I bought last year didn’t cost that much.”

Without thinking, I said, “You’re kidding.”

Tiffani rubbed the cashmere against her cheek. “Nope. When I said we were poor, I meant real poor.”

“I thought there was just ‘poor.’ ”

She laughed and carefully put the wrap back on its shelf, then ran her hand across the rainbow colors of the rest of the shawls. “We never went to see movies. They cost too much money. We didn’t go out to eat. We never had cell phones, or clothes that hadn’t been worn by someone else first. Or an inside toilet.”

I stared at her. “You’re kidding. How did you find out about American Hero?”

She laughed. “Honey, everyone has a TV. Even the folks without indoor plumbing.”

We wandered over to the perfume counter. Tiff took a bottle of Joy 1000 off the tester tray and spritzed a little on her wrist, then sniffed. She held her wrist under my nose. The heavy aroma of jasmine and roses wafted up. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just not my cup of frothy cappuccino.”

Tiffani sniffed her wrist again. “Mmmmm, I think I like it.” She glanced around for a salesgirl. One rushed over. I think she noticed the camera following us.

The salesgirl gave us a bright smile. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“How much is this?” Tiffani asked.

“Do you want the perfume or the cologne?” the salesgirl asked, putting bottles on the counter.

“Uhm, I’m not sure.”

I leaned over and whispered in Tiff’s ear. “Cologne will be cheaper, but doesn’t last as long as the perfume.”

“Tell me the price on both,” Tiff said.

“The perfume is one-hundred and sixty, the cologne is seventy-eight.”

“Does it buy you dinner, too?” Tiff asked. She looked between the two bottles, then put them both back on the counter. “I do want to get some things for my family. If I’ve got anything left, maybe I’ll come back.”

The salesgirl plastered on another toothy smile. “Certainly. We’re here until nine P.M.”

Tiffani was already wandering toward the shoes. The salesgirl leaned over the counter. “Are you from American Hero?“ she asked softly. “Is that Tiffani?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think you could get me her autograph?”

It stung. I was used to being the person who was singled out. “Just a minute,” I said, taking the paper and pen.

I walked to Tiff, who was looking at a pair of Stuart Weitz-man sandals. “Three hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?” she exclaimed. “Seriously, do people here just like pissing money away?”

“If they were Manolos or Jimmy Choos, they’d be a lot more expensive,” I said. I picked up a pair of Dolce & Gabbana pumps and contemplated them for a moment. At my current weight, I’d snap the delicate heel in no time.

“But these aren’t even all that pretty.”

“It’s fashion,” I replied, putting the pumps back on their display stand. “Hey, the salesgirl at the perfume counter would like your autograph.” I pulled the pen and paper out of my pocket and handed them to her.

“Really?” Tiff said, glancing in the direction of the perfume counter. She looked surprised and thrilled. “I didn’t think she even recognized us.”

I smiled at her excitement. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re a star.”

She beamed up at me. I wanted to kiss her. I hated that she grew up poor and didn’t have nice things. I wanted to give her everything she’d missed and everything she desired.

We finally ended up at the Gap, a few doors away from Bergdorf’s. Tiff had a ball picking out sweaters, jeans, shirts, and coats for her siblings.

“So,” I said as Tiffani handed over her prepaid Visa card to the clerk. “Got any money left over for yourself?”

“I doubt it,” she replied. “But it doesn’t really matter. And I’m glad I found that sale rack.” She looked over at me. “Why haven’t you bought anything?”

I jammed my hands into my pants pockets. The only thing I’d seen during our shopping that I wanted had been an ultra-stretchy track suit. It was made of some micro-fiber I’d never heard of and had a beautiful drape and wasn’t shiny. But it was also fantastically expensive, and I didn’t want Tiffani seeing me spend my whole amount on one thing. Besides, I had a better way to spend my money.

We grabbed Tiff’s bags and headed for the door. But just outside the store there was a crowd blocking our way.

“I wonder what’s going on?” Tiffani said. Then the cameras started clicking, and we realized that they were waiting for us. “Tiffani! Over here!” shouted one excited preteen. Her friends squealed when Tiff looked their way. “Oh my God, she looked at me!”

Tiff walked over and said hello to them. Another wave of squealing was set off. I stood there, feeling awkward.

“Are you the Amazing Bubbles?” a gawky boy wearing an oversized T-shirt asked me.

“Yes,” I replied. “I am.”

“Would you sign my shirt?”

“Sure,” I said. One of the clerks handed me a Sharpie and offered to hold our packages while we were signing autographs. “Front or back?” I asked.

He turned around. “Back.”

I signed his back—“The Amazing Bubbles.” He turned and gave me a big grin, so I held my hand out and made a baseball-size bubble. I released it, and it floated over to him. He caught it and held it in his hands for a few seconds before it popped.

A few more people asked me for autographs—but when I was finished I saw that Tiff was not only still signing, but that even more people were gathering around her. I decided to slip off and take care of the shopping I wanted to do while she took care of her fans.

When I returned, I was surprised to see that the crowd was even bigger than before. And then I realized why: Tiffani had turned to diamond. The lights in the mall were hitting her and bouncing off her faceted skin, making rainbows on the walls. As she moved she twinkled. She shone like a star. It was bittersweet. I was accustomed to being the one people noticed, but I couldn’t begrudge Tiff the attention. I could see her grinning. She was beaming, and so excited.

“Bubbles,” I heard her say. “Where’s Bubbles?”

“I’m here, Tiff,” I said loudly.

“Come here!”

