Chapter 5 You Don’t Have to Do Everything on Your Own
To my surprise, I’m not the most awkward person at the breakfast table the next morning. Sure, that might be because I’ve only added a grand total of ten words to the conversation, but at least I’m not doing…whatever Liam is doing.
Veronica, who is sitting to his left, turns to him. “Can I have the water pitcher?” she asks, her voice the most unsure I’ve ever heard it. Granted, I’ve known her for less than a day, but it seems out of character all the same.
Instead of passing it to her with a smile like I’m sure he would do for anyone else, Liam quickly grabs the water pitcher and pushes it into her hands, spilling a few drops on the table in the process. They don’t murmur a quick “There you go” or even look at her.
Veronica frowns. “Thanks…I guess,” she still says, but Liam has already moved on to ask Sloane how her summer has been so far. Sloane’s eyes slide between Liam and Veronica in confusion before she answers the question, but Liam acts like everything about this is completely normal.
This tension has been hanging over our table ever since Veronica decided to sit down next to Liam half an hour ago.
I don’t think she recognizes him from school, but her presence alone has sent Liam into panic mode.
He refuses to acknowledge her existence in any way, no matter what she does or says, and she’s clearly picked up on that.
I wonder how long Liam thinks they can continue doing this. I hope not too long, since this morning already has me nearly overdosing on secondhand embarrassment.
Unfortunately, once we’re done with breakfast and it’s time to walk to the beach, it becomes hard for me not to focus on my own awkwardness.
While the group has been jumping from one topic to another effortlessly, I’ve been quietly lingering beside them, listening to them crack jokes and say whatever comes to their minds.
Some of it doesn’t make any sense, like when Maya confidently says they’d be pistachio if they were an ice cream flavor, yet I’m still overthinking anything I want to add to the conversation in case it makes things weird.
At this point, I’m even second-guessing what to do with my pinkie fingers, which is how I know I’ve really hit rock bottom.
It is interesting to observe the group, however. I notice that Noah is much louder and dorkier, perhaps, than he is at home. Does he hide parts of himself, too? I wonder, but I can’t imagine it being true. Why would someone as amazing and likable as Noah feel the pressure to put on a mask?
Surely I’m just making things up.
I also notice that where Yasmeen is as calm and steady as the ebb and flow of the sea, Maya is an unpredictable storm, chaotic and unable to sit still.
I’ve never believed that opposites can find a balance together—after all, there’s always one side that overshadows the other, right?
—but somehow the two of them make it work.
After fifteen minutes of walking, we finally arrive at the beach, and I’m no longer able to keep up with their pace. My footsteps automatically slow down because of the sand that quickly finds its way between my toes, and, well, it turns out the feeling is just as unbearable on the second day.
I’m the last one to arrive at the beach volleyball courts.
Twelve pairs of eyes watch me as I struggle toward them.
Right before breakfast, Adrian divided all the campers into smaller groups and assigned each group a main camp counselor as well as a slightly different schedule from the rest of the groups.
As he himself so lovingly said, “It’s the only way to make sure we don’t have eighty loud teenagers in the same place at once. At least not all the time.”
I ended up in a group led by Gigi, together with Sierra, Noah, Liam, Maya, Yasmeen, Sloane, Veronica, and four others who already seem to have befriended one another—Renée, Lynn, Samuel, and Louis.
Daniel is in some other group, which is going to make it a bit more challenging to spend time with him, but relief fills my chest when I realize I don’t have to face him just yet.
At least this way, I can perfect the new version of myself before showing him I’ve changed.
“All right!” Gigi exclaims, dropping a bag of beach volleyballs in the sand. Her grin grows wider and wider with each passing second spent looking at us, almost as if we’re magic in the making.
Then she says, “It’s time to run some laps around the court.”
I scan the reactions of the people standing around me. None of them groan in protest. Not Noah, not Maya, and certainly not Sierra. Yasmeen, however, looks just as thrilled as I feel—which is to say regret is written all over her face.
Same, girl, I want to tell her. Same.
Gigi claps her hands twice. “Come on! Let’s do this!”
