The Art of Being Alone (Together)

08 | This Means War

After our plan played out perfectly, Lizzie and I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing in the lake, basking in our success. We talked more about what our lives are like outside of camp, and I have to admit, I'm glad I pushed my plan of isolation aside and decided to spend more time with her. The two of us are obviously a good team, judging from what we accomplished today.

By dinnertime, the entire camp knew about the incident. And thanks to the fact that teenagers love to dramatize, most people seem to think that Rita actually ate a worm. From the sounds of it, her perfect persona is crumbling, and fast.

Even now, sitting by the campfire and toasting marshmallows for s'mores, I can hear the distant murmurs recalling her scream of disgust, or recanting how an entire table had to take showers after lunch just to get the pizza sauce out of their hair.

As for the worms, I was relieved to hear they were fine-- one landed on a table occupied by some younger campers, and the other was spotted on the floor with a piece of pepperoni. Thanks to the fact that no one else knows there were only two worms, a lot of people seem to think a third-- or part of a third-- is currently digesting in Rita's stomach.

I know I'm not about to correct anyone, and Lizzie doesn't seem too concerned about the misinformation either. 

In fact, it seems like the only thing she's concerned about right now is locating Zack. Her eyes scan the beach, searching the groups of faces lit by the fires. The sun is set, and the chilled breeze from the lake has everyone huddling around the warm flames. Lizzie's so distracted she doesn't even notice as the marshmallow at the end of her stick goes from brown to black.

I reach out, moving her stick away from the flames and getting her attention-- her eyes widen when she finally notices the overcooked blob. 

"Looking for someone?" I ask in a way that tells her I already know the answer.

She smiles, blushing as she slides the inedible marshmallow onto her paper plate, reaching into a nearby bag for a new one.

"It's a good thing you're better at sewing than you are at making s'mores," a male voice says from my right side. I turn my head, then freeze as I watch Ethan sit down on the log next to ours.

Okay, wow. As if he didn't look good enough in his stained kitchen apron, he somehow looks even better in jeans and a T-shirt. My brain is basically reduced to the heart-eyed emoji, so I'm thankful that Lizzie picks up the conversation.

"Ha-ha," she enunciates sarcastically as he takes the last bite of the s'more in his hand. "I guess if I want a job here next year you can rest assured I won't be in the kitchen with you. This is my friend Delena," she introduces, nudging me with her elbow.

I give a small smile, awkwardly raising my hand in greeting. I've never really been shy, or the type of person to fumble over their words around a crush, but as Ethan smiles back at me, I feel lucky that I even remember how basic human interaction works.

"Delena..." He nods, finishing chewing. "You know, judging from your choice in pizza toppings, you won't be working in the kitchen anytime soon either."

My eyes go wide, and I feel Lizzie stiffen next to me. He saw?

Ethan laughs, putting up his hands innocently. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."

I feel my shoulders relax as Lizzie lets out a long breath.

"Thanks, Ethan," she says. "I promise she deserved it."

"I don't find that hard to believe." He mumbles, a small smile toying at the edges of his lips as he reaches for a marshmallow. "Just try not to take things to far, you know? I'm not one to stand in the way of revenge, but it's your last year here-- you should enjoy it."