Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Sayla
Spoiler alert: I don’t get a whole lot of productive play-reading done on our drive.
As it turns out, absorbing Shakespeare while sitting this close to Dexter’s cedar scent—or whatever woodsy thing he smells like—is more of a challenge than I expected.
So I give up once we turn off the mountain pass and onto a winding road lined with trees.
My research said to expect a lot of spruce here, white pine, and eastern hemlock. Hemlock makes me think of the witches in Macbeth. And poison. And Dexter.
My lips twitch.
“I’m pretty sure somebody built this place out of Lincoln Logs,” he says, nodding toward the glimpses of Camp Reboot we’re getting in between branches.
At least two formidable lodges dominate the center of the site, and rows of smaller log cabins with green metal rooftops cluster in the clearing between them and the forest edging the property.
By the time Dex steers the car into the dirt parking lot, the spaces are mostly full.
Looks like almost everyone beat us here.
“I told you we’d be late,” I say, as the car crunches to a halt in one of the last remaining spots.
“Okay, Kroft. You get one I told you so. Now you’re done.”
I stuff my play into my bag. “You are not the boss of me.”
“You’re right.” He stifles a smirk. “Thank goodness.”
We clamber out of the car, collecting our luggage from the back. The outside temperature is cool and crisp. The scent of pine and woodsmoke hovers in the air. Damp and fresh. Kind of nice, actually.
Not that I’ll admit that to Dexter.
“According to the brochure, Camp Reboot can accommodate up to thirty retreat-goers at any given time,” I say.
“Wow.” Dex chuckles. “You really looked into this place.”
“Nothing wrong with being prepared. I like to—”
“Hello, there!” a man hollers from the center of camp. He waves for us to join him and a group of people already milling around a log cabin with a sign above the door that says Office. One of these strangers will probably be my roommate, and a wave of missing Loren streaks through my heart.
Making friends is hard for me.
As Dex and I approach, the man sticks out a hand in greeting. “Welcome to Camp Reboot!” He’s tall and lanky, wearing baggy cargo pants, a fanny pack, and a straw hat complete with chin strap. “I’m Bob, one of the directors.” His eyes twinkle. “But you can call me Bob.”
Ummm … I glance at Dexter.
Am I missing the joke?
“Good to be here,” Dex says warmly. He’s already better at this than I am.
“Good to just be.” Bob grins.
His hair is about the same color as Dexter’s, but that’s where the comparison ends. While Dex fills out his hoodie and joggers in an annoyingly effective way, Bob is gangly, with a scraggly beard and what appears to be a total absence of muscles under his sweatshirt.
“All right, folks.” He claps to gain everyone’s attention.
“I think the gang’s mostly here. So it’s time to grab your name tags.
” He nods toward a picnic table under a sprawling tree.
A tangle of tags is scattered across the top.
Each one is attached to a forest-green lanyard I figure we’re supposed to wear around our necks.
I make my way over to the table like the good rule-follower I am, but Dex gets intercepted by a brunette who bumps into him. Accidentally. On purpose.
Her Lululemon ensemble costs almost as much as a car payment. And I know this because I looked at that exact outfit before deciding to buy a knockoff brand from Target.
Dex says something to her I can’t hear, then he debuts his megawatt smile. She tosses her hair back, laughing. A twinge of something sharp pokes at my insides. There he goes again. Winning over the masses. Like always.
While I wait my turn with the name tags, definitely not trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, a redhead with a bright smile and a face full of freckles moves past me. She sorts through the tags and finds hers.
CAROLINE.
We make quick eye contact, and I open my mouth to say something to her, but no words come out. Instead, I hang back, deferring to the hodgepodge of guests pawing through the tags. Everyone else mumbles greetings to each other. But I can’t seem to find my voice.
Them: Good morning. Good morning. Good morning.
Me: Nothing.
Why am I so bad at this?
Eventually, Dex stops flirting with Lulu Leggings long enough to follow directions and collect his name tag. He slides up beside me, but she somehow manages to squeeze into the space between us. She grabs her lanyard.
VICTORIA/TORI.
Because of course this stunning brunette has the sexiest, cutest names in history. She slips away from the table, brushing against Dexter’s entire body as she goes, and my stomach growls like I’m gestating an alien.
Terrific.
Dexter’s eyes drift to my abdomen, and I cross my arms over my middle. Guess that smoothie wasn’t enough breakfast for me after all. “You hungry?” he asks. “I’ve got an extra protein bar in my bag.”