“I can’t. You’re surrounded.”

“Make a hole!” she yelled. The crowd parted and she ran to me. “This is the Amazing Bubbles! You’re going to be hearing a lot about her.” She grabbed my hand with her long, cool, diamond fingers and dragged me into the center of the crowd. “Show the people what you can do.”

I felt my face grow hot, and I knew I was blushing. “This isn’t the place.…”

She gave me a little poke in the arm. “Stop being so shy. One more little bubble won’t hurt.”

I couldn’t say no to her. And I was touched that she had dragged me into the center of her throng of fans. I turned my palms up and felt the electric sensation surge through them. I released a stream of hundreds of multi-size bubbles toward the ceiling, very Lawrence Welky. They caught the lights and shimmered, then vanished.

“It’s so beautiful,” I heard someone say.

“Bubbles will sign any autographs you want,” said Tiff. She gave me a big grin, then took another piece of paper to sign. A group of Japanese tourists thrust autograph books at me and I signed them all. Then I posed for photographs with them. I guess I got caught up in the moment, because by the time I realized things were getting out of hand, it was too late.

The first thing I noticed was how loud it had gotten. I glanced around and saw that the crowd had swollen. I got up on tiptoes. The crowd was now at least fifteen people deep. We were standing next to the railing, and I saw that there were people lining up on the stairway and gathering on the lower level, too. Some of them were text-messaging. Others were taking photos.

I whispered in Tiff’s ear. “We need to get out of here. The crowd is getting kinda big.”

There was a slightly dazed expression on her face, as if the attention from the crowd had made her drunk. Then she shook her head, and she was back. “How do we get out?”

“Tell them to make a hole again,” I replied.

“Make a hole!” she yelled.

A couple of people close to us shuffled away, but the rest of the crowd was so intent on getting closer, it pushed them back at us. An angry shout came from the rear. Parts of the crowd moved then, and I saw a gap.

I grabbed Tiffani’s wrist and pulled her toward the opening. It helped that I was taller and bigger than her. It was easier for me to make people get out of our way. I heard a noise from below and glanced over the railing. People were pointing at us and running up the stairs. I knew we needed to get out of the mall fast.

There was a street entrance in Bergdorf’s, but I didn’t like the idea of pulling a big crowd into that store. Then I saw a small side exit between the Body Shop and Furla that we could slip out of quickly. We ran for it, with the camera guys hot on our heels. It was weird, but people rarely get in the crew’s way.

We burst through the doors at street level and I looked around for the limo. They’d dropped us off at the Bergdorf’s end of the mall, so I figured they should be nearby. Tiff was giggling. She gleamed in the afternoon light. “Oh, my gosh,” she said with a half-laugh, half-hiccup. “This is so wild.”

“You should power down,” I said. “You’re like a Christmas tree right now—all lit up.”

“You got it, boss.” I didn’t have to look back to see that she had changed back. I could feel her soft flesh in my hand instead of the cool hardness of her power.

I saw the limo then. It was stuck in traffic on the opposite side of the street, with the cars trying to turn into the parking garage.

“There’s the car!” Tiff yelled. She pulled her wrist out of my hand and started across. I heard a rumble, looked to my left, and saw a tourist bus coming. There was no time to say anything, to warn her to diamond up. I just leapt out and shoved her out of the way as hard as I could.

Then the bus hit me and I stopped thinking about anything else.

My body ballooned. Part of me realized this was good—we had a challenge coming up, and the bigger I was, the better. As I flew through the air, I heard the squealing and hydraulic hiss of the bus brakes. My body felt oddly weightless—until I crashed into the back window of a parked Lexus. The impact from that landing made me even bigger. I lay for a moment in the confetti of broken glass. It wasn’t that I hurt, I just couldn’t figure out how to move quickly at this size. Being hit by a bus, even if it didn’t kill you, was disconcerting.

I rolled off the Lexus and safety glass rained onto the pavement. The bus driver was already out of his vehicle and coming toward me. “Holy crap!” he said. “Are you okay?”

Glass tinkled off me. “Just a little shook up.”

“Michelle!” Tiffani ran over to me. She was diamond, thank goodness. Then she was brushing glass from my shoulders and making little tsking noises as she examined my torn pants and jacket. “Well, these are hopeless,” she said. “Good thing you’ve still got your spending money.”

My hands were itching, and I burned to bubble. It was always this way after a big surge of fat. By now, the limo had gotten free from traffic and was pulling up alongside us. One of the PAs jumped out. “Are either of you hurt?”

“Nah,” Tiffani said. “We’re built wild card tough.”

There was a tap on my shoulder and I heard, “A thousand pardons, but is this your purse?” One of the Japanese tourists was holding out my bag.

My heart sank. I’d brought my favorite purse on this excursion, and now it was much the worse for wear. “Yes, it’s mine,” I said, taking it from her. “Thank you for bringing it back.”

“Oh, if I had a purse this wonderful,” she said, “I would be heartbroken if anything happened to it.”

Tiff looked at my purse, then at the tourist. “It’s a handbag. What’s so special about it?”

“Oh my, that’s a real Hermés Birkin,” the tourist replied. “And if I’m not mistaken, it’s a very rare color as well. In Japan, they sell for almost two million yen.”

Tiff’s eyes bugged out. “Two million for a purse?!”

“Tiff, that’s in yen,” I said. “The conversion rate is, like, totally insane.” I wasn’t about to tell her that at retail in the states, Birkins could cost from $15,000 to $50,000. Which was also completely insane.

