Chapter 11 #2
On the walk back to base camp, I try to tell myself that we’re safe. That our spot in this game is secure. But even though Colton and I survived the day, there is every possibility that America could rank us last again. If we don’t change something soon, we’re as good as sunk.
Later that night, I find myself nestled between a sea of sand and a sky full of stars. Nearby, a fire blazes brightly in its respective pit, casting a gentle light over me as I sit farther down the beach where the ocean kisses my toes.
While I’d normally join the other teams as they gather and talk around the firepit, I choose this moment to recenter myself, to breathe.
From the coconut hunt, to the bungee cuffs, to the foot-throbbing Black Box Elimination, it’s like I’ve lived an entire week in a single day.
But here, at the water’s edge, with the salty sea breeze combing through my hair, time slows.
I wrap my arms around my knees and tilt my chin up until my world feels consumed by the diamonds sparkling in the sky.
Back home, in Pine Lakes, I live right up against the Rocky Mountains, which affords me a pretty spectacular view of the stars every now and again, but these stars on Sabotage Island are so bright and sparkling, they easily put my Lucky Louis to shame.
“Can I join you?”
My eyes flick behind me to see Colton standing several feet away. Despite taking an insanely long wash in the ocean this afternoon, that had no doubt fallen short of his cleanliness standards, a stripe of dried mud still runs from his neck to just behind his ear.
I nod, and Colton takes a seat next to me.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t have anything to say to him.
Nothing snarky or immature comes to mind—I just feel blank inside.
Because really, what else is there to say after I laid out my disdain for Colton so clearly in the jungle?
We were two volcanoes, and now that we’ve both erupted, there’s nothing left inside of us to spew out.
For several long moments, nothing but the crinkles of my windbreaker mar the soft sounds of the ocean. I end up tilting my head to the night sky, once more taking in its beauty. Colton does the same.
“Scorpius,” Colton says softly, without any additional explanation.
I look around and spot the J-shaped constellation. Scorpius indeed. Nearby, I recognize another grouping of stars forming a teapot shape. “Sagittarius.”
“Lyra,” he adds.
“Aquila,” I say, finding the ten-star structure resembling a flying bird.
“Corona Borealis.”
I start to feel a challenge with every constellation he mentions. Is this a repeat of junior year Astronomy? Well, I got a 102 percent on the final when Colton got a ninety-nine. He’s barking up the wrong tree. “Serpens.”
“Ophiuchus.”
“Cygnus.”
“Hydrus.”
I call him out. “We can’t even see that in the sky right now.”
“Who said it had to be in our line of sight?” he counters.
“Okay, challenge accepted.”
We go on for several minutes, playing constellation ping-pong until my brain feels withered like one big constellation raisin.
Trust Colton to turn everything into a competition.
I finally relent for his ego’s sake, and totally not because I ran out of constellations and started making up names two turns ago.
I tune back into the churning waves, getting lost in my thoughts until Colton speaks, surprising me with his words. “You did well … in the Black Box Elimination.”
I look over at him, slack-jawed. Was that a compliment from Colton Downing? I wait for a follow-up jab.
Colton runs a hand through his hair, and fortunately for him, there are no mirrors around, or else he’d be horrified by the torrent of little hairs sticking up in every direction. “That singing thing was … it was crazy, but smart.”
Colton keeps his eyes trained on the stars. My hands fidget in front of my knees as I think about what it would be like if he made genuine eye contact while saying that. It would just feel … well, different.
Not knowing how to handle his sincere words, I break the genuineness with something lighter. “You never knew I could sing so well, huh?”
Colton smirks, and I watch the tension in his shoulders seep out of him as he relaxes back on his elbows, making a new imprint in the sand. “For a moment there, I was unsure if I was listening to a yowling cat or someone singing.”
I chuckle, feeling my own shoulders relax. “Hey, if I’m a yowling cat, then together our voices make up a pretty formidable cat choir.”
Colton’s smile grows. “I was never one for singing in front of audiences … or just ever.”
Once again, silence falls between us until Colton starts laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Our singing—it just reminded me of this time with my brother, Will. But it’s nothing…”
I try to relax back into stargazing mode, but when Colton laughs again, I perk up. “Okay, well, now I’ve gotta know.”
