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Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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pounded the door. When that got no reaction, I kicked it. Of course, that would have been a mistake even if I'd done it with my ballet-slippered foot. But with my bare toes, it was a big mistake. “Emily, I hate you!” I shouted.
I regretted the words even as they were coming out of my mouth. I didn't hate her. I greatly disliked her at this point in our lives, but “hate” was what I felt for this pink, fluffy, infuriatingly mindless game, not my sister.
Still, what was the matter with her? What could be so wrong with her life that she would choose to lose herself in a beautiful but shallow world surrounded by beautiful but shallow guys? Didn't she realize what her rejecting me—rejecting me in favor of this sugary garbage—was putting me through?
It wasn't that there was any chance she could hear me—not with that quartet playing so loudly—but I couldn't leave my “I hate you” hanging in the air.
But I wouldn't apologize for it, either.
Instead, I amended my earlier comment. “Emily,” I grumbled, “you're a selfish jerk!”
That made my heart feel better, if not my toes.
The wraparound porch put the windows—at least the ones on the ground floor—within easy reach, so I stomped my way to where I could see into the ... well, whatever it had been before, it was a ballroom now. The window wouldn't slide up or swing open, at least not from outside, so I rapped my knuckles against the glass.
That must not have been loud enough to counteract Mozart or Strauss or Sousa or whatever that music was.
I fished the butterfly coin out of my pocket and used that to tap-tap-tap on the window, figuring maybe the sharp sound would cut through the festive hubbub of Emily's party. And yes, inside, a few of the guests on the fringe of the crowd turned to look at me. I put my face up to the glass and yelled, “Emily! Emily! "
Maybe they couldn't make out my words, but surely someone would understand and fetch her.
Instead, they fetched a servant, who came over and—without so much as making eye contact—pulled the velvet drapes closed, shutting me and the other nighttime nuisances out.
Maybe it was even Emily who'd given the order. I was beginning to wonder if anything in this game happened without her say-so.
I mentally told her, You can’t get rid of me THAT easily .
The evening had gotten dim, but not yet dark, so I left the porch and scrounged around the edges of the lawn until I found a slightly-bigger-than-my-fist rock. That would make more noise than my knuckles or a coin.
I picked the rock up and returned to the window.
Whap-whap-whap.
I had expected someone to yank open the curtain to investigate, but there was no reaction.
I adjusted my hold on the rock to make sure my fingers were clear of the largest side so I could bang harder and louder.
Thunk-thunk-thunk.
Nothing. The lively music continued to play. Nobody even came to tell me I'd be in serious trouble if I broke the glass.
Well, then... All right, Emily. You asked for it.
I left the porch again, to put more distance between me and the window. This time, I flung the rock with all my might.
Thump. Yikes!
I almost made it out of the way as the rock bounced off the window and shot right back at me. There was an unbelievable pain at my right temple...
...And the next thing I knew, I was coming to, sprawled on the grass, in such intense pain, I was convinced my head was split open and my brains were spilling out onto Emily's neatly trimmed lawn.
There isn't supposed to be pain in Rasmussem games. Discomfort, sure; that's part of the realism. But most of the games have players doing all sorts of dangerous things: swordfighting and facing down alien invasions and exploring haunted houses. Stuff most normal people wouldn't do in real life for fear of death and/or maiming. Rasmussem provides a safe way to have adventures. Who would pay to experience sword thrusts or laser burns or broken bones? I could only guess that the usual game protocols
I regretted the words even as they were coming out of my mouth. I didn't hate her. I greatly disliked her at this point in our lives, but “hate” was what I felt for this pink, fluffy, infuriatingly mindless game, not my sister.
Still, what was the matter with her? What could be so wrong with her life that she would choose to lose herself in a beautiful but shallow world surrounded by beautiful but shallow guys? Didn't she realize what her rejecting me—rejecting me in favor of this sugary garbage—was putting me through?
It wasn't that there was any chance she could hear me—not with that quartet playing so loudly—but I couldn't leave my “I hate you” hanging in the air.
But I wouldn't apologize for it, either.
Instead, I amended my earlier comment. “Emily,” I grumbled, “you're a selfish jerk!”
That made my heart feel better, if not my toes.
The wraparound porch put the windows—at least the ones on the ground floor—within easy reach, so I stomped my way to where I could see into the ... well, whatever it had been before, it was a ballroom now. The window wouldn't slide up or swing open, at least not from outside, so I rapped my knuckles against the glass.
That must not have been loud enough to counteract Mozart or Strauss or Sousa or whatever that music was.
I fished the butterfly coin out of my pocket and used that to tap-tap-tap on the window, figuring maybe the sharp sound would cut through the festive hubbub of Emily's party. And yes, inside, a few of the guests on the fringe of the crowd turned to look at me. I put my face up to the glass and yelled, “Emily! Emily! "
Maybe they couldn't make out my words, but surely someone would understand and fetch her.
Instead, they fetched a servant, who came over and—without so much as making eye contact—pulled the velvet drapes closed, shutting me and the other nighttime nuisances out.
Maybe it was even Emily who'd given the order. I was beginning to wonder if anything in this game happened without her say-so.
I mentally told her, You can’t get rid of me THAT easily .
The evening had gotten dim, but not yet dark, so I left the porch and scrounged around the edges of the lawn until I found a slightly-bigger-than-my-fist rock. That would make more noise than my knuckles or a coin.
I picked the rock up and returned to the window.
Whap-whap-whap.
I had expected someone to yank open the curtain to investigate, but there was no reaction.
I adjusted my hold on the rock to make sure my fingers were clear of the largest side so I could bang harder and louder.
Thunk-thunk-thunk.
Nothing. The lively music continued to play. Nobody even came to tell me I'd be in serious trouble if I broke the glass.
Well, then... All right, Emily. You asked for it.
I left the porch again, to put more distance between me and the window. This time, I flung the rock with all my might.
Thump. Yikes!
I almost made it out of the way as the rock bounced off the window and shot right back at me. There was an unbelievable pain at my right temple...
...And the next thing I knew, I was coming to, sprawled on the grass, in such intense pain, I was convinced my head was split open and my brains were spilling out onto Emily's neatly trimmed lawn.
There isn't supposed to be pain in Rasmussem games. Discomfort, sure; that's part of the realism. But most of the games have players doing all sorts of dangerous things: swordfighting and facing down alien invasions and exploring haunted houses. Stuff most normal people wouldn't do in real life for fear of death and/or maiming. Rasmussem provides a safe way to have adventures. Who would pay to experience sword thrusts or laser burns or broken bones? I could only guess that the usual game protocols
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