“Okay, I confess, it’s not a real Birkin,” I said. I hoped my lie would mollify Tiffani.

“I’m certain that is a real Hermés,” the tourist said. “There are certain distinguishing signs.…”

Why did I have to run into the one Japanese tourist with perfect English and an eye for overpriced accessories? I felt terrible. Tiffani had grown up so poor.

The crowd was swelling, traffic was backed up behind the limo, and I’d managed to dent the front end of a bus as well as destroy a Lexus. Our day of fun was rapidly turning into a gigantic horror show. I was trying to figure out what to do when Tiffani grabbed my hand, stood on tiptoe, and whispered in my ear. “We can’t fix any of this,” she said. “Let’s get in the car and let the PA sort it out.”

“I can’t just leave,” I said. “This is my fault. And how on earth will he be able to handle all this?”

“Please get in the car, ladies,” said the driver. Normally, the drivers didn’t talk to us—unless we initiated the conversation. “If I come back without you, it’s my job.”

I was torn. The PA was clearly in over his head, but I didn’t want to get the driver in trouble. Reluctantly, I allowed Tiff to pull me into the limo.

Tiffani and I sat in the Jacuzzi. Tiff was wearing an itty-bitty bikini and I wore the Big Girls Special. I might as well have been wearing a muumuu. We could hear Drummer Boy banging around inside the house. He was massively pissed at being taken off the Hearts team.

When we all got back from the taping—what a fun car ride that was, what with Drummer Boy alternately sulking and making snide remarks—Tiff suggested that she and I should grab a couple of bottles of wine and hang out in the backyard until things inside quieted down some.

“Wow, he’s got some stamina,” I said. “He’s been in there banging around for at least an hour.”

Tiff took a drink of her wine, then wrinkled her nose. “You’d think this stuff would taste better. Actually, I think he’s playing. Sounds like Tommy Lee’s drumming.”

“Well, I can’t taste anything,” I said. “After two glasses my mouth’s kinda numb. Yeah, you know it does sound like he’s drumming in there.”

Tiff got up and reached for the wine bottle. Water sluiced off her, ran down her back, and between her legs. I closed my eyes. It was too distracting. I imagined sliding my hand between her legs, and that didn’t help anything. I opened my eyes and Tiff was filling my glass up. “So,” she said, as she settled into the water again. “What’s the story with your purse?”

I groaned. I’d hoped we wouldn’t end up talking about it. “Okay, I’ll explain it,” I said. “But you have to promise that you’ll keep it a secret.”

She looked at me with limpid eyes. “Of course. That’s what friends are for.” Her tongue darted into her wine glass. And that made me take another big drink. I leaned closer to her, hoping that between whispering and the noise of the Jacuzzi, they wouldn’t have good enough sound to air what I was about to say.

“I’m not Michelle LaFleur,” I whispered. “I mean, that’s my real name, but I work under the name Michelle Pond. I’m a model. I mean, I was a model. I started young. You know, I was the OshKosh B’Gosh girl for like five years when I was a kid.”

“You? A model?”

I laughed. It did sound ridiculous, given my current appearance. “I know, it seems goofy, doesn’t it?” I said softly. “I was in demand, and since I never went through an ‘awkward’ stage, I kept working solid from the time I was two years old until well, just about now.”

Tiff adjusted the top of her bikini. I tried not to stare.

“Anyway, I pretty much did it all,” I said. “Runway shows, fashion modeling, the works. And I had a great career, except that I was working like a dog and not seeing any of the money from it.”

“I can barely hear you,” she said, scooting closer. She dropped her voice lower as well. “But if you were working, where did the money go?”

And there it was. The question that I dreaded. The reality of my life that was so bitter to me, I could barely stand to think about it, much less talk about it.

But there was Tiffani with such sympathy in her eyes, and the wine made me feel disconnected from myself. I drained my glass for Dutch courage.

“Well, that’s the embarrassing part.” I put my glass on the side of the pool. “My parents both quit their jobs to be my full-time manager and agent. I worked nonstop. Worked like a mule. All that stuff normal kids get to do, I got to pretend to do in commercials and pictures.” As I talked about it, I felt queasy. “For a long time, I didn’t want to believe what was happening. But when I was fourteen, I figured out how to get into their computer, and I saw their accounts.

“By law, they were supposed to be putting away a certain amount of my income for when I became an adult. But I could see that they hadn’t done that. Not only that, but there were these accounts set up overseas.” I closed my eyes and swallowed. “They had been stealing from me for years. I should have had enough money to have my own life when my modeling career was over. Go to college, start a business. But they had been spending most of it and hiding the rest. My own parents stole everything from me.”

For a moment it felt like it had been the first time I’d realized what they’d been doing. Like someone had kicked me in the stomach. There was a terrible lump in my throat, and I closed my eyes and thought I might start crying. I felt Tiff’s hand stroking the back of my neck. “You poor child,” she said. Her accent made her voice honey-smooth. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

I snuffled and knuckled my eyes to keep the tears at bay. When I thought I had myself in hand, I looked at her.

“You’ve lived a kinda sheltered life,” I said quietly. “Money makes some people subhuman.”

She poured the last of the wine into my glass, then handed the glass to me. “What did you do?”

“I was only fourteen when I found out. It took me a year to get a lawyer who would take me seriously. We filed for my emancipation and sued my parents. I won my emancipation suit, but by the time we got a judgment they’d fled the country. We managed to seize one account, so I wasn’t completely broke, but most of that money went to pay my lawyer.”

Tiffani leaned closer and I could smell her scent even over the chlorine. “And then your wild card turned and you can’t work anymore?”

