The instructor, whose name badge says “Janet,” claps her hands loudly. “Let’s go!”
I lunge for our assigned table, Gage close behind me.
Once there, Janet hands me a sheet of paper, which I reflexively take from her. “Please read that to the class,” she instructs.
Instantly, my heart pounds as my brain simultaneously short-circuits until my thoughts and movements are sluggish. I stare at the words typed on the paper, but they’re blurring in and out, like my eyes are focusing and then defocusing. I try to read the first couple of lines, but the words jumble as my brain stutters through them.
All of a sudden, I’m back in fourth grade, in ninth grade, in kids’ Sunday school at church, when the teacher goes around the room having each student take a turn reading part of the text out loud. I’d count how many classmates were ahead of me to see which paragraph would be mine, and then read it to myself over and over, looking for any words that might trip me up, until it was my turn.
I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is dry, and my tongue is like sandpaper. Even if I could talk, I’m not sure what I would say.
“I’ll read it.” Gage jumps forward, prying the paper out of my clenched fingers.
I sink back and lean against the wall as he reels off some stats about drowning, choking, and asthma attacks among children in Texas. I take a deep breath, and my head clears. Eventually my heart rate gets back to normal.
Being asked to read on the spot out loud to a room full of strangers is a top three nightmare scenario for me, right behind missing a critical goal in an important game and, well, unexpectedly coming face-to-face with Gage Carter.Today is really not my day. Good thing I’m not playing soccer later.
Gage finishes reading and passes the paper back to the instructor. She reminds the class of the basic steps of CPR, and with the attention off us, I catch Gage’s eye and mouth “Thank you.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment.
Before long, Janet directs us to practice CPR on the manikins. She starts her observations on the other end of the classroom, walking slowly from table to table and jumping in with corrections as needed.
I gesture to the dummy. “You want to go first?”
Gage eyes the bald head and half torso on the table in front of us. “Shouldn’t we give him a name and backstory first? I mean, what’s my motivation here?” He grins.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” After my mini freak-out over reading the paper, I don’t want to give anyone more reason to think I’m not smart or serious enough to be here.
“Let’s see. How about Stan da Manikin?” He snaps his fingers. “No, I know! Manikin Skywalker.”
I bite back a smile. “He definitely has the body for it, but I’m not sure we’re certified to treat lava burns.”
Gage snorts. “Come on, Olivia. If ever any of the kids gets the high ground over another, we need to know how to handle it.”
I shake my head, but I can’t keep a wide smile from taking over my face. Same old Gage. Too much charisma for his own good.
“I’ve always loved your smile,” Gage lets slip.
My smile drops, and I whip my head around to look at him. His pale-blue eyes widen as if he didn’t mean to admit that. He looks entirely too serious and entirely too delicious, with messy strands of his sandy blond hair sticking out from under his backward baseball cap, to be saying things like that.
“Gage,” I warn.
He shrugs, then turns his attention back to Manikin Skywalker. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
“Let’s focus on reviewing CPR.”
Janet bustles over to us at that moment. “How’s it going over here?” she asks.
Oh, you know, awkward, painful, bewildering. “Fine,” I answer.
We stay on task the rest of the class, hesitantly working around each other while avoiding unnecessary conversation or touching.
When the session is over, we have a break before dinner, so I duck out of the room before Gage can try to make more awkward conversation.
I walk to the main office and drive my car to the cabin that will be my home for the next three months. I open the trunk of the car and lug my duffel bag and rolling suitcase up the stairs of the front stoop and through the screen door. I dump my bags in the entryway and look around.
I’m not a cabin counselor, so rather than staying with a group of kids, my small cabin houses me and one other staff member. Each side of the cabin has a bunk bed and a small dresser. There’s no closet, but when I open the door on the back wall, I find a bathroom with a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a tiny shower stall hidden behind a dull green plastic curtain.
I haven’t met my roommate yet, but her side of the cabin tells me a little about her personality. A gorgeous blue-and-yellow quilt adorns the bottom bed of the bunk, with the top acting as a storage unit crammed with two large purple suitcases and a set of blank, shrink-wrapped painting canvases. On top of the dresser is an assortment of colorful paint containers, a mason jar with a dozen or so wooden paintbrush handles sticking out of it, and a sparkly pink shower caddy filled with bottles.
