Note: This chapter picks up where the last one left off, with one more peek at group connections. It's mainly conversation, too, so if you're looking for more action just bear with me for one more chapter. Also, I don't know why both of Alaina's pre-Games POVs in this story take place at lunch.
And... it's been way too long. Again.
...Sorry.
Chapter 7: No Return.
It's only half-past the point of oblivion
The hourglass on the table, the walk before the run.
Freya Pritchard.
Fairbanks, Alaska.
Out on the mountain, all my worries melt away. The grass sways under my fingers and the sun warms my skin. Leaning back on my hands, I survey the clouds in the distance and the trees far below. Sometimes it's hard to pay attention to who's talking when there's such a gorgeous view from the side of the mountain. But no one seems to mind my distraction.
As time has passed, it seems like we've all started to relax and say more of what we're thinking. Some unspoken barrier has fallen and I've realized that these are people I can trust. It's gratifying when Juliet and Shane laugh at my silly comments because it's not out of cruelty. Even Giles, who's more serious than the rest of us, has opened up enough to comment on the stupidity of some of the questions on the paper, a tirade which leaves me in stitches. Making us have a conversation that's so scripted sounds dumb, and yet, it actually works.
"Okay, now this is a question," Monica reads. "What's the scariest thing you've ever done?" She turns to Shane, and deadpans, "If you don't talk about that pipe exploding from under you this morning, I'll be impressed."
"That was nothing," he says. "Believe me, what's worse is this crazy paranoia I've been feeling all day. I mean, all they did was lecture me, but I seriously fucked everything up."
We look at each other, solemn for the first time in a while. "That was kind of stupid of you," I point out.
Monica shoots me a look, and I realize I've spoken aloud. But Shane doesn't get mad. "I know," he says. "Not one of my finer moments. I swear I didn't mean to make things harder on you guys. I just wanted to go home."
"It is kind of inconvenient, not having running water..."
"My hair is going to be so greasy..." I groan.
"...But you didn't ask to be here," Juliet continues, frowning. "None of us did. I guess I can't blame you for trying to leave."
"You all don't deserve to deal with it, though. If I could find a way to put all of this on myself, I would. You know I would."
"It's kind of exciting, actually," I say. "We're roughing it now. Living like our descendants-"
"Ancestors..." Giles grimaces.
"Same thing," I say. "Just think about it! Maybe we'll have to drink out of rivers, or squat in the woods..."
"They'll probably make us drink our own piss," Giles says. "Since they hate us so much."
"That can't be so bad," I reason. "They do it on those survival shows all the time. It's just like lemonade."
"Exactly. Just like it. I'll give you twenty bucks to try it."
I'm ready to take Giles up on the offer when Shane cuts in. "No, it's not just like it. Giles, shut up and leave her alone."
"I'm just playing," he scowls.
Shane didn't have to defend me. I always fall for jokes like that, and really, those kinds of comments don't bother me. I can't hide it- I'm hopelessly easy to fool, so I might as well accept it and make the best of who I am. "It's okay. I guess I'll try to stay away from... drinking pee then." I shudder. I can't even get my nails dirty without cringing.
"Shane, you never answered the question," says Monica. "Scariest thing."
"Right." Still glaring at Giles, he relaxes somewhat as he dives into his story. "Scariest thing ever... shit," he chuckles. "That has to be from sophomore year. Me and a couple other kids- I don't really remember who, doesn't matter anyway- we went up to the teachers' floor to jack some liquor or something, you know Callan's drunk half the time anyway, so we knew we could get something there. He's usually down on security duty at that hour, so we pick the lock on his dorm, go in, no one's there, and we're digging through his drawers when our lookout starts banging on the door. Anyways, the girl with me- wish I could remember who- she books it out of there. But I'm not about to leave empty-handed. Like, if I get expelled, I better go out swinging."
I giggle. Next to me, Juliet's grinning, and even Giles seems interested. I may not be daring enough to do the things Shane does on a daily basis, but that doesn't mean I can't experience some of the thrill by listening to him relate some of his adventures.
"Anyways, so I finally find a half-empty bottle of Sky-" Like, the clouds? In a bottle? "-in one of the bathroom cupboards, and I'm ready to run for it when I hear the front door opening. I can't get out. I'm stranded in this sketch-ass bathroom at two in the morning, and the literal grossest teacher in the entire school has me cornered."
