“I’m Dean,” I say.
Wow. Creative.
“Seyoon,” she replies with a small smile. “I’m glad we ran into each other. I was hoping to meet some people before the show got started. Although, it’s kinda hard to get buddy-buddy when you’re in competition. I’ve been there before.Notfun.”
Then, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, Seyoon says, “Even though I’m going to win, I hope we can still become friends.”
The gears in my head whir to a confused stop.
Is she… taunting me?
Nothing about her tone or expression indicates she’s anything but serious. Her smile is too sweet to be hiding viciousness. But who says that kind of thing out loud? Whoassumesthey’re going to win without even a single doubt?
I glance down at myself, feeling suddenly bare despite my jeans and hoodie. What does she see that makes her so sure she’s going to beat me? How does she already know that I’m weak?
A mixture of embarrassment and irritation rubs against my side, but I don’t have time to figure out what to do with it before she calls out, “Hey look, we’re here!”
She jogs the rest of the way. I shake my head. I’m sure I was just overthinking things again.
I hurry my steps, crest the hill, and there it is, painted onto a wooden entrance arch:CampClearwater.
The grassy clearing is about the size of a little league field, with five log cabins encircling a bonfire pit, and surrounded by towering evergreens on every side. Down a short knoll from camp is an enormous lake—Summit Lake—spreading for miles in every direction. For the first time, I’m actually taken aback by the beauty of my surroundings. It’s so awe-inspiring, it makes me aware of my five senses in a way I’ve never been before. The birds chirping over each other in the trees; the hot, muggy air clinging to my skin; the subtle taste of sweet pine on my tongue with every inhale. And thecolors.I’ve never seen shades of green this vibrant or water so blue before. The termcrystal clearfinally makes sense as I gaze upon the reflection of Mount Rainier’s snowy peak in the rippling lake.
“This is the exact view my mom had twenty years ago,” Seyoon mumbles, apparently equally blown away.
The sound of chatter returns to my ears, and my attention turns to the crowd of people all around. There aresomany of them. My stomach dips.
I turn to see what else is around—and run face-first into a video camera.
“Hurgh,” escapes from my lips like a fork in the garbage disposal.
“Please try not to look directly into the camera,” the operator says.
The camera and the man behind it step back enough for an older white woman to step in the space between us. Despite the out-of-place prim shirt and crisp jeans, I recognize her instantly.
Blake Perry: the former host ofForestFeud.
My eyes pop open. Oh my God, it’stheBlake Perry. In the flesh. The only person who’d share my excitement about meeting her is Dad, so I stifle the embarrassing urge to ask for her autograph. Despite two decades having passed since she was on TV, her age doesn’t show except in the silver of her slicked-back bun and the crow’s feet next to her gray eyes.
“Seyoon Shin and Dean Parker arriving at the same time? What a happy coincidence,” Blake says, all smiles. Her every word is enunciated with the crispness of a TV anchor.
She tucks her clipboard under her arm and shakes each of our hands. “Blake Perry. I’m not offended if you don’t recognize me without the camp counselor getup I used to wear. I’m the executive producer and director now. It’s good to have you here.”
I blink, taken aback by the woman’s neat, tidy aura.Thisisn’t the Blake Perry I grew up watching.ThatBlake spent fifteen seasons delighting in stirring up drama between contestants and feeding on the ensuing chaos—the best kind of reality show host to watch. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected her television persona to be her real personality.
Blake checks her watch. “Oh—we need to get you both to wardrobe and makeup. One of the techs will point you in the right direction.”
Before leaving, Blake turns back and winks. “Hey, don’t tell the other contestants, but you two are the ones I’m most excited about.”
I’m given no time to bask in the realization thatBlake Perry knows who I ambefore a frazzled-looking assistant whisks both me and Seyoon into a canopy tent pitched near the entrance. There, a stylist asks to see what clothes I’ve brought, then frowns at each plain white T-shirt I pull out.
“You can keep the hoodies and shorts, but white washes you out. Here, take these,” the stylist says, handing me a stack of T-shirts colored emerald green, earthy brown, and dark purple. As soon as I finish changing into a hoodie that’s not soaked with sweat, a different crew member flits by, blotting my face and pressing powder beneath my eyes. Once they’re done, yet another tech steps into their place and clips a mic to the collar of my shirt, like an assembly line of workers.
“Keep this on you at all times,” they explain, slipping the transmitter pack into my pants pocket and weaving the thin wire connecting it under my shirt. “You can only turn it off when filming hours are over, or when you’re in the bathroom. Just click that little switch on the mic here.”
Right when I think they’ll finally free us, one of the techs blocks the entrance, his palm out. “Your phones, please.”
“We can’t keep them?” I ask.
