His lips pull tight. “Colton, future senators don’t start out in sports law. You’re veering from the path. I’m telling you now: you’ll regret it.”
To any other dad, a job as a sports lawyer would be a respectable career choice, but to mine, it was like admitting that I wanted to run away to become a circus clown. But what did I expect? I’m going against the plan that’s been in motion ever since I was old enough to understand the wordsfuture senator.
But when I was at Yale, I couldn’t help the pull drawing me toward sports law. Suddenly, I started to doubt myself and my father’s carefully laid plans. Did I really want to practice constitutional law for the next twenty-plus years? Did I even want to become a senator?
There was something undeniably exciting about forging my own path. Something that would be wholly mine. Not Dad’s—mine.
But one glimpse of Dad’s disapproving stare brings me right back to my childhood. Once again, I want to be the boy who will do anything—get the best grades, attend political forums, give speeches at rallies—whatever is within my power to not sully the Downing name, all because I want to make Dad proud. I want to be someone who will live up to his and my grandfather’s legacy.
But lately, letting Dad down is all I am good at. First with breaking things off with Jane, then with telling him about theSunsets and Sabotagenomination, and now, with this job offer. But how can I ignore the voice calling me down a different path?
“Dad, this job is a chance for me to start on my own two feet. To make my own name.”
“You already have a name. It’s Downing. And it’s been passed down for generations. Do you think your grandfather didn’t have a hand in helping me succeed? No. He helped me get to where I am, just like I will help you get to where you need to be. Don’tstray from the plan just because something shiny like sports law looks more fun.”
Dad’s icy eyes bore into me as he leans forward in his chair, making me squirm. “Constitutional law is the backbone of our country, Colton. What looks better to a voter? Someone who’s spent their career fighting for the constitutional rights of the people and upholding the standards of our nation or someone who works with sports celebrities, making the rich richer? Trust me, Son, follow the Downing path.”
“And what if I don’t choose the Downing path?” I say, irritated with his unwillingness to listen. “What if I go my own way?”
Dad frowns. And I look down, knowing I poked him in a tender spot. A spot that is the size of my absentee brother, Will.
“You really think you can make it on your own? Haven’t you learned, Colton? William thought he could do that, too. Make it on his own. But then he went and threw his life away. I’m trying to spare you from learning that hard lesson. I don’t think you understand what it takes to be successful. All your life I’ve been holding your hand, opening doors for you. You wouldn’t know how to succeed without me.”
Deciding I’ve had enough mental replay, I shove my thin sheet off of me and sit up. I’m not going to waste my opportunity to win this game—or the deal I made with Dad following our disagreement. Avoiding five years under Dad’s thumb is worth giving my every effort—even if my muscles feel like they just got shredded by a cheese grater after last night’s row.
Eager to win America’s votes, I pull my little lapel mic and camera off of the bunk bed’s metal guardrail (yes, guardrail, because if I fell off this bad boy, I’m pretty sure my muscles would be the least of my concerns), then I put the camera and mic right in front of my face just to give America a little greeting before starting the day. In the small lens, I can just make out the tiniest outline of my head, and I instantly regret my decision toleave my hair gel behind. Much to my dismay, the unruly cowlick in the back of my head is finally getting its television debut.
“Good morning, America,” I say to the camera with my raspy, unused voice. “I trust you slept well. I sure did.” I give my camera a cheesy grin that I hope conveys optimistic sarcasm, then I tug at my black T-shirt and position the mic and camera just as Benji instructed.
I hear some rather loud snoring from one of the nearby bunks as well as some soft whispers at the back of the plane. I glance around to see if either of the small bathrooms at the front or back of the plane is vacant so I can take out my contacts, and thankfully, I see one open.
Groggily, I scale the thin metal ladder that connects my bed and Missy’s and jump off the last rung, my feet landing on the base of the airplane that’s dusted with a layer of sand.
Barefoot, I make my way to the tiny bathroom at the rear of the plane. Unlike the rest of the plane, the show must have kept the original bathrooms since they are about the size of a narrow refrigerator. I shuffle in, quickly turning off my mic and camera as is required every time we enter the bathroom, and immediately remove the contacts from my burning eyes.
