Confused.
That's how I feel now storming across the camp.
My flip flops make an annoying clacking noise as I walk across the grass, obliterating any attempt to conceal my whereabouts. This doesn't bother me though because one, the last thing I want to wear is sneakers, and two, I have something more important to think about.
Where could she be? My mind ponders this question as I walk across the camp, chewing the piece of gum in my mouth. I decide to go back to the dorms and find one girl, whose name I believe is Alina, standing in the hallway on her phone, her eyes fixated on the small screen as her fingers furiously type. I walk up to her, and she looks up.
"This may sound weird, but I'm looking for someone," I begin, placing a hand on the wall beside me.
"Who?" she questions, shutting her phone off and turning to face me.
"I don't know her name, but she's kind of tall with fiery red hair, might smell kind of like beerâ"
"You mean Miranda," she finishes. I nod quickly, glad she may be able to help me. "She's my roommate. And a real pain in the butt to live with. If you need to talk to her, be my guest; our room is right in front of us."
"Thank you," I say, and Alina smiles and walks away, looking back at her phone again.
I push open the door warily, not knowing what to expect. From the small opening I can see one half of the room is pristine, a freshly made bed and spotless ground, and the other is an utter mess. It's not a real feat to guess whose side is the latter.
Miranda doesn't even notice me when I walk in; I suppose the loud music blaring through her headphones and the bottle of Coke she is drinking is enough to keep her busy. My stomach rumbles when I see the large chicken salad sandwich in her hands.
"Hey!" I say. She doesn't look up, despite my loud attempt. I walk over to her bed and tap on her headphones, causing her head to snap up in my direction.
"What was that?" she yells, sitting upwards and causing her sandwich to drop out of her hands onto her bedsheets. The poor sandwich...
"I need to talk to you, and apparently your headphones make you deaf to the world," I respond, crossing my arms and letting out an angry grunt.
"That's kind of the point. And why do you even need to talk to me?" she questions and finishes off the last of her Coke.
"These." I hold up a collection of notes in my fingers, bringing them a few inches away from her face. The newest addition to my series is freshly folded, reading, "You better be sorry," in that terrible chicken scratch.
"What do I have to do with a bunch of folded lined paper?" Miranda asks, standing up and brushing the crumbs off of her green shirt.
"You're telling me you know nothing of the stalkerish notes that have popped up all over my half of the room the past several days?"
She just laughs, the noise lingering in the air for a few moments. "You think that while I'm spending another summer in this camp I'm going to waste my time sending petty stalker notes to you of all people?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" I mutter.
"Nothing," she answers. "But I seriously have nothing to do with that. It's your problem."
"I guess you're right, but hear me out. I found this one inside my pillowcase. Why would someone do that?!"
"Because they're as dumb as you to believe the notes are threatening," she answers, flopping back onto her unmade bed.
"Well I'm sorry I don't believe this is a laughing matter." I am indignant as I stand in front of her. I only came because of her warning from before, "Every day the same stupid workouts, same disgusting food, and some of the biggest bitches you'll ever find. Maybe it will be different for you, but if it isn't, don't be surprised. I'm just warning you."
"Look, whoever wrote these obviously learned to do that from one of the lame shows on TV. So you can eliminate anyone smart enough from your list of prospective antagonists."
"Honestly I am starting to doubt anyone is even smart in this camp," I mutter, staring down at the notes.
"That's the spirit," Miranda says with a smirk. "Let me see a note at least."
I unfold one and warily give it to her. She looks it over for a few seconds and then nods. "The writing is ridiculous. Who wrote this, a five-year-old?"
"Exactly," I mumble, snatching it back before she has any further ideas. "I'm just going to go because this is pointless." I head to the door, dodging a dirty pair of socks and a few crumpled tissues.
"If that's what you want, Whitney," she says, picking up her headphones. I stop walking.
"Wait, how exactly do you know my name?" I inquire, leaning my back against the door.
