Boot Camp, page 6
They leave enough space between each other that I question whether she’s a friend, a girlfriend, or just a coworker.
They disappear into the building, prompting me to push open the door and step outside. When I consider following them and finding out for myself what’s going on, I try to snap myself out of it, reminding myself the personal life of the trainer I’ve known for only a couple days should be none of my business, but that’s not a strong enough conviction to keep me inside.
I sneak through the back entrance of the building and make out a steady series of boom s in the distance, like someone punching something repeatedly. I walk in the direction of the sound and press myself up against the wall before peeking through the half-open gym door.
Axel pounds the life out of a punching bag, using blows that could knock someone out cold in an instant, and I hold my breath in awe. His gray cutoff shirt is soaked in sweat, and a heavy beat blares in the background, fueling the force in every punch. Leaning against the padded wall across from him is that same female trainer, her blue-streaked hair now down and framing her face. She tips her head up, and I get a good look at her angled cheekbones and narrowed eyes. I realize she’s not just the cynical blue-haired hippie Aspen described as her trainer.
She’s also the girl who practically shoved the camp brochure down my throat back at that 5K.
“Damn,” she says, “you’ve definitely still got it in you, Axel.”
He stops and slides off his gloves, chest heaving up and down as he tries to catch his breath. Taking a few steps forward, he dips his head down and leans a hand against the wall beside her head, that domineering aura of his making my stomach erupt with some very unwelcome butterflies.
“Still got it in me? I never lost it, Isla.”
There’s this odd tension between them as they look into each other’s eyes, his heavy breaths a contrast to her tight-lipped smirk. It almost feels like I’ve stumbled into an intimate moment, even if it’s far from it, and a pang of jealousy grips my heart, as delusional as the thoughts telling me that should be me against that wall.
When Isla leans her face in, I dash to the exit, unsure if Axel finding out I was stalking his workout or that I saw him kissing his supposed girlfriend would be more embarrassing.
“There you are!” Martina exclaims as I walk back into our room, still spooked. She’s already made her bed and gotten dressed, having donned black shorts and a sports bra. “Where were you?”
“Took an early-morning stroll.”
Who uses the word stroll , Whitney?
“Wow, look at you being all healthy,” she laughs. “Breakfast is being served soon. Then it’s off to our first team challenge.”
I almost forgot about those, still not fully understanding what they’ll entail. At the very least, competing in a group sounds better than doing so individually, as I’ll have other people to rely on to pick up the slack. So far this week, I’ve had my fair share of embarrassment trying a plethora of new workouts, including trail running, hill sprints, and the stair climber during yesterday’s rainy-afternoon session—which is apparently not the same thing as the elliptical.
Sue me for not knowing, I guess.
I’ll need an extra shot of energy to get through the team challenge today, so I pick up a heaping bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee for breakfast. While I’m on my way to the table where Martina and Aspen are waiting for me, a comment pops up from behind my shoulder.
“Isn’t that, like, a really huge bowl of that stuff?”
I turn on the heel of my high-top sneaker, finding Noelle wrinkling her nose at my breakfast. I don’t remember when she migrated over to Willow, Joanna, and Adriana’s table, but she doesn’t seem particularly welcome, given the three inches of her leg hanging off the bench.
“The oatmeal here looks pretty gross,” Joanna says, picking up her slice of avocado toast with long delicate fingers. Through a mouthful, she adds, “But I don’t see why her breakfast is literally any of your business.”
“Yeah,” Adriana says, bumping Noelle another inch off the bench. “If anything, you should be more worried about not dragging your team down at the challenge today. Some of us care about winning.”
Noelle’s eyes widen, like she expected Joanna and Adriana to concur with her. Surprisingly, Willow, the queen of remarks like Noelle’s, doesn’t utter a word to me and continues chomping down on her piece of toast, not even bothering to wipe the crumbs off her lap. It’s a funny contrast to her comment back in sophomore year, still ingrained in my head like she yelled it out to me yesterday.