"Did he find you in the bathroom?" I ask.
"Nope. Because I made a split-second decision. By the time he came snooping in there, I was already out the window."
"That's so smart," I gush. If I were in that situation, I can't even imagine what I would have done. I'm not so good at thinking on my feet. Or... deciding things in general. Part of me thinks I would have tried hiding in the shower- which is made entirely of glass. I guess it's a good thing I don't put myself in those types of situations.
"No, that's not smart," Giles scoffs. "He's on the top floor of the school. You're telling me you just jumped out?
"I didn't jump," he says. "I might do stupid shit, but I'm not an idiot when it comes to preserving my own life. There was this ledge there that was just wide enough for me to crouch on, and I was out of sight if he happened to look outside. So I just hung out up there until he went back in his room and fell asleep."
"That's so scary," I breathe. "I'm so glad you didn't fall off."
"Well, thanks Freya," he grins. "So am I. But I'm not finished. It wasn't the idea of falling that was the scariest part."
He pauses long enough to take in our wide eyes as we hang onto his every word. "The scariest part... was when he woke up as I was halfway to the door."
"No!"
"He did!" He laughs. "I near shit myself, I was so terrified. He sat straight up, and kind of blinked at me- he didn't have his glasses on, so he couldn't tell who it was- and I just sprinted for the door. I didn't turn around till after I hit the stairs. I think I heard him coming after me, but he never caught me."
"Oh my god," I gasp. "I've never done anything as scary as that."
"Yeah, what's the scariest thing you've ever done, Frey?" Monica asks. "You're just so adventurous."
"Nothing that cool." I'm pretty boring in comparison. The risks I take are typically more along the lines of trying a new shade of nail polish or cutting my hair slightly shorter. "Moving to boarding school was pretty scary, though! I had to leave all my friends and family at home."
Not that it was exactly my choice. My parents sent me here hoping the prestigious Haversmith Academy would make me smarter. Unfortunately, it apparently takes more than world-renowned academics to change the foolish mind of a dumb girl.
"Oh, lame," Shane hoots, and we laugh. "We all had to do that. Maybe I'll have to bring you with me next time we raid Callan."
"Only if you don't leave me in his bathroom," I say, giggling.
Yes, we're definitely coming around. I wasn't very sure what to expect at the beginning of the day. I was nervous around Giles and Shane, even Monica. Now, I could stay up here forever.
For the first time since we've arrived, I'm completely at peace.
Alaina Calline.
Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
By the time Zara comes to pick us all up, like we're toddlers at some daycare, I'm completely drained. Talking doesn't typically exhaust me so much, but having to be careful about every personal answer, making sure my lies, intermixed with truth, match up, takes a certain level of tense focus. I'm allowed to have secrets, you know. Not to mention that Yuto hasn't let me say a thing without giving me shit about it, and then infringing on my personal space with a "friendly" hair tousle. Zara's arrival, as degrading as it seems, is gladly welcomed.
That being said, I'm not the type to isolate myself, regardless of what I feel like. Being the odd loner of the group is far worse than my annoyance at them giving me grief all the time. That I can take. Noticing I'm lagging behind the others following the trail back down the hill, I jog to catch up with Gerard at the front. Simone is still going on and on about some stupid shit she probably made up for attention. She's been gushing about it for the last ten minutes. Does she ever stop?
"And like, I swear, she was raised by wolves or something. She's so weird. I hope her parents love her because honestly sometimes she acts like she's never had love before and it's, like, really sad."
"Who is she talking about now?" I hiss to Gerard, although it appears like he has also distanced himself from her words from the way he's facing forward, seemingly aloof to the three behind him. This seems unlike him; typically Gerard is as friendly as anyone.
"Doesn't matter," is all he says.
My heart jumps as an immediate sense of fear washes over me. The only reason people say that is when the answer is going to hurt its recipient. I decide to just ask him; I might as well know. "Is it me?"
Gerard shakes his head. "No, of course not."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. And I'd tell you if it was." He seems sincere. But you can never be so sure of people's intentions. I narrow my eyes at him, skeptical, but he doesn't give in. Of course it's not about you. If they were talking about you they wouldn't be so stupid as to do it where you can hear them.
"Fine. So if it's not me, who is it?"
"I said, it doesn't matter." Realizing his suddenly harsh tone, his brow relaxes. "Sorry. I just don't think it's worth talking down about people when you don't even know them, you know?"
