Game On: 15 Stories of Wins, Losses, and Everything in Between

Viking

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

First published in the United States of America by Viking Books,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2022

Let It Spin copyright © 2022 by Sona Charaipotra

Hell Week copyright © 2022 by Amanda Joy

The Liberty Homes copyright © 2022 by Katie Cotugno

Mystery Hunt copyright © 2022 by Gloria Chao

She Could Be a Farmer copyright © 2022 by Nina Moreno

One of the Good Ones copyright © 2022 by Isaac Fitzsimons

Just Tell Them You Play Soccer copyright © 2022 by Anna Meriano

The Girl with the Teeth copyright © 2022 by Kayla Whaley

Spite and Malice copyright © 2022 by Shaun David Hutchinson

Game of the Gods copyright © 2022 by Francesca Zappia

Do You See It Now? copyright © 2022 by Laura Silverman

Plum Girls copyright © 2022 by Kathleen Glasgow

World of Wonder copyright © 2022 by Kimberly Jones and Gilly Segal

Weeping Angels copyright © 2022 by Yamile Saied Méndez

Night Falls copyright © 2022 by Kika Hatzopoulou

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

Ebook ISBN 9780593352809

Edited by Kelsey Murphy

Design by Marcia Wong, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for authors or third-party websites or their content.

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For Competitive Hearts

Content Warnings for the following stories:

One of the Good Ones—depictions of racism, police brutality, and parental death

The Girl with the Teeth—self-harm (biting, blood, and depersonalization)

The Plum Girls—death, violence, and alcoholism

Weeping Angels—drowning

CONTENTS

LET IT SPIN by Sona Charaipotra

HELL WEEK by Amanda Joy

THE LIBERTY HOMES by Katie Cotugno

MYSTERY HUNT by Gloria Chao

SHE COULD BE A FARMER by Nina Moreno

ONE OF THE GOOD ONES by Isaac Fitzsimons

JUST TELL THEM YOU PLAY SOCCER by Anna Meriano

THE GIRL WITH THE TEETH by Kayla Whaley

SPITE AND MALICE by Shaun David Hutchinson

GAME OF THE GODS by Francesca Zappia

DO YOU SEE IT NOW? by Laura Silverman

PLUM GIRLS by Kathleen Glasgow

WORLD OF WONDER by Kimberly Jones and Gilly Segal

WEEPING ANGELS by Yamile Saied Méndez

NIGHT FALLS by Kika Hatzopoulou

About the Authors

Acknowledgments

LET IT SPIN

Sona Charaipotra

As I stare out the grimy New Jersey Transit window, the Raritan River glitters with snow, surprisingly beautiful as it follows the sun down into the city.

But it’s so crowded I can barely breathe. God, just let me fall asleep.

The train roars toward the tunnel as I’m drifting off. But I am acutely aware of someone watching me. You know, the kind of staring that you can actually feel. I open my eyes.

Jason. Should have known.

I’ve been seeing him on the train the past couple of weeks. I heard he’s at NYU, at Tisch, studying animation or production or something. Makes sense, considering. He’s always had that penetrating way of looking at you, so you can’t escape his gaze, familiar and ironclad.

It’s just like Saachi’s, that definitive take, done deal. The way she locks moments into place from her own perspective, sealing them up tight so there’s no room for you to share your version of history. Believe me, I’ve tried.

I know he recognizes me, catching my eye, waiting for me to make the first move. Well, why should I? Why can’t I be the one who’s pursued for a change? But that’s the way it goes with him. With everyone lately. And I’m over it.

At least it’ll give me something to tell Saachi. I can’t help the smirk settling on my face, unbidden.

So not worth it. I hear her voice in my head, clear and sharp, like it’s been there all along. Like it’s been there forever. It’s been months since I’ve seen her. Probably my fault. But I can’t help my grudge. Never could. Now dread roils in my stomach like bile, making me want to turn right back around on the next train to Jersey.

But there are some moments in life that we don’t get to skip. Usually the ones that leave scars.

