Chapter 4
STUART LITTLE MUST DIE
SEYOON
My first instinct is to bite the hand of whoever is currently holding me back from tearing a new one into the six-foot-bag-of-dicks who made the dumb decision to disrespect me and Umma in the same breath. But then I whip my head around and see who stepped between us.
Garrett Moxley.
“Seyoon Shin and Dean Parker! I’m right, aren’t I? Don’t answer that, I know I am.”
I should’ve recognized the smug voice from all those commercials.
He obviously looks older than he did when he was on Forest Feud, but still shockingly similar after twenty years.
He’s kind of like an aged Shaggy from Scooby Doo, with salt-and-pepper hair, a fake tan, and a five o’clock shadow.
He flashes me and Dean what he must think is a disarming smile.
It’s insulting, but what’s more offensive is the Hawaiian-patterned, three-piece suit he’s wearing.
It’s so ugly, I temporarily forget my anger and just gawk in disgust at his blazer.
Garrett’s eyes flicker back and forth between me and Dean until realization flashes across his face. He throws his head back and laughs. He laughs like he has money. You know what I’m talking about: that rich, white man Ha! Ha! Ha! that comes from deep in their chest.
“Hold on, this is too good. History loves to rhyme, doesn’t it?” Garrett says. He points between us. “Have you guys made the connection already?”
“What connection?” I ask. Dean grimaces, so I think he has.
“The connection between your parents,” Garrett responds. “You don’t recognize the son of Vince Parker? The guy that beat your mom for second place?”
My jaw falls as the gears in my head turn. Dean shrugs under my accusatory stare, as if to say, Well, you never asked me who I was related to.
“Vince, your mom, and I were all allies, you know?” Garrett says, straightening the lapels of his blazer with pride.
“Allies until you tricked both of them into going down the wrong path in the final obstacle course race.”
“Yup!” He pops the p. “Hey, that’s showbiz, kid. No hard feelings. How are your folks doing, by the way?”
“None of your business,” I spit at the same time Dean says, “Fine.”
“Hey, enough about the past.” He claps his hands and turns to the crowd at large. Loudly, he calls, “Let’s focus on the future! All contestants, meet me at the front of camp!”
He turns to face the team of camera operators to our left, who have been filming us the whole time, I realize belatedly. “How was that, Kim? You need another take?”
One of the women scratches her chin. “Yeah, you had your back to us for part of that. Can you repeat your line?”
“No problem.” Garrett shuffles around, tilting his face to get his jawline in the shot this time. “Let’s focus on the future! All contestants, meet me at the front of camp!”
Kim shoots him a thumbs-up, and Garrett finally saunters—yes, saunters—away, leaving me and Dean to ourselves.
Well, ourselves, plus the crew of camera techs and the boom mic operator, who are still focused on us.
I chew the inside of my cheek so I won’t sink my teeth into Dean’s arm while the cameras are rolling.
Usually, I have no problem being the center of attention.
You can’t be shy when you’re the only one doing flips on the gymnastics mats or giving your teammates pregame pep talks.
But I realize now how inconvenient it might be to have cameras trained on me twenty-four-seven, capturing everything I say or do.
Okay, maybe I got a little heated back there.
He started it, though, implying I’m loud and too much—things Appa has criticized me for plenty of times before.
Although I guess I did tell Dean to his face that I was going to beat him.
I didn’t mean it in a rude way; it’s just what was on my mind. Although, if someone said that to me…
He shouldn’t have insulted Umma, though.
That brings the fire right back into my blood. Yeah, you know what? Fuck that guy. And especially fuck his perfect curly hair and his dumb gentle hands. I snatch my duffel bag off the ground, intent on beating Dean to the front.
“Hey, take this.”
I look over my shoulder in time to see Dean tossing the roll of bandage he never got to finish wrapping around my hands.
On instinct I catch it, then yelp at the sting in my palms. He smirks.
I want to knock all the teeth out of that smile with the way it transforms his sad, pretty, mousy face into something wicked.
Ugh. He’s like if Stuart Little were hot. And an asshole. And human, I guess.
I throw the wad of gauze back and take great satisfaction when it bonks his forehead.
“Jackass,” I mumble under my breath as I stomp across camp, weaving around the millions of production assistants and barely dodging a light stand.
And to think I wanted to be friends. That’s what I get for trying to befriend somebody I’m in competition with.
Have I learned nothing from The Agonizing Amelia Accident of Junior Year?
Adrenaline and rivalry don’t make a great combo for lasting friendships.
That’s why we’re not on speaking terms anymore.
… Mostly why.
I scowl. I don’t need to fill the hole in my heart Amelia used to occupy with somebody else. But Umma asked me to make friends, so I will. Because I can. Just because the first attempt didn’t work out doesn’t mean none of them will. Right?
My face warms and I cringe as I recall how hard I tried to get a conversation going with Dean on the trek to camp.