"I guess," I say, just to appease him.
But that's a lie, too. That's just how this world works. There's no room to admire his thoughtfulness because it doesn't matter what he says, rumors are going to spread.
And I'm going to do my best to stay above them.
Lunch, back at camp, is disappointingly similar to yesterday's. It's tedious, annoying, and the food's not even that good. There's still fruit from yesterday, bordering on being overripe. The chicken tastes like it's been cooked too long, which beats the alternative of me puking out my guts all afternoon, but I still can't eat it. I finally have to push the plate away. "Eugh. This tastes like rubber…"
"Yeah, and you'd know all about having rubber in your mouth," Yuto says. Brandon puts his hand up for a high-five. "Walked right into that one."
"You act like that was funny," says Trina.
"I don't get it," complains Eimer.
Brandon just gives her a quizzical look. "Really? You don't get it?"
"Let's not go there," I say sweetly, keeping my shoulders back and chin up. Boys. Honestly. "Eimer, sweetie, it's a condom joke." And not even a true one.
"Actually, I'd think you'd like the taste, Lain," Brandon says. "Probably used to having it for dinner every night, huh?"
"Please," I say, keeping my comments to myself. "You know Donovan. He's as pure as a lamb."
"Good ol' Donny," he says. "Once a mama's boy, always a mama's boy."
"Exactly," I say, shooting him a look. "You know, Simone, what were you saying earlier? Something about someone being raised by wolves...?" As she launches off on another tirade, effectively drawing the attentions of everyone else at the table, I successfully tune her out. Maybe Gerard's right. It really isn't worth it.
I keep my lips held in a steady line, though they attempt to twitch upwards. Not because anything's funny, in fact it's quite typically immature of them. But if the boys are going to tease me about anything, it may as well be the fake relationship I've developed in order to hide what's really going on in my dorm. Sure, Donovan's rich, polite, and seems like he cares, but we both know that he's what my parents want, not what I want. He doesn't make my heart skip in a way that's true and untainted by social expectations.
More specifically, he's no Sonya. As roommates Sonya and I have an excuse to be seen together, but not in any of the ways I can be seen with Donovan. So all our smoking and fooling around- everything that would shatter my reputation- happens behind closed doors. It's not out of embarrassment. I'd be disowned, I'd lose my status, and she has a girlfriend, too. So it's always going to be Donovan. I guess I could do worse.
As the others are finishing their average meals, I see Anabel come in and head straight to our table. She's still smiling about something. I swear she smiles more than Simone talks, but I still don't know what she thinks is so great about this shitty place.
I accidentally lock eyes with her as she comes around, prompting her to try to talk to me. "Alaina, how are you, dear?"
"Fine," I say, half-heartedly attempting not to sound as bitter as I want to.
"Well, wonderful." If she was expecting me to mirror her question, she doesn't act put-off by my unfriendliness. "You know, I was wondering if I could speak to one of you. Trina, would you come outside with me for a minute?"
Confused, Trina nonetheless stands and follows Anabel away. I watch as they disappear out the back doors of the dining hall.
Blake and Chanel speculate on what they might be talking about, but since no one has any logical ideas, they let the issue drop. The table conversation fills back in around her absence, but I'm distracted by a strange sense of envy. Anabel picked her… not you.
She doesn't think you're worth it. Just like Mom.
It's a stupid thought, and I shake it away. Most likely Trina's in some kind of trouble, and who wants to talk to Anabel anyway? On top of her horrible whiny voice, Anabel's a kiss-up, sickly sweet to impress her superiors and make people do things for her. It's repulsive.
I don't have to prove anything to someone like that. As for my mother... I still have time to become someone great. I just have to survive the idiots on this trip first.
Monica Celsey.
Weston, New Hampshire.
I'm just minding my own damn business, calmly chewing my dumb piece of chicken, when I realize I'm being stared at. I can ignore Madison for about five seconds before it becomes too awkward.
"What?" I finally ask.
"You're eating chicken," Madison says. Despite her lazy tone it's evident she intends this as a question, but I'm feeling bored, so I let her spell it out for me.
"I am eating chicken. Congratulations for noticing."
"Thanks," she says, unfazed. "I was actually wondering why you were eating it. Aren't you, like..."
"Anorexic?"
"I was gearing more towards vegetarian."
