Page 44 of Hate You, Maybe
While my rock wall partner reveals how much she hates flying (totally normal), I scramble for something I can talk about in front of these strangers that isnotwhat I’m most afraid of.
Anything else.
When Gretchen’s done, Fern keeps us moving around the circle and the closer she gets to me, the harder I sweat. One girl says she’s been paranoid about fainting ever since she passed out during her sister’s wedding and took out the altar on her way down. This earns her some sympathetic nods and chuckles. The guy after her cops to being scared of clowns.
Fair enough, my man. Wish I’d thought of that. But now if I say clowns, I’ll just sound like I’m copying him.
When it’s Sayla’s turn, she folds her hands in her lap, squares her shoulders, and says, “This may sound crazy, but I’m scared of birthday parties.” She pauses to let out a little half laugh, like she’s trying to make this less of a big deal. But something tells me it is.
“When I was a kid, my mom and I moved around a lot, so I didn’t get invited to very many parties. Unless the whole class did. And I honestly don’t know what’s worse. Not being welcome in the first place or going and not having a friend there.” At this, her voice wobbles a little.
“But even worse was when my own birthday rolled around. I was terrified that if my mom made me have a party, no one would show up. I imagined sitting in my current living room, and the doorbell never ringing.” She lets out a shaky breath.
“My birthday’s in June. The 22nd. And schools were usually already on summer break by then. And when my mom finally gave up trying to force the party issue, I was so relieved. To this day, I ignore my birthday.” She shrugs, like she’s trying to brush off the memory. “But maybe I should be more like Fern and become a party planner or something.” She pushes out a chuckle, her eyes darting around the circle.
“That was very brave,” Fern says. And everyone at the campfire breaks into soft applause.
Including me.
The truth is, for the past three years, I told myself I wasn’t interested in beating Sayla. That she was the one who was always aiming to compete. But now I’m starting to think a part of me was trying to prove something to her all along. And I’ve got no idea what the rest of the night might bring, but I can say this now and mean it. Sayla won this day.
By a landslide.
Chapter Twelve
Sayla
“Bee stings?” I collapse onto my bed and flash Dexter a smirk.
“Bee stings,” he repeats with a shrug.
We’re back at the cabin after a barbecued chicken dinner (yum), followed by a return to the campfire for s’mores (also yum). And this is the first moment we’ve been fully alone since we dropped our bags off earlier. We’re supposed to use this free time before bed to brainstorm ways to impress the SACSS team with our collaborative spirit. So here I am. Ready to discuss the SACSS.
But first, we have to deal with the bee thing.
“That’syour biggest fear?” I let out a scoff while still holding onto my snarky smile. I was already pretty confident I’d impressed Bob and Hildy today. If I had to guess, I’d say I cooperated better than Dex in most areas. Except maybe the rock climbing. That was hard for me. Either way, when they asked us to get real around the campfire, I laid my whole heart on the line. Meanwhile, Dexter totally failed.
Almost like he didn’t even try.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “Bee stings hurt, but they aren’t exactly harrowing. Unless you’re allergic. Which I already know you arenotbecause you told me during the icebreaker you have no allergies, no appendix, and no tonsils.”
His eyes widen a touch. He’s probably surprised I remember so many details about him. But that’s only because I’ve been taking notes after each activity to study for the test no one else seems to think we’ll have.
Speaking of which, I slip a clipboard and pen from my bag to prove I’m fully prepared to collaborate.
Meanwhile, Dex drops onto his bed, chuckling. “Judging me and my bee-sting fear doesn’t feel like a sign of cooperation, Kroft.” He scoots back on the mattress and toes out of his shoes, his muscly thighs straining against the fabric of his fitted joggers.
Do not look at his thigh muscles, Sayla.
Or his arm muscles. Or anywhere on his body.
“It’s just that some people really got raw about their biggest fears.” I nod out across the clearing in the direction of the fire pit where the last embers are probably still glowing. “And I don’t think you brought your A game.” I arch an eyebrow in a challenge. “Were youhopingto lose?”
“Not everything has to be a competition.” He turns to prop the pillows up at the head of his bed. “But good for you, exposing yourself like you did. Was it true, what you said about your birthday? You never celebrate? No parties? Nothing?”
I try to hold on to my smirk, but my lips feel trembly. “We’re getting a little old for Chuck E. Cheese.”
“Old? Come on.” He guffaws. “You’re not even thirty.”
