“Vince, your mom, and I were all allies, you know?” Garrett says, straightening the lapels of his blazer with pride.
“Allies until you tricked both of them into going down the wrong path in the final obstacle course race.”
“Yup!” He pops thep. “Hey, that’s showbiz, kid. No hard feelings. How are your folks doing, by the way?”
“None of your business,” I spit at the same time Dean says, “Fine.”
“Hey, enough about the past.” He claps his hands and turns to the crowd at large. Loudly, he calls, “Let’s focus on the future! All contestants, meet me at the front of camp!”
He turns to face the team of camera operators to our left, who have been filming us the whole time, I realize belatedly. “How was that, Kim? You need another take?”
One of the women scratches her chin. “Yeah, you had your back to us for part of that. Can you repeat your line?”
“No problem.” Garrett shuffles around, tilting his face to get his jawline in the shot this time. “Let’s focus on the future! All contestants, meet me at the front of camp!”
Kim shoots him a thumbs-up, and Garrett finally saunters—yes, saunters—away, leaving me and Dean to ourselves. Well, ourselves, plus the crew of camera techs and the boom mic operator, who are still focused on us. I chew the inside of my cheek so I won’t sink my teeth into Dean’s arm while the cameras are rolling. Usually, I have no problem being the center of attention. You can’t be shy when you’re the only one doing flips on the gymnastics mats or giving your teammates pregame pep talks. But I realize now how inconvenient it might be to have cameras trained on me twenty-four-seven, capturing everything I say or do.
Okay, maybe I got alittleheated back there. He started it, though, implying I’m loud and too much—things Appa has criticized me for plenty of times before. Although I guess I did tell Dean to his face that I was going to beat him. I didn’t mean it in a rude way; it’s just what was on my mind. Although, if someone said that tome…
He shouldn’t have insulted Umma,though.
That brings the fire right back into my blood. Yeah, you know what? Fuck that guy. And especially fuck his perfect curly hair and his dumb gentle hands. I snatch my duffel bag off the ground, intent on beating Dean to the front.
“Hey, take this.”
I look over my shoulder in time to see Dean tossing the roll of bandage he never got to finish wrapping around my hands. On instinct I catch it, then yelp at the sting in my palms. He smirks. Iwant to knock all the teeth out of that smile with the way it transforms his sad, pretty, mousy face into something wicked.
Ugh. He’s like if Stuart Little were hot. And an asshole. And human, I guess.
I throw the wad of gauze back and take great satisfaction when it bonks his forehead.
“Jackass,” I mumble under my breath as I stomp across camp, weaving around the millions of production assistants and barely dodging a light stand. And to think I wanted to be friends. That’s what I get for trying to befriend somebody I’m in competition with. Have I learned nothing from The Agonizing Amelia Accident of Junior Year? Adrenaline and rivalry don’t make a great combo for lasting friendships. That’s why we’re not on speaking terms anymore.
… Mostly why.
I scowl. I don’tneedto fill the hole in my heart Amelia used to occupy with somebody else. But Umma asked me to make friends, so I will. Because Ican. Just because the first attempt didn’t work out doesn’t mean none of them will. Right?
My face warms and I cringe as I recall how hard I tried to get a conversation going with Dean on the trek to camp. God. How humiliating. He was giving me the cold shoulder the whole time, biting out short replies if not ignoring me completely, and yet I kept blabbering on. I want to bang my skull against the nearest tree just thinking about it.Andhe rammed that butt-ugly suitcase into me. Seriously, how do you let go of a suitcase with handles—
Aha! I knew it. Itwasan intentional sabotage attempt—oh, that bastard. He tried to physically incapacitate me, and whenthat didn’t work (because of my hardy head and incredible safe-falling techniques), he went for the sweet-nerd angle to lower my defenses.
I take it back, he’s not like Stuart Little. He’s like Jerry, that tricky mouse motherfucker. And he’s not going to fool me again.
There are ten other teens lined up beneath theCamp Clearwaterentrance sign, all carrying their luggage. An array of crew members position their cameras, microphones, and light stands around us. I get in line, accidentally knocking my duffel bag into the guy next to me. He drops whatever he was fiddling with.
“Oops, sorry. Let me get that for you.” I bend down to grab it, but he snatches it first.
I give him a cautious look. His strawberry-blond hair blends in with a sunburn that’s already developing on his suspicious face. How is that possible? We’re in the shade. My gaze falls to the object he’s clutching against his chest like he thinks I’ll take it from him. It’s a gold-plated multitool, the kind that folds out with a knife, bolt cutter, and other gadgets. He shoves it into his pocket.
“Fancy,” I comment.
He scrunches his face into a condescending smile. “Gift from my uncle.”
Garrett arrives then, swinging a megaphone at his side. Blake approaches him, running down a list on her clipboard with him, prepping him with talking points. Once they’re done, she retreats to her spot next to one of the cameras.
“Cameras, you set? Sound team, all good? Great. Ready when you are, Garrett.”
He clears his throat and launches right into it.
