"How do you measure embarrassment?"

“So this is going to be a different kind of best friend embarrassment hangout,” says Meg. The four girls, and you, are sitting in Meg’s dorm room. It’s about midday. All are fully clothed. “I won’t be stripping you this time.”

“You’re sure?”

“I solemnly promise not to touch one item of clothing on your body,” says Meg, keeping her face composed. The girls look at you doubtfully. “And neither will Sitri! Don’t worry! If you want to keep your clothes on the whole afternoon, you’re perfectly free to do so.”

“One could almost call this a normal hangout,” Lily says.

“One could! But there’s a catch. You see those armbands I gave you?”

“Um… yeah?”

“There’s a score on each of those,” says Meg, as the other girls peer at the digital displays on their armbands, kind of like a watch but different. “You know what that measures, ladies?”

“No idea.”

“Embarrassment.”

“How do you measure embarrassment?”

“Oh, this is my field,” you say, as the three girls glare at you. “So embarrassment is technically a complex multilayered experience consisting of no less than seven different sub-vibes, cultural overtones of Rage, Fear and Guilt, at least four separate flavours and countless other identifiable qualities, all of which can be individually tracked. What you’re seeing there is really just a ballpark compound, but it’ll get the job done.”

“And why, exactly, do we need to have our embarrassment tracked? You know, if you’re not taking our clothes off?”

“It’s midday now. I figure we’ll meet back here around eight, as the sun goes down. That gives you girls eight hours. Whoever’s racked up the lowest aggregate embarrassment score by that time will be spending the weekend in Hell.”

There’s a long, thoughtful silence.

“You fucking DICK!”

“Haha! Yes!”