Yeah, I considered doing one of those April Fool's pranks where I pretended to quit this story, but since it's already been abandoned once, I don't think that would have been very funny.
We might be hollow, but we're brave.
Simone Collins.
Los Angeles, California.
I spend most of the night drifting in and out of sleep, but I can't get comfortable on my plastic mattress. It doesn't help that Harper keeps rolling over in the bunk above me, and every time the old wood frame shakes, I tense up, convinced it's going to collapse on top of me. As if that weren't enough, Trina snores, like, really loudly.
This cabin even makes me miss my dorm. As cramped and smelly as it is (my roommate unfortunately doesn't take hygiene as seriously as I do) I've never had to worry about things that interfere with my beauty sleep, like spiders. Or snoring. Or shouting and banging on my door because apparently that's the acceptable way to wake people up when you're living in the middle of the freaking woods.
"Morning, kids!" comes a distinct, cheery voice through our door at the opposite end of the cabin. There's a sharp jangling of keys before light floods into our room, and I squint, raising my hand to fend off the assault on my eyes. "Hope you all slept well. I have to go wake all the others up, but I'm just here to let you know to be down at breakfast by 7:30!"
"Wha... what time is it?" I yawn. My eyes are still blurry with sleep, and Anabel's silhouette in the doorway looks like it's glowing in the dim pink light.
"6:33," she says, almost apologetically. "I meant to come by sooner, but with all the chaos of getting back here last night, well, I missed my first two alarms."
"And why, exactly, do you need us up at the ass-crack of dawn?" Trina grumbles, her voice muffled by a pillow.
"So you'd have enough time to get ready, of course. I don't want you to worry about rushing breakfast. Oh, by the way, here are your clothes for today." She reaches into a cart behind her and tosses three packs into the middle of the room, where they thud against the floor. "Remember, 7:30 sharp. And don't be late, or you'll miss the waffles!"
"What the hell is wrong with that woman?" Trina groans after the door shuts again, flopping back against her bed. I'm too groggy to answer. I roll back over.
I wake again some time later, when the light slipping in the far window is golden, not pink. Trina's struggling with her hair, it appears, and I figure her cursing is what woke me up. I crawl to my feet, struggling towards the clothes pile in the center of the room. Harper is gone- probably got out of here at the first opportunity, and I can't blame her, with Trina in one of her moods. Neither of us wanted to fight with Trina over the single bed last night, and I don't think a shaky night's sleep helped her attitude at all.
"Time check?" I ask.
"Oh, about 7:20," Trina says matter-of-factly.
A ripple of panic shoots through me, propelling my body towards the remaining pack on the floor. I need more time! I need to shower! I didn't shower last night because everyone knows sleeping on wet hair gives you dandruff and besides, showering in the morning helps me start the day fresh. I have to shower, I have to look good, and I don't care where we are! I'm a three-time beauty queen. I have standards!
"Oh my god, oh my god." I literally haven't been this stressed since, like, February. At school, whenever I wake up two hours late, I just don't leave the dorm because I don't let people see me without makeup. Wait. I pause, loosening my fist from the plastic package. Who needs breakfast? Who needs any of this? I don't have to leave if I don't want to. I could easily claim homesickness or food poisoning or something. I've been told I'm a gifted actress. "I changed my mind. I'm not leaving."
"Oh, honestly." Trina grabs my arm and pulls me towards the doorway. "You need to shower. You reek, and I am so not rooming with someone who smells like dirt and B.O."
I sniff indignantly, but grab my clothes, bath pack, and a towel. She slams the door in my face.
I wrap the towel around my head as I trek down to the bath hall, careful to hide myself. I don't want anyone else seeing my beautiful face like this, all oily and bumpy. It's an embarrassment, frankly, an insult to my image. My beauty sets me above the rest, and if I look average, I'm worthless. I make it all the way down before I run into another girl coming out of the bathroom. Before I can duck my head away, Seraphina offers me a small smile as she walks by; toothpaste lines the edges of her mouth. "The water's a little spotty, just warning you," she says.
Spotty? Inside, after checking for other unwanted spectators, I step into a shower, leaving my clothes folded on the floor, and twist the taps. The showerhead spits icy cold water over my hands, making me shiver. I turn the hot water as far as it will go, but the temperature doesn't improve. Well, great.
