She wouldn’t be saying that if Garrett Moxley hadn’t screwed over her and the other guy in their alliance at the last second. Seriously,like, twenty yards away from the finish line. Because if he hadn’t, she would’ve won. Without a doubt.
I know people don’t think of her as a winner. Umma’s a tiny, gentle-spoken Korean woman with an affinity for smiling and making small talk with clerks at the grocery store. They’d never believe she almost won the most cutthroat season ofForest Feud. She hardly got any airtime on the show despite being in the finale, and the scenes they did include never fully portrayed how awesome she was.
But people don’t know Jungeun Shin like I do. They don’t know that she’s so brave, she immigrated to a different continent when she was just a child. They have no clue how tough she is, taking care of a kidanda deadbeat husband on her own. Even if I told them all that, they still wouldn’t realize the full extent of Umma’s strength. Not like I know.
Umma’s always been a winner; I get it from her, and I’ll do it for her.
I give her another long, tight hug, say my final goodbyes, and watch until she’s back in her car and driving safely (and slowly) down the mountain. My chest pangs when she’s fully out of sight. But then I slap myself out of it, plaster on a smile, grab my bag, and march past the trailhead post the producers told us to find, the one that saysCampClearwater–0.5Miles.
I have no complaints about having to trek to set. I love nature. The sweet smell of grass, the way the sun warms the top of my head, the birds chirping and the ambiguous rumbling in the distance—all of it. Good stuff. Great stuff. Besides, half a mile is nothing. Our warm-ups in track are longer than this.
If I don’t win, we won’t be able to afford the extracurricular fees for track this year,the small voice of anxiety says in the back of my head.Or volleyball. Or swim.Or—
Snap out of it, Seyoon. What am I wasting my time worrying about thatfor?
“Of course I’m going to win,” I tell myself.
Then I stop, my brain catching up to my senses. In particular, to the ambiguous rumbling that seems to be growing less distant by the second. Ambiguous rumbling isn’t usually a good sign.
It’s the last thought I have before a giant, hideous, neon-orange suitcase comes bouncing down the path and barrels into me.
Footnotes
1. Hey.
2. You’re too loud.
3. Why are you crying?
3
THIS SUITCASE IS GOING TO GET ME A MANSLAUGHTER CHARGE
DEAN
I’ve been humbled plenty of times in my life. But trying to figure out how to escape the SeaTac airport? That was a particularly demeaning experience.
The day’s only just started, and I’m already exhausted. The producers wanted us on set by 8 a.m., which means I had to take a red-eye flight from Boston to make it on time and have been running on critically low sleep since. I mistakenly thought the worst was behind me when an Uber driver picked me up and we were on our way to Mount Rainier, but I was swiftly proven wrong when, no matter how many times I tried to explain the situation, the driver refused to take me to the parking lot the producers specified.
“No, no, no,” the man told me. “I’m not goingintothe park. Do you have any clue how expensive those day passes are?”
So he dropped me off at the park’s entrance instead—about two and half miles away from the set. At least the ranger at the gate felt bad for me and gave me a map.
I’m man enough to admit my weaknesses. My cardiovascular system, to name one. A two-mile hike is tough enough on its own,but a two-mile hike while wearing a backpack, in seventy-degree heat, up an incline, on the side of a road, all while toting the world’s ugliest, heaviest, neon-orange suitcase?
Admittedly tougher.
Sweat drips down my hair and soaks the collar of my hoodie. An hour later, and I’m sure my arms are going to fall off. Not even the crisp mountain air makes me feel better, and I’m too exhausted to appreciate what I’m sure is a beautiful view around me. Time loses meaning by the time I finally make it on the trail to Camp Clearwater and begin up a particularly steep hill.
I’m starting to consider believing in God just so I have someone to blame for my misery when I hear it: dozens of voices. They babble over each other, distant but there.
Camp.
The realization is so euphoric that I loosen my hold on the greasy handle of my suitcase.
Well. The euphoria is mostly responsible. My weak grip strength is probably partially to blame as well.
I watch in horror as my suitcase rockets down the hill.
