Chapter 4
COLTON
After a rather uncomfortable photo session with Mrs. Delgado—where Mrs. Delgado spent most of the time instructing me and Missy to get closer and closer until we were practically wrapped around each other’s torsos—we finally break apart.
Soon after, our friends and family send us off with a raucous round of cheers.
Despite the fact that I’m used to being in the spotlight, I fidget under this display of heartfelt love.
Not just because our little community of Pine Lakes is drawing a lot of attention to us, but it’s made infinitely worse by the fact that Missy and I are hardcore twinning in our matching Sunsets and Sabotage getup.
I’m reminded of the countless family photos my mom made me and my brother take while we were dressed to the nines in matching slacks and ties. The feeling still haunts me, triggering my skin to crawl with how matchy-matchy Missy and I are.
I briefly glance around at the attendants at the ticket counter, the people descending the escalators, the line at security. Everyone’s watching us as if Missy and I are moments away from busting out some tap shoes and giving them a song and dance performance that they won’t soon forget.
Jordan and Miles give extra loud catcalls, being purposefully obnoxious. I take that as a sign and turn toward Missy. “It’s go time.”
“Yep,” she says without protest.
We’re halfway through the security line when Missy turns to me. “Are you okay? You’re normally pale, but right now you look like a corpse.”
I smirk. My skin is definitely on the golden-brown side, but I let her get her jab in as I hyperfixate on the many people snapping “covert” pictures of us.
Missy gasps. “Is Colton Downing afraid of a little paparazzi? Not the senator’s own son!”
I huff out a laugh and shove my hands in my pockets. “Not a chance.” Paparazzi is as much a part of my life as the hairs on my head.
“Then what is it?”
“We’re matching,” I say under my breath.
“Very observant. You’re going to go far in this game.”
I stretch out my arms to emphasize our matching outfits. “We look like Bananas in Pyjamas.”
“Banana what?”
“Pyjamas … You know, that old Australian kids’ show that used to play.” She gives me a blank look. “Hello, B1. Hello, B2?” I say in a very off Australian accent, trying to mimic the costumed characters, only to instantly regret it.
A smile creeps up Missy’s face. “I’m sorry. It’s not ringing any bells.” Missy hands her driver’s license and plane ticket to the TSA officer, and I do the same before we both toss our backpacks onto the security conveyor belt and remove our shoes.
Not long after, we’re both motioned through the metal detectors, where two previously grumpy security personnel look at the Sunsets and Sabotage logo on our jackets and smile while attempting to discreetly point us out to their colleagues.
Missy shoves her already tied shoes onto her socked feet. “So, we relate to these bananas how?” she says, picking up our previous conversation.
“We’re twinning,” I say, while spending the time to properly untie and tie my shoes.
Missy gives a single laugh that attracts even more attention.
I look up. “What?”
“There are about a thousand current examples of things that twin in this world, and you choose obscure bananas in sleepwear?”
“Okay, you do one better.”
She retrieves her bag, hikes it onto her back, and starts walking before I even get mine on. “Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, Dylan and Cole Sprouse, Parent Trap Lindsay Lohan and surprisingly … also Lindsay Lohan.”
“Okay, I get it.”
She ignores me and keeps going, clearly so amused by her game that she continues to pepper me with unending twin facts during our long flight to the US Virgin Islands. So much so that about an hour in, I pretend to fall asleep while wishing I’d never seen Bananas in Pyjamas.
“Hello, B1.” An image of a banana in striped pajamas wearing a blonde wig shoves its way into my mind, but its accent isn’t Australian … it’s … Southern?
My groggy eyes open just enough to see Missy’s arm reach across me and open a small airplane window that blinds me with an unearthly beam of sunlight.
“Ack.” I jolt upright, fumbling for the window cover and shutting out the rays. Feeling completely disoriented, I watch the passengers around us fish out their luggage from the overhead bins. Ugh, I must have actually fallen asleep.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Missy says as she shoves a crumpled disinfectant wipe in my face—the same one I’d gotten from the flight attendant and used to wipe down our seats and tray tables before taking off.
I yank my face away from the hankie of horrors. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a wipe.” She motions to the corner of her mouth. “It’s for the crusted drool on your face.”
I ignore the wipe and swipe at my face, only to find that there is, in fact, something crusty. I shift away from her and brush it off.