I rush through my normally laid back shampooing routine as the ice water stings like needles on my back. As I lather, the water pressure starts to lighten, but playing with the taps does nothing to help either that or the temperature. This even makes me miss the hairy school showers, that's how bad it is.
But it gets worse. Foam still coats the front of my forehead when the water clicks off completely.
I don't think the showers are on timers. Mariana must have spent fifteen minutes in hers last night while I was waiting to wash my face at the sink and I've hardly been here for five minutes. Shivering, I dart into the next shower and spin the handles. But other than a few lingering droplets, this one doesn't budge, either.
My panic from this morning comes creeping back. Every shower is as useless as the first. I wrap myself in a towel and move towards the sinks, hoping to dunk my head under a stream of warm water, but they're dry, too. Every last one.
"I haven't even conditioned..." I moan.
Deep breaths. I can work around this. Carefully, I dab the remaining shampoo out of my hair with the edges of my towel, then work through my tangles with a comb. I'm cursing myself for not keeping leave-in conditioner in my purse, since every tug is agonizing. But I have to be careful. No split ends... no tears...
When I've finally worked every knot from my head, I risk a look up in the mirror. And then I choke.
My hair is frizzy.
I burst into tears.
Dane Hanson.
Springville, Utah.
"Bless us O Lord, for these thy gifts..."
I finish the rest of the prayer under my breath and tap my forehead and shoulders. As I straighten and pull myself forward to eat, Doran slides his tray in across from me. Nothing shows how opposite we are like our breakfast plates. I keep things pragmatic and uncomplicated: a neat bowl of oatmeal topped with blueberries, a cup of fruit, buttered toast, and a glass of watery orange juice. Doran, on the other hand, has stacked his plate high with a tower of waffles, which he's drizzled with syrup and dotted with berries. As I watch, for flair, he starts tracing strawberry yogurt around the edges.
"Would it really kill you to just eat a normal-looking breakfast?" I ask, shaking my head.
"Yes," he says solemnly. "Besides, sitting across from you, I need something pretty to look at."
I roll my eyes. Doran's so frivolous sometimes that I can hardly talk to him. And yet, he's my closest friend here. I often wonder why.
"Well, if you're looking for pretty things, you're in luck. I heard some of the counselors talking in line, and it sounds like there's some creativity activity this afternoon."
"Really?" Except he says it with a mouth full of dough, so it comes out more like, Ruffluff? Unashamed, his eyes light up as they are wont to do whenever the potential for design comes up, the artist and model that he is. People typically assume that there's an artsier side to me as well, for all the time we spend with each other. Not so much. I guess, technically, writing could be considered my creative outlet, but I'm abnormal in that I prefer the objective essays of English and History classes over imaginary stories. "Wonder what it'll be," he muses, digging his fork into the other side of his "masterpiece".
I try my own oatmeal and am surprised at the sweetness. Despite last night's dinner I suppose I expected something bland and flavorless, the stereotype of camp food. It's not nearly as good as something I'd make for myself, but for a run-down old place like this, I'm pleasantly surprised. I'm glad to know the staff are earning their keep.
The food seems to have everyone in good spirits. As more and more students shuffle in, the clattering of their silverware and laughing voices covers Doran's next words.
"What did you say?" I ask.
"I was just wondering if you think they'd make us do more river drawings." His eyes crinkle, playful.
"I sure hope not." Talking in front of people has never been my cup of tea. Even if I am as brilliant as I'm told, I don't like to stand up in the spotlight for presentations. Especially since yesterday, there was an almost hostile energy in our room. Maybe it was Milo's strange presence, or Gabrielle's dark mood, but I felt no inclination to share any of my secrets. Not that I have anything worth hiding.
"If you're scared about sharing, you did fine. Believe me, everyone else was just shitting their pants because you always talk like you're forty years old."
"I do n-" Okay, I do. "It's not like I can help it."
"You could, if you quit reading books from the sixteen-hundreds. Who are those guys? Shakespeare, Malton...?"
"Milton," I correct him, almost lazily. "Paradise Lost."
"Right. A classic. In other words, another book by a boring old man, for a boring old man like you." He twists his fork around again and takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "You know, these waffles are a little too dense."