Saachi was sixteen when she stopped talking to me. Not literally talking, but you know. Having those deep, intimate conversations you have with someone who’s loved you since you were six. I didn’t even know why.

But I could feel it, deep down, in my fumbling to fix things. In the echoes of that dark, disturbing nightmare, the one that struck every so often, the one I tried to push down and away. Always the big, grand backyard I spent endless childhood hours in, the swing set abandoned, the ground frostbit. A black-and-white sky, pale flowers spilled out over the milky picket fence. A moment I’ve lived a million times in my head.

I still can’t quite unravel what it means. Saachi’s long dark pigtails flying—cheeks still chubby, eyes pale and bright—as she coasts by on that rusted red tricycle. The vivid crimson a warning, a reminder, stark against the muted dreamworld hues. Then the fall, the wheels spinning endlessly, vicious and cruel like the circle of life and death. And blood on the concrete, shocking but familiar as yesterday.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear it, the call of moments past, lost. The Bollywood beats muted in the background, that comforting clink of glass bangles and ice in crystal glasses. The roars of lions long since tamed, smoke filling the room as the men shed fatherhood and other responsibilities to cackle endlessly at jokes I still don’t quite understand.

It’s always that familiar, strange laughter that wakes me up in a cold sweat, clammy hands still grasping, helpless and unsure. It echoes in my ears, loud and rough, spilling secrets once forgotten.

When we first met, I was barely a person. More my big sister Raina’s shadow, really, following her around as she led me by the hand, nearly disappearing in the presence of strangers. But Saachi saw me, claimed me, like no one else had—at least not at six—and it was like the first time I took a bath in the big tub, the bubbles enthralling and dangerous as it filled up and over, the delicious, looming threat of being swallowed whole.

That’s exactly what happened. We’d barely moved into the little chocolate chip house on Library Place when Saachi’s family—four doors down—invaded ours. Mama would spend endless hours whispering with Madhu Auntie over chai and pakore, reminiscing over lazy Delhi summers and complaining about day jobs. Our fathers split lawn work, Saachi’s brother, Veer, bearing the brunt of it really, as Subhash and Mohan bonded over stock trades, cricket scores, and the riots and injustices happening thousands of miles away, across oceans and continents. They became a united front, an army of two, basically the same person. Maybe not physically, but the same spirit. The same broken, often comical English, the same urgency, the same happy, whiskey-soaked slur as they laughed late night over endless hands of blackjack and samosas.

It was only natural, then, for Raina and I to adopt Saachi, to make her the other sister.

While Raina developed an instant crush on Veer, who alternately tortured or ignored us, Saachi became our American ambassador, tasked with explaining everything from Halloween (dress up, but make it scary) to boy bands and school politics.

Raina always wanted to be the boss of me, but Saachi was mine to lead—if just for a moment—before I became the one to follow. And she was lovely. How could I not adore her? Long, silky black hair, skin pale as moonlight, and she looked just like her father—the same fat, pink lips, melted chocolate eyes, that small nose, and no jawline at all. Not a pretty little girl by any standard, yet entirely feminine. Delicate, like a doll.

A walking, talking, breathing doll that followed me around and hung on my every word. Being someone’s sun is fun, at least for a little while. Though I knew I was hardly worthy of worship, with my little-boy looks, my hair cut close like Daddy’s, and those awful toy guns, I let her believe in the awesome powers she thought I possessed, all the while ignoring her own. I wanted to be just like her. Even though I pretended the opposite.

It got to the point where it was Saachi-and-Raina-and-Ruby instead of Saachi and Raina-and-Ruby.

Not that we minded. Or at least I didn’t.

Except when it came to boys.

Nearly sweet sixteen, and never been kissed. This was it. My chance. If I’d just take it.

For as long as I could remember, I’d had my heart set on Jason. Citrus and cinnamon, golden hair and ocean eyes. He wanted to be a lawyer and was on the debate team with Saachi, but also helped with the sets for drama, doing woodwork and painting. I’d volunteered to do makeup, so we hadn’t quite connected. Yet.