Guys, maybe if Whitney stopped eating everything offered in the cafeteria, she could actually run. Have fun taking last place in gym class today, Whit! We’re rooting for you!
“Guess we’ll see how we perform in the team challenge today when your stomach is grumbling and mine is not,” I snap back, surprised the remark even escapes my mouth so easily. “See you later.”
Rage fuels my steps back to my table, but I try to plaster a neutral expression on my face when I approach Martina and Aspen.
“Was my sister bothering you?”
“No; Noelle,” I say, dropping my tray down and letting it clatter. “She made some dumb comment.”
“I should still go tell her off. Her sixteen-year-old ass needs to be put in its place.”
“No, don’t.” My palm floats into the air to tell her to stop, an almost defensive reaction. “Honestly . . . I’m used to her kind from high school. That was hardly a scratch.” I down a gulp of my coffee to drown out my emotions before nearly spitting it out in Martina’s face at the bitter diesel taste that hits my tongue.
“I hated high school,” Aspen says, head slumping against her hand. Dark ringlets fall over her face, concealing her doe-like brown eyes, and as she brushes them away, Martina tracks every one of her movements. “I was always known as ‘the quiet one,’ but I didn’t like anyone enough to talk to them. It got so bad that one time one of my teachers pulled me aside after class and asked if I needed special accommodations for my ‘selective mutism.’”
“Quiet isn’t even a bad thing,” I say, lifting a spoon of my cinnamon oatmeal to my lips. Tuning out the gossipy conversation coming from Willow and friends’ table, I force it into my mouth. “Shutting up could actually serve a lot of people well in this world.”
“Like that godforsaken woman behind you,” Martina grumbles.
“GOOD MORNING, LADIES!”
Cindy’s natural tone, enough to drive all microphone manufacturers out of business, erupts behind us. She climbs up onto one of the empty tables, looking like a glow stick in a highlighter-yellow sports bra and matching pair of biker shorts.
“I hope you’re all eating well and excited to take on a new day. Today we’ll be meeting outside the Central Building at nine thirty sharp for your first team challenge. Who’s excited to get moving and make some new besties?”
A disproportionate degree of amusement overtakes me from the way Willow sinks down into her chair and covers her entire face as snickers break out from the table behind her.
Feels kind of nasty, doesn’t it, bitch?
Cindy hops down to the ground and picks up a tote bag.
“When I call out the members of your team, come up here, grab a T-shirt, and then sit down at a table together and try to get to know each other better.” She sets out the stack of T-shirts on the table behind her, four different neon colors of the rainbow. “Up first is Team Green: Martina, Aspen, Whitney, and Willow!”
When I hear the dreaded two syllables of Willow’s name, I consider staying seated in an act of protest, but Martina and Aspen are already up and walking. Biting down on the insides of my cheeks, I drag myself to Cindy’s table and reach for a neon-green Camp Campbell T-shirt. Willow holds her hand out at the same time and pulls back for me to grab one first, and I notice the way her mother’s eyes light up with a hopeful twinkle.
She may be the poster woman for oblivious parenting, but even she must have gathered that Willow and I can barely stand each other. But if she placed me and her on the same team hoping the forced proximity would finally prompt Willow to apologize to me—or better yet, me to forgive her—then she needs to rip those rose-colored glasses right off her face.
“Green is definitely your color, Whitney,” Cindy says as I hold up the T-shirt to my front. “Brings out those beautiful eyes of yours.”
“Thank you.” I fidget when I feel the heat of Willow’s gaze on the side of my face. “I usually go for blue, but this is a nice change of routine.”
Aspen and Martina grab their T-shirts and turn to Willow and me, standing three feet apart. “Do you guys want to sit—”
“Mom, I’m not feeling well,” Willow cuts in. “Can I go back to my room and lie down before the challenge starts?”