“Oh, I could work,” I said. “If I bubbled down to my normal size, I could probably have plenty of work. But then I couldn’t bubble.”

She frowned. “You mean, you could make a nice living by wearing pretty clothes and getting your picture taken, but you’re here?”

I sighed. I knew she wouldn’t understand. Being poor drove her. She wanted to give her family what they’d never had. But her family would love her, no matter if she won or not. Mine had never loved me. I was just a payday for them. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” I said. “But the bubbling, it’s changed things for me. I can do something worthwhile with this power. Modeling doesn’t do anything but help sell stuff.” I lifted my hands out of the water. They were pruney. “Not only that, but I’m nineteen. That’s practically ancient in the modeling world. And I was getting sick of seeing the things the girls would do to stay thin and keep working.” I picked up my wineglass and drained it. It felt good to finally tell someone.

Tiff sipped her wine and stared off into space. “But what does that all have to do with your purse?”

I’d forgotten all about the purse. “As I was packing up my stuff before I left my parents’ place, I noticed my mother’s closet door standing open. I couldn’t believe what I saw in there. She had, like, five of those Hermes purses. This was how she was spending my future—on freaking handbags. So I took them. I sold off all but one, and that’s my emancipation bag.

“Mommy got me back, though. After the decree came down in my favor, I got a box from them. It was all my stuffed animals. They’d been ripped apart and the stuffing was pulled out. It was carnage in that box.”

Tiff choked back a giggle. “They killed your stuffed animals?”

I gave her a little push on the arm. “Stop! You make it sound so…goofy. I loved those stuffed animals!”

She had taken a drink of wine, and it spurted out of her mouth as she laughed. “Oh my god—that’s so lame!”

I tried not to laugh. I did love those stupid stuffed animals. I loved them every bit as much as Dragon Girl loved Puffy.

“What’s the party about?” Drummer Boy walked up to the edge of the Jacuzzi. He thumped out a complicated pattern on his chest with his lower pair of arms.

“There are only two of us here,” Tiff said. “That’s hardly a party.”

For a moment, he stopped thumping and raised all of his arms over his head. It made his chest and abdominal muscles flex. I rolled my eyes and then looked at Tiff to see what her reaction was. She gazed at him with lowered eyelids. It was an appraising gaze.

“Is there room for me? Or is the fat chick taking up too much space?”

Tiffani laughed. It was throaty and made me shiver. “There’s plenty of room for everyone. This tub is huge.”

Drummer Boy shucked off his pants. He was naked underneath. The producers were going to love this. He hopped into the tub and settled himself across from us.

“So, are you two an item?” he asked. “Like ‘Fat Chick’ and ‘Rhinestone Lass’—BFFs?”

I blushed. But Tiff just playfully splashed some water at him. “Yes, you are so smart. Two women in a tub always means that they’re lesbians. And if this were a porn film, we’d just be waiting for you to be the man-meat in our girl sandwich.”

He grinned at her. “Works for me.”

“I’m outta here.” I wasn’t going to stay while he insulted me and flirted with Tiff.

“You sure, Michelle?” Tiffani asked. “There’s plenty of room. And I’m sure DB will play nice.”

“I never play nice. Where’s the fun in that?”

I grabbed my beach towel, wrapped it around me, and went upstairs to my room.

I’d just finished changing into my pajamas when there was a knock on the door. I could still hear Tiff and DB laughing outside in the Jacuzzi. When I opened the door I was surprised to find Ink standing there.

“Hey,” I said. “Is anything wrong?”

She crammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I heard about the incident at the mall today and I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling a bit nonplussed. “I’m the girl that can take getting hit by a bus. It was no biggie, really.”

“Ah.” Ink frowned and shook her head. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re all right. Just checking in.”

“Uh, okay.” I stood there for a moment, at a loss for what to say next. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but then she just said, “Goodnight” and left.

The clanging of the challenge alarm woke me up. I fumbled for the alarm clock and groaned when I saw the time: five A.M.

I threw on my usual challenge outfit: stretchy, baggy sweatpants, a long-sleeve XXL T-shirt, and a hoodie. They were extremely tight on me this morning. The run-in with the bus had fattened me up. As I ran downstairs, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail.

No one was in the living room, and the front door was open. I figured I was the last one out, and trotted as fast as I could at my current size to the waiting limo. But Jetman was the only other teammate in there.

We sat in the back waiting for another twenty minutes until Tiff and Drummer Boy came out, with Ink and the mobile crew following behind them. A slippery, sick feeling went through me.

It was still dark when we got to the studio. The guard waved us through the gate, and we were dropped off at makeup. I guess they wanted to get going on the challenge quickly, because there was none of the usual hurry up and wait.

We were hustled to the set. The full challenge-taping crew was there. The bank facade was lit up like the Fourth of July. The director came over to us. “Good morning, Diamonds. Ready for today’s challenge?”

“Ready for anything,” Drummer Boy said, hitting what sounded like a rim shot off his chest.

The director gestured toward the set. “Here’s the story. A bank robbery is underway. Your challenge today is to free the hostages, take care of the henchmen, and defeat the ace that’s running the show.”

“Who’s the ace?” Jetman asked.

“Well, that’s part of the challenge. You won’t know until you get in there.”

That made me nervous. There were lots of aces and some of them had powers that weren’t immediately obvious. Mind-control powers were what worried me the most. They could take over and have us at each others’ throats if we weren’t ready for it—and maybe even if we were.