"Good," I say. "You just got dangerously close to offending me."
Jackson chimes in. "I was actually wondering the same thing. We don't normally eat together, so I guess I always thought you would be. I mean, you're so..." A smile twitches across his lips. "You're just so pure and earthy."
"If that was an attempt to be shady, you failed. Believe me, Jason, the only shade you could throw is if you stood next to me on a sunny day." He cocks his head, then seems to decide to shake this off, too. Good. It's better than getting offended over what's meant to be a joke. "But anyways. Technically, I'm not a vegetarian, because I'm not going to starve myself if meat's the only thing available. I avoid it when I can, but let's be real, I'm not going to live just off this fruit." I push the remainder around my plate, breaking it down further into a gooey mess.
"That makes sense," Madison hums. "Do you limit yourself at all?"
"Veal. Lamb. And I try to stick with foods that are either compostable or come in recyclable packaging. Plastic wrappers clog everything and choke animals and I'm really doing my best to not do any harm to this world." I fold my napkin back up and turn it over in my hands, leaving them faced towards the ceiling, Buddha-style.
"That's very... noble of you," Jackson says. And I know he doesn't mean to come off as boastful and pompous, but he just can't help himself and I'm so over it. Maybe that's why his next words strike a nerve. "Not very realistic, but it's nice you're trying."
There's a tinkling sound that rings through the cafeteria, high-pitched like the wind chimes outside my dorm window but rougher, less melodic. From the front of the room, Giselle draws the spoon from her glass, giving a shallow smile over our heads as voices drop off. Not mine, though. "It's nice I'm trying?" I hiss. "Listen. You and everyone else need to accept that this needs to be the new norm if we want to leave any remnants of a livable planet to those who come after us. If we don't clean our shit up, then we're all screwed, alright?"
"Whoa," he says, getting defensive. "I didn't mean to argue with you."
"So what did you mean?" I'm not angry as much as annoyed with him, making everything he says twice as bad as he normally is. "Because to me it seems like you have your priorities somewhere else."
"Well, yeah," he admits in a low voice, after checking to be sure Giselle isn't watching us. Rule-follower, through and through. Not like she has enough brains to care. "But can't we just accept that we're different people and agree to disagree?"
"This is the future of the planet we're talking about, buddy. We can't just agree to disagree! Your freaking compulsive suit-ironing is singlehandedly destroying the atmosphere, so unless you want your future mansion's three swimming pools to be boiling over, I'd change your attitude."
Jackson flashes Giselle such a winning smile as her eyes pass over us that I almost might think he'd been listening to her the whole time. Stupid kiss-up. When she turns away, he takes a second to compose himself, then straightens his shoulders. "Right. My apologies for giving a damn about how I present myself. Tell me again how my wearing dirty shirts is going to seal the hole in the ozone layer, end world hunger, and cure cancer?"
Now he's just being childish. Well, he asked for it. "I just think if you didn't iron everything every time you left your clothes all over Mrs. Langley's bedroom floor, you could be a lot more eco-friendly."
Jackson spits his drink, a reaction so loud and sudden that it draws the attention of most of the class. I wonder at their first impressions- me, sitting smugly back in my chair, while Jackson begins to pink like the STD he probably has. I'm almost tempted to fist-bump my whole table, but I resist. Some are smiling, trying to hold back giggles. I allow myself a proud smirk, just to let Jackson know that there are no hard feelings. Trouble is, as he protests, I'm not sure he gets the humor behind my words.
I can't help but wonder if I've gone too far... as I often seem to do.
He knows I'm not trying to hurt him, doesn't he?
Well, if he doesn't get it, that's not my problem. Besides, he could do a better job at keeping his feelings a secret.
People begin standing. I'm following them out of habit until I realize I have no clue where we're going. Luckily, Freya fills me in as I join the mindless shuffle towards the doors. "We're heading back to the lodge," she informs me. "And after that we're going to talk to our group leaders. And then I think they said something about poetry?"
I groan loudly. "We have all this outdoor space... and they stick us inside. What a genius plan to slowly kill us."
"Was that sarcastic?"
"Yes," I sigh. "Yes, it was."
Jeremiah Whittaker.
Calgary, Alberta.