“No, thank you.” My eyes dart to Tori, and I stuff my hands into the pockets of my bulky cargo pants. “I’ll be just fine until lunch.”
“Are you sure?”
No.
But to beat Dex at his own game, I can’t afford to be in his debt.
I need to stay mentally competitive. Physically tough.
Unmoved by kindness of any kind. So even though I could demolish a protein bar right now, I’m going to stick to my list of Reasons Dexter Michaels is the Absolute Worst instead of making a Nice List that should never exist.
“Anyway, it’s probably poisoned,” I mumble. “Hemlock.”
He barks out a laugh. “I’d never waste a good protein bar on murder.”
Once almost everyone else has collected their Camp Reboot lanyards, I scan the remaining tags, but I don’t see my name. Dex tips his chin, a question in his eyes.
“What’s the hold-up, Kroft?”
I nod down at the table and cringe like my failure to locate my tag is somehow my fault. “My tag’s not—”
Oh. And that’s when I spot it.
SAILOR.
This can’t be a coincidence. I flash back to countless teachers, students, parents, coworkers, neighbors—everyone in my life for the past twenty-eight years—who misunderstood my name.
My mom couldn’t have made me one of the million Emilys or Samanthas or Ashleys or even Victorias born the same year I was.
Instead I spent my childhood in front of a classroom as the new girl at school, with everyone laughing when I told them my name.
Ignoring the fresh splinters in my stomach, I take my tag over to Bob, who’s in front of the office, chatting with Caroline. Dex comes along with me. Lulu Leggings follows.
I mean Victoria/Tori.
“Hey there!” Bob adjusts his chin strap. “I see you got your tag!”
“Yes, but I just wanted to tell you my name is Say-LAH, not Sail-OR.” I almost add a “sorry” to the end of my statement, but I did nothing wrong. The misprint isn’t Bob’s fault either. It’s just a mistake. A common one at that. Still, I deserve to have my tag corrected.
“Ah, yes!” His gaze bounces between me and Dexter. “You two are here from Stony Peak High.”
I press a smile onto my face. “That’s right. I’m Sayla Kroft.”
“I see.” He squints down at my tag. “Well. We can just fix your name with a little Sharpie.”
“Sharpie works as a temporary solution,” Dexter says. He’s so close, his deep voice vibrates in my chest. “But we’ll need a new tag for Sayla as soon as possible.”
We’ll need.
When did Dex and I become a we?
On the one hand, his gesture of solidarity is surprisingly gallant, and the twinge of discomfort that usually shows up when people confuse my name softens a bit.
Then again, I don’t want to soften toward Dexter.
I can’t afford to view the man as anything but my opponent.
At the end of the day, we’re competitors going after the same trophy.
The grant.
And the entire performing arts community at Stony Peak High is counting on me to win.
“If I recall,” Bob says, tugging his beard, “Hildy’s the one who registered you as a last-minute add-on.
She’s the other director, and she took your information over the phone instead of online.
” He glances at the open door to the office and lowers his voice.
“Don’t tell her I said so, but Hildy’s not exactly known for her good hearing. ”
“I sure heard that!” A tugboat of a woman with wild dark curls emerges from the cabin and stalks toward us. She’s wearing track pants in highlighter yellow and a matching windbreaker with racing stripes up the sleeves.
“Oops.” Bob tosses us an exaggerated wince. “This is the other director, Hildy.” He produces a Sharpie from his fanny pack and makes the fix on my tag. “Apologies, Sailor.” He winks, handing the tag back to me. “We’ll get you a new tag by tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
Also, get me a new nickname, please.
Meanwhile, Hildy moves past us to the edge of the clearing, where she hops onto a tree stump. Bob joins her, and she blows a whistle in two short bursts. Clusters of retreat guests stop their individual conversations and swing their attention over to them.
“Okay, people, listen up!” Bob calls out. “Hildy and I are going to let you settle into your cabins real quick, then we’ll reconnoiter here for a complete tour of the camp.”
Dex leans over and whispers, “I don’t remember connoitering in the first place. Is connoitering even a thing?”
“Shhh.”
“After the tour,” Bob continues, “We’ll have our first team-building exercise of the retreat.”
“Woo-hoo!” Hildy pumps her fist, even as a prickle of nerves climbs up my spine. I hope whoever my roommate is, she’ll like me. I press a smile on my face, determined to make a good impression, and send out a silent prayer to the universe that she’s someone smiley and kind, like Caroline.