Cindy forces a tight smile, placing a hand on Willow’s shoulder, and lowers her voice a notch as she tells her, “Willow, honey, you can’t use that excuse every time.”
“Do you want me to throw up everywhere? I feel sick, Mom.”
I press my lips together, eyes widening in shock, but Cindy doesn’t chastise her, and I have a feeling it’s not because they’re in public. When Willow stalks away, Adriana breaks away from her table and chases after her, with Joanna following a few seconds after. The dining hall erupts with confused chatter and gossip.
“Damn, all that because she didn’t want to sit at a table with us.” Martina looks between me and Aspen. “Are we really such bad company?”
I shake my head, releasing the inside of my cheek from the snare of my teeth. “We’re not the bad company, Martina. She is.”
—
The sixteen of us stand outside in an uneven circle by the main road, with no Bob around to police our formation, some girls laughing and others looking disgruntled, like they’d rather be in a six-hour math class than here.
Something much closer to a scowl than a smile crosses my face as Isla jogs to the front of the group, Cindy’s helper for the day. She jumps onto a tree stump, her tanned and defined legs appearing a mile long in her elevated position. Finally, I get a close look at her face, realizing that the streaks in her hair are the same color as her eyes, the kind of blue that turns nearly translucent in the sun.
Begrudgingly, I admit she’s kind of pretty.
“Aren’t you guys an enthusiastic group,” she says, dragging her eyes down a line of frowning campers and pausing on my face. “Our challenge today is a simple one-mile run down this road, like you completed in the diagnostic test.” There’s that damn word simple again. “Only this time, each team will be running as a group, and we’ll be tracking your mile times. The team with the lowest average mile time wins the challenge.”
“What do we win?” a voice asks from behind me. Adriana.
“Kind of a bummer,” Isla says, eyes creasing up with a tight, wry smile, “but there’s no prize this time. Bragging rights only.”
She looks down at her tablet and calls out, “Team Green! You’re up first.”
It takes several minutes for the four of us to warm up and situate ourselves behind the spray-painted starting line, me on one end of the row and Willow on the other. Surprisingly, I have no qualms about running, considering the near-marathon I ran this week with Axel. I am worried about another repeat of last race, knowing Willow could’ve only improved this past week with her own trainer.
“On your marks, get set, go!” Isla says.
We dash from the starting point, each zeroed in on the road ahead of us. I overtake Aspen easily with the four or five inches I have on her in height, keeping me level with Martina.
Knowing just how long a mile can feel when running, I remind myself there’s no point in expending all my energy now, but
I can’t tamp down on the resentment bubbling in my chest when Willow strides ahead of me, a whir of wispy hair and lean dancer legs.
“Okay, guys,” Martina says, her long black ponytail slapping her back as she runs, “who’s going to take one for the team and put in some effort?”
“Wouldn’t it be better if we all picked up the pace a little?”
Aspen asks, already huffing through her words.
“Sure, but two fast runners and two slow runners averages out the same as four medium-paced runners.” We arch our necks and squint, all trying to make out a familiar blond head. “And one really, really fast runner makes up for all of us.” She cups her hands around her mouth and calls out, “Go Willow!”
“What the hell, Martina?” I hiss, momentarily forgetting the cramping in my thighs.
“She’s on our team, Whitney. I know we’re not supposed to like her, but let’s at least use her skills to our advantage.”
As much as I don’t want to admit it, Martina is right. This is the only time where praying on Willow’s downfall will do me more harm than good, so, fighting every logical bone in my body, I cheer Willow on with Martina and Aspen—only this once, though.
The thought of inflating her ego again riles me up so much I clench my teeth and press forward. The world blurs together, green, then blue, then blond, and soon enough, Willow is mere paces ahead of me. Some supernormal strength builds in my legs, absent whenever Axel and I run, and I use my momentary abilities to overtake her by several feet, not even looking back once.