"That's because they made them out of your brains," I counter.
We start to chat with Jeremiah, Freya, and Seraphina as they join our table, but I soon tune out of their pointless conversation, starting to wish I had a cup of coffee to wash my meal down with. I envy the leaders, whose vibrant chatter can only be attributed to the tall black Thermoses they sip from. I'm glad I exhausted myself enough yesterday to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow last night, or else I'd be sleepwalking like a few of the other students. Audrey and Nico look especially exhausted. And Simone... what happened to her?
Her eyes are red-rimmed, blotchy and glinting with the remains of tears, and she has her sweatshirt hood pulled tight around her face. I've never seen her wear a sweatshirt, though I guess here we're all required to wear whatever we're given. I chew more quietly, trying to pick up on what's made her so upset, but hearing that it's just because she didn't get to condition her hair makes me want to scoff. Seriously, what is with people? Doesn't anyone have anything more remarkable or meaningful that whether or not they had a perfect shower? I mean, who really cares?
As I stand to bus my plate, though, I realize the strangeness of her situation. Why would all the showers and sinks suddenly stop working? It's not natural. It makes no sense to me.
Doran passes me his plate and the remains of his elaborate breakfast, and I wrinkle my nose. I didn't offer to take his. But making a scene would just confuse him, so I act like it's just what I intended to do when I stood up. Freya, luckily, grabs the rest of the plates from our table, though I can't help wondering if she'll slip and break something before she gets there. She's hopelessly clueless. I just hope it's not contagious.
After scraping my plates and leaving the silverware soaking in a tub of suds, I join the pack of students milling around by the doors. Staff lurk among the tables, clearing leftover dishes, and I wonder why I didn't just leave mine, too. It's their job. You're supposed to let them do it. I make a mental note to remember to be more selfish. I'll need to get used to having others do my chores for me, with the kind of lavish lifestyle I'm expecting to lead.
The doors open, finally. But not from the inside. I press back to let the two figures come in. One is Sawyer Krebbs, Jackson's leader. The other is Shane, whose arm is spotted red and white with the force of Sawyer's grip. Both males' hair and clothes are sopping wet.
"What's the issue?" Davina approaches the pair slowly. "And what are you doing all wet?"
"I practically saved this kid's life," Sawyer spits. Shane tugs against his arm, to no avail. "He was nearly drowned by the geyser he caused by busting up those pipes."
Gwen Chamberlain.
Hyannis Port, Massachusetts.
"Shane, you idiot," I hiss, as Sawyer drags him into the back of the room.
No one wants to stick around and see what happens. Instead, as soon as the doors open, we predictably do the one thing you'd expect a group of crazy, nosy seniors to do: run outside and check out the damage.
Considering the size of our camp and the fact that we don't have any idea where Shane and Sawyer came from, I'm expecting it to be more difficult to find the source. But Griffin finds it first: a stream of water bouncing down the dirt slope that took us down here. Muddy water is starting to pool by my feet, and I take a wide step around it.
Unlike some of the crazy people racing up the hill, I take my time. There's no reason to make a big deal out of something that's probably not even that impressive. Still, I'm a little curious, which I guess is the only reason why I don't just stay put at the bottom.
By the time I climb to the upper part of camp, I can distinguish a faint roar of water from somewhere ahead. The driveway in front of the lodge is glimmering, flooded. I don't know how deep until I come around the side of one of the cabins and finally see the giant freaking geyser that's spraying water into the air.
That stops me.
Some people stand around the edges of the water, trying to get close without their toes getting wet. Others keep their distance, laughing or eyes wide in surprise. Me? It's hard to decide what I feel. Not awe. Shane's still an idiot. So is Yuto, who's whooping and hooting like he's twelve. But just basing off the sheer quantity of water that's been lost so far... I'm almost impressed.
But I don't condone it. Monica takes the words right out of my mouth when she mutters, "This is such a waste of water."
I don't think the adults know what to do. Whatever meager training they had to prepare for a group of high school kids likely didn't involve one of said kids fucking up their entire plumbing. Various degrees of fury play across their faces, while some just look crestfallen. I don't feel bad. They've been bitches to us, to me, for the past day.
The two closest to me– I don't know their names, they're not any of the group leaders– hiss at each other in voices too agitated to keep down.