That fall, the start of sophomore year, he volunteered to be in my chem lab group. And I knew. That he liked me back. Or could, possibly, if nudged. Maybe for once, I could actually be the one who made someone’s heart beat just a little faster. The way his eyes twinkled, the hiccupy way he laughed at my jokes in chem class, the pink climbing up and settling into his pale cheeks as he leaned close, our hands touching as we passed beakers and poured out the hydrogen peroxide and sulfur. Just this once, someone could actually like me back.

But Saachi was forever the third wheel, shushing us and scrawling in her notebook as Mrs. Greco droned, reminding us to measure carefully. Saachi was so focused on stimulus and reaction, talking about science the way I talked about movies or makeup. Smitten. And it totally distracted Jason from my inept attempts at flirting, foiling my every move.

That day—like every day—I’d missed the point of the experiment, of course, fixated instead on the roses our chem lab teacher handed out as she continued her lecture. Careful to avoid the thorns, Greco warned as Jason and I worked to tape the flowers into the cups. Saachi focused on measuring out the sulfur, her eyes eager and faraway. They lit up with heat as she struck the match, a little cloud bursting forth. The petals drained of color, instant and shocking, as the smoldering scent of flowers burning filled my nose and mind.

Quick, Saachi ordered, snapping me back to attention. Dip them in the hydrogen peroxide. Now!

Jason blushed as he watched her soak the pale roses in the liquid, their color reviving. Like bringing the dead back to life.

Magic, he’d whispered then.

He didn’t hear me when I agreed.

That night, I paced, worried. It was now or never. I had to make my move.

And I officially had nothing to wear. Wendy’s party started in an hour, and I was nowhere near ready. In times like these, I’d wished more than ever that Raina and I could be like real sisters, the kind who shared clothes and shoes along with secrets. But I’d outgrown her—in every department except for boobs, of course—long ago, and it burned in me like a hardly secret shame.

I avoided full-length mirrors—didn’t even keep one in my room. They revealed curves in all the wrong places. Pretty face, yup. And I knew how to work it, accentuate and highlight, to make myself stand out. But the rest of me? Sigh. Lately, I was all about oversize T-shirts or long, flowy dresses. Made me stick out like a sore thumb at school. Then again, so did everything else.

I rifled through the options on the bed, tossing aside dresses and rompers. Nothing was quite right. I had to be perfect. I was still pondering options when Raina knocked, pushing the door open before I could say Come in. The way she always did.

I thought you might look pretty in this.

Raina was holding up an embroidered blue kurti—one she’d bought in Agra when we visited the Taj Mahal last summer. She’d gone all swoony at the Taj, telling everyone and anyone that tragic-but-timeless love story of Shah Jahan and his wife Mumtaz Mahal, reputedly the most beautiful woman in the world. Can you imagine? she’d said over and over. The whole thing cost more than thirty-two million rupees—and it took more than twenty thousand men to finish the job. If only someone loved me that much.

I rolled my eyes. Somebody, of course, meant Veer, even though she’d never said it aloud. Boring. I preferred my love stories straight out of Bollywood films—complete with song and dance. Though neither of us had any experience in that department ourselves. Tonight, that could change. Would change. I could feel it.

Raina held the shirt up to my chest. The blue really pops against your skin, she said, nodding to herself in approval. And I can do your nails. Gunmetal?

I wished then that she would come with us to the party—even though she was a junior and Fridays meant SAT prep. Raina had never been one for parties and painting faces. She was too busy with college applications and the school paper. I opened my mouth to ask her again, but she shook her head, holding up the polish with a grin.

Half an hour later, I was ready. Half-tucked cobalt kurti and a too-short denim skirt Papa would hate, a paisley scarf belted through the loops. My hair cascaded in dark waves down my back, and I’d finally pulled off that deep kohl cat’s eye I’d been practicing for weeks. My lips shined with a rosy gloss, lush and kissable.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wiggled my toes as Raina finished the last one, and they sparkled up at me, shimmering and perfect.

It was already cold for September, but to show off Raina’s efforts, I’d have to wear those strappy silver chappal. I couldn’t hide this art. Plus, they’d go well with the kurti.