God. How humiliating. He was giving me the cold shoulder the whole time, biting out short replies if not ignoring me completely, and yet I kept blabbering on.
I want to bang my skull against the nearest tree just thinking about it.
And he rammed that butt-ugly suitcase into me.
Seriously, how do you let go of a suitcase with handles—
Aha! I knew it. It was an intentional sabotage attempt—oh, that bastard. He tried to physically incapacitate me, and when that didn’t work (because of my hardy head and incredible safe-falling techniques), he went for the sweet-nerd angle to lower my defenses.
I take it back, he’s not like Stuart Little. He’s like Jerry, that tricky mouse motherfucker. And he’s not going to fool me again.
There are ten other teens lined up beneath the Camp Clearwater entrance sign, all carrying their luggage.
An array of crew members position their cameras, microphones, and light stands around us.
I get in line, accidentally knocking my duffel bag into the guy next to me. He drops whatever he was fiddling with.
“Oops, sorry. Let me get that for you.” I bend down to grab it, but he snatches it first.
I give him a cautious look. His strawberry-blond hair blends in with a sunburn that’s already developing on his suspicious face.
How is that possible? We’re in the shade.
My gaze falls to the object he’s clutching against his chest like he thinks I’ll take it from him.
It’s a gold-plated multitool, the kind that folds out with a knife, bolt cutter, and other gadgets. He shoves it into his pocket.
“Fancy,” I comment.
He scrunches his face into a condescending smile. “Gift from my uncle.”
Garrett arrives then, swinging a megaphone at his side. Blake approaches him, running down a list on her clipboard with him, prepping him with talking points. Once they’re done, she retreats to her spot next to one of the cameras.
“Cameras, you set? Sound team, all good? Great. Ready when you are, Garrett.”
He clears his throat and launches right into it.
Campers! I am thrilled to welcome all twelve of you to the reboot of America’s favorite reality show. Welcome to Forest Feud.
“… Huh. Was expecting more of a rambunctious applause there,” Garrett says, breaking his announcer voice. “That’s okay. We can edit that in post. Anyway—”
I’m your gracious host, Garrett Moxley, winner of the last season of Forest Feud.
I bring that up not because I’m still holding on to my claim to fame from twenty years ago—despite what the Internet likes to say—but because it’s relevant to all of you, as six of you here are related to someone who won like I did, while the other six are related to someone who lost. Talk about tension.
I glare at Garrett hard enough that my eyes strain, but if he notices, he doesn’t let it show.
Just like your family members, the twelve of you will compete in thrilling challenges, plus obstacle courses in places and elevations we’ve never gone to before, with an all-new elimination system to really turn up the heat. Excited yet?
A girl somewhere down the line lets out an enthusiastic, “Whoo!” Garrett finger guns at her.
Now that’s more like it! Let me introduce the rules.
You will compete in six high-stakes challenges to earn points that will determine your ranking.
The player with the fewest points after each challenge goes home and kisses their shot at the million-dollar grand prize goodbye.
However, there are also a few challenges where more than one player will get the boot. Anxious yet? Good!
Any questions?
“Yeah,” says another contestant, raising their hand. “Where do we, like, sleep?”
“And when can we put our bags away?” somebody else pipes up. “I’m sick of dragging this thing around.”
You’ll be happy to hear that we have excellent accommodations arranged for you. And by excellent, I mean eight twin-size bunks in that cozy cabin over there, probably without bedbugs.
I see some gears turning in your heads. “But Garrett, there are twelve of us?”
Not for long!
Players, get ready for your very first challenge, Mountain Marathon: a race through the woods to determine which of you gets to claim one of those beds and which of you are going home today without even unpacking your things.
The top eight players get to stay, and the last four are going bye-bye. Isn’t this exciting? Who’s excited?
“Yeah!” I shout, uncaring that I’m the only one who answered. The guy I bumped into gives me a sideways look, but I hardly register it over my exhilaration.
The others in line groan and complain about how they weren’t warned, this isn’t fair, “I’m wearing brand-new Jordans!” But I’ve never been more eager. I placed in the top three at state for the 400m and 100m last fall, and got first in the 200m.
I start stretching immediately. Will the race start here? Makes sense we’d begin at camp. But, to my surprise, all the crew members start packing up their equipment.
The boy on the other side of Sunburn notices, too. “What’s going on?”
Blake steps forward. “Field-trip time. We only have permits to lodge and film on the grounds, so all of our challenges have to be on private property.”
“But isn’t this just a race?” I ask. “You don’t need a permit to take a jog.”
The woman grins, a sparkle of excitement in her gray eyes. “Oh. It’s a little more than that.”
Adrenaline rushes through me. I lean backward to see past the row of people and spot Dean at the end, looking like he’s about to shit himself. He glances my way. He’s not grinning anymore. Good. I stick my tongue out at him, and he turns a satisfying berry red.
He’s going down.