Page 50 of That Summer Feeling

“Not winning isn’t the same as losing,” Stevie said. “Just in case you’re worried about Dara’s feelings or something.”

She’d seen through me as she always did, returning my words to me and reminding me that I not only said them, I believed them. I wasn’t responsible for Dara’s feelings. I was only responsible for my own.

“I can do it,” I assured my team. “I can throw a balloon at my sister.” My tone mimicked the same thick-as-thieves sincerity as Julianne’s, and it didn’t even amuse me. I meant what I said.

Tommy bobbed his head in approval. “I’m good with sitting this one out. If it came down to Tim and me, I wouldn’t eliminate him. I’m compromised.”

Sky nominated themself as the second person to sit out on account of not really wanting to make a mess with paint. Which, fair enough. So representing Blue Team were Stevie, Aja, Marge, Julianne, Laurie, and me—six women from all different walks of life, united in our goal of domination.

During our pregame strategy, Stevie and I got put in charge of obtaining as many balloons as possible. Aja and Laurie were going to secure a spot for us behind the crates.Julianne planned to spy on other teams. And Marge got the job of being our secret weapon. She would feign helplessness in a way that would make other teams pity her, like we’d forced our oldest player onto the field and she was suffering through the experience at our cruel hands. She should have been an easy target, but we knew everyone at camp would be too nice to eliminate her right away.

“It’s brilliant,” Marge said, loving every moment of it. “They’ll never see me coming.”

When the game started, Stevie sprinted full speed toward the balloons, beating everyone else by a long shot. Only Mason came close. When he successfully reached the buckets, Stevie already had two balloons in her hands. Mason tried to grab some of his own. Stevie, with the precision of a sharpshooter, pinged his shoulder.

Mason became the first person eliminated from the game.

“Are you kidding me!” he screamed, looking at the neon-pink splatter on his poncho-covered shoulder blade. He even touched his fingers to the paint, like it was a fatal wound he couldn’t quite believe was real.

Stevie blew him a kiss. “Love you!”

The ruthlessness with which Stevie took out her brother made most other people pause on their way to the balloon buckets, creating a perfect window of time for me to approach. I ran forward and gathered half a dozen balloons, cupping them in my Blue Team shirt and waddling back to our safe haven behind the tallest crate stack.

As the game progressed, Stevie’s early actions made our team a major target. Aja had a great arm, and she managed tostave off several different teams that attempted to attack our hideout.

The more people we picked off, the bigger our target became.

“They want me dead,” Stevie said to me as she returned with a fresh set of balloons. She was heaving and sweat-slicked, having sprinted back and forth as fast as possible.

“I think you have to stay at the crates from now on,” I told her. “It’s not safe for you to get balloons anymore.”

She wheezed out a laugh, too out of breath to give much life to the sound. “I’d rather die than give up. Besides, I’ll be fine. No one can touch me.” She handed her latest collection of balloons to Laurie and Aja, who used them to launch a simultaneous attack on Frank.

Laurie nabbed the edge of Frank’s shoe.

“It’s barely on me!” Frank yelled, instantly devastated. “It’s like a speck! I could get that just from walking right now, there’s so much paint on the field!”

“Please leave the game, Frank,” the referee called out.

Frank sulked off the field, tossing his poncho to the ground in anger along the way. Of the Magnusson family, only Andrew and Stevie remained.

I hadn’t seen Dara once. I didn’t even know where she was. Red Team’s safe zone was not far from ours, and she wasn’t among the people protecting the balloons, but she did not run out to capture them either.

Stevie sprinted out again, performing amazing acrobatics while dodging missiles, dive rolling and leapfrogging to keepherself out of the line of fire. When she made it to the supply, she turned back to wink at me.

“Told you I’d be fine,” she said.

Right then, Dara darted out from behind a tree with a balloon tucked into her shoulder like a shot-putter. She hurled it as hard as she could, and it smacked into Stevie’s chest, an appropriate explosion of bright yellow. Shocked, Stevie sunk to her knees beside the buckets.

The game came to a complete pause. Everyone stood stock-still, watching Stevie process her unexpected elimination. Even though the other teams had been desperate to get rid of her, the mood was oddly somber. It was a bummer to see the best player taken out before the game ended.

Once Stevie’s initial grief passed, she stood up and walked off the field with her chin held high, maintaining her dignity. Dara took the moment to start clapping. The spectators followed suit, erupting into applause for Stevie’s gutsy performance.

That’s when I threwmymissile.

It got Dara by the hair, a splatter that edged the bottom of her long, exposed ponytail. It was less paint than what had landed on Frank’s shoes, but Dara knew better than to protest. The rules were the rules.

“If only I’d had you cut my hair already,” she called out to me as she walked off the field.