There. Raina grinned, satisfied. You look beautiful.

I grimaced. Not really. But Raina always said so anyway.

Are you excited? she asked, a hint of longing in her voice.

My stomach rumbled. I could go, I said, hopeful, or I could stay. We could make popcorn and watch a movie.

Raina almost gave me an out. But then the doorbell rang. That’s Saachi, she announced, standing. You better move.

Ever the chaperone, Saachi frowned, an eyebrow arched as I walked up the driveway. You look, uh, nice, she said, taking in my strappy chappal and the bright blue of the kurti.

She was wearing too-crisp jeans and a black button-down top she might have borrowed from Madhu Auntie, along with the same black leather loafers she wore to the endless debate meets she made us sit through. A mini-adult, dressed for the office. I didn’t say a word. It was the first time I’d managed to convince her to come with me, and her company was the only reason Papa had said I could go at all. Come on, we’re late.

The sun was settling in as the two of us walked to Wendy’s house, the sky blazing orange and pink, with undertones of purple taking over. Raina’s absence rattled like forgotten keys, making me want to run back and call the whole thing off. But we were there before I could hesitate. A deep bass thrummed low and heavy, beckoning us toward the house, fairy lights crisscrossing the dusk like stars as we headed toward the backyard, lured by the scent of meat and chlorine.

Saachi paused, turning to face me, her mouth firm and serious. Another proclamation, I could hear it coming. She’d been looking at me like that since we were six, like she was my mom about to warn me not to cause a scene, and not the actual baby of our little trio. I think we should make a pact, she said, determined. If either of us feels uncomfortable, we leave.

It was just a party. A big party. Maybe a life-changing one. If we ever actually made it inside. I sighed and nodded. But it wasn’t enough.

Pinky swear, Saachi said, smiling, and for a minute, I saw a flash of that big, gap-tooth grin that made me love her in the first place.

I lifted my little finger, a streak of silver glinting at its tip. Pinky swear, I promised.

Wendy’s house was huge. The party spilled out from the cavernous living room into an endless yard, benches circling firepits, and what seemed like fifty kids gathered in bunches, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. Saachi stuck close as I made my way through the crowd, sucking her teeth as I chatted up cheerleaders, frowning at the artsy crew, and bolting when I found my people, the theater kids. But she always stayed in my sightlines, chaperoning even as she settled in for a long chat with Marie from the debate team, their animated arm-waving pausing occasionally so she could eye-spy me as I blew through an overdone burger and dipped into the obviously spiked fruit punch. I’d had wine coolers before, and so had she, courtesy of our dads, to be honest. But this was different, heady and thick, pungent at first, but then it went down too easy, maybe. I had one, two, three, to Saachi’s zero, her frown getting deeper and deeper as she took notes in her head.

I was lost for a minute or ten, talking about the rumored Broadway revival of Rent with some of the theater kids, when I felt it. The electricity of his presence sent gooseflesh up my arms, a flutter of hope down into my belly. Jason, laughing, near the barbecue, that familiar hiccupy chuckle, like something had truly delighted him.

And I knew before I saw them that it would be Saachi standing there, a bit too close, eyes bright as she looked at him grinning down, the little rose in his hand. An offering. She smiled up at him, those endless lashes fluttering demure and seductive—in a way I couldn’t ever be, no matter how I rehearsed it. He leaned down, whispered something into her hair, and she faltered a moment, her eyes searching, then laughed. Seeing them standing there together locked everything into place, made her version of the story the truth, no matter what I had to say about it. The way it always was. The way it would always be.

I didn’t stay to see whether she took the rose.

I needed to get lost. As the air cooled and the crowd thinned, birthday girl Wendy—already stealing scenes as the Nurse in the fall production of Romeo and Juliet as a sophomore, and therefore my idol—wolf whistled to get everyone’s attention.

She held up a green glass bottle labeled s. pellegrino. Fancy water. But it was empty. All right, kiddies, she said, a smug smirk spreading across her face. It’s time for fun and games.