“Ready on the set,” came over the loudspeaker. Immediately there was silence. And then: “Action!”

There was the sound of explosives from inside the bank. Then the rata-tat-tat of a machine gun. Even though I knew it was just effects, it got my adrenaline going.

“So what’s the plan?” Tiffani asked. She looked up at Drummer Boy as if he had all the answers.

“I think we need to get the hostages out first,” I said. Jet-man nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” Tiff said. “Bubbles, do your stuff.”

I let a bowling ball-size bubble loose at the front door, which exploded like a cheap firecracker. Bits of wood and glass flew across the street. “Tiff and I should take point. We’re invulnerable to projectile attacks.”

“I’m going aloft,” Jetman said. “I’ll come in from behind.” He hit the power button on his jetpack. It sputtered, then the engine caught. It made a putt-putt noise, like an anemic Vespa, but it took him airborne in seconds.

Smoke rolled out of the opening I’d made. Tiff went diamond again, and then we ran into the bank with Drummer Boy behind us. A barrage of paint-balls hit us. They did nothing to me except create more fat. Unfortunately, Tiff was hit in the face and the paint coated her diamond surface, obscuring part of her vision.

I saw a group of people sitting in a circle on the floor. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Standing in front of them were six guys with paint-ball guns. I didn’t see anyone who looked like an ace, but with aces, it was hard to tell.

Another round of paint-balls were fired at me and Tiff. “Goddamn it,” I heard her say. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that she had run into one of the prop desks. Most of her face was covered in paint. She probably couldn’t see a thing.

Drummer Boy ducked behind one of the desks. If he or Jetman were hit by enough paint-balls, they’d be declared dead and out of the challenge.

I fired a barrage of bubbles at three of the henchmen who were grouped together. These were baseball-size bubbles, and I made them extra hard and dense. One guy was hit on his hand and screamed as he dropped his weapon. Another got one in the gut, and he doubled over.

I missed the third, but Jetman didn’t. He burst through the front-door transom windows and fired his “jetnet.” It whistled past my head and opened in midair, catching the lights and gleaming like a silver spiderweb. Then it wrapped around the goons and they fell to the floor.

More paint-bullets spattered me. I laughed and flung another hail of bubbles at the remaining goons. I missed one because he dropped to the floor, but the other two took direct hits to the chest. Their weapons went spinning out of their hands, and then the hostages shrieked with what sounded like real fear.

I glanced at the hostages and saw that one woman had been struck by one of the guns. She had a nasty cut on her forehead, and it looked like she would have a black eye. I knew they were extras and that they knew injuries might happen, but no one should have to bleed for a paycheck.

Jetman was hovering overhead—the ceilings were high in the bank, fifteen feet at least—and firing down at the three goons. A cloud of gas enveloped them, and moments later, they fell down unconscious. Now we could rescue the hostages. I ran to Tiff and gave her my hoodie so she could wipe the paint off her face, then I helped Drummer Boy untie the extras.

Another henchman appeared.

He was a young guy, maybe a few years older than me, maybe Jetman’s age. He was maybe six-one, six-two. His blond hair was cut short, almost military style. He was dressed like the other goons, but he was unarmed. I knew I’d seen him somewhere, but I just couldn’t place him.

“This sucker is mine!” Drummer Boy yelled, running past me toward the new henchman. DB had a good foot of height on the guy, plus the extra four arms. He cranked back the three arms on his right side and haymakered one at the guy’s head.

Blondie didn’t even flinch. As DB’s fists made contact, a beautiful yellow corona ballooned around the new guy. He reached up, clamped his left hand around Drummer Boy’s middle right fist, then grabbed DB’s belt. He lifted DB—who weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds—as if he were a toddler. Then he tossed him through the front window of the bank.

“Oh crap,” I heard Jetman say as he flew over to us.

“Who is that?” Tiff asked. Jetman had a look of awe on his face. I glanced down at Tiff and saw she had managed to wipe most of the paint from her face, but it had left her diamond skin less than sparkly.

“That’s Golden Boy,” Jetman called down. “The Judas Ace. He’s a legend. They say he’s invulnerable to harm and one of the strongest men in the world.”

My heart sank. I looked through the jagged hole where the window had been. DB was still lying in the street. One down. And Tiff would be virtually useless against Golden Boy.

That left Jetman and me.

“What about your sleeping gas?” I asked. “We get him down with that, use your net…”

“Oh dear,” said Tiff.

Golden Boy was already lunging toward us. Jetman zipped up to the ceiling. Tiff turned and ran to the front door. But I knew if he hit me, he’d only give me more power, so I stood my ground.

He dashed right past me toward Tiffani.

I ran outside in time to see him picking Tiff up and tossing her down the street. She shrieked as she sailed through the air. Then she landed hard and lay as still as Drummer Boy. Her power had protected her from most of the harm of the impact, but landing that hard had knocked her out. I was pissed. I knew she would be all right. But she was my friend and you don’t mess with my friends.

I looked around for Jetman and saw him flying out of the hole DB had made. Golden Boy stood between us. I saw Jet-man pull his jetgun from its holster. I backpedaled so I wouldn’t be in range when the gas went off.

Jetman fired. I heard the shot and expected to see Golden Boy go down in a cloud of sleeping gas. Instead, the next thing I knew, he was standing there holding the gas cartridge in his hand. Jetman’s mouth dropped open. I’m pretty sure mine did, too. Then Golden Boy flung the sleeping gas cartridge back at Jetman. The pellet hit him in the chest and a blue-gray plume of gas enshrouded him. A few seconds later, he plummeted to the ground.