He smiles and seems to look off into a distant memory. “Once my mom made me and my brother sing the national anthem at a Colorado Rockies game. I was so excited to be on the field with the baseball players, especially Jim McDabree.”
I tilt my head. “Jim McDabree?”
“He was a pitcher with this huge mop of red hair. Anyway, I just remember watching him in awe as we sang from the pitcher’s mound, and the next thing I knew I was singing ‘and the rocket’s red hair.
’ After that, Will and I were goners. We couldn’t keep it together.
We laughed straight through the rest of the song. ”
I chuckle, thinking of Colton, normally so poised and proper in public, breaking down while singing in front of his cherished baseball team.
Until today, I didn’t even know Colton was capable of breaking down in public.
Somehow this story makes Colton seem a little less perfect, and a little more relatable.
“And what did your mom say after she saw that?” I envision the tenderhearted, but likely horrified, Mrs. Downing.
“Oh, she was definitely humiliated at first, but once we’d all gotten in the car after the game, she’d had a good laugh.” Colton’s eyes seem to twinkle with the memory.
“And your dad? What did he say?”
Like the flip of a switch, Colton’s features change from lighthearted to heavy. A muscle works in his jaw. Colton glances down at the camera and mic on the lapel of his shirt, reminding me that we are live and pretty much everything we say and do is recorded for public consumption.
I instantly regret asking Colton my prying questions.
I know Senator Downing has high expectations, especially when it comes to public image, so I can only imagine how his dad must have responded to his sons’ rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but I don’t need to air the Downings’ dirty laundry for all of America.
“Let’s just say, I learned to respect the National Anthem a little better after that.” He smiles as if somehow it was a happy memory, but I know it’s just for the cameras.
Thinking of the show and those watching right now makes my stomach churn.
We were so close to going home tonight. If Colton and I don’t turn things around fast, we won’t be in this game much longer.
But how in the world are Colton and I going to get America on our side so we’re not voted into last place?
Just then, I notice Colton’s hand move subtly to the space between us, tracing letters in the sand.
I keep my body, as well as my lapel mic and camera, facing straight ahead so that nothing Colton writes can be seen by those watching. He does the same. To any viewer back home, we look like we’ve gone back to stargazing in silence.
I glance down at Colton’s sandy words and read “Talk. Private.”
My eyes flash to his before I erase his message with my hand and write a new one. “How?”
“Put camera on bed.” He erases the message, then writes more. “Leave while ‘sleeping.’”
I think through his plan. Every night I take my lapel mic and camera off and place them on the side of my bed.
Tonight, I can just face my camera toward the wall, and no one will be the wiser.
The show’s camera-and-drone crew will have gone to bed for the night.
But of course there are the other contestants’ personal mics and cameras to consider.
Who knows when another contestant’s camera could get a glimpse of us, but maybe if I pretend I’m going to one of the bathrooms, then no one will suspect anything is off, and Colton and I can have some time to talk off-air.
Accepting this plan, I write “Where?”
When the other contestants are asleep, Colton and I make our individual escapes to the “bathroom,” meeting just behind the tail end of the plane.
For good measure, we travel a few yards into the jungle.
I try not to pay attention to the fact that I’m barefoot and that the jungle is riddled with fist-sized spiders and life-squeezing snakes.
I step closer to Colton, somehow feeling better as I do.
When we get to a spot in the trees where we can speak without drawing attention to ourselves while also seeing the flood lights beaming off the exterior of the plane, Colton and I turn to face one another.
Simultaneously, we both let out a long breath.
It turns out that not being recorded twenty-four seven is a literal relief to us both.
Colton jumps right to the point, likely trying to reduce anyone’s growing suspicion of how long we’ve been in the “bathrooms” if somehow we were spotted.
“I thought it would be good if we talked strategy without an audience.” Colton crosses his arms in front of his chest, emphasizing his muscles. His very defined muscles. He does not skip arm day, that’s for sure. “Missy,” he says, breaking through my Poseidon thoughts.
“Yes?” I refocus, training my gaze on trusty Hairy.
“I think it’s time we consider stepping up our game.”
I swat at a pesky mosquito hovering in front of my face. “And how do you propose we do that?”