Page 9 of Hawaii Can Suck It

My chest tightens. This is my real content. Not the manufactured, pre-planned bullshit waiting in that crystal-covered cathedral. Here’s Mama, who sees her Parkinson’s diagnosis as just another act in her ongoing performance of life. And Mom, our family rock, who cheers us on with genuine enthusiasm, no matter what.

Every view, every like, every viral moment—they all started because of one trembling hand and a stack of medical bills that were taller than the Washington monument.

When I was fifteen, I found a beat-up camera at a yard sale. Ten bucks and a prayer. I started filming increasingly wild stunts—anything to make people click, share, subscribe. That first viral video—me backflipping off the garage roof into a baby pool of Jell-O—paid for four months of Mama’s medications. The second covered half a year of physical therapy. By the tenth trending video, we could afford the specialist Mom had been researching.

And my best friend Blaze has been my rock through everything—the good times, the bad times, and even thelet’s car surf in LA trafficfiasco that had Mom Hawk threatening military school.

His phone buzzes. “Aw, dang. G-Thorne’s callin’. Best man stuff, probably, like… folding napkins or, I dunno, holding the rings.” He moonwalks toward the door—shouldn’t work, totally does. Because he’s Blaze and he’s never given a single fuck about looking cool.

For a brief, beautiful moment, everything feels normal. No trending hashtags. No analytics. No Gordon breathing down my neck about engagement metrics. Just my wonderfully weird family, my goofball best friend, and Cam…

But as soon as Blaze leaves, anxiety and impending doom creep back in. I do what I always do when I need a distraction—antagonize Camila Morales. Because watching her transform from sunshine to sass is like mainlining dopamine—better than any energy drink.

I lean against the long dining table in the middle of the room, its polished surface reflecting the scattered DareFuel cans and DareWear clothing. Cam is crouched nearby, digging through her cargos, probably searching for a backup battery.

She’s muttering in Spanish—a melody of frustration directed at her equipment. Or maybe me. Hopefully me.

“Hand over the camera, Morales,” I say, letting my voice carry the slightest edge of a challenge. “I want to check your footage.”

“What’s wrong, Dare? Don’t trust my artistic vision? And here I thought we had something special.”

“Your artistic vision gave me three double chins in last week’s thumbnail.”

“That wasn’t the camera angle.” She grins, completely unfazed by my scowl. “That was yourCam’s doing everything wrongface. You know, the face you’re making right now?”

Christ, her smile should come with a background check and a waiting period. It’s like staring directly into the sun—brilliant and probably causes permanent damage.

“The footage, Morales.”

Cam clutches her precious Sony as if I’ve asked to juggle her firstborn. “This is the new A7S IV. It has a different setup.”

“I’ve been filming for a decade. I can handle pressing play.”

“You haven’t touched a camera in two years,” she says but surrenders it anyway.

I fumble with the buttons, each click making my jaw clench tighter. The screen menu might as well be quantum physics. My fingers, which used to dance across camera controls as if they were extensions of my body, feel clumsy and foreign.

“Having trouble there, boss?” Cam says, eyes dancing with glee.

“Where’s the fucking playback?”

“¡Ay, Dios! Watching you right now is like watching a grandpa discover Instagram filters.” Cam’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. She steps closer, coconut-scented hair brushing my arm as she reaches for the controls. “Time for Film School 101. And don’t worry, I’ll use small words.”

She leans in, her fingers lightly touching mine, and my heart sings.

“This magical circle thing? It’s called a control wheel. Con-trol-wheel.”

“You’re supposed to be my videographer, not a one-woman comedy show.”

“And yet, I’m excelling at both,” she replies, her grin unapologetic.

“Well played, Camila!” Mama says.

“Way to give it to him,” Mom adds.

I give them both a betrayed expression. “Seriously? You’re taking her side?”

“Sweetheart,” Mom says, “anyone who can make you this delightfully flustered deserves our full support.”

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