Since yesterday, the lodge has been transformed. We now sit with our groups, five to a table, with pens, pencils and papers splayed in front of us. While we wait for our names to be called so we can speak one-on-one with our leaders, we've been tasked with creating a poem to share tonight. For what reason, I'm not sure. The only reason I'm getting anywhere is because we've been given strict orders not to speak to one another. That doesn't mean we haven't tried. But every time Audrey has turned to me and rolled out a witty complaint, one of the many counselors prowling the room like a wolf has moved over to shush her. As far as I know, this isn't so much to punish us as it is to get us to focus.
But focusing, for someone like me, is futile. I can't keep my eyes from being drawn to the faces around the room, wondering at Trina's sly smile or Quincy's glower- what could they be thinking? Even when I do decide to try to write, ideas are sparse and come in jumbled clusters. All I've managed to come up with in more than twenty minutes of work are a few doodles and scribbled fragments, things like eons of eighteens and sharpened edges glinting green that should, theoretically, be tied together in some coherent way, but I just can't make it happen. Personally, I blame the prompt; there are far too many directions to take a poem about my future, of all things.
One of the pitfalls of being a creative thinker is that I'm hellbent on being original. I don't want to follow the same angles many of my classmates will likely take- namely, detailing the extravagant lives they no doubt will be leading five, ten years from now. Unfortunately, all I've managed to come up with for myself is a suffocating dread towards the future. The thought of being fully independent would be intriguing if all the responsibilities that came with it weren't so terrifying. I'm not ready for things like taxes and employment and mortgages. Part of me is still six years old and incapable of doing anything on my own. The other part is about eighty. And neither of them are any good at writing.
I'm distracted from doodling clouds around the borders of a few particularly atrocious couplets by Alex's arrival. Sliding into the empty chair at the other end of the table, he nods towards me. "You're up."
I don't want to talk to Sawyer. Seeing him in a group is bad enough, but having a face-to-face discussion with someone that creepy makes me nervous. But I give the others a small smile as I get to my feet. I'm sure I'll be fine- I've tolerated far crueler people than Sawyer Krebbs.
His cabin is a two-minute walk out of the lodge and across camp. As today has worn on, most of the morning dew has burned off in the heat that plasters my t-shirt to my back. Some of the giant puddle from Shane's antics also looks to have dried, but the majority remains, begging the question, What are the consequences? The counselors have already snapped at the tiniest things we do, so what will happen to him for an act that actually affects us?
Sawyer has his door propped open, and even from outside I can perceive the musty scent permeating from his unkempt room. I try not to judge, but I'm a little grossed out by the mess he's made. Clothes and other garbage are stacked in the corner, along with... other things. I don't even want to think about the use for some of those toys... eugh.
Sawyer, sitting in the middle of his bed, smirks at my expression, which probably appears as embarrassed and nervous as I feel. I've never been good at faking my feelings.
Ducking my head, I sit in the chair he's propped up in the center of the room. He doesn't say anything; when I look up, uncomfortable, he's simply staring, looking like he's trying to analyze me. Well, it doesn't take a mind-reader to see I want this over with as possible. And given I have no idea of what he could possibly want to talk about, my nerves are at an all-time high.
Finally, he relaxes back against the wall. "So. Jeremiah." He draws the word out, plays with it between his teeth, breathes it out like a hiss of smoke.
I swallow. "Yes, sir."
His smirk creeps higher at my statement. In his hands, he twists an open Manila envelope. From inside peep the tips of white documents. Despite having practically nothing to hide, my stomach twists at the thought of what could be on those papers.
"I know my grades are bad," I blurt out. "I'm only good at English and Art."
He only laughs. "I couldn't care less about your grades, boy."
"Then what's in the folder?"
"That's for me to know..." I wait for him to finish the statement, but he never does. "So, we have some things to talk about."
What could I possibly have done...? "We do?"
"You look like you're ready to snap. Relax, kid. I'm not going to hurt you." Heat floods into my face, and I shake out my shoulders, though my toes still tap habitually. "I wanted to ask about your family."
"My family?" Oh, this isn't so bad. "Well, it's just me and my parents. We've always lived in Calgary together, and they're both really smart-"
"Are you bitter at them for never paying you any attention?"
"I- what?" Confusion swirls through my mind. "They haven't-"
He rustles the folder, ever so slightly, but an idea makes my breath catch. What does he know about me? What's on those papers? "Don't waste my time lying to me," he says, and I know he means it.
