Chapter 8
COLTON
My eyes fling open, glimpsing the metal interior of an airplane.
I instantly sort through last night’s memories, recalling where I am.
Sabotage Island. I blink and shift to my side, the teal mattress of my bunk bed squeaking as I do.
Reacquainting myself with the strange scene around me, I scan the airplane’s interior and see the long row of colored bunk beds filled with restless and waking contestants.
Unlike any flyable airplane, the one we’re in is cut in half lengthwise from the cockpit to the aft.
It reminds me of a toy dollhouse—sliced right down the center so that everyone and every camera can see what is going on inside at all times, allowing for zero privacy and hardly any coverage from the elements.
Other than the bunk beds that are literally fused to the interior shell of the plane, the core is completely gutted, giving it an open-concept feel with beachfront access.
From the top bunk, I can see every crystal wave that laps onto shore along with the fiery oranges that are just starting to ignite the early-morning sky. Not too bad.
Still tired, I rub my eyes and flop onto my back, regretting my late-night decision to sleep with my contacts in. But even though my eyes feel like sandpaper, that’s low on the list of things I regret about last night, or really the past couple of months.
Not ready to greet reality, I slam my eyes shut and tug my thin sheet up to my chin, the same sheet I would have kicked off immediately last night had it not been for the incessant bugs sizing me up.
I forgot how humidity can make eighty-five-degree weather feel like a sauna.
Regardless of the sweat beading on my forehead, I try to fall back into an exhausted sleep, but my mind refuses.
Instead, it decides to rehash my recent life-altering decision.
On the backdrop of my eyelids, I rewatch a night from a couple months ago.
Dad sits in his high-back leather chair in his in-home office, his expression bordering on giddy as I sit across his desk from him.
He tells me that the constitutional law firm that he was a partner at for fifteen years before he became senator has decided to offer me a job as a junior associate.
I grip the armrest of my seat, fighting off the desire to retreat, to smile, to act like the job he offers is exactly what I want. But it’s not, and I can’t pretend I didn’t receive another job offer that brought me the same type of excitement I see on his face.
So instead, I tell him.
I tell him about Parson & Watts, the sports law firm in Denver that offered me a job as a junior associate starting at the end of the summer.
His lips pull tight. “Colton, future senators don’t start out in sports law. You’re veering from the path. I’m telling you now: you’ll regret it.”
To any other dad, a job as a sports lawyer would be a respectable career choice, but to mine, it was like admitting that I wanted to run away to become a circus clown.
But what did I expect? I’m going against the plan that’s been in motion ever since I was old enough to understand the words future senator.
But when I was at Yale, I couldn’t help the pull drawing me toward sports law. Suddenly, I started to doubt myself and my father’s carefully laid plans. Did I really want to practice constitutional law for the next twenty-plus years? Did I even want to become a senator?
There was something undeniably exciting about forging my own path. Something that would be wholly mine. Not Dad’s—mine.
But one glimpse of Dad’s disapproving stare brings me right back to my childhood.
Once again, I want to be the boy who will do anything—get the best grades, attend political forums, give speeches at rallies—whatever is within my power to not sully the Downing name, all because I want to make Dad proud.
I want to be someone who will live up to his and my grandfather’s legacy.
But lately, letting Dad down is all I am good at. First with breaking things off with Jane, then with telling him about the Sunsets and Sabotage nomination, and now, with this job offer. But how can I ignore the voice calling me down a different path?
“Dad, this job is a chance for me to start on my own two feet. To make my own name.”
“You already have a name. It’s Downing. And it’s been passed down for generations.
Do you think your grandfather didn’t have a hand in helping me succeed?
No. He helped me get to where I am, just like I will help you get to where you need to be.
Don’t stray from the plan just because something shiny like sports law looks more fun. ”
Dad’s icy eyes bore into me as he leans forward in his chair, making me squirm.
“Constitutional law is the backbone of our country, Colton. What looks better to a voter? Someone who’s spent their career fighting for the constitutional rights of the people and upholding the standards of our nation or someone who works with sports celebrities, making the rich richer?
