Page 80 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

Day Seven:

We barely survived filming mudskippers, Max almost got swallowed by the wetlands, and Mia now had blackmail material for years. I could still hear Joy’s dramatic narration in my head:

"And here, we see a jock, completely defeated by nature…"

Max was still grumbling about it by nightfall, muttering curses every time someone so much as mentioned mud.

That night, I snuck out with Ethan again. It was almost too natural now. We wandered through the quiet streets, sharing random thoughts, kicking pebbles like kids with no responsibilities.

It was… nice.

And then I saw it.

A flicker of light. A snap.

I turned, my heart pounding, but—nothing. Just empty darkness.

I told myself I imagined it, but I knew better.

Day Eight:

Our money situation was so bad that Joy suggested, “Maybe we should just eat grass, y’know, like the majestic herbivores we admire.”

Max deadpanned. “I will push you into a swamp.”

She grinned like that was exactly what she wanted.

We managed to find a decent meal (if you could call instant noodles “decent”—mine tasted like depression with a hint of artificial chicken) and pressed on with our documentary. More filming. More wildlife. More Max being attacked by nature in some shape or form—this time it was a squirrel that mistook his hoodie strings for twigs. Mia caught it on camera. Joy’s laugh echoed for miles.

Ethan, naturally, flirted with trees. Not metaphorically. He literally told a birch it had “divine bark structure.” Shun said nothing, just recorded the audio like a silent judge.

Night fell like a curtain on a bad stage play. The team drove to a temporary lodging—a sad, squeaky-floored motel that smelled vaguely like expired pine cleaner and broken dreams.

The room Ethan and I were assigned was small—two twin beds, one flickering ceiling light, and wallpaper that was definitely peeling out of spite. Ethan flopped on his bed dramatically, like a prince cursed to live among peasants.

“