I winced as he landed. He was going to feel like hell when he woke up.

Golden Boy turned toward me. I knew he couldn’t be hurt by my bullet-size bubbles—his force field would just absorb them. But a bigger impact would keep him off balance. I had no hope of winning at this point, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

A bubble formed between my palms. It got bigger and heavier until it was the size of a medicine ball, and then I made it larger still. When it was the size and weight of a wrecking ball, I let it fly at Golden Boy.

It caught him in the chest. His force field bloomed, but he was knocked backward. So I powered up another bubble of that same size and weight and let it go. It staggered him as well. I could feel my clothes getting looser, but I didn’t think about that. What mattered was keeping him off balance.

Golden Boy took yet another one in the chest. I felt my pants and panties slipping, and I decided to hell with them. I let them slip down to the ground then kicked them away. Now I had only my T-shirt on. It was long enough. And Golden Boy had steadied himself again.

I powered up another bubble and flung it at him. But he was ready this time, and it only made him stagger back a little.

I cast bubble after bubble at him, each progressively bigger and heavier than the last. But he came at me inexorably, like the tide moving in, until I couldn’t make big bubbles anymore. I was almost back to my normal size. When I looked up, he was closing on me. I fired one last desperation bubble, and it popped against his chest like it was made of soap and water.

Golden Boy reached out, and I thought he was going to toss me like he’d tossed Tiff, but he just took my chin in his hand and lifted my face up.

“Nice try,” he said. Then he patted my cheek. “And you’d be real pretty if you keep that weight off.”

“You lose.”

Like I said, the worst words in the universe.

The only good thing was that Drummer Boy would be going home instead of one of the original Diamonds.

The ride back to our secret lair was silent. Tiffani seemed oddly calm, not pissed the way she usually was when we lost. Drummer Boy hadn’t even made his usual snide remarks at me. Of course, I was thin now. More to his taste, I suppose. I was still wearing just the oversize T-shirt. My hoodie was covered in paint, and my pants were way too large to bother putting on. Luckily, a size XXL tee made a perfectly fine minidress.

Ink met us at the front door. She told us we had an hour before Discard, then pulled me off to the living room. “There’s something you need to see,” she said, flipping on the TV.

She’d paused the TiVo on CNN. My heart sank when I saw the graphic. American Hero Contestant Famous Model. There were side-by-side pictures of me. One was from a Vogue cover I’d done the year before and the other one was my American Hero headshot when I was at my most bubble-ready.

“Shit,” I said.

“Do you want to see the rest of the story?”

“Ooooo, I do!” DB grabbed the control from Ink.

“… Hero contestant, ‘The Amazing Bubbles,’ turns out to be none other than Michelle Pond, a well-known model whose private feud with her parents became tabloid fodder when she filed for emancipation at age fifteen.”

DB flopped on the couch and looked from the TV to me. “I thought you were just trying to be all Goth and spider-farmerish with that black hair.” He gave me the once-over. “So, are you a real blonde?”

I wanted to punch him.

“How on earth did this get out?” My voice quavered.

“Someone leaked it,” Ink said. “But, you know we’re going to show today’s challenge footage on the show. It would have come out then, anyway.”

I nodded. I had realized when I couldn’t stop Golden Boy and had bubbled down to my real size that someone would figure it out. In a way, I guess I was relieved.

“Pond’s agency, Cavullio International, has informed CNN that Pond’s appearance on American Hero violates the terms of her contract with them and that she is no longer with the agency.”

My mouth dropped open. I’d been with Cavullio since I was eight. I’d brought them massive amounts in fees. The sons of bitches.

“Bad break,” DB said. To my amazement, he wasn’t being sarcastic. He sounded genuinely sorry.

Tiffani came in and watched some of the report. She gave me a little pat on the back. “It’s going to be okay. Aren’t there plenty of other agencies out there?”

She was right. I just couldn’t believe that my entire life was coming apart on CNN. “We’ve got Discard,” I said woodenly. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

Digger Downs was our judge for this Discard. I wished it was the Harlem Hammer again, but the judges were rotated. Downs wore a nice brown pinstripe suit that he managed to make look rumpled and seedy. The makeup department had tried to make him look less dissipated, but it hadn’t worked.

“Looks like the Diamonds lose again,” he said as we sat down. “And then there’s the drama of Bubbles here. Or should I say Michelle Pond? I see you’ve gone back to your roots.”

I gave him a look that I hoped would turn him into cinders. Unfortunately, it just made him giggle. “Yes, Mr. Downs,” I said with an insincere smile plastered on my face. “I have gone back to my natural hair color. It did take a while to wash out that spray dye. And thank you for noticing.”

It actually felt good to have that dye out of my hair, but Digger made it seem almost pornographic. What a creep.

He gave a ratty smile to Drummer Boy. “So, Drummer Boy, how do you feel about your new team?”

“They suck,” he replied. “But I didn’t exactly do great in the challenge, so I don’t want to be unfair to them.”

“Are you worried that as the newcomer to the team, you’re vulnerable?”

DB shrugged. “You never know how these things are going to work out.”

I had to admire his coolness. It was obvious that his head was on the chopping block. He’d been beyond stupid in the challenge, and he wasn’t a real Diamond.

Digger dealt out the cards. Once again, Tiff pulled her choice out immediately and laid it facedown in front of her. Drummer Boy also made his selection quickly. I pulled DB’s card out and put it face down.