“Also, you snore … badly.”
Now she’s just milking this moment for all it’s worth. “I don’t snore.”
“No, man, you snore,” says a passenger behind us with blond dreads, a surfer tan, and a smile that’s giving off strong hakuna matata vibes.
I smile back at him in a thanks, but no thanks for your candid comment kinda way, and start to question if I need to schedule a visit with the ENT when I get home, but more of Missy’s commentary interrupts my thoughts.
“For a moment there, I thought you were faking sleep just so you didn’t have to hear me talk, but then you started snoring, and …” Missy pauses, her eyes widening.
“What? Did I talk in my sleep, too? Royally offended Miss Queen of the Universe?” I say as I finish taking out my hand sanitizer from my backpack, making the most of my small rations.
“You didn’t.”
“I didn’t what?”
“You had three items you could bring … and hand sanitizer is one of them.” She clamps a hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with condescending humor.
“Colton, that thing’s, like, three ounces.
That won’t last you three days, let alone weeks.
What are you going to do when you run out?
Unless …” Missy leans over to snatch my backpack from the base of my seat, but I pull it away from her and onto my lap, quickly zipping in my sanitizer.
“You brought two others, didn’t you? Oh, Colton. ”
Missy laughs as if she’s right.
“Actually, no.”
“Then what are they? What are your other two approved items?” She half-heartedly pretends to reach for my bag once again, but I swiftly stand to a half-hunched position and strap it onto my back, pivoting the bag away from her as I prepare to exit our row.
“Nothing you need to know about, but they aren’t sanitizer … or wet wipes,” I say, cutting off the retort I knew was coming.
“Mm-hmm.” She shoots me a haughty look, like she’s got me pinned, but I shrug and look away. I’d rather hear Missy’s unending comments on what she thinks is in my bag than let her know what I actually brought. Because that … that’s something I will never tell Missy.
A half hour later, a shuttle picks Missy and me up at Airport Arrivals. Roughly forty-five minutes after that, we’re dropped off at one of the many buildings that can only be described as giant airplane hangars.
The instant I step out of the shuttle and onto the parking lot pavement, the late-morning sun presses down on me like an iron on a wrinkly shirt; all the while, the humidity does its best to boil me alive. Missy and I both remove our jackets and shove them into our backpacks.
Seconds later, we’re greeted by a young woman who steps out of a nearby hangar wearing a Sunsets and Sabotage visor, sunglasses, and a bright-coral polo shirt. “Hello, you two. You must be Colton and Missy.”
Missy and I nod, and I extend my hand to shake hers before Missy does the same.
“I’m Penelope, but you can call me Penny. Welcome to the Sunsets and Sabotage backstage. I’m Shannon Pierce’s assistant, and I’ll be getting you settled until Shannon’s out of her meeting.” Penny offers us a sunny smile and ushers us toward a door at the side of a nearby hangar.
As we near the side entrance, I get an up-close-and-personal look at the giant logo painted on the door’s exterior.
It’s the same logo plastered on my windbreaker, backpack, and even the insoles of my shoes.
The name Sunsets and Sabotage is bold in the center of the circular logo.
Half of the circle is a target, and the other half is a setting sun, representing both the sabotage and sunset aspects of the game.
Then there is the airplane that crashes through the title, breaking off bits of the lettering.
Subconsciously, I pause and eye the logo as one would an art piece. It’s really quite clever. Not only is it well designed in its complex simplicity, but it manages to depict the backstory of the show in one clear image.
On the show, we, the contestants, are portrayed as a group of survivors that have crash-landed on Sabotage Island.
If we want to live long enough on the island to see another sunset, we must navigate the daily challenges and constant sabotage in order to beat out the other teams and be crowned the winners of Sunsets and Sabotage Season Twenty-Three.
“I know you two have been debriefed on what to expect leading up to the show, but now, we can finally dip your toes into the reality of the game before you start your first challenge on the island tomorrow,” Penny says, stepping beside me.
“Are we the only contestants here so far?” Missy asks, pausing in front of the door.
“As of right now, only you two and Legend and Silver have arrived at the hangar.”
I glance over at Missy, and we share a rare but mutual look. Legend and Silver? What, are we in The Hunger Games now? Those names sound like they came straight from District 2.