Under pressure, my heart lurches in my throat. I don't know how he knows what he does, but more importantly, what do I feel for my family? I don't detest my parents. I don't think that's fair to them. They've done everything they can to provide me with a good education, a spacious home, and everything I need to live. And yet... and yet. My mother is cruel in her best moments, selfish, like I never want to be. And my father seems to care when he's around. But when is he not rushing off to meetings in other countries? When was the last time we just sat and talked?
"I'm not bitter," I clarify. I don't want him making up ideas about me that are exaggerations of the truth. "I do wish they were less focused on their work and more focused on our family."
Sawyer jots that down on the outside of the folder. I pull my arms in tight to my sides, not knowing why he wants to know. "I'm sorry, is this going to be shared...?"
"No, no, of course not," he shakes me off. "Just a way for me to get to know you better. I've always believed that where one comes from can be more telling about them than the way they appear to act."
But I'm not faking anything. "Well, then, I'm an open book. What else would you like to know?"
I get the feeling, though, that he already knows everything about me. More than I know about myself. But how? Why is he here? And what is this place, anyways?
The more I look at him, the more I allow his attitude to worm its way into my gut and unnerve me, the more I realize that I can't kid myself any longer. The tone beneath his words and his snake-like smile are too real to simply be facades. I just can't tell if it's him who's the problem... or if he might be hiding under something even greater.
Yuto Ebisu.
Naha, Okinawa Prefecture, Japan.
"It's an absolute pleasure to be here, Zara," I say, stepping into the cabin. Dropping to one knee, I make to kiss her hand, but she jerks it away. "Truly, an honor." Fine. I press my lips to my own hand instead, as if that was my intention from the start.
"Oh, enough. Why don't you take a seat, Mr. Ebisu."
"I'm just being polite," I say defensively, sliding into the chair. She faces me, lips pursed together, hair long and glossy. She'd almost be beautiful if she weren't trying so hard to look important and intimidating.
"You really aren't that scary," I tell her. "I don't know why everyone hates you so much."
"Meanwhile, it's painfully obvious why you're so disliked by all the counselors..."
Since meeting for the first time yesterday, Zara and I have continued a rather amusing banter. Despite trying to convince me that she despises me, I know a love-hate relationship when I see one. Deep down, she adores me.
"I'm pretty sure that's not how you pronounce admired... but what do I know?" I shrug. "Not like this is my first language."
"That would explain the accent."
"Precisely. You know, I can actually speak English, Russian, and Japanese," I say proudly. "Fluently. But I'm sure you can guess which I'm most comfortable with."
She cocks her head, wondering if I do, in fact, want her to guess. "Japanese?" she finally sighs.
"Wrong. Russian. You're really going to buy into stereotypes like that, huh? You, of all the people here. And you look more ethnic than 90% of this goddamn school. I bet you think I'm good at math, too."
Zara blinks a few times, seemingly trying to decide if she wants to respond to that or not.
"Fine. That was a joke. And I'm shit awful at math."
"You're full of jokes today, aren't you, Mr. Ebisu?"
"Please, please," I say. "Call me Yu. Unless that's too hard for you to pronounce."
"You'd do well to show some respect," she snaps.
"I'm just being real. I've always believed honesty is the best response in any situation," I counter. "And while we're on the topic, is that your real nose? It's crooked. I can recommend you to a specialist- I have excellent connections."
"So I've heard," she says bitterly. "Only those have more to do with drugs than plastic surgery."
Now I'm genuinely surprised. I use pretty frequently, but mostly in private, or with kids who I know won't rat me out, because I've made it clear that if they do, they'll see a world of pain. As far as any authorities know, aside from my hilarious antics, I'm unproblematic. Squeaky clean. A second passes as I stare at my hands; light sprinkles across them through the cracked window above me. But I won't be illuminated so easily. "Drugs? Who told you that?"
"I'm not authorized to share that information," she says, pursing her lips.
"Okay, first of all, this isn't a crime show," I say. "Second, I would never. My parents would never allow it. Besides, look at this sweet face!" I give her my best puppy eyes, an act I've perfected over the years. It's amazing how often adults will buy the cute-new-foreign-boy act.
Zara, characteristically, gives no reaction to my expression. "You deny it, then."
"Of course, I do. Like I would really put my grades or musical career at risk for a bit of fun."
