I blurt out. No one says a word.
“We could all put in a twenty,” John offers. I throw him a grateful look and he smiles.
“Money’s boring,” Genevieve says, stretching like a cat.
I roll my eyes. Who asked for her two cents? I didn’t even ask for her to be here.
Trevor says, “Um, how about the winner gets breakfast in bed every day for a week? It could be
pancakes on Monday, omelet on Tuesday, waffle on Wednesday, and so forth. There are six of us, so
—”
Shuddering, Genevieve says, “I don’t eat breakfast.” Everyone groans.
“Why don’t you suggest something instead of shooting everybody down,” Peter says, and I hide my
face behind my braid so no one sees me smile.
“Okay.” Genevieve thinks for a minute, and then a smile spreads across her face. It’s her Big Idea
look, and it makes me nervous. Slowly, deliberately, she says, “The winner gets a wish.”
“From who?” Trevor asks. “Everybody?”
“From any one of us who are playing.”
“Wait a minute,” Peter interjects. “What are we signing on for here?”
Genevieve looks very pleased with herself. “One wish, and you have to grant it.” She looks like an
evil queen.
Chris’s eyes gleam as she says, “Anything?”
“Within reason,” I quickly say. This isn’t at all what I had in mind, but at least people are willing
to play.
“Reason is subjective,” John points out.
“Basically, Gen can’t force Peter to have sex with her one last time,” Chris says. “That’s what
everyone’s thinking, right?”
I stiffen. That wasn’t what I was thinking, like at all. But now I am.
Trevor busts up laughing and Peter shoves him. Genevieve shakes her head. “You’re disgusting,
Chrissy.”
“I only said what everyone was thinking!”
I’m barely even listening at this point. All I can think is, I want to play this game and I want to win.
Just once I want to beat Genevieve at something.
I only have one pen and no paper, so John tears up the ice cream sandwich box and we take turns
writing our names down on our cardboard scraps. Then everybody puts their names in the empty time
capsule, and I shake it up. We pass it around and I go last. I pull out the piece of cardboard, hold it
close to my chest, and open it.
JOHN.
Well, that complicates things. I sneak a peek at him. He’s carefully tucking his piece of cardboard
in his jeans pocket. Sorry, (pen) pal, but you’re going down. I take a quick look around the room for
clues to who might have my name, but everyone’s got their poker faces on.
singke
(singke)
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