“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“No,youshut up. Ugh. Let’s just move on,” she says in the same kind of weary tone that Dad gets when I still don’t understand the difference between a 2-4-5 defense and a 3-3-5 defense in football, no matter how many times he tries to explain it. My hands twitch in the dirt.
“Maybe you’re better suited to other things, like foraging,” Seyoon says.
Except I can’t tell a chanterelle from a poisonous lookalike, and Seyoon smacks my hand when I go to pluck it because 1: That’s a jack-o’-lantern mushroom, do you really want to shit yourself on national television? And 2: Did you not hear me when I said,“Leave no trace”? But I’m not suited to purifying water, either, apparently, because every time I try and dig a pit for a solar still, the walls cave in. Iamable to hang a bear bag on a rope, but I fail tirelessly at hoisting the bag up on a tree branch. Finally, we get to the very last of the day’s tasks and Seyoon’s patience.
“Why would you save the hardest thing to do for last?” I ask. Between us in the firepit is our tinder nest of dry grass, leaves, and bark: the optimistic start of a campfire. Seyoon sits across from me with her legs folded beneath her, her bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat. I’m in no better shape, covered in dirt and splinters. Even the crew members look exhausted. The sunlight glints off the camera’s lens, blinding me every time the operator hurries around to record my pathetic, despaired reactions.
“Because I was hoping you’d be able to get some of the easier tasks right and build up to this,” she snaps. Although the temperature is finally starting to drop as it nears evening, it’s clear the sun beating down on us all day has sapped her composure. “If you can’t do it, it’s fine, at least then we can head back and take a shower.”
My nostrils flare. Seyoon reclines on her elbows, head lolling to the side. Her eyes are half-lidded in disinterest; she’s already given up on me. She knows I’m going to fail.
She knows I’m going to let her down.
I glare down at the piece of wood in front of my lap. The fireboard, I think she called it. Trying to recall the instructions she went over a million times, I cut a V-shaped notch into it with the jagged edge of a rock. I blearily search for a stick—the spindle?—and jam it into the notch. Seyoon’s eyelids have fully shut now. Even the camera operator yawns. Frustration pools in my gut, and I wish I could transfer someof that heat into the wood as I start rolling the spindle between my hands, praying for sparks.
“You’re not rolling fast enough,” Seyoon drawls. She’s not even looking. Maybe she can do this in her sleep. Or maybe she just expects me to mess up. Grunting, I try to speed up, but my hands are clumsy, slow.
“You’ll go faster if you run your palms up and down while you roll.”
“Okay,” I grit out, the warmth in my gut ebbing into shame.
“Are you putting enough pressure on the bo—”
“I’m trying!” I snap.Thatgets the camera operator’s attention. They swivel their camera directly at me. Damnit.
She sits up. “What are you getting mad at me for? I’m helping you.”
I keep grinding the spindle into the board, glaring daggers at the stick instead of at that awful camera that’s the window to a million eyes who’ll watch this and see just how inept I am. “Maybe if you gave me more than two seconds, I’d be able to get it right.”
“More than two seconds? We’ve been out hereallday.”
“And you”—The spindle slips and I grunt, repositioning it—“have been on my case all day.”
Seyoon scoots over and shoulders me out of the way, snatching the fireboard and spindle from my hands. She stabs the stick into the notch I made and rolls the spindle between her palms with so much force that the veins in her hands bulge. Within a minute, smoke billows out from where the spindle meets the plank. My heart sinks into the ground.
She keeps going until the smoke is a plume, then taps the ember onto a waiting piece of bark, transferring it carefully to the nestof tinder we—she—prepared. Crouching now, Seyoon blows until sparks catch and ignite the dry leaves. Before long, a roaring fire sits at our feet. The flames are nothing in comparison to the pure heat licking at my insides. I stare into the fire, digging my nails into my palms as theshame shame shameseethes along my skin.
There’s another crunch, and the crew member operating the boom mic curses under her breath as she nearly trips over a rock. My gaze flicks over to the camera. The sun’s practically set now, and without its light glinting off the screen, I can see my own reflection in the dark glass. My face is heavy. My eyes dull. For the first time, I think,I look like Dad.At least, how he did when I first told him I didn’t want to be onForest Feud. Disappointment had settled into the creases of his face like it does on mine, now.
Why am I soupset?
I know why: because I said this would happen. I never wanted to be here. I knew I didn’t have what it takes. Now, so does Seyoon, and once this airs, so will everyone.
Seyoon’s glare is a physical sensation on my turned cheek, a hot iron against my skin. “Should I explain how I did that, or would I just be getting on your case again?” she says.
I know if I speak, I’ll just make this worse. Seyoon doesn’t take my silence well.
“Ignoring me again. Great. Why would you listen to me, anyway? I couldn’tpossiblyknow better than you.” She laughs bitterly. “Fine. If you don’t need me, we should just end things here.”
Seyoon stands and kicks dirt at the fire until it fizzles out. The action douses my anger, too. All at once, embarrassment and remorse floods through me, sobering me up.
“Fuck…” I mutter as I stand. It’s not her I’m upset with; it’s myself. “Seyoon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. Or your advice. I’m just…”
I lose my train of thought watching her expression morph. Her face is as cold as the last of the sun’s dying light setting around us. Even though I stood up, I feel tiny beneath her gaze.