"...fix it?"
"The best we can do is try to shut it off. You know it's safest to keep away from outside–"
"But the showers–"
"We can't."
"Cooking?"
"We'll have Chanchai make a run–"
"But showering..."
"Okay, okay. We'll get a room over in the next town. Good?"
"But–"
"Don't start. That's the best I can do. You don't get to fuck this all up–"
"Students!" A faraway male voice struggles to make itself heard over the rush of water still bursting from the ground. "Meet with your leaders immediately. We're heading out!"
"Are we hiking again?" Freya shouts.
"Yes!"
I groan, and I'm not the only one. Simone crosses her arms over her chest. Wes sits in the mud, refusing to move. Alaina just pouts. And I hate to agree with all the prissy bitches... but I feel the same way.
I blame it on my feet. Hiking on my own is fun. Hiking with some buddies to smoke is better. But hiking in my Doc Martens, which have always given me blisters on my toes, is painful. I refuse to wear the shoes they gave us, though, and it has nothing to do with how plain or ugly they are. I'm a unique person, and I like to look different. That's the inspiration behind my bubblegum pink hair and my distinctive style. I deserve some sense of individuality.
Apparently the man didn't expect resistance, because he hesitates before yelling again. "Did I stutter? Go!"
No one's afraid of him though, and I'm in no hurry. Eventually, I drag myself over to where the counselors have collected next to one of yesterday's meeting rooms.
"This all of you?" says Baptiste, as I come stand next to Quincy. Seraphina trails behind me.
"I don't know, does three equal five?"
"Careful, Chamberlain."
"And seriously, what's with the last names?" It's not just me. They refer to us by our last names while talking to each other, as well as to our faces. It's out of place, like we're at a military camp, and that's the last place you'd ever find me. "Does it make you feel powerful over a bunch of eighteen-year-olds? Or did you just never figure out any of our names?"
"Oh, give me some credit. Chamberlain just sounds so much sweeter than Gwendolyn, don't you think?"
I cringe. "Disgusting. Do me a favor and never say that again."
"Of course," he says. "Or not, since now that I know it bothers you, I'll start using it at every opportunity." Baptiste grins boyishly; he's too annoying to find attractive. "How's that?"
"Don't you dare."
"You shouldn't have brought it up then, Gwendolyn." He sneers, but it doesn't produce the desired effect. He couldn't look intimidating if he tried.
Chanel and Wes finally decide to show up– I'm a little disappointed in myself for not being the last person here, but oh well– and Baptiste turns. "Now that we're all here, we're going on a little walk. Come, come."
Like sheep, we follow. I don't talk. All I know is that we're following a very questionable path up through the trees, and nobody else is coming the same way as us, unlike yesterday.
"Is this hike going to be as long as yesterday's?" Wes complains.
"Depends on when I decide to stop," Baptiste says. "Though for that, I might make you keep going further."
Wes cleverly decides to keep his cocky mouth shut.
After a few minutes of walking, I'm too curious to let my questions keep simmering inside me. I catch up to Baptiste. "So what's going to happen with the water?" I ask. It seems like a tame enough question. "Are we not going to have running water?"
"What makes you think that?" he says, breathing hard. I'd call him out on his bluff– he's not going to take us too far up if he can't even make the trip himself– but I don't want to distract from my question.
"I overheard some things. Your friends suck at whispering."
"Hmm." He's silent for a long moment– trying to craft an elaborate but convincing lie, I'm sure. Finally, he answers honestly. "I don't know. But if I were to guess, I'd say yes, we're not going to have water."
"And why can't you fix it?"
"Have you seen this place?" he scoffs. "It's so old that it's falling apart on its own. That's true of the piping, too. If Curran hadn't done whatever he did, I bet someone accidentally flushing a tampon would have made a pipe explode somewhere." I chuckle lightly, but he's not in a joking mood. "By the time we get someone around to fix it, you'll all be gone, anyway. It's not worth it."
"You're just going to let someone else take care of your problems for you?"
His eyes flash with anger, and I step back. "Listen, Gwendolyn. Your attitude is way old. You think you know everything, and you know nothing." He exhales, still shaking with anger. I don't know what got him so heated. "It's just classic. You're so spoiled that you don't understand consequences. But guess what. Your idiot friend just doomed you all to taking baths in the lake and shitting behind trees for two more days. And I have no sympathy. So have fun dealing with your own stupidity, because I have no plans to help you."