The relief is palpable, and so is my disgust as I go to wash my hands, noting the single bar of soap at the side of the tiny sink. Don’t people understand that communal soap bars can be germ-traps? I debate using my hand sanitizer, but I’m already worried I’ll run out. Instead, I douse the bacteria bar in warm water before using it to wash my hands, and I try not to think too hard about the unsanitary nature of it all.
When I exit the bathroom, I walk the minuscule distance to the small flight attendant galley at the back of the plane where each contestant can access clean water and sunscreen, as mandated by theSunsets and Sabotagelegal team. I fill up an aluminum water bottle that has my name etched in it in tealletters and take a sip of lukewarm water that leaves a swampy aftertaste. Yum. Not willing to risk dehydration, I keep sipping as I head out of the galley and to the side of the plane where I stop to take in the picturesque beach that will be my home for the remainder of the show. It’s beautiful with its white sands and clear blue water, but one thing about my view makes it abundantly clear that this is no ordinary island and this is no vacation.
On the opposite side of the beach from our sleeping quarters, a massive airplane wing juts out of the sand. It’s likely the same wing that was once part of the plane we slept in last night, but has since been ripped off, adding to the crash-landed aesthetic. At its center is a large rectangular screen, featuring the time of day in large red letters, as well as our team names. Next to those names, we’ll see our team rankings based on America’s votes. But the show loves to keep those results a secret until right before Black Box Meetings, that way we can spend our downtime running in circles, wondering how we rank in America’s votes and if we’ll be the next to go home.
The squawks of a half dozen seagulls skimming the shoreline pull my attention from the ominous fixture. I take a moment to put the pressure behind me and watch the birds enjoy a morning meal.
Farther up the beach, Joseph and Tyrone do the same, indulging in some food they must have gotten from the crates last night. They occupy two of three wood boxes that have been painted to look like beat-up luggage that was strewn about during our “crash.” Seeing my heroes reminds me of their epic sabotage last night, along with my team’s epic flop.
A bout of frustration overtakes me, and I fight back my unkind thoughts about a certain blonde-haired teammate. Last night, Missy had nearly lost us the game before it had even started. Yes, there may have been a time or two that I was a little set inmy ways, and I own up to that. But Missy—I never should have doubted her ability to sabotage. But instead of sabotaging other teams like a sane person, she sabotaged our own.
My mind retraces the moment before Missy grabbed the crowbar and flung herself out of the rowboat and into the ocean. I had come to her with an olive branch, suggesting we work together. I even threw in that I’d have her back, and I meant it. I was willing to put our feuding on hold until we got off the island if it meant winning the game. I don’t know exactly how I thought she’d react, but I did not expect her to look at me the way she did.
Her deep hazel eyes were wide, filled with a strange mix of fear and doubt. It was as if I’d asked her to snap off the heels of her Lucky Louis and not simply work together. Then she’d jumped, not caring that the water was deep and dark. I know Missy can be stubborn, but last night was different—that look was different.
Thankfully, regardless of our multiple setbacks, Missy and I managed to get to Sabotage Island in fourth place, landing us in the middle of the pack. Team Peach, the voice actors, came in last, which means they’ll be competing in the Black Box Elimination at the Black Box Meeting tonight. On the other hand, Silver and Legend, who unfortunately were first to the beach, will be safe from elimination and receive a reward.
I inhale a deep breath. Though I’m relieved that we didn’t come in last place during Mayday Challenge One, we’ve yet to see America’s votes, which means Missy and I are not in the clear yet. Other than Team Fuchsia, we’ll all be holding our breath until we find out how America votes just before the Black Box Meeting tonight.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me that the last meal I had was the half of a sandwich and Doritos I’d scarfed down before I’d gotten swept into the hair-and-makeup hangar yesterday.I’m so hungry, even the airplane food we gathered from the crates last night with its stale rolls and half-frozen chicken sounds appetizing.
I think of the food and supplies Missy and I got from the crates. After changing out of our wet and ripped evening clothes, which the show staff quickly confiscated, we’d put on our dry teal-and-black outfits, then stuffed the food and supplies we’d obtained into our backpacks for safekeeping.
