I turn one more page.
And I land on a Like Us article. I scan the giant photograph of Luna, Xander, and Kinney, the Hale siblings congregated at a booth inside Superheroes & Scones. A fan must’ve taken the photo.
The Like Us articles have been printed in this magazine for years, and they’re relatively harmless. The subtitle is always the same:the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—they’re like us! They read books. They love movies. They go shopping!
I remember years back seeing the headlineSmart Like Uswith a photograph of Jane competing in prep school mathletes.
The one I clutch zooms in on Luna, Xander, and Kinney’s new ear piercings. The title:Cool Like Us.
Maximoff asks, “Why are you smiling?”
“They called youuncool.”
Maximoff rubs water out of his face and then reaches his arm out of the shower to clearly shoot me a middle finger.
I almost laugh, but my phone rings on the tiled floor. I already see the caller ID:Alpha Asshole.
Shit.
There’s an 85% chance he’s going to chew me out for shutting off my radio. Comms aren’t even on me right now. So I bypass that headache and just text Price:I’m not on SFA.
He replies fast.
From cams, we can tell that Moffy is home. You need to come help vet Camp-Away entrants.– Price
I reply even faster:I already spent six hours vetting entrants today.I purposefully signed up for a shift while Maximoff was working at the H.M.C. office.
We need more eyes on this. You’re available, so get over here.– Price
I could easily shut off my phone and act like I didn’t just receive that fucking demand. But if the worst happens at the Camp-Away—just because I didn’t take an extra three hours to vet the raffle entrants—I’d be more than pissed at myself.
I’ll be there.I send that one text and slip my phone in my pocket. “Maximoff.”
He cracks the shower door. “Yeah?”
“I have to go. Security needs me.” I pull on my black V-neck.
Looks like he’s not the only one giving out rain checks.
35
FARROW KEENE
Sprawlinggreen fields bleed into a bright blue horizon, oak and spruce trees jutting to the sky. Leaves are orange and red as the fall season nears an end. From a hill, I spot the glittering lake and canoes stacked on a rack, inner-tubes tied to a wooden dock.
Maximoff uses the acres and acres of land from Camp Calloway, his aunt’s summer camp in the Poconos Mountains, for his December Camp-Away event.
It’s majestic, serene, but I’m also very much on-duty. I’m not about to be swept up by nature. Not when there are three-hundred raffle guests ranging from eighteen to forty-five in age.
And they’re all playing the first group activity that Maximoff scheduled: a massive game of capture the flag.
Hundreds of people are split into four teams, denoted by red, green, blue and yellow shirts and bandanas. While they run around the field and forest, screaming out strategies and searching for other team’s flags, security meanders through the crowd.
We all wear black T-shirts withSECURITYin bold neon-green letters.
My arms haven’t uncrossed. For the past twenty-minutes, I concentrate solely on Maximoff, my guard not lowering. Earlier, I confiscated a knife that someone tried smuggling into the camp. Apparently they believed they’d be “fishing” and cleaning their own dinner.
Okay.
