Avoiding my ragged reflection in the water-speckled mirror, I unloaded my supplies onto the nearest sink. I lathered my cheeks in face wash, tuning out the noise in the showers behind me. Every morning, there was a din of splashing and bottles clacking and razors dropping that drew way too much attention to how communal this whole situation was. I’d considered asking Meg how often the janitorial staff was cleaning the residence hall, since the school was technically closed for the summer, but had decided against when I realized that I’d never seen any sign of a janitor who wasn’t Lumberjack Beard.
I didn’t consider myself a clean freak, necessarily; it was just that the idea of our entire floor’s filth being rinsed down the same drains made me uneasy. The other girls all seemed fine to run their bare feet over the tiles. I didn’t believe that germs could be deterred by body wash alone, especially the super perfumed stuff that everyone seemed to favor. I’d heard one too many drunk girls peeing—and worse—in the showers at boot camp stories from Sid and the rest of the Lawrences to not wear flip-flops. They were hidden under my towel so that I could slip into them once I was safely behind the shower curtain.
The bathroom door crashed open. The girl with the cat-eye glasses from across the hall staggered in, her arm looped around her roommate’s hunched shoulders. The roommate shimmied away, made a heaving sound, and rushed into the closest toilet stall.
No one ever went into the stalls without checking them first. That was public bathroom common sense.
“Fallon,” the girl with the cat-eye glasses called, as the toilet stall slammed. “Are you going to be—”
Behind the metal door, there was a wet splash and the unmistakable gurgle of bile.
I loaded my toothbrush with toothpaste and popped it into my mouth, hoping to smother sympathy gags in minty freshness.
A shower curtain rustled as a damp head peeked out. It was one of the brunettes from Isaiah’s team. “Meuy, who’s puking?”
“It’s Fallon,” said Meuy, pushing up her glasses.
Fallon moaned inside of her stall, probably trying to ask her roommate not to blast her illness to the world.
“Did she realize how gross breakfast is gonna be?” asked a voice behind a closed shower curtain.
“Hey, Fallon.” I recognized Perla’s voice coming from the farthest shower stall. “You pregnant?”
“No,” Fallon’s wavered voice came out of the toilet stall.
“Leave her alone,” Meuy snapped at the wall of closed shower curtains. “She’s having a panic attack. Her binder is missing.”
I spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, wiping the remnants from my lips with the back of my hand. “Seriously?”
Meuy widened her eyes at me and nodded solemnly. “An entire week’s worth of work—poof! Gone.”
Fallon gave another bark of barf. I winced, resuming my toothbrushing with vigor.
“Someone probably stole it. Someone took my shampoo and my flip-flops,” said the voice behind the farthest shower curtain.
“Are you sure she didn’t try to take her binder with her when the fire alarm went off?” asked the girl in the shower next to her.
“Do not even talk to me about that fire drill,” said another voice. “That was beyond cruel.”
Meuy glanced back at me, possibly waiting for me to announce my presence to the other girls or to gloat over last night’s win. When I did neither, she twisted her shoulders in a shrug and lowered her voice to a hush, “It’s her own fault. She left her binder in the lounge. What did she think was going to happen? I’m sorry that she’s got an anxiety disorder, but come on. We are in a competition, right?”
I spat another wad of foam and frowned. I wasn’t comfortable blaming the puking girl for her own misfortune.
Meuy seemed to sense my weakness. She whirled away from me and strode from the door, calling over her shoulder, “Fallon, I’m gonna go get you a bottle of water.” She left the bathroom without waiting for a response.
Perla yanked back her shower curtain, sticking her face out and craning her neck to see around the corner. Her hair was twisted on top of her head in a thick white lather.
“Seriously, Fallon,” she said in that singsong that was starting to make me feel like peeling off my fingernails. “If you’re pregnant, you’d better drop out of the Melee. You won’t be able to use the scholarship.”
The toilet flushed.
“Fuck off,” gurgled Fallon.
Perla flicked her eyebrows at me. “I’m in her head now.” She grinned before disappearing behind the curtain again.
I rinsed my mouth at the sink and couldn’t help but think about how much I would truly relish watching Perla—of everyone—lose the Melee.
*
“It was like—bam! Total beast mode!” All of our plates jingled against the table as Hunter slapped his hand down. “I knew that the rest of us were in trouble the second you took off.”
“You should have heard Meg,” Galen said. He plunged his spoon deep into his bowl and brought up a heap of soggy cereal. “I thought she was going to scream herself hoarse.”
Jams bobbed his head. “It was a proper show.”
Perla frowned at him. “I don’t know what’s proper about Meg shouting ‘Kill, kill’ at everyone. If they pulled that shit at Princeton, I promise you there would be lawyers involved.”
“Proper,” Jams stressed, “as in ‘good.’”
“Like jolly good,” Leigh added.
Jams flicked a dismissive wrist. “Only tossers say ‘jolly good.’”
“Pretty sure only ‘tossers’ say ‘tossers,’” Perla said.
As Leigh had pointed out as we’d walked out of Mudders Meadow last night, no one at camp would be able to say that Isaiah and I were going to take it easy on each other in the Melee. Throwing him headlong into the amoeba had solidified my place as the camp’s first cutthroat.
It was strange. I’d never been considered a cutthroat before. As Elliot Gabaroche, I mostly slid under the radar. If anything, I was known for wearing my hair big and having a dude’s name, which led to a lot of horrifically transphobic questions from my less evolved classmates.
Otherwise, I’d never been truly noteworthy. I’d taken some AP classes, but not enough to be considered one of the smart kids. Thanks to overprotective parents who liked having me on call to babysit, I didn’t play school sports. I had friends on teams, so I could sneak an invite to their more inclusive parties. But there was no corner of Hiram Johnson High that I’d stamped as my own.
And here I was, less than a week into being Ever Lawrence, and I’d already made a name for myself. Literally and figuratively.
It’d be nice if we could stop talking about it now, though.
Hunter pointed his fork at me. “You have to show me some of that kung fu.”
“It’s parkour,” Brandon mumbled. “Or parcours du combattant. It was developed by the French military.”
“And I don’t really know much more than the rolls.” I shrugged, staring down at my breakfast. “I could show you some Muay Thai techniques, if you want.” I dipped a sausage in syrup and took a bite before I noticed the silence of my teammates’ shock. If they’d been manga characters, there would have been a fog of question marks hovering over us like a quizzical storm. I swallowed with some effort and waved my fork. “I couldn’t join my school’s cross-country team. I needed an extracurricular. Didn’t anyone else want to be a superhero when they were little?”
Hunter grinned and slapped the table again. “Beast. Mode.”