He stalks forward. I hang back. Not because I'm afraid of him. But because he's too childish to keep arguing with.
I'm not even close to spoiled. Yes, I have money, but I've made a point not to turn into the prissy girl my parents had such big hopes for. And if he thinks that's who I am, then he doesn't know shit about me. Especially since he somehow thinks I'm happy with this recent turn of events.
I like running water, thank you very much. So joke's on him. I'm pissed. And when we get back, I am so going to kill Shane.
Eimer Otero.
Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia.
After a steep hike– not as far as yesterday's, but long enough to put some pressure on my calves– Zara finds us a nice spot in the sun with a view of the nearby mountains. I sit with my back against a felled tree, twirling flowers between my fingers. Alaina and Simone are to my left, whispering heatedly about something. They haven't said a word to me since we left camp. Yuto stretches and leans back, lying in the grass, and Gerard rests against the other end of our tree, looking thoughtful.
Zara's fiddling with the papers in her hand, so we wait. I want to join Simone and Alaina's conversation, but I'm getting the feeling I'm not wanted. I already feel like I've bothered them enough.
This just isn't where I belong. Maybe it looks like the opposite, since I'm always with Simone and Alaina. We're all together, and Yuto's here, and he's so fun. And Gerard, who's so nice. And smart. But these people don't really like me, not the way they like Trina and Chanel and Brandon and everyone else who's so interesting and not dumb, like me.
Enough wallowing. There's no use feeling sorry for myself without at least trying to make an effort. So I smile and tap Alaina on the shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, we're just talking about this crisis."
"What crisis?"
"I don't know if you noticed, but we're kind of having water issues. Which means we're all going to have to squat in the woods like a bunch of savages."
"And I need to wash my hair," Simone sniffs.
"Can't you just wait until we get back to camp...?"
"Honestly, keep up, Eimer." Alaina scoffs. "You don't get it. I'm not just talking about this hill. There's no water at camp because Shane fucked everything up."
"Oh." That explains why everyone was so freaked out earlier. Wait, no water? Isn't that really bad? "Are we going to die?"
"Eimer, do you ever think before you open your mouth?" Yuto asks.
"Sometimes..." I grin apologetically, but deep down, my chest sinks. "I just want to make sure we're all going to be okay."
"Not taking a shower for two days isn't going to kill you," says Zara, who has finished gathering her papers together. "Now, here are pens and your journals from yesterday." She hands the stack to Gerard to pass down. "Again, feel free to write anything and everything you want in them, they are yours to keep. Before we start with your activity, there are questions for you to answer on a sheet inside your books. Remember that your answers are one hundred percent confidential, and I will not be reading them, so don't be afraid to be honest. They are solely meant to get you thinking about yourself."
I didn't write anything yesterday. I wonder if I should have, since all that's in mine are a few doodles, things like trees and beaches and home. The half-sheet is tucked between the first two pages. I lift it up and, slowly, read.
1. What would you consider to be your greatest strength?
Well, this test is starting out just great. I've never been good at answering these sorts of things. Maybe I should take a look at the others before I try to struggle through this one.
2. If provided the opportunity, what is the one aspect of your life that you would change?
I sneak a look at Gerard. He's too far for me to read from his paper, unfortunately, and I wish I could. He knows what he's doing, as he nods and scribbles notes down. I'd ask him what an "aspect" is, but it would be rude to distract him. Instead, I look at the last question.
3. How tough are you, and why?
Now this is just unfair. They couldn't have given us a multiple-choice test? Not that I don't fail those too, but if you pick C every time, you're bound to at least not get a 0. I crinkle my nose. School– well, honestly, all thinking– has never been my strong suit. But I've got to try. I'm not just going to accept that I know nothing; I'm better than that.
The one question I keep coming back to is the second one. I still can't figure out what the hell an aspect is, and all I keep thinking about is that it pretty much contains the words "ass" and "pec" which are both very important features on guys. I need to focus. If I just pretend that word isn't there, I think the question is asking what I would change about my life to make me happier. Once I can start thinking about it in that way, the answer reveals itself, in a way that answers rarely do.
