I leap, and my stomach slams into the tire. I didn’t leap high enough. I hear someone let out an “oof” from the sidelines, but it doesn’t actually hurt much. It’s rubber. But that sound—someone thinking I’ve screwed up, because I have—that makes me feel like an idiot. That hurt. That floods me with stupid feelings of “Why are you doing this?” and “This will never work when Hudson sees how not-masc you are” and “Don’t you wish you were auditioning now?” I feel my skin burning bright red. I hope it wasn’t Hudson, but I can’t see and I need to focus on finishing, but I’m half through the tire, arms in front of me like Superman, feet swinging just off the ground. I grab the bottom of the tire and pull myself through that way, landing inelegantly on my back in the sand, which smells like feet.
I stare up at the sun through the trees for a moment. Ever notice how trees against the sun looks like the Milky Way? George and I like doing this after auditions—lying in the shade, staring up and blurring our eyes just enough that the light between the trees becomes huge rivers of stars, and the leaves become empty black. Day into night, back into day again.
“You can do it, Del!” someone shouts. Hudson.
I push myself up.
There’s only one thing left: the Peanut Butter Pit. Why peanut butter? I almost ask it out loud. The rope is in the middle of the pit, far out of reach. I back up and take a running leap. I make it pretty far, too. My hands scrape the rope as I fall into the pit. Luckily, there’s a mat down here, too. And this I don’t feel bad about. Only Hudson has made it so far.
I climb out of the pit at the other end, and Hudson immediately gives me a hug and every bit of pain in me evaporates. My hands go from being on fire to … well, still being on fire, but in their desire to pull him into me. My body, which ached a moment ago, feels fine now. My muscles go from stiff to soft … except for that one part of me that goes the opposite. He smells like earth and sweat, which I know makes it sound like I have some sort of fetish, but I think it’s just his sweat. His sweat smells good. Sweet and dark, and a little salty. I wish I could bottle it or make it a fancy scented candle to keep in my room and only burn on special occasions.
Who am I kidding? I’d have it burning 24/7.
“You did really great,” Hudson says. Over his shoulder, I see the other campers who have gone staring at me. One of the guys, one of Hudson’s exes, I think, smirks and looks away. I hold him a little tighter.
“I screwed up the tire, like I said I would.”
“But you did well on the new wire. That thing is impossible, too. How’d you make it so far?” He lets go of me, but keeps one hand loosely around my waist, resting on my hip. It’s like all the nerve endings in my body have migrated to that hip and are sending lightning bolts to my brain, and it takes a moment for me to realize he’s asked a question.
“I focused on the end of it, not my feet,” I tell him.
“Smart,” he says. “I’m going to try that next time. Oh, Brad’s up.”
Brad messes up on the wire-walk, too, but he’s the second person to handle the Peanut Butter Pit. When he lands, he high-fives Hudson.
“That tightrope is a bitch,” he says.
“Del handled it pretty well, though,” Hudson says, pulling me a bit closer. I have a sudden urge to giggle, but restrain myself.
“Yeah.” Brad nods, looking at me. “You’ve got great balance.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling and desperately hoping he’s not going to give me away. George said not to worry about it, and I trust George, but maybe George shouldn’t trust Brad.
“From dancing?” Brad asks. I do my best confused face as my mind empties of replies.
“Ha,” Hudson says. “Nah. We were dancing last night, and he’s … not a dancer. No offense, babe.”
BABE. He called me babe and now my mind is blank again. I’m just a blow-up doll here, as these two men talk about me, shoving me back and forth between delight and fear.
“No?” Brad laughs. “That’s funny.”
“I’m awkward,” I finally say, though I have no idea why I decided to say it, or why I’ve said it in such a high voice.
“Nah, just a little stiff,” Hudson says. “It’s ’cause you’re new. You’ll loosen up.”
I laugh, a little forced, and swallow; my throat is dry.
“At least you didn’t say you’d loosen him up,” Brad says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let him use lines on you, Del. He might seem smooth, but he’s just as awkward as you, underneath.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“I don’t think either of us are awkward,” Hudson says.
“Mmm.” Brad nods, looking unconvinced. “I was wondering, though, Del … is George single? He have a guy back home or anything?”
“Who’s George?” Hudson asks.
“My friend,” I say, a little annoyed he doesn’t remember. “In my cabin, Middle Eastern, wears nail polish all the time, and sometimes eye shadow?”
“Right,” Hudson says, then turns to Brad. “Really? Nail polish and eye shadow?”
“And a hairy chest, and I’m guessing a hairy ass,” Brad says, wiggling his eyebrows. “And he’s funny. But …” He turns back to me. “Is he single?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s single.”
“Cool,” Brad says, and nods a few times to himself.
“All right!” Connie shouts, walking over to us. The last of us have run the course, and she’s carrying a cooler of water bottles. We each eagerly grab some. The water feels almost as good going down my throat as Hudson. His hug, I mean. “You all did well. Looks like everyone had trouble with the wire-walk, though. Balance is important! Balance is what helps with every activity—hiking, sports, dancing, getting things off high shelves. So let’s go work on that. Everyone gather around and spot.”
We all head toward the wire-walk and stand on either side of it. Our water bottles are empty and we throw them back in the cooler, then put our hands out, like walls for people to lean on as they try to cross the wire.
“Now,” Connie says. “I put this in because even though yes, the obstacle course is a race, and yes, I will start timing you next time we do it, you still need to be patient. So every step you take needs to be careful, and you need to find your balance before you take your next one. Del, you did pretty well at it, you want to try again?”
“Sure,” I say, not feeling like I have much of a choice. I pull myself up onto the wire again and find my balance, like I would before a high kick, and I take a step, focusing on the end of the wire. I go slowly. I slip once, but someone’s hand catches me, and pushes me back upright.
“Thanks,” I say, without looking at them. Then I keep walking. When I make it to the end, everyone claps, Connie included.
“Well done,” Connie says. “Your breathing before each step, and how you lifted your leg from the hip, not the knee, was very good.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly feeling very embarrassed. “And thank you, whoever caught me.”
“That was me,” says the guy who smirked at me before. Maybe he’s not so bad.