I hate this. I hate being stuck, and even more, I hate that Colton is right. I can barely make out my hand in front of me. There’s no chance of finding the coconuts right now.
“Fine.” I let out a defeated breath and relent, hoping I didn’t just cost myself my dream.
Several minutes later, Colton and I find the small cave, which is more like a rock formation with a stony overhang. Green foliage spills from the top, causing long grassy tendrils to brush against our faces as we step into the shelter with our bulky bags.
Feeling antsy with every second we lose, I turn to Colton. “Do you have a strategy in mind?”
Colton scrubs a hand through his hair, pulling off his rain-soaked bandana. “I was thinking we could …” He stops, his eyes narrowing in on something behind me.
I turn around and immediately want to cry. “A booster.”
I rush toward the four small buckets of paint hanging from hooks on the wall. Each of the buckets are filled with a team color. However, Team Fuchsia’s and Amber’s paint buckets are missing from their hooks. Those teams must have found this booster a while ago. Above the buckets hangs an artificially broken metal sign that reads “Paint any five coconuts to count as your own.”
I gasp as Colton grabs our teal paint bucket.
How many unpainted coconuts had we seen while trying to find our own today? Too many. We rush out of the rock formation and run straight for the beach, not caring about the rain pelting our skin.
Along the way, we find four unpainted coconuts at the base of two large coconut trees and carry them until we break out of the jungle and onto the sandy shore. With every moment, I hope andpray that somehow, someway, we’ll finish before another flare bursts into the sky.
A minute later, a flare streams through the air. But this time, it’s beautiful, sparkling, and teal. We come in fifth place out of six. We are safe … unless America votes otherwise.
Chapter 11
MISSY
· DAY 5 ·
“America hates us.” Those were Colton’s parting words to me before starting the Black Box Elimination. Now they replay in my mind as easily as a Burger King jingle. Despite the truth of his words, internalizing his negativity while balancing one foot on a wooden block and raising my other foot to my knee like a flamingo is anything but helpful.
I glance across the Black Box Meeting stage and look longingly at the half circle of “safe” teams as they sit in their battered yet colorful chairs. At this moment, I wish beyond words that I could switch one of them. Instead, I stand at center stage as they,and all of America, watch me and Juliet from Team Violet try to stand on a wood block longer than the other.
Colton and I may have made it to the beach with all our S.O.S. coconuts in the nick of time, but according to America, we should have come in last place, so they made sure to put us there in their rankings.
Although, I really can’t fault America for how they voted. After watching the recap of the second Mayday Challenge and the way Colton and I had it out on live television, I would have ranked us last, too. We’ve been arguing for almost as long as we’ve known each other, but seeing our squabbles played back to us on a big screen felt like watching a pair of second graders fight over whose turn it was to swing on the swing set. Fortunately, thanks to the rain, most of our argument was drowned out, but what was heard sure didn’t do us any favors.
“Missy, you’ve got this,” Colton says from behind me.
Though Colton’s words are soft and outwardly encouraging, they are awkward to my ears. Since seeing the teal flare light up the sky and being released from the bungee cuffs, I spent the better part of our afternoon ignoring him while replaying our argument in my mind. My nose flares remembering his words to me in the jungle.You wouldn’t know the meaning of hard because everything comes effortlessly to you.
Does he really think my life is just a walk in the park?
All thoughts of Colton vanish as my whole body sways. An entire half circle of contestants gasp as I wobble precariously on a foot-high block of wood. My torso leans forward and back, overcompensating as I try to recenter myself. That’s when I remember to engage my yoga abs.
By the skin of my teeth, I manage to steady myself. I can almost feel Colton’s relief even though he stands ten feet behind me, watching as Juliet from Team Violet and I battle it out. PoorTeam Violet came in last today, making them, once again, part of the Black Box Elimination.
I glance at Juliet, just long enough to see the look of determination on her face, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed in on one spot in the distance. Nothing but the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead signal any outward distress. She could win this. One more wobble and poof, my dreams could vanish.
I try to think of anything but my foot and all that’s riding on this moment, but when I do, my mind starts spiraling, leading me to memories that are best kept dormant. Too soon, my frantic thoughts wake up a moment from my past that’s far more painful than the four-by-four-inch wooden block digging into every nerve ending of my foot. I mentally try to smother the images that come to mind, but it’s too late.
I’m fourteen again, watching from the rear window of Aunt Candice’s Subaru as she pulls away from the ancient single-wide in Tennessee that I’ve always called home. Mama stands just outside the yellowing front door, wearing the bedazzled jean jacket I’d upcycled, cut, sewn, and glittered for her—just like she’d taught me to do last year.
“Looks like you’re the next Coco Chanel, Missy Girl. One day, you’ll be heading your own fashion line,” Mama says.
“You think?”
“If that’s something you want, then I know you’ll do it. My Missy Girl has never faced a challenge she can’t meet.”
“Then you’ll be in charge of all the models’ hair, right?” I say, imagining a future with Mama by my side.
