On principle, I don’t want to do anything that would make Garrett’s life easier, and I don’t get why he can’t make these himself, but Moxley Muffins sound pretty good right now. I pilfer through the options, picking a black apron with bold papyrus font that saysThis ShitIs Gonna Be Delicious!I stand on the other side of the counter opposite Garrett, who hands me a few eggs to crack into a bowl.
“You know what I realized recently?” Garrett starts conversationally. “You’re more like your mom than I thought.”
“Is this small talk? We don’t have to do that. I crack eggs better in stony silence.”
“Really. What you did for Dean yesterday, sharing your points with him? It seemed like something Jungeun would do.” Hearing Umma’s first name said so familiarly makes my ears ring. “Despite what a pain in the ass you are sometimes, you really are a good kid.”
My thoughts stall like an old engine. I wait for a punch line to come to soften his words, reduce them to another joke or empty comment. But Garrett doesn’t follow up.
“You believe that?” I ask.
“I do.”
He means it. His words, with nowhere else to go, sink into me, pressing heavy fingertips into places I didn’t know were sore. It’s a weird feeling, for Garrett of all people to be telling me this. It’s not a bad feeling. Just new. It’s the kind of thing I’d always hoped Appa would say to me.
“Well,” I say, embarrassed, “Dean shared his points with me before. I was just being a good teammate.”
Garrett fetches a carton of blueberries and stirs them in. One rolls out of the bowl, and I play with it in silence.
“I have a question for you,” he eventually asks. There’s a layer of hesitation to his voice. “Let’s say, at the final challenge tomorrow, Dean ends up beating you. Would you regret sharing your points with him then? Would you regret beingthatkind of player?”
I pause and think about it. Tendrils of dread creep through my veins as I really picture it. The view of being behind. Coming home to Umma empty-handed. No longer having a home to share with her. It’s the worst possible reality. But the heartbreak in Dean’s face last night was a visceral pain, too. So was the look of hurt on Vendredi. The disdain on Amelia’s. I shut my eyes.
“No,” I eventually decide. “I wouldn’t regret it.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I’ve lost before. But…” My throat gets tight, and I swallow past it. “But what I regret more is being a bad teammate. That I can’t come back from. Not again.”
The scraping of the spatula against the sides of the bowl stops. I look up. Garrett is wearing the same creased expression he had when he saw Umma. He purses his lips, considering something. Then hegestures at the collar of his shirt. I get what he means and fumble at my own collar to turn off my mic.
“You remember the final race between your mom, Vince, and me, don’t you? Of course you do. You must also remember how there was a fork in the road, and how I was the only one to go down the correct path.” Garrett exhales through his nose and plants both his hands on the countertop. “I knew which way to go because Blake told me.”
I blink. My neurons are slow to fire, slower to connect. “Blake… helped you cheat back then?”
He nods. “And she wants me to help Carter cheat now.”
For a long time, I don’t get it. No, I do, but it doesn’t sink in yet. The anger fills me slowly, like water dripping steadily into a pool.
Then I get it.
I can’t speak. My teeth rattle in my clenched jaw. The blood coursing through my veins is molten. I grip the edge of the counter, trying not to let the rage overtake me. I knew it. Iknewit should’ve been Umma. If Blake and Garrett hadn’t cheated her over, Umma would’ve won. Her life—no—our liveswould have been completely different.
Oh God. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut just thinking about it. We were robbed. My mom,Umma—everybody in this life has stolen from her.
Garrett was always a no-good, backstabbing, son of a bitch, but Blake? I trusted Blake. I was wrong to think any of these slimy executives cared about anything other than the weight of their wallets.
“Why?” I choke out. It comes out strangled. I don’t really meanwhy. I meanhow?How could you do that to her? How could you do this to me now? How do you live with yourself?
“Because how else are we going to secure a budget for a reality show featuring family winners if one of the titular Moxleys loses?” Garrett dips his finger in the batter and tastes it. “That’s Blake’s reasoning, anyway. I’m of the opinion that we’ll get the funding as long asForest Feud’s a success, but hey. She’s my boss. She orders me to do something, and I do it. That’s why, for tomorrow’s challenge—a race, just like last time—I told Carter to take the path on the right.”
His nonchalance only fans my fury.
Garrett has the audacity to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry, kid. You were never supposed to win.”
That’s it. The pure, unadulterated rage that blows through me is so violent that bile nearly shoots up my throat. I’ve been angry before, but this is different, worse than any time I’ve been angry when Appa would raise his voice at Umma or when I caught the other volleyball team at districts cheating. This is like hot oil spitting at my fingertips, so scalding it hurts to hold, tempting me to flick my hand out and burn someone in reach.
“I’m going to tell you something now, and I’m just going to say it once,” Garrett says carefully, wary of my trembling fists. “Repeating yourself is for people who get paid by the hour.”
