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Holden flops backward on the bed, his arms spread out. “I call this side, then.”
That settles that. No sleeping on the floor now. It would just make things awkward.
I set my bags down on the other side of the bed and pull out the cameras, checking for charged batteries, cleaning the lenses, and packing my backpack with other things I might need: the lavalier mic, the battery charger, extra SD cards, a portable charger for my phone, ibuprofen, hand lotion, a comb, lipstick, two protein bars. My typical emergency bag—at least, when I’m not with Corrine. When we’re together, she’s the mom friend.
After Holden takes a few shots out of the dirty window, we head outside for food and exploring. I film everything andHolden takes photos—sometimes even photos of me, and I’m not that mad about it because my face is usually behind my camera or I’m looking at shops or leading the way—and I show him some of my favorite tourist-y spots: the High Line, the very terrible subway, the Hudson River, this restaurant near the Javits Center called Friedman’s with what is sometimes a city view and other times a view of six trash bags and construction workers taking up space on the sidewalk. He eases up over time, lets me direct him, answers more questions. When I’m thinking that maybe I will bring someone with me the next time, the worst thing happens.
Holden gets violently sick in the first bathroom he can reach at the Javits Center. Maybe half a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, followed by a bowl of macaroni and cheese, followed by a dollar slice of pizza was not the best combination of food while nervous and about to run an obstacle course. Who would have thought?
My mom, probably. Definitely my grandma. Corrine and Kayla. Anyone else, really.
“I’ll be fine,” Holden calls from inside the men’s room.
He throws up again, not fine. I wince at the sound of his gagging, but continue to record our conversation even when viewers will probably only be able to hear me.
“I’m going to get someone,” I say, half turning away from the bathroom entrance.
I hear him spit. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they can postpone until you feel better.”
“No!” He flushes and then I hear water rushing into a sink. “No. I’m fine.”
He comes out a few seconds later, shaky, pale, and sweaty. I can’t find an angle to make him look healthy. “I’m fine.”
“Is this just nerves?” I ask, wanting to squeeze his arm in, I don’t know, comfort? Or maybe to cling on to my one last hope of finishing this documentary.
“I’m fine,” he says again. I’m worried it’s all he knows how to say.
I suppose, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not ready for our time together to be over. If Holdenlost—or in this case, couldn’t compete—then maybe I wouldn’t have to stop filming with him right away. Maybe I could do an extended act three, showing all the ways Holden is saving up for the headset next year or some scheme he (read: I) put in place to get him the headset from the winner. I could come up with a hundred ideas if I had to, in order to extend my time with him.
But if he somehow pulls this off, really is fine and rallies himself for one more miracle feat, my documentary is over; our time to be friends again is over.Ugh, and my submission will have the most boring and predictable ending. White guy wins again. We all know this story.
I can’t let that happen.
He throws up again, twice, during his pre-event interview and the employee we dealt with during that douchebag’s cheating in the last event decides that Holden’s not fit to compete. I’m ecstatic, andpanicking. This is the plot twist I wanted, for mydocumentaryandmy personal life, but I don’t know how to deal with it immediately. What’s the best course of action?
“No,” Holden and I say at the same time. I can barely catch my breath enough to say it. It comes out like a squawk. My thoughts fly a million miles an hour.
“I’m fine,” Holden says again. “I can run the course and I can win.” He tries to smile, but even his pale lips are shaking.
“No, you can’t,” I say too quickly. I’m supposed to be on his side, but no, he can’t compete! “I mean, you’re not doing well,” I add in a caring voice.
“We can’t risk you hurting yourself or hurting someone else, or getting anyone sick....” The woman appears to be debating all the things that could go wrong, a slight disgusted sneer on her face as she takes in Holden’s appearance. “I’m sorry, but you’re not competing.”
MaybeHolden’snot.
I angle the camera at her face. The words are out before I can even frame the shot. “What if I did it in his place?” It’s the only way I’d have control over the narrative. Yes, I’ll do the run for him and I’ll throw it. He loses in an unforeseen plot twist that shocks the crowd and Admissions, and then we spend some more time together as we mold the proper ending.
“I don’t know...” Her expression twists at the same time my gut does. “I’ll have to consult some people.”
“Look, I know we’ve made a bunch of problems, but he’s come all this way, gotten this far, and he deserves some kind of chance. It’s not his fault. He can’t help that he’s sick. Hejustgot sick; he was great all day until now.”
I meet her eyes, and I hate what I’m about to do, but this documentarywillhave an ending, a good one. “If you don’t make this work, I will upload this video and let everyone know that Vice and Virtue practically spat on a nearly dying kid’s last hope at winning this contest.”
Beside me, Holden tenses like he’s going to hurl again.
The lady’s face goes tight, her lips pursed. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