For the next leg of the race, I enjoy my lead, even staring off at the greenery while I run. But right as we hit the halfway point, I can barely breathe, and I know I’ll have to half walk, half jog my way to the end. In a blink, Willow is a dot in the distance, and I curse to myself.
Towards the end of the race, I regain some strength and manage to sprint the last few paces to the finish line. I look up and lock eyes with Axel, who, based on the stopwatch in his hand, has been charged with tracking our mile times.
“Not bad, Carmichael,” he says, nodding tightly. My heart flutters at his approval, even if his words are hardly a compliment. He jerks his head to the side. “Water’s where Willow is.”
I’m breathing too hard to even form a complete sentence back, so I nod and follow Martina across the grass to where Willow stands by a maple tree, chugging a whole bottle of water. Out of sight from Axel, who apparently may believe I’m somewhat competent, I drop down to the grass and lean back on my hands, grimacing as the strain of the race catches up to me.
“Here, take this.”
When I open my eyes, Willow hands me a cold plastic water bottle.
“What?”
“What do you mean what?” When she notices me still eyeing her outstretched arm with suspicion, she huffs and drops her hand. “I don’t know how to poison water in case that’s what you’re worried about. You looked like you were about to pass out, so I figured I’d offer you some H2O.”
I freeze. Is she just being . . . nice? It seems almost impossible after the spectacle she made of me at that 5K race, but when I give her a few more moments, and a nasty remark doesn’t roll off her lips, I push myself up to my feet and take the bottle from her.
“Thanks,” I say and pause before adding, “for not poisoning my water, that is.”
She cracks the smallest smile before stalking away, and for some stupid reason, I take that as a win.
Week Two
Chapter Seven
Sunday is our rest day, and I take advantage of the change in the routine, snoozing my alarm until eleven in the morning.
Wincing as my eyes adjust to the brilliant sunshine streaming through the open curtains, I turn to Martina’s bed and find it empty with the covers pulled taut.
My phone vibrates on my side table, and I pick it up.
Martina: At the beach with Aspen, feel free to join whenever.
Whitney: Meet you there in an hour.
Scrolling through the remainder of my notifications, I find a check-in text from Ava, followed by a rant about the three Persian weddings she’s had to attend in the past week, and then a missed phone call and FaceTime call from Poppy. Realizing I’ve neglected almost everyone in my personal life over this past busy week, I call Poppy back first, needing a taste of home.
Her face appears on the screen, and her normally bright eyes droop slightly at the corners. “Whitney!” She waves at me through the camera. “I’m so happy you answered. I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
“Hey! What’s going on? Wedding plans?”
“You bet. Levi’s parents are visiting from New York to help with those.”
“Gosh, that bad?”
She exhales and drags her fingers through the roots of her dirty-blond hair. “Let’s just say if we were living in The Purge, our mom and Levi’s would have already killed each other without question. You know, as if I needed more problems with Mom.”
“What do they act like around each other?”
“Let’s see. Indirectly insulting each other’s looks, claiming each wedding idea the other comes up with sucks—even if both would’ve liked it otherwise—and then waging a war over whose child is more perfect? Did neither of them get the memo that we’re twenty-two, not twelve?”
“Maybe they’re the ones acting like twelve-year-olds,” I say, cringing at the mental picture. “What about Levi’s dad?”
“Dave? He and Dad act like they’re long-lost friends. Dad showed him the golf course the other day, and they’ve spent nearly every afternoon there. It’s either that, or they’re trying to avoid their wives. Don’t blame them at this point.”
“That’s good, at least,” I mumble and decide to change the subject from Dad. “You know what, I feel bad I’m not home to help with any of the planning. This is such an important point in your life.”
“And in your life, Whitney,” she says, taking me aback. My sister has always been levelheaded, but I’m surprised she doesn’t draw the line at her wedding. “Do you really think I’d keep you from finally achieving your fitness dreams to help plan the elaborate wedding I don’t even want? If it were up to me, I’d hold it in a damn barn with twenty guests.”
