Page 76 of Cuts like a Knife
I think of my sisters. We were all raised to work on our respective appearances. Diana and Claire especially, being the oldest. Erica Madison had a lighter hand with Bex and I. She seemed to revel in our weirdness. We were allowed to be a little quirky. But Gray — the baby and the only boy? Nothing of the sort was expected of him at all. I can’t think of a single instance of Erica or Frank so much as idly commenting on that boy’s appearance.
Gray is good-looking, don’t get me wrong. But he never tries. He never had to. And I’m sure the same goes for Drew. He never had to try, but unlike Gray, I think he did. Does.
I think of his perfectly styled black hair, his dark green eyes, his penchant for aftershave, his perfect, flirty manners. Drew Fox definitely tries.
Why is that?
Petar Timber on the other hand …
Without the accoutrements of his money, without the big loud laughs and the bevy of girls, he looks entirely unremarkable. Pale. A little puffy. Like any hung-over banking dude or fraternity bro.
And yet he has nearly a million social media followers. And he’s famous. He’s on this dumb reality show.
What on earth is the appeal?
Before the question can really take root, and really, I don’t particularly care, I’ve hit the beach.
The show’s barbecue stations are all set up, but silent and abandoned other than a single PA — not the one who took such a liking to me, luckily, but another one, who looks even younger and a lot more bored — with her little headset. She’s obviously been assigned watch. There’s a sandwich board propped in the sand at the end of the path, informing guest about the filming and warning them that their presence on the beach equals implicit consent to be filmed. The sign reminds all of us that we may appear on camera “beyond this point249”.
Oh well. I pull the shoes off my feet and wonder at the feeling of the white sand against my bare soles — perfectly soft, perfectly white. This place really is something. I wish I didn’t have my stupid laptop bag with me.
If it were only the shoes, I could just leave them in the sand. But the laptop is expensive. And owned by Citidaze. I can’t just abandon it in the sand. I wish I didn’t have to lug it around, though. I want to take a walk.
My eyes scan the area.
There are the beach cabanas. With the thatched palm front roofs. Maybe I could leave the laptop bag in one of those? Almost nobody is around. It would probably be safe enough. Plus, I would be able to see the cabanas clearly from the shoreline. I could keep an eye out while taking my walk at the same time.
That settles it. I hurry over to the cabanas, past the first one (too obvious) and to the door of the second. I’m about to push open the door when I hear the sound of movement inside.
Right. Occupied. No bother. I’ll just choose the next cabana.
But before I can move away, I hear the sound of frantic whispering coming from within. I can’t catch every word, but some of it is clear enough.
“I don’t know …creepy … he’s gone. Dark in here … Fronds … I know it’s ridiculous … saw him … just hid. Don’t laugh.” The voice is a low hiss, like a person talking into a cell phone and not wanting to be overheard.
Who is that? It sounds familiar. One of the contestants?
“He’s … bloodhound. I swear … tracking me,” says the voice. “Already tricked … fucking gullible … imagines I have … poor …”
Is that Maylee Wise?
I know I shouldn’t be listening outside the door. I know it’s wrong, but …
Okay, hear me out. Didn’t Mr. Sentinel Big Shot Charles Atlas tell me just today that if I really cared about doing something worthwhile while I was down here, that I should pay attention to Petar Timber? And didn’t I just pass Petar Timber on the path? And didn’t he look annoyed AF? And doesn’t it now seem like fellow contestant Maylee Wise is hiding from him in a beach cabana?
And hadn’t Callum chewed me out just yesterday? What had he said, exactly? That I was no more than a cub? That my resume fit on a quarter sheet of paper? That I wasn’t capable of more than puff pieces and grunt work?
And didn’t didn’t all those f—s from Flash nod their heads when he said it? Didn’t everyone here think I was a joke?Especially after my goofy performance at that press conference?
But if I could get some sort of story — some sort of actual story that none of them even knew about — wouldn’t that wipe the smug smiles right off their faces?
There is some sort of story here, right? There has to be, if Maylee Wise was hiding from Petar Timber, there has to be. And I’m going to get it.
Rather than continuing to eavesdrop, I make a sort of snap decision and before I know it, I’m pushing open the cabana door.
“Jesus Christ, he’s coming in!” Exclaims Maylee. As the bright sunlight from the open door pierces the cabana’s gloom, her face comes into focus. She looks … strange. Not frightened, exactly. More … angry.
Either way, I adopt a breathless, concerned expression. I make an educated guess, a calculation, and hope I’m right.
