My sister accosts me in the hallway, pulling me through my open door and onto my bed. She turns up my stereo that is already playing screamo at a fair volume. Her hands move over my blanket, smoothing it.

"Guess who just called me." She says.

I shrug.



"Remember? I emailed Gotcha? They want us to be on the show."

"You're kidding me." Gotcha is a crappy, yet strangely trendy practical joke show my sister will not miss.

"You're the one who told me to do it."

"I was drunk. So were you."

"Well, they're coming next week. And you're helping."

"No I'm not."

"The victim will be Dad."

"Will he suffer emotionally or otherwise?"

"Most definitely."

"I'm in."