CHUM

Chapter 9: Who's Your Chum?

"The rules in the 'Who's Your Chum Challenge' are simple enough," shouts Mr. Director. "Go ahead, everyone take your place at the tip of your planks," he says. The sailors unclip their spark clubs from their belts. I know what that means: we don't have a choice.

The sailor closest to me shoves me over toward the closest plank. Two more shove Holly and Candy #1 to the planks on either side of mine. I hesitate, and he taps me lightly on the back with his club. "Mind your manners," he says. They wouldn't make us all walk the plank, would they?

I step up onto it. It's a wooden board about as wide as my waist. "Out you go," says the sailor gruffly. I shuffle out a few feet, keeping low so I can keep my balance. The plank bends and wobbles under my weight. The sea is tumbling and churning past, far beneath me as the ship cuts through it.

I feel exposed, like I'm hanging from a cliff without my shorts on. It's colder here too. The water gives off a salty chill when you're standing over it. I stop shuffling. My toes are dangerously close to the end.

I'm still holding my Chum. Everyone else is too, as if to prove they shouldn't have to do this. Touchdown is crouched down on his plank, his knuckles white from holding on so tight. I can't say I blame him. I try to focus. I have to keep my balance.

"Okay, that's far enough," shouts Mr. Director. "Go ahead, turn around. Face the ship." I do what he says. It's better that way; I can keep an eye on the sailor. "Captain, you know what to do," he says.

Captain Poursport opens a wooden chest at the base of the mast. He pulls out an armful of metal saws with rows of tiny teeth on their edges and tosses the saws, one by one, to his sailors. A few moments later every single plank has a sailor with a hungry saw standing over it.

The sailor at the base of my plank cocks his head and smiles at me. I don't think he meant that smile to be nice.

"Now, we'll randomly select one of you contestants to answer the following question:" says Mr. Director. He reads from a sheet of paper, "Who was the leading actress in last year's hit soap opera, Love Trap?"

So it's a question and answer game? A dramatic bass note thrums in the background. A sailor holds a glass fish bowl full of tiny papers up to Cecil. Cecil reaches in without looking and draws out a slip. He points to a woman with short grape-purple hair who's standing three planks over.

She looks startled. "Me?" she says, her voice cracking. "I'd have to say... well I'm not really sure. I don't watch Soaps, only the news and sports mostly. I know I've heard of that show though. It's in the tabloids sometimes. Pouty Lippmore?"

BBbbbbzzzzzZZZ!

A buzzer goes off, grating the inside my skull. "I'm sorry, you are incorrect," says Mr. Director. "Pouty Lippmore is actually the star of The Desperation Game, a prime-time drama for teens full of pointless relationships and name-brand fashion!"

The sailor standing near the woman with grape-purple hair kneels down and begins to saw her plank at its base where it connects to the ship.

"No! Wait, I can answer another one! Please!" cries Grape-head, tears falling down her face. Her plank bows as the saw cuts into it. She's clinging to her Chum like it's a life preserver.

I feel sorry for her, and a little afraid. If Cecil had pulled my name out of that bowl, there is no way I could have answered that question.

"Please, just give me one more chance?" sobs Grape-head.

"And so you shall!" cries Mr. Director. "Everyone gets two." The sailor stops sawing. He's halfway through. There's an almost audible sigh from the contestants. I let out a long breath myself.