I put down the cold water bottle I was holding and pray there won’t be too much sand sticking to it when I need it before following the rest of the group’s lead.
It doesn’t take long for Noah to slow down his pace a little to jog by my side. “Hey,” he greets me. “How are you feeling?”
I keep my gaze on the uneven sand ahead of me, trying to make sure I don’t lose my balance and fall face-first into it.
“Right now? Feeling out of breath, mostly,” I tell my brother.
We haven’t been able to talk a lot yet, but every small chance he sees to check in on me or make me feel included, he takes.
It kind of makes me want to cry. Or rather, it makes me wish I could cry, just so I could show him how much it means to me, but in reality I haven’t been able to shed a tear in years. Not since I got started with the rules.
“I just—oh Jesus I can’t breathe—want to say I appreciate you looking out for me here,” I say instead.
From the corner of my eye, I see Noah look over at me. “Of course,” he breathes out softly, genuinely, but I have to stay focused, so I don’t meet his gaze.
We jog around the court together one time, then another and another and another.
At first, all I can think about is the goddamned sand beneath me, but as we go on and on, it gets hard to even feel it—or anything else, for that matter.
All I know is that my heart is beating faster than ever and my lungs are aching, the pain getting even more intense each time I attempt to take a tug of air.
We keep going when my head starts spinning from running in circles, and we keep going even when I’m convinced I can’t take another second of this. We keep going after that, too, all the way up until Gigi puts an end to my misery, announcing that we’ll stop after one more lap.
“Nice,” she tells us when we’re done. “Take a quick sip of water, and then we’ll start doing the real work! Woo!”
I almost huff at Gigi’s words. Surely whatever comes after this water break can’t be worse than running that many laps, I think. But a few minutes later, I find myself wishing we could go back to the good old times of running in circles.
Because “the real work” means playing beach volleyball, of course.
During the warm-up, I might’ve been out of breath, but at least I knew how to not completely mess up.
The same can’t be said about this. I knew I wasn’t going to be good, but I didn’t expect it to be this hard to have some control over a ball.
Sierra passes me the ball, her movements so effortless and smooth that it looks like she was born to play this sport.
Like she’s been doing this since the moment she took her very first breath.
I, however, try to push the ball back in her direction so she can smash it and end up almost breaking my fingers instead.
It feels that way at least.
Sierra still throws herself into the sand in hopes of saving the ball, but she’s too late. It hits the ground right in front of her.
“Let’s try that again!” Gigi encourages us, and so we do. Sierra serves the ball to Veronica and Sloane, who are on the opposite side of the net. The two of them run across the court and succeed at bringing the ball back to us.
No matter how short she is and how innocent she seems, Sloane sure does know how to smash. The ball spins into my half of the court, and I run after it, having to dive into the sand to get there in time. Somehow I manage to steer the ball in the right direction, toward Sierra.
A win! I think, too proud of this achievement to realize I have to get up fast, as Sierra is about to set up the ball so I can hit it back over the net.
When I eventually remember what I have to do, it’s too late.
Sierra passes the ball perfectly, making it go higher than usual to give me time to get up, but still, I’m not on my feet in time.
The ball hits the ground. Again.
Shit.
I wait for Sierra to glare at me, for her neutrality to turn into frustration because I’m ruining this thing she loves, but she doesn’t.
All throughout practice, even when I make the same simple mistakes over and over again and can’t help but curse myself, she stays focused on the ball instead of me.
That doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty, though.
Why did they ever think pairing the two of us up was a good idea?
I’m tempted to ask Gigi on multiple occasions, but since she’s busy giving me advice on how to get better at beach volleyball, I doubt she has time to deal with my insecurities, too.
She takes me aside to teach me some of the basic techniques, like how to have the most control over the ball when passing overhead or underhand.
Or how, when waiting for the ball to get to my side of the court, my feet should be shoulder width apart, and I need to bend my knees a bit, too, leaning forward so I’m ready to run after the ball if necessary.
Gigi even teaches me that what I’ve been referring to as smashes are actually called hits or spikes.
Honestly, the terminology there is a bit disappointing to me. Especially given how this summer camp’s name is literally SMASH! Who approved that?