Page 6 of Wild About You

I force a smile, blinking away the evidence of anything but badass resilience. “All good! Thank you! I should probably, ah—”

I gesture a bit maniacally, indicating the woods all around us, and she nods and backs away, offering a short “good luck” as she goes. It’s not the most enthusiastic delivery, but it’s still the nicest anyone’s been to me since Ethel with the hard candies. I should’ve checked her pack’s luggage tag so I can try to find myself its match and lock down a partner who didn’t seem to hate me on sight. As if I have any time to be choosy by now.

Frustration and my long-dormant competitive side, the latter of which I’ve tried to bury since it got me kicked out of intramural volleyball in high school for unsportsmanlike conduct, are what fuel me to keep looking for this damn pack. I pass three more people already heading toward the clearing with packs on their backs, and my hope sinks a little each time. But there are still others out here looking, which means there are still some to be found.

In the end, it isn’t the color of the backpack that gets my attention, but the sunlight glinting off a shiny metal zipper. I probably wouldn’t have seen it otherwise, as my brain was filtering the vicinity for “things that aren’t green.” This pack, which I pull from where it’s half hidden behind a mossy boulder, is a very similar shade of Emerald City to its surrounding landscape, and the victorious laugh I let out as I sling it across one shoulder sounds fittingly Elphaba, post-Wicked transformation.

“Defying Gravity” would be an appropriate theme song for the ordeal of me wrestling my new luggage onto my shoulders for the first time, but I eventually get the monstrosity settled without toppling over. I start an ambitious jog in the direction of all the voices, but quickly find that a speed-walk is as much as I can manage with a big-ass backpack. What am I trying to prove, anyway? I already got the goods, and there’s no reward for getting back to the clearing sooner.

When I emerge into the open space, all the Co-EdVenturers who already have their packs are milling around in a cluster, humming like a swarm of bees as they compare luggage tags.

“Red and green plaid?”

“Red and green plaid!”

Two new teammates hold their tags toward each other in one hand while high-fiving with the other. A shiver runs down my spine as it hits me that I’m about to find out who I’m sharing this experience with—who I’m going to have to count on to help me win the money.

I swing my pack around to my front and find the luggage tag looped through its top handle. One side is plain white, but when I flip it over, I let out a happy squeak. Dark purple background with lighter purple polka dots. This has to be a good omen, right?

Unless Enemi has a purple polka-dotted tag, in which case I might have to try my luck at running back into the woods for a new bag.

“Yes!” The excited shout draws my attention and I look over to find the nemesis herself jumping in place and fist bumping the muscular guy.

“Dream team,” he says back, and I feel my lip starting to curl up into something snarly before I force it back to a neutral line. Good luck to ’em.

I push farther toward the middle of the fray, which has grown by a couple more people since I returned.

“Anyone have purple polka dots?” I project in outdoor-performance-without-a-sound-system volume.

There are some murmurs in the negative as others call out their patterns, and I assume my partner hasn’t made it back yet. Not a great sign if they’re struggling with the very first challenge of the whole competition. But I can be patient and understanding, maybe pull more than my weight if I have to, especially if my teammate is on the nice side of hapless.

But when a voice emerges from just over my shoulder, it’s anything but nice, gruffly muttering, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Chapter Three

I whirl around to face Finn, whose eyes are trained on the luggage tag in my hands. Another quiet but definitely displeased rumble comes out as he lets his eyes fall closed.

“Did…did you just growl at me?” I ask with a disbelieving laugh as I set my free hand on my hip.

His expression stays stony as his eyes blink open. “We’re teammates.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from context clues and upset animal noises. Why is that such a problem for you?”

He sighs as if I’m the one acting like a nonverbal toddler here. “It’s not. I just…”

“Think girls have cooties,” I supply at the same time he says, “Don’t think we’re a good match.”

I nod in mock understanding. “Because of the cooties.”

Finn’s face somehow gets even more stern. “Come on, let’s be adults about this. You can’t tell me you think we’ll be compatible as teammates.”

Whatever fragile hope I had left—of pairing with a partner who’d become my friend, making this experience a departure from the series of letdowns in my life recently, having some fun—shatters in my chest. But just as quickly, I imagine sweeping away the broken pieces. Using them to construct something new and stronger, a wall of stubborn positivity. His bad attitude isn’t gonna be contagious.

“What I can tell you, Finn, is I don’t know you, and you sure as hell don’t know me. Some of us reserve judgment—or at least keep the growling to ourselves—until that’s no longer the case.”

No need for him to know my recent uncharitable thoughts about Enemi. But she was uncharitable to me first! What is with these people?

Finn runs a hand down his face and blows out a tired breath. “Right. Well, that’s that, then.”

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