"That's funny you say that," she says, raising an eyebrow. Shifting on her bed, Zara stretches towards a pile of papers that I'd been hoping wouldn't be touched. Mostly because I figured they'd be some assignment I'd have to fake my way through, like that stupid poem. She pulls a white page coated with dark fine print from the top. "It seems your grades are already at risk."
"Where'd you get that?" I lurch towards her, but she pulls it out of my reach. "What is that?"
"It doesn't matter, Yuto," she says, folding it up.
"Those are school documents. That's a breach of confidentiality. Do I have to go to the police? Like I said, I have connections."
"Please," she laughs, although there's no humor in it. "You couldn't put a finger on the people where I'm from."
Before she can push me away, I lash out at the stack of papers. They go flying, swirling down to the floor.
"You..." She doesn't know how to react at first. Then darkness passes over her face. "You little shit. Get out. Out, Yuto!" she roars, pushing me back towards the door.
Instead, I stand my ground, just to piss her off. She lets go of me, hurriedly trying to arrange the papers back into a pile. But as I'm about to comment on the stupid and inefficient way she's collecting them- by pressing her body on top of them- it occurs to me that she seems to have another goal in mind. Almost as if she's trying to hide them from me.
"I said, out!" she shouts, now getting up to shove me away, but I fight against her.
"Seriously, lady! What's your problem? I'm just-" Then I see my name on another paper. But this one isn't my grade sheet.
I only have a few seconds to absorb the information before me, but as I do, time seems to slow. I skim my name. My hometown. My address. My parents' names, and their work addresses.
But it's mostly about me. My school photo, and a list I can't quite make out aside from a few words. Rebellious. Temperamental. Tendency to bul-
Zara shoves me harder, and I hit the floor, shoulder slamming into the doorframe. Pain shoots up my neck, and I'm shocked for a second until hot anger replaces the sting. I scramble to my feet. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Hands wrap around me from outside the door before I can swing at her. I thrash and throw elbows, but it's useless; these arms are much stronger than I am. I let out a groan, frustrated and furious, as a dull ache pulses from between my shoulder blades.
"Listen to her, boy," he grunts. "Go back to camp."
"And let her get away with what she just did to me?"
"Trust me. You'll only make it worse by staying here."
This doesn't make sense! "You- you can't just hit me like that!" I sputter, still shocked. "My parents- they'll hear about this. They'll sue. You cruel fuckers-"
The man twists me around to face him. I recognize his features, but I can't name him. He's been quiet, lurking around in the backs of our activities- one of the nobodies whose purpose here no one really knows. Towards me, his face is even, too even. His jaw twitches as he holds back whatever words he'd rather say to me.
"Go," is all he says. He utters this in a voice so deep, it's practically a growl.
He lets me go. And with him blocking the way back in, I'm left no choice but to accept that I'm powerless and head back to the lodge. "You'll pay for this..." I mutter.
This isn't fair. This isn't right. No one sensible would treat any of us this way. Much less, me. When I get home, the first thing I'm doing is ratting these abusers out. They deserve what's coming to them!
But as the pain fades, as I near the lodge again, I remember what I saw right before I was shoved so disrespectfully to the ground. My information. And I can't even imagine the extent of what was on there.
For the first time, I'm at a loss. They know me. Which means they know us all too well. Why?
Glitter in the Air by P!nk.
You're not going to believe me when I say this, but there was actually a period of time when I thought I could get two chapters up before the beginning of June. Seriously, I had my author's notes done already (and they were all like Look at me! Look how productive I am!) But I guess I kinda shot myself in the foot on that. Shit happened, playoffs started, I had AP tests, then my school apparently fucked up half of those AP tests by putting us too close together while we were taking them so then I had to do Spanish and English again... and then I accidentally deleted Freya's completed POV. Which actually hurt a lot. But enough complaining.
But yeah, I graduated last Thursday, and now summer's here. Until I get a job I'll be pretty much free to write. UCSB won't start until the last week of September, so that gives me plenty of time to get my shit together with this story.
Review if you want. If you're reading. All three of you...
Oh, and there's a poll on my profile, cause bitches love polls. Vote for your fave tributes. These won't impact anything, I just think polls are fun and I wanna see what people think. Do it. In addition to that, if you haven't already seen, there are links up for a couple other blogs I have going for this story. One of them is more aesthetic. The other one actually has a number of characters tagged in posts I thought represented them. It's kinda hard to explain, but you'll see.
Till next time.