Jetman was the only one who hadn’t pulled a card yet. I saw him looking at the three of us and I was baffled by why this was difficult for him—unless he was breaking the Diamonds alliance. I hated to think that. He slowly pulled a card out and slid it across to Digger.

Digger collected the rest of the cards and shuffled them. He cradled the small deck in his hand. “Time to see who stays and who goes,” he said.

He flipped the first card over and placed it on the table. The Amazing Bubbles. My pudgy face smiled up at me. Figures, I thought. No doubt, Drummer Boy would like me out.

The next card was flipped. Drummer Boy. He frowned, but what did he expect? “One-to-one so far,” Digger said.

He turned the third card. It was Tiffani. I looked at Jetman. He gave me a calm, steady look. Had he really voted for Tiffani? Or had Drummer Boy voted for her? Had he voted for me? All I knew was that Tiff and I were voting for DB. Then Digger flipped the last card.

The Amazing Bubbles.

“And the pair takes the lady out,” Digger said.

My hands began to shake, and I slipped them into my lap. I knew I must look shocked, and I was.

“Tough luck, Bubbles,” Digger said. “So, will you be going back to your modeling career now?”

I pushed away from the table and stood up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I could almost feel the cameras zooming in on my face. They would want to see the pain.

Jetman came around the table and hugged me. He whispered in my ear. “I voted for Tiffani, Bubbles. She made an alliance with DB. They wanted me with them, but I wouldn’t play ball. Screw the metagame. I won’t play like that.” He squeezed me tighter. “And I knew you wouldn’t believe she was stabbing you in the back.” He let me go then. I stood there like a deer in the headlights.

Tiffani had betrayed me.

Drummer Boy was shaking my hand. “No hard feelings, Bubbles. It’s just a game.”

Tiff was standing behind him, but I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want to talk to her, or hear her excuses. I just turned and went to my room.

I was shoving the last of my clothes into my bag when I heard a knock on the door. “Michelle, it’s me.”

It was Tiff. A wave of nausea swept over me.

“I’m not in the mood,” I said.

“Look, I’m not going to apologize for voting you off,” she said through the door.

I jammed my last piece of clothing into my bag and yanked the zipper closed. “Well, thank goodness for that,” I replied. I felt as though I might throw up.

“It’s just… I mean… I just got your presents.”

I’d forgotten the presents. I’d taken the money the show had given me and spent it on Tiff for the things she’d wanted but hadn’t bought for herself. I’d had Bergdorf’s send the packages with the perfume and cashmere shawl around to the house. I felt like an extra-special idiot.

“You know, I never asked you to spend your money on me,” Tiff said. “And I never promised you anything.”

I went to the door and yanked it open. “I know you didn’t promise me anything. I gave you those things because I thought you would like them. Because you spent the money you could have spent on yourself on your family instead.” I took a big breath. My entire body was shaking now. “Don’t think that makes me less pissed at you. You did something rotten and underhanded.” I wanted to slap her.

“I know I let you down,” she said, giving me a pleading look. “I just didn’t have any other choice.”

I grabbed my bags off the bed. Then, as I brushed by her, I said tightly, “There are always choices, Tiff.”

She called after me, but I ignored her.

The Discard Pile was stunning. At least, if I was going to hang with the losers, it would be in top-notch style.

The living room was large—it had to be. Eleven of the discarded AH players were already living there. Twelve now, with me. And two more were on their way.

I discovered that every time there were new Discards, the house members threw a party.

A very loud, drunken party. It was just what I was in the mood for.

After several glasses of champagne, I asked the Maharajah to show me to my room. I unpacked, then went back down. The party was in full swing. Joker Plague’s new album was cranked to eleven, and everyone was dancing like it was the end of the world. I grabbed a bottle of champagne and got out in the middle of it all.

Light streamed hot and heavy through the bedroom windows. I opened one eye. I wasn’t dead, but felt as if I could do a remarkable facsimile of it. With a groan, I rolled over. Or I tried to. Ink was asleep next to me. Naked.

I glanced down at her body. It wasn’t covered in its usual tattoos. Her skin was the color of milky tea. There was a tangle of dark hair between her legs, and her breasts were small and tipped with delicate brownish-pink nipples. I tried to remember how we had ended up in bed together. But the throbbing in my head made it impossible.

I sat up. The room tilted for a moment, then righted. Now I felt ravenously hungry, but I knew it wasn’t just for food. I needed to be fat again. I needed to be able to bubble.

“You’re awake,” Ink said, stretching.

“Uh, yeah,” I replied. I wondered if Ink would bail on me when I got back to my Bubbles size. Or if she would bail anyway. I couldn’t remember if we had professed anything other than drunken lust.

“You were pretty drunk last night,” Ink said, making her the Queen of Understatement.

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my face. “I don’t remember a lot after we all started dancing.”

Ink stretched again and I wanted to run my lips across her firm belly, then kiss and nibble in the dark thatch of hair between her legs. I had a brief memory flash of musky flesh and sweet, soft hair against my mouth.

“Well, you’d already consumed an enormous amount of champagne before I got to the Discard Pile,” Ink said. “The party was going full tilt, and you dragged me into the middle of the dancing. Then you told me I was your ‘Asian Princess.’ And after that, you carried me up here and we more or less canoodled until we both passed out.”

I moaned and hid my face in my hands. I was mortified. Why on earth had I called Ink my “Asian Princess?”

“I am so embarrassed,” I said.

“Why? I thought it was hilarious.”

“When…how…did you end up here? In Discards, I mean.”

Ink rolled over onto her stomach. Her bottom was a perfect peach shape. I dimly remembered nibbling on it.

