10 Shared Spite is a Double Spite,However the Proverb Goes
SHARED SPITE IS A DOUBLE SPITE, OR HOWEVER THE PROVERB GOES
SEYOON
CONFESSION TAPE—Seyoon Shin, Contestant
Let me set the record straight: I am not a sore loser. That would imply being a loser, which I’m not either. I just can’t stand injustice, which is what happened here today. I’m not going to apologize for calling Carter out on what he did. Even if I’m the only one who will.
Who the hell does he think he is anyway, insulting my mom? She would have won if Garrett hadn’t tricked her, you know. Ugh, those Moxleys disgust me. It’s going to feel so good when I beat Carter. I’ll show him.
[quieter]
Going to show my sorry excuse of a dad, too.
[several moments of silence, then, muttering]
… Fuck. I’m such an idiot. Why did I stall? Why didn’t I get up and run like Dean? Standing around like a moron while everyone passed me… you’re a goddamn idiot, Seyoon. Just like he said: You can’t do anything right. You always—AH!
The door to the shed opens. I scream before I can stop myself, belatedly slapping a hand over my mouth. The moon backlights the figure, concealing them in shadow.
“You know,” the person says. “You shouldn’t take the confession booth so literally.”
It’s Dean. His voice is groggy. Did I wake him up?
“Were you eavesdropping? This is a private conversation.”
“No, it isn’t. That’s what I mean. This isn’t a place to air out your frustrations. This is going to be edited straight into the episode. You should think about what you’re comfortable sharing with the cameras—with the world.”
I blink, glancing at the camera in the corner of the shed. “I was just trying to explain my side of things…” Although maybe I did overshare there at the end. Shit. I’ve never been good at holding back.
Dean steps away, and I exit the confession booth. No one else has stepped out of the cabin, so he’s the only one who caught that embarrassing slip. I give him a once-over, standing barefoot in just a hoodie and some pajama pants.
“How much did you hear?” I ask.
“Would it make you feel better if I lied?”
Huffing, I walk away toward the bonfire pit. Dean follows, taking a seat on the log next to me. “It might have,” I grumble.
He’s quiet. Then, “I never said you can’t do anything right.”
“What?”
“In the confession booth, I heard you say ‘Just like he said: You can’t do anything right.’”
“Oh.” The blood drains from my face. “No, I wasn’t talking about you. It was… someone else who told me that.”
Luckily, he doesn’t pry further. Not so luckily, it means quiet hangs over us instead, so smothering that it itches.
God, I hate awkward silences. And silence in general.
I usually try to fill it, but I’d rather make small talk with the crickets yammering around us than with Dean.
I scratch at my palms, focusing on the sting as a distraction.
“Stop that, you’re making it worse,” he chastises.
I make eye contact with him and scratch harder.
When I don’t quit it, he separates my wrists.
His fingers are thin and elegant like an artist’s, and his skin is hot where it touches mine.
I watch as he holds my wrists in one hand, his other reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out the roll of bandage from earlier.
“Oh, now you want to finish the job?” I say.
“Yeah, I do. That okay with you?”
There’s a sarcastic bite to his question, but he waits for permission. Slowly, I nod. Dean begins wrapping the bandage around my palms, clumsily weaving it between my fingers. Twice, he pauses before undoing his work and trying again.
“Are you nervous, or just bad at this?” I ask.
“Hey.”
Still. It’s an unexpected kindness. I look off into the forest, pursing my lips. He finishes up without a word, dropping my wrist once he’s done.
Umma didn’t raise an ungrateful daughter. “Thank you,” I say. “And thanks for interrupting me in the confession booth. I probably would’ve said something I regret.”
“Call us even. You did save me from falling off the zip line.”
“Are we really even if you’re the reason my hands are busted in the first place?”
“I apologized for that already.”
“But you didn’t say sorry for not backing me up. Or for insulting me and my mom.”
“You first. I think you goaded me within five minutes of meeting and then called me pathetic?”
We both glare at each other. Dean’s hazel eyes are pitch-black in the night, drilling into mine. A moment passes. Another. Then his back slouches, and my shoulders loosen. We both shift on the log. I’m tired, and I think he is, too. An unspoken truce settles in the space between us for now.
I inspect his handiwork, flexing my fingers. It’s not the neatest job in the world, but I hardly mind. My hands do feel better, I guess.
