Boot Camp

24: Old Version

I've lost track of how long I've spent up here in this lounge room with Axel, the minutes seeming to fly by without me noticing. The clouds have cleared out in the sky and now the sun is streaming in so brightly I squint, having to look away from the windows.

"How long have we been here?" I ask Axel, who is sitting back on the white couch about a foot next to me, his hands folded behind his head. He glances at his phone.

"It's barely been an hour," he replies, letting out a yawn. "Why, are you in a rush?"

I shrug. "Nothing. I mean...it's nothing."

Axel quirks a brow. "Really."

I let out a sigh. "Well, I don't know if it's just me, but what will happen if, I don't know...someone catches us? Isn't it weird that I'm supposed to be your trainee, yet you're letting me come here to this private lounge?"

"We're not doing anything wrong..." he states and jokingly adds, "yet. Kidding aside, I'll let you go now. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"No, I'm not. It's just—" I begin to wonder about the girls he must have trained before me. I know it's wrong, but a small part of me is budding with jealousy. "Did the camp always work this way?"

"Bob and Cindy changed the rules this year. Before it was just a three-week program. All the girls trained in groups, and the exercise was much less intense. They are thinking of changing it again for the future, however."

"How so?" I ask, hugging a pillow to my chest.

"Make it co-ed, possibly get the rid of the grand prize. I can't spill too many details, even though I know you wouldn't say anything."

I nod. "Oh, that's cool."

"You never finished talking earlier about your life in New York City," Axel says out of the blue, referring to one of the many conversations we've already had here. "I guess I need to know more about what it's like to grow up a rich kid in Manhattan. It was a little different being middle class in Brooklyn."

"You're from Brooklyn?" I can't believe this whole time he's never told me he's from New York.

"Born and raised," he answers. "I'm only here for the summers."

I can see why, since it's deathly boring here. "Well, for starters, we weren't that rich for living in New York, especially, which was probably why my parents didn't mind coming here after the inci—after something happened." I laugh off the slip-up. "Our apartment was old and ugly, but it didn't really matter too much, you know? There was always something to do, places to see, people with stories you never imagined could be true. I think the one thing I really missed when my father moved us when I was eight was the food. It was like you never needed to travel the world since every culture was only a few blocks some way."

I notice how intrigued he is as I speak, but his jaw seems to tense when I mention my own father. It doesn't make sense though, since the only one who should be uncomfortable talking about him is me.

"So one day you packed up and moved, just like that?" he asks.

"Kind of, I guess," I answer with a shrug. "I was a kid. What do you really know when you're one?"

He purses his lips. "Not much really," he answers. "But I guess everything you didn't understand as a kid you understand when you're older anyway."

"That's true..." I answer, wondering if there's any hidden meaning behind his words. "Did you like your childhood, Axel? Since I've talked about my own way too much."

He places his fingers underneath his chin and looks out the window for a moment. "I did. It was a happy one until I was twelve, when my dad...my dad passed away." There's a certain bitterness in the way he says "passed away," almost like the words don't do the actual situation justice. "I was forced to grow up before my time. My mom was always at work making up for the lost income, and my brother was so little. I felt like I needed to be a father figure for him since he was only six when he lost his actual one. It's like my childhood just disappeared there. And...it won't ever come back." I don't know if I'm hearing things, but his voice cracks at the last sentence.

My heart swells with sympathy, and I reach my hand out to place it on his arm. He meekly smiles, then jars me out of the heartfelt moment. "Whitney, what do you want to do for tonight's workout session?"

He's only ever asked me what I wanted to do a few times before, so I feel pressure to make the right choice. "How about boxing?"

"I have no problem with that."

He freezes at a sound coming from the outside.

The knock on the door sends us both dashing to different sides of the room. Axel tugs his hands through his hair and eyes me warily as he walks to the door. On the other side is Martina's trainer, Austin, glancing suggestively between the two of us.

"Axel, happy to see you've been busy working hard, man," he remarks sarcastically, nudging his arm. Axel shoots daggers at him with his eyes, yanking him to the side.

"You better shut the fuck up, Austin," he replies, but the smirk on Austin's face only grows wider. I realize when Axel starts laughing that they must be friends, or at least get along. Austin pats him on the back and walks in, not uttering a word to me.

"Come on, Whitney," Axel says, motioning me out the door. The distance we put between each other lessens the farther we walk, and I'm starting to believe I'm growing too attached to him in an experience that's only temporary.

***

Once I get back to the dorms, I quickly unlock the door of my room, wanting to throw myself onto my bed and just think. As I'm about to do so, I spot something on my side table: a folded note.

I groan as I pick it up, reading the contents.

This isn't so fun anymore. Maybe because you can never change the fact you're still a boyfriend-stealing bitch. - X

Boyfriend-stealing bitch. The phrase runs through my head many times before I finally put down the note.

Whose boyfriend did I steal? I've never really had one...

Except for Jonah.

But did he even count as a boyfriend? After all, he was more or less just a clingy mess I wanted nothing to do with. Who would've wasted their time on him?

I sit down on my bed and rub my temples, trying to process this all in my head. As I do, my eyes land on the door lock and something seems to light up in my head that I never realized before.

Whoever is leaving these notes in my room must have special access to it. Martina and I have always agreed to lock the door behind us whenever either of us leave, so who could know the passcode?

Now none of this is making sense.

The door opens and Martina comes in, her hair tied up in a bun and sweatpants on. She doesn't look so happy as she comes in and sits down on her bed.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She looks up with a frown. "Cramps."

"Oh," I answer, perfectly understanding. "Martina, can you look at this for a second?" I come over and sit down next to her, holding up the note.

"What's this?" she asks, looking at the writing. Her expression seems puzzled.

"Do you recognize the handwriting on this?" I question, hoping I can get somewhere with this question. She looks it up and down again.

"Not at all," she replies. "But I'll tell you one thing. Whoever is writing them is left-handed."

"Wait, how?" I ask, holding the note closer to my face.

"The slant of the writing," she replies. "My dad is a lefty so I can tell."

I nod, folding up the note and putting it in my bag.

All I can conclude is whoever is writing these needs on big slap of "Grow the hell up."