2. Mom and I would still live in Australia.
I belonged back home. I had loyal, kind friends, girls I knew I could trust. Boys who didn't just see me for what I looked like, and didn't just try to get me to sleep with them. I had tennis, I had great trainers, and I had my mom, before her job took us across the ocean and made her too busy to have a good relationship with me. Everything is different in America. And as hard as my social life gets, I think I miss my mom the most.
That leads me to the third question. How tough am I? For a girl who was voted most popular, I'm more fragile than I want to admit. More doubtful of my role in people's lives. I'm about to say that I'm not, I'm not tough at all, but I stop before my pen touches the paper. People don't think I'm upset if they don't see it. I guess there's bravery in putting a smile on everyday, regardless of what people say about me. And it's not easy to keep trying to be kind, day after day after day. But I do it. I want to.
3. I haven't broken down yet. I'm as tough as I have to be.
The others are waiting for me. I must have spent longer than I thought on those two questions. Quickly, I scribble something random for the first question– that one would have taken days to answer, anyway– and sit back to let Zara talk about the next activity, letting her words drift in and out of my ears like ocean waves.
Alaina and Simone have been sitting with me the whole morning and have barely registered that I'm here. For once, I realize that these would never have been the girls I'd be sitting with back home. I guess I've just gotten so caught up in appearances and expectations, and since I'm dumb and pretty, I'm expected to be a part of their group, with girls who gossip and boys who get too close. But I'm not like them. I can't share secrets with them. And as long as that's true, I will never be comfortable here.
Chanel Agresti.
Scarsdale, New York.
"The other leaders and I convened after yesterday's meetings," Baptiste explains, pausing in front of our group. "After the... failure of those group sessions, we decided to take a different approach."
"What do you mean, failure?" Gwen narrows her eyes. "We did what you told us to do."
"Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are," he admits. I snort at that. "Unfortunately, your sharing, while... nice... was not as provoking as we were hoping. In layman's terms, you guys aren't opening up to each other."
"To be fair," I interject, "you can't really expect us to just start talking about our biggest secrets with a group of people we barely know." Or know too well, and hate. I shake my head. "Forcing us isn't going to help."
"Exactly right," he says. "Which leads us to this." He grips a folder between his hands- tan and well-groomed, like the rest of him- and draws a single sheet of paper out of it before tucking the rest away. "Rather than sitting here and expecting you to talk to each other, I will be giving you this page of questions, and then I will be leaving you alone."
My outburst of "What?!" comes at the same time as Gwen's "Thank god," and she chuckles at my expression.
"I've led you all up here to provide ample privacy while you talk. It's important that there is some sense of confidentiality, otherwise there's going to be fear in opening up. And because I'm not one of you, it's not my place to intrude. Whether you want me here or not." He winks.
But he and Gwen have both misread it. Yeah, Baptiste is smokin' hot, but it's not necessarily him I want as much as the presence of someone superior to stand between Wes and me. As much as I want to deny it, I still feel threatened by Wes. I don't know if I can handle being next to him for this long.
"Some reminders of ground rules," Baptiste says, stretching. "You are not required to share anything you don't want heard. That said, I've found it to be quite therapeutic to share my troubles with others."
"Does that mean you're going to tell us about your dark, scary past?" Gwen asks.
"No fucking way."
"Just checking."
"Another important note," he continues. "Respect. It's critical. Respect that people have things they want to talk about. Making fun of them isn't just rude, it's downright insulting. There's definitely a place for mocking people-" Classic. "-but it isn't here. Got it?"
Seraphina hums, looking nervous. The rest of us just nod.
"I'll be back in forty minutes. Try not to kill each other in the meantime." Scooping up his papers, he turns and disappears into the trees.
We're silent, the paper resting in the grass in the middle of our circle. No one wants to be first. I lean back on my hands, sighing. I'm supposed to be relaxed. The sky is bright and blue, the sun is warm on my face, and the woods are beautiful. But his presence shakes me.
You're stronger than this. Come on, Chan. That was a year ago. If I thought myself into this, I'm going to have to think myself out of it. I remember my answer for the last journal question. I didn't answer the why part of it because despite Baptiste's claims I wouldn't put it past him to read what we've written, to snoop. But I put something honest.