Maybe that’s what I needed. Wendy shuffled the pack into the house, the music turned down low, the bass still vibrating beneath. There were maybe twenty of us squished into the living room, and for a moment I panicked, learning to swim without a floaty, as the crowd gathered in a circle. I was pushed forward, so I took a seat on the floor with the rest of them, my eyes searching for Saachi.

She stood frozen in the doorway, her face wary, her eyes hunting for me. She frowned when they found me, motioning for me to come back outside. Then Jason plopped down next to me, his hand landing close to mine on the floor, the rose crushed in his palm, apparently rejected. But all I could smell was sulfur. I tried not to flinch as he touched my pinky, the silver glint of polish streaked over it. Neat.

I pulled my hand away, the heat climbing up from my chest to my throat to my cheeks. This was it, the moment I’d plotted for days, weeks, months. The moment I’d imagined a thousand times in my head. But it was inside out, lopsided. Not how I imagined it would be, floating and incandescent.

It was too loud, too crowded, too forced. I looked back toward the doorway, hoping to bolt, but Saachi was gone. Somehow, though, I could still feel her eyes on me. There were snickers as she settled into a small space across the circle, the grimace giving her away as she stared me down. She wasn’t the only one. She was flanked by Andrea Wood and Lia Chao, Jason’s ex, who rolled her eyes in irritation. She wasn’t done with him yet, clearly. Saachi flashed me a tight smile, and my stomach roiled with bile, butterflies plotting an escape.

I looked down at the center of the space between us, where Wendy placed the glass bottle. Birthday girl goes first, she sing-songed, already drunk and happy. Round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the green of the bottle as it swirled, dizzying, spinning the earth in its orbit, deciding fates.

It stopped on Matt Kwon, to hoots and hollers from the crowd. Wendy leaned into the center and kissed him, a painless peck, no big deal, like she did it all the time. Matt spun next, a doofy grin on his face. A game, easy, effortless, meaningless.

The butterflies surged and swarmed. Maybe I was the only one freaking out. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was Jason. Maybe it was Saachi, watching, her eyes blinking hard and fast, the creases in her forehead betraying her nerves. I’d made her come. And she stayed for me. The panic on her face was clear, the beads of sweat dripping down her cheeks like tears.

I could hear her heart racing, despite the music, the crowd, the distance. Mine echoed its frantic beat, I knew from experience. And still the bottle spun, ready to claim its next victim. If it landed on Saachi, she’d never forgive me.

But it didn’t. It landed on Lia, who gave Matt a quick kiss, her eyes more focused on Jason, indifferent, than Matt’s smirk as their lips met. Lia spun next, careful and deliberate, her pout a prayer as the bottle began its whirl, the glass clinking on the dark bamboo floors, the glint of green mesmerizing and seductive. Maybe she was owed a miracle, because I couldn’t believe it when it stopped on Jason.

It was like Lia planned it, the way the slow grin spread across her face like a strawberry-glossed stain. But Jason’s stance was firm and unyielding as he offered a cheek, cold as she caught him straight on the mouth. Wendy turned up the music as Andrea and a few others whooped, enjoying the show.

Then it was Jason’s turn to spin. He whirled the bottle in the center of the floor and it seemed to go forever, round and round and round.

I prayed that it would stop on me. And prayed that it wouldn’t. It didn’t.

It stopped between Andrea and Saachi, who looked about ready to throw up. Andrea, vicious as always, preyed on Saachi’s unease by picking up the bottle and facing it right at her. Your turn, Saachi, she said, her nasal tones squawking upward with glee and contempt.

I should have stepped in, said something, defused it or whatever. This was not Saachi’s scene at all. She’d only come because I made her. But it was happening again. I watched Jason, sitting next to me, his hand on the floor still just inches from mine, his eyes all lit and hopeful as he stared at the girl I called my best friend.

In that moment, I knew without a doubt exactly how wrong I’d been. All those times I thought he might like me, cracking jokes and making faces behind Greco’s back, they hadn’t been for me at all. They had been for her. She wasn’t the one intruding. I was.

Saachi stood abruptly, annoyed, her eyes on me as she announced, I’m not playing.