"Maybe I do know a little more than you think," she answers before blaring her music again and taking a plentiful bite of her sandwich.
I am still infuriated as I walk outside because I'm not even a step closer to finding out who wrote these notes. Part of my mind says to stop worrying and forget about it, but the other is screaming at me to dig deeper. I stop in my tracks as I stare down at one of the small notes again, the signature seeming to pop out of the paper at me. X.
The one person I can think of here with an X in their name is Axel. But that doesn't make any sense. Why would a guy, seemingly in his twenties, be sending someone notes using words so similar to what teenage girls use when mad at one another?
It can't be him. I try to tell my paranoid brain to shut up and forget about this whole ordeal. Only that is difficult because I'll think over a matter until I can reach somewhat of a logical conclusion.
I walk in the direction of my dorm room to relax before an afternoon workout. I thought that all the workouts would eventually grow tedious and monotonous, but every time it feels like a new experience: an opportunity to grow stronger and break through physical hindrances. Only today with the worry over those notes and my aching feet, I don't feel the drive to even run.
And that problem is only exacerbated when I walk straight into a certain someone.
"What theâ" Willow begins, as she tries to pull herself up from the hard grass, her eyes focusing on me.
My notes spill on the ground in front of me, and I hurry to collect them. I look up into her gray eyes, and I'm transported back to a moment I'd rather not remember.
It was a cold and bitter January morning during my junior year. I had overslept and rushed into the doors of our massive high school. All I could think of was my impending physics midterm; I couldn't afford to be late.
As I sprinted to my locker to scoop up my large book and some writing supplies, I bumped into Willow, who was standing in the middle of the hallway, obnoxiously chewing her bright blue gum and pretending to be interested in Naomi Wright, a sophomore who worshiped Willow's being.
Willow toppled onto the ground, her Gucci sunglasses falling off her head and onto the ground, close to smashing.
"The little bitch strikes again," she sneered, kicking my physics book towards me. "I guess academics is all you'll be good at anyway. Who'd want anything to do with your loser self?"
People around her snickered, some parted their lips and stared, and her ex-boyfriend shook his head and walked away.
To say I felt utter humiliation was an understatement; I just wanted to go home and never come back to school. Her words were ones I thought you'd only hear in a corny teen movies about bullying, but now that they were said to my face, I was close to bursting into tears. And I never cried over anything Willow said.
"Whitney, Whitney are you okay?" Willow asks, interrupting my flashback. I look down and I'm not on the floors of my high school anymore, and the notes in my hands aren't my school textbooks. But the girl in front of me is the same person.
Or so I believe.
***
An hour passes by. I lie on my soft duvet, staring at the white ceiling, listening to the faint sound of yells outside and the incessant ticking of the analog clock on the wall. I've spent too many times like this, contemplating my decisions, thinking about what I could have done instead.
But as I place my feet on the ground beside me again, I realize it's pointless to lock myself in a room alone with my spinning thoughts.
Besides, I can't bail on Axel so soon.
I tug on my leggings and change into my favorite fitted black tank top. I lace up my black sneakers and head out of my room, making sure to lock the door behind me.
I sigh as I find Axel looking down at his phone with a blank expression. He looks up at me and lets out a breath, putting his phone in the side pocket of his shorts.
"Hi," he says, giving me a smile that seems hard for him to manage.
"Hey," I reply softly, running a finger under my eye to check if there are any tears there. My eyes are dry, and I relax.
"You don't look like yourself today," he remarks, his face softening.
"I'm fine," I reply, my tone clipped and calculated. Why the hell do you want to cry? "Can we get to the workout?"
"Follow me then."
I notice that Axel's pace is slower today, as if he can somehow tell I'm in no mood for this. We jog into a more wooded area and follow down a wide path, somewhere I hadn't been before.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"You'll see."
