Boot Camp

10: Old Version

Confused.

That's how I feel now storming across the camp.

My flip flops make an annoying clacking noise as I walk across the grass, obliterating any attempt to conceal my whereabouts. This doesn't bother me though because one, the last thing I want to wear is sneakers, and two, I have something more important to think about.

Where could she be? My mind ponders this question as I walk across the camp, chewing the piece of gum in my mouth. I decide to go back to the dorms and find one girl, whose name I believe is Alina, standing in the hallway on her phone, her eyes fixated on the small screen as her fingers furiously type. I walk up to her, and she looks up.

"This may sound weird, but I'm looking for someone," I begin, placing a hand on the wall beside me.

"Who?" she questions, shutting her phone off and turning to face me.

"I don't know her name, but she's kind of tall with fiery red hair, might smell kind of like beer—"

"You mean Miranda," she finishes. I nod quickly, glad she may be able to help me. "She's my roommate. And a real pain in the butt to live with. If you need to talk to her, be my guest; our room is right in front of us."

"Thank you," I say, and Alina smiles and walks away, looking back at her phone again.

I push open the door warily, not knowing what to expect. From the small opening I can see one half of the room is pristine, a freshly made bed and spotless ground, and the other is an utter mess. It's not a real feat to guess whose side is the latter.

Miranda doesn't even notice me when I walk in; I suppose the loud music blaring through her headphones and the bottle of Coke she is drinking is enough to keep her busy. My stomach rumbles when I see the large chicken salad sandwich in her hands.

"Hey!" I say. She doesn't look up, despite my loud attempt. I walk over to her bed and tap on her headphones, causing her head to snap up in my direction.

"What was that?" she yells, sitting upwards and causing her sandwich to drop out of her hands onto her bedsheets. The poor sandwich...

"I need to talk to you, and apparently your headphones make you deaf to the world," I respond, crossing my arms and letting out an angry grunt.

"That's kind of the point. And why do you even need to talk to me?" she questions and finishes off the last of her Coke.

"These." I hold up a collection of notes in my fingers, bringing them a few inches away from her face. The newest addition to my series is freshly folded, reading, "You better be sorry," in that terrible chicken scratch.

"What do I have to do with a bunch of folded lined paper?" Miranda asks, standing up and brushing the crumbs off of her green shirt.

"You're telling me you know nothing of the stalkerish notes that have popped up all over my half of the room the past several days?"

She just laughs, the noise lingering in the air for a few moments. "You think that while I'm spending another summer in this camp I'm going to waste my time sending petty stalker notes to you of all people?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" I mutter.

"Nothing," she answers. "But I seriously have nothing to do with that. It's your problem."

"I guess you're right, but hear me out. I found this one inside my pillowcase. Why would someone do that?!"

"Because they're as dumb as you to believe the notes are threatening," she answers, flopping back onto her unmade bed.