She looked across the circle, at Jason, then at me, her eyes expectant, waiting for an endless moment. But I couldn’t fall in line, give in to her version of the story. Not this time. This time, I had to make it my own.

So I didn’t move, even though every cell in my body wanted to. Even though I pinky swore.

Saachi’s face fell a moment, then she nodded, disappearing quickly into the crowd without another word.

Jason looked slightly crushed—the way I felt, those butterflies smothered in sunlight—but just for a second. Then he smiled, eyes hopeful, and said, Guess I’ll just spin again.

I knew I had to get up. To find Saachi, like I’d promised, and head straight home. To put it all behind me. Behind us.

But I couldn’t. Jason was going to kiss someone that night. I willed it to be me.

I watched the bottle spin, spin, spin. And when it stopped, finally, it sealed my fate. Landing halfway between me and Jason. Allowing us to meet in the middle.

Are you in, or are you out? Wendy asked, already bored. In her mind, Saachi and I were the same, a matched set, like all the brown kids.

Jason closed his eyes and leaned in toward me and so I did the same. I could smell whatever spicy cologne he’d borrowed from his brother, and somewhere underneath it, that familiar clean lemoniness of his soap. Up close, he was all freckles peeking through the fade of a summer tan and the cherry burn on his ears, forever a giveaway. But then there were his lips, soft and salty as they brushed mine. The kiss was over before I even had time to absorb it. I opened my eyes and a million people were staring and maybe whispering or snickering or even laughing. But in that moment, I didn’t care. Because I’d just had my first kiss. With Jason McIntyre.

The game was a blur after that, but thankfully, the bottle didn’t stop on me or Jason again. I spent the rest of it looking down, and when he disappeared halfway through to go get a soda, I was glad. Even though my hands crushed the rose he’d left behind.

I’d kissed him, finally. But now I didn’t know what to do with myself. Eventually, I got up, too, knowing I should go hunt for Saachi. Hoping Jason hadn’t found her first.

I looked in the kitchen and in the backyard and in the living room again. Then I accepted what I already knew. Saachi was gone. And I, Ruby Arora, had broken my pinky promise. And I hated myself, because I knew, deep down, that it had been worth it.

It took me more than a year to work up the courage to tell Saachi about kissing Jason the night of the party. I still had the rose, pressed between the pages in my journal, sulfur-scented and rancid. When I finally confessed, she shrugged. Like it wasn’t anything at all. Like it just didn’t matter.

But it did. It wasn’t really about the kiss. It wasn’t really about Jason.

It was bigger than that, the damage done.

Because that’s when forever ended, and I don’t know how to get it back.

That September night, that’s when the spiral started. Even though I pretended it was just the same. That nothing could really change it. Us.

It had already been forever since we’d shared one of those nights—countless as kids—when the three of us would lay tucked all in a row the wrong way across Saachi’s droopy queen bed, sharing secrets. My hot-pink toes would hang off one end, while Raina’s little legs were still inches from the edge. Saachi always insisted on being in the middle, even though the mattress sagged and both of us would roll in onto her. Stop squishing me, she’d squeal, husky tones softening. But we knew she loved it, being at the center of our little universe. Being there with the sisters she was never meant to have.

I missed the seconds before sleep when our whispers would turn to books (which I hated) or boys (which Saachi hated) or where we’d be when we were eighteen or twenty or thirty-two. When the gleaming future infinitely promised that, no matter what happened, we’d face it all together. Because that’s what sisters do.

Until they don’t.

Saachi was sixteen when she stopped talking to me. And it was all my fault.

For the longest time, I pretended I didn’t know why. But of course I did, somewhere in my head, because how could I not? I claimed not to notice. The slow unwinding, the way fates are decided.

First, I blamed it on distance. An unexpected move. Saachi changing schools. The space between us growing too big to close. Then there were missed calls, texts left unanswered. It started as small silences and little dismissals—casual yups, uh-huhs, and see you laters. Slowly, slowly, until she disappeared completely, like she never existed at all.

Which, of course, wasn’t true. I’d hear her and Raina on the phone, whispering late into the night, my