We continue jogging until the path becomes unbearably steep and my legs start to burn. They seem to stop working, and I stop, falling onto the ground and wrapping my arms around my knees. Axel swiftly turns around, his sneakers crunching on a pile dead leaves and twigs as he jogs towards me.
"What happened to you, Whitney?" he questions, crouching down in front of me. As he does, the silver necklace falls out from his shirt, but he swiftly tucks it in before I can see it.
My voice shakes as I say, "I can't do this today. I-I don't know why."
He places his fingers over his mouth and looks away for a moment, before capturing my gaze again. "Whitney, how would it feel if someone told you every day you couldn't do it, you're too pathetic and weak. That you're incapable of reaching your goals, no matter how hard you try. How would you feel?"
I glance up at him from the ground and notice the genuine concern he seems to have for me for once. "Like shit."
He holds my chin in his fingers. "You already have someone telling you that. It's yourself."
My lips part slightly, and I look away. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I try my best to hold them back. I hate people thinking I'm weak, even though I know I am, that any strength I display is a comical façade.
He sighs. "I won't tell you anything you don't want to hear," he says, standing up. "But I'll give you one piece of timeless advice: negativity won't get you where you want to go."
In a way, I like his candid words. I don't want someone to pull me into a hug and tell me that I'm perfect the way I am. Well, maybe the hug wouldn't be bad, but it's pointless if it's laced around lies.
"I'll get up then." I stand up and wipe the tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands.
We go back to light jogging, and this time he stays at my pace. "We're not as far as you think," he tells me, and we round a corner. I stay close to him, my arm brushing his much larger one, and he reveals a placid view: a calm, small body of water with birds chirping in the trees above. And to think I thought I'd seen all the geography this camp had to offer.
"I thought we could have a change of scenery today," he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me up one of the steep edges of the terrain.
"Wow, this is really beautiful," I remark, my eyes glued to the water. Axel sits down on one of the large rocks by the edge of the water while I sit on the grass, both of us quiet for a few moments.
Feeling a burst on inspiration, I take off my shoes and socks and get up and stand in front of the lake, crouching down and feeling the water. It isn't too cold.
"What are you doing?" he asks, cautiously standing up.
"Having fun." With that I jump into the water, enjoying the feeling of the cool liquid across my bare skin. I never would have done this a week ago. I get up from under the surface and wipe the water out of my eyes.
"Are you coming?"
He looks wary but ends up taking off his shoes and socks, coming close to the edge. I stare at him as he pulls his shirt off in one swift movement. I float there and try not to let my eyes embarrassingly widen at the sight.
Tan skin, toned abs, prominent obliques, beefy biceps.
He's basically chiseled by the athletic gods.
"It's cold," he sputters when he comes to the surface. I grin, moving a strand of wet hair away from my eyes.
"I didn't think you'd be such a baby." He rolls his eyes and floats on his back, staring at the sky. I dive underwater again, taking in how quiet the world is several feet under the surface. We're face to face when I come up, and a silver gleam around his neck catches my eye; it is a very small cross. He notices I'm staring at it.
"Are you religious?" I blurt out. Crap, way to be awkward again, Whitney.
"It's not mine," he answers. He looks down at it in his wet fingertips and adds, "I wear it more as a memory."
I nod, not knowing what else to say. I don't want to pry anymore, especially since this seems like a sensitive matter. So instead I dive back under the water for a few seconds and enjoy the quiet again. When I come back up, Axel is still toying with the silver chain and staring off at the sky, like he's in a different world.
"Are you alright?" I question, placing a hand on his shoulder. His eyes don't meet mine.
"It's fine," he says and swallows. "It's just sometimes whenever I'm wearing the necklace, I get caught up thinking...about my dad. This was his."
I take note of the word was, my heart slightly sinking. "Oh, I'm sorry," I say softly, unsure of how to respond. He shakes his head.
"It doesn't matter," he replies, dropping the necklace from his fingers and beginning to drag himself through the water. "Come on, fun is over, Whitney."