Trust me, Son, follow the Downing path.”
“And what if I don’t choose the Downing path?” I say, irritated with his unwillingness to listen. “What if I go my own way?”
Dad frowns. And I look down, knowing I poked him in a tender spot. A spot that is the size of my absentee brother, Will.
“You really think you can make it on your own? Haven’t you learned, Colton?
William thought he could do that, too. Make it on his own.
But then he went and threw his life away.
I’m trying to spare you from learning that hard lesson.
I don’t think you understand what it takes to be successful.
All your life I’ve been holding your hand, opening doors for you.
You wouldn’t know how to succeed without me. ”
Deciding I’ve had enough mental replay, I shove my thin sheet off of me and sit up.
I’m not going to waste my opportunity to win this game—or the deal I made with Dad following our disagreement.
Avoiding five years under Dad’s thumb is worth giving my every effort—even if my muscles feel like they just got shredded by a cheese grater after last night’s row.
Eager to win America’s votes, I pull my little lapel mic and camera off of the bunk bed’s metal guardrail (yes, guardrail, because if I fell off this bad boy, I’m pretty sure my muscles would be the least of my concerns), then I put the camera and mic right in front of my face just to give America a little greeting before starting the day.
In the small lens, I can just make out the tiniest outline of my head, and I instantly regret my decision to leave my hair gel behind.
Much to my dismay, the unruly cowlick in the back of my head is finally getting its television debut.
“Good morning, America,” I say to the camera with my raspy, unused voice. “I trust you slept well. I sure did.” I give my camera a cheesy grin that I hope conveys optimistic sarcasm, then I tug at my black T-shirt and position the mic and camera just as Benji instructed.
I hear some rather loud snoring from one of the nearby bunks as well as some soft whispers at the back of the plane. I glance around to see if either of the small bathrooms at the front or back of the plane is vacant so I can take out my contacts, and thankfully, I see one open.
Groggily, I scale the thin metal ladder that connects my bed and Missy’s and jump off the last rung, my feet landing on the base of the airplane that’s dusted with a layer of sand.
Barefoot, I make my way to the tiny bathroom at the rear of the plane.
Unlike the rest of the plane, the show must have kept the original bathrooms since they are about the size of a narrow refrigerator.
I shuffle in, quickly turning off my mic and camera as is required every time we enter the bathroom, and immediately remove the contacts from my burning eyes.
The relief is palpable, and so is my disgust as I go to wash my hands, noting the single bar of soap at the side of the tiny sink.
Don’t people understand that communal soap bars can be germ-traps?
I debate using my hand sanitizer, but I’m already worried I’ll run out.
Instead, I douse the bacteria bar in warm water before using it to wash my hands, and I try not to think too hard about the unsanitary nature of it all.
When I exit the bathroom, I walk the minuscule distance to the small flight attendant galley at the back of the plane where each contestant can access clean water and sunscreen, as mandated by the Sunsets and Sabotage legal team.
I fill up an aluminum water bottle that has my name etched in it in teal letters and take a sip of lukewarm water that leaves a swampy aftertaste.
Yum. Not willing to risk dehydration, I keep sipping as I head out of the galley and to the side of the plane where I stop to take in the picturesque beach that will be my home for the remainder of the show.
It’s beautiful with its white sands and clear blue water, but one thing about my view makes it abundantly clear that this is no ordinary island and this is no vacation.
On the opposite side of the beach from our sleeping quarters, a massive airplane wing juts out of the sand.
It’s likely the same wing that was once part of the plane we slept in last night, but has since been ripped off, adding to the crash-landed aesthetic.
At its center is a large rectangular screen, featuring the time of day in large red letters, as well as our team names.
Next to those names, we’ll see our team rankings based on America’s votes.
But the show loves to keep those results a secret until right before Black Box Meetings, that way we can spend our downtime running in circles, wondering how we rank in America’s votes and if we’ll be the next to go home.