“I’ve been lobbying to be the PA for the Discard Pile for a while. I knew you were going to be on the chopping block and I wanted to stay close to you.”

I felt a hot blush go up my face.

“But, but, I didn’t know you liked me…you know, like that.”

Ink laughed, and her bottom quivered. That’s really distracting, I thought.

“You can be kinda dim about some things, sweetie,” Ink said, looking at me coyly over her shoulder.

“Uhm.” Then I blurted out, “You didn’t sleep with me just because I’m skinny now, did you?”

Ink giggled. “No, I wanted to sleep with you even when you had that horrible black hair and that big, delicious ass. In fact, I kinda like the idea of a girlfriend who can be any size. Variety is the spice of life and all that.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that. Come to think of it, a girlfriend whose skin had infinite moods might be pretty amazing, too.

Ink rolled onto her side, then grabbed my arm and pulled me close. I hadn’t expected her to be so strong.

“Let me show you how much I like you.” She slid her hand down my arm. Then she put her hand between my legs and began to stroke me. She leaned forward and rained nibbly kisses on my mouth. “Next time we do this, you’re going to be bigger. I want your flesh—all of it.”

I tried to think of something to say, but I was at a loss. And everything Ink was doing felt so good that soon I gave up thinking at all.

“I just don’t know how she could do it,” I said. Ink was pulling her pants on, and I stared at her perfect bottom for a moment.

“Tiffani doesn’t look at it the way you do.” She grabbed her bra and slid it on. “Besides, you can’t dwell on it. You’ve got to think about where you’re going to go from here.”

I flopped back on the pillows. I was a failure. I would never be a hero. I’d wanted to do something good with my power. I’d wanted to make a difference. Now I was washed up.

“Are you wallowing over there?” Ink pulled her tight T-shirt over her head.

I put my hands over my face. “No…yes… maybe.” I knew Tiffani had screwed me over, but part of me still couldn’t believe what had happened. “Maybe DB got to her. Jetman said they had an alliance. Maybe DB lied to her.”

Ink came over and stood at the end of the bed. “Okay, enough of this,” she said, looking extremely annoyed. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“I had a feeling you would be making excuses for Tiffani, so I had this copy made.” Ink pulled a DVR out of her bag and slipped it into her laptop. The DVR clicked and whirled. Then a QuickTime window opened, and I saw Tiffani sitting in the Confessional room. A marker appeared in the lower corner:CONFESSIONAL #30—DIAMONDS—TIFFANI

She was looking directly into the camera, her heart-shaped face framed with a corona of auburn hair. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t.

“Of course I’m playing a game,” she said with a slight smile. “Everyone here is playing a game. And if they’re not, they’re just not paying attention.

“Look, this isn’t about who would be the best hero. It’s about being good TV. When Rupert won a million in an online poll on Survivor, no one complained. He couldn’t cut it in the game, but the audience loved him. There’s nothing wrong with that. This is America. We vote on things—that’s the way we do it.”

She smiled at the camera again.

“I know I’m not the most powerful ace here. My power is goofy. I can turn my skin into a diamond-hard substance. That and three bucks will get you a latte at Starbucks. And yes, I know what Starbucks is. I may be a hick from West Virginia, but those things are everywhere.

“Anyway, I would be a great American Hero because I have ‘The Package.’ I’m pretty. I have the whole rags-to-riches angle. My power looks cool, but it’s non-threatening.”

A voice came from offscreen. I recognized it. Ink’s voice. “What about Bubbles?”

Tiffani shrugged. “I know that Michelle likes me. And I like her, too, just not in ‘that’ way. And besides, Michelle takes this all way too seriously. She actually believes in the whole ‘hero’ thing. What a goober.”

“Anyone you would like to be involved with?”

Tiffani blushed. “DB. I admit it. He’s gorgeous. He’s famous. He’s rich. What’s not to like?

“Look, I’m playing the game. In the beginning, I allied myself with a strong player who I knew would be loyal to me. That was Bubbles. But she’s too powerful, and I knew eventually I would have to get rid of her. So, when we had the chance to add DB to the Diamonds, well, I just combined the thing I wanted with the thing I needed.”

I hit the pause button. I didn’t want to see any more. Had she been making a fool out of me the entire time?

Ink took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. “Look, Tiff didn’t care about being a hero. You did. But the show wouldn’t have made you a hero. You’re going to make yourself one.”

“How?” I felt stupid and used, and anything but heroic.

She put her arms around me. “Well, we’ve gotten tons of e-mails from gay and lesbian teenagers sent care of AH to you. Most of them thanking you for being such a great role model—and some suggesting things that I’m pretty sure are illegal in all fifty states. They love the fact that you didn’t hide the fact that you’re gay. And that you didn’t hide the fact that you were interested in Tiff. That’s being a role model. That’s pretty heroic.

“And then there were the big girls, gay and straight, who wrote in saying that you made them realize any size could be beautiful as well as powerful.”

She let go of me and gave my hair a playful yank.

“And there are also all kinds of offers to endorse products, and plenty of agencies that want to represent you, if you decide to get back on the modeling merry-go-round. But I know you, and that’s not what you’re about. Now sit here, read these e-mails, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She marched out of the room.

So I spent the next couple of hours doing what she said. And she was right. I could do something to make a difference.

I opened my hand and concentrated on bubbling. A grape-size bubble appeared, and I let it float to the ceiling.

I needed to get fat again. One of the Discards would no doubt be happy to pound the heck out of me until I plumped up. And after that, well…

The future was bubbling up.