3. How tough are you, and why?
Tough as nails. You fuck with me, I fuck you up.
It's true. I smile. I refuse to let Wes have any power over me. I was weaker then. I'm untouchable now.
"I'll start," I announce confidently, lurching towards the paper. Scanning the first question, I grin. Perfect. "Name one thing that makes you happy, and why. Easy. Volleyball, because I'm good."
"You're playing somewhere, right?" Quincy asks. It's the first thing I've heard him say all day. I don't know why people are so afraid of him; he usually backs off of me. You just have to show him you have a backbone.
"Yup. George Mason. It's in Virginia."
"That's so cool," says Seraphina, and I smile proudly.
But of course, Wes has to ruin it. "It's not that good of a school."
"You're really going to do this, Wes?" Gwen glares. She's seen too much of it; we've been picking fights since yesterday morning. That's what you get for putting us in a group together.
"Well, it's D1," I answer Wes. "Not that that'd mean anything to you."
"It doesn't. Because I picked my school on selectivity. I didn't jump at the first offer I got because I wasn't desperate or afraid that no one else would want me."
Infuriation, frustration, the type of overpowering anger only Wes can bring out of me heats up inside me and, no doubt, rises into my cheeks. And shame, at being offended so easily. "That is not-"
"Are you deaf, Wes?" Gwen's mad too, even if she doesn't get it. "Did you hear anything Baptiste said?"
"He's an idiot. I'm not taking orders from him."
"Oh, this is so not about your pride," I hiss.
"Shut up!" Quincy yells, making us all jump. "Shut the hell up. Nobody gives a shit about all your stupid drama. So get over it."
I set my jaw. Wes stays quiet. So do I.
"Great start, guys," Gwen mutters. "But whatever. Everyone's answering this one, yeah? So Seraphina, you're up."
Gwen seems to have gracefully filled the role of mediator in our group, which I'm thankful for. But if Wes doesn't respect her, then what does it matter?
He leans toward me as Seraphina uncertainly starts talking. I ignore him, but somehow, I'm not hearing anything she's saying.
"You've got nothing on me," he whispers, quiet so Gwen won't see. "You never will."
I don't hit him. If there's one thing I learned from Monday's fiasco it's that it only encourages him. It lets him know he's gotten to me, and I refuse to give him that satisfaction. Nor do I curse him out, like I so want to. Or stomp off dramatically. Even though I've never been shy about garnering attention.
I just keep my expression neutral and look like I'm paying serious attention to Seraphina. She loves tennis, apparently, which is surprising; I assumed she'd say music, since everyone knows her as the violin girl. I ask how long she's been playing.
"Since I could hold a racquet," she says. "It's my favorite escape."
Escape. I smile, hiding my uncertainty resulting from her choice of words. There's no escaping him here, not physically. So the best I can do is focus on distracting myself by being an active listener, acting like I care when Quincy talks about tackling people and Gwen describes the political marches she does. Keeping him out of sight and out of mind.
So I don't flinch when he grazes a finger over my shoulder. Not today. He's not even here. And that's the way it should be.
400 Lux by Lorde.
I literally wrote this entire thing yesterday and today, which is some sort of record for me. I mean, I didn't leave the house, but whatever, it's still cool. Yay for fast(ish) updates!
Also, I survived my retreat, and no one died, and it was just overall a really lovely experience. That's all I'm going to say at this point because revealing anything else might spoil parts of this story. But I had a beautiful and happy four days, and I got a Jesus necklace out of it, and a Spotify playlist full of religious songs, so what more do I need?
I do think updates will be coming faster. I have more certain plans for upcoming chapters, so I won't have to come up with everything from scratch like I have been. Still, with AP exams coming up, college visits and decisions, and softball taking up time, I again can't promise anything.
So yeah! Hope you liked these five. This is actually the last set of introductions- since I didn't get all the forms in the end, I decided to stick with 25 POVs rather than all 30. This means Doran, Wes, Nico, Quincy, and Giles will not be getting first-hand accounts. It actually works out perfectly, though: each character will have exactly 1 more POV before the Games begin. I wish I could say I planned it that way, but it just turned out to be a perfect accident.
As always, I'd love to see a review if you're reading. General thoughts, specific opinions on each person, whatever you want. If you're around, I'm happy.
Till next time!