“I should’ve let you finish patching me up earlier. Would’ve made the challenge easier. It’s cool you know how to do this,” I say, the closest thing to an apology I’ll give him right now.
“My sister got really into rock climbing for a while, and I’d help patch up her callouses,” he explains. “Anyway, I’m surprised you played as well as you did with both your hands like that.” Dean stiffens, as if he didn’t mean to let that slip.
“Was that a compliment?” I ask excitedly.
“No.”
“Aw, thanks, I’ll take it.”
He groans and I laugh, momentarily forgetting it’s the middle of the night and I’m still ticked off at him. After a moment of deliberation, I say, “You did pretty good in the race, too. You caught up super quick and solved that riddle so fast.” I don’t mention how I tried but failed to do the same.
For a long, awkward moment, I don’t think he’s going to reply. Then, “I got lucky that there was a strategy component. The rest of it wasn’t in my favor.”
“Just take the compliment, dude.”
He huffs. “Thank you.” Begrudgingly, he adds, “If it wasn’t for Carter cutting our line, you probably would’ve won.”
“Ugh. Whatever. I’ll beat him next time.”
“If he doesn’t pull some nepotism strings again, that is.”
I scowl at the grass. “With that sleazeball Garrett on his side, he has an advantage over all of us. No way his uncle will play fair.” I dig my shoe into the ground. “It’s almost funny. Garrett screwed your dad and my mom over, and now he’s helping his nephew do the same to us.”
“We have different definitions of funny. But agreed. I don’t think any of us on our own stand a chance against Carter and Garrett.”
There’s a sharp, bitter edge to Dean’s usual monotone voice that has me turning his way. He glares at the cabin like he’s trying to pierce Carter through its walls.
On our own.
He’s right. Carter’s fast, strong, and he has game show knowledge on his side as Garrett’s nephew.
I have him beat in the first two categories, but the third?
I just gave my daddy issues away in a confession booth—that should show how little I know what I’m doing when it comes to TV etiquette.
Good thing Dean interrupted me. He probably has an edge over Carter when it comes to understanding how to play the game; he’s seen every season of Forest Feud, after all. Wish I could borrow some of that.
Huh.
I have an idea.
“What if we weren’t on our own?” I ask carefully.
“What?”
“Don’t let it get to your big head, but you are kind of smart. Plus, you understand how reality TV works better than I do.” Dean flusters at the compliment, tugging on the string of his hoodie. I grin. “And as we both know, I’m fast, and strong, and athletic, and—”
“And humble.”
“Exactly right, thank you. Garrett did say we should play to the whole ‘family legacy’ thing, follow in our parents’ footsteps, so…”
“Spit it out. You’re making me nervous.”
I shift around on the log so I’m facing him fully. “What if we worked together?”
Dean blinks at me. I blink back.
“You and me?”
“Yeah.”
“Teaming up?”
“That’s the idea.”
“So… like an alliance?”
I snap my fingers. “That’s the word.” I lean forward.
Dean stiffens at the closeness but doesn’t move away.
“We have complementary strengths. You’re a better strategist, and I’m a better athlete.
We could get each other to the finale, even if Garrett helps Carter out.
Plus, the alliance bonus points wouldn’t hurt. ”
Still, Dean’s eyebrows are knitted, and he doesn’t seem sold on the idea. I try again. “We can’t let a Moxley get away with beating us.”
That gets him. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It was my idea.”
“I know, I’m just… surprised that you’d want to team up with me.”
And suddenly, the fidgeting, the long, silent pauses, the one-word responses—they make a little more sense now as Dean’s voice trails off and I watch him hunch in on himself almost subconsciously, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
I think of soft, timid Joy Lata on the JV volleyball team last year, who was too shy to call the ball and would get yelled at by the other girls until I stepped in.
Then I think of when I was a newbie JV player that the varsity girls snickered at because I called the ball too often and too loudly.
Amelia was captain my freshman year and the only one who patted me on the back and told me I was doing great.
That was before we let rivalry get in the way of things.
I wonder if Dean ever had an Amelia.
I stick my bandaged hand out between us. “I’m sure.”
Dean considers the offer a second longer. Then he meets my eye and reaches for my hand, his lips turning up. Huh. He has dimples. I didn’t notice them until now. He should smile more.
“Let’s do this. Carter is going down.”
“Ow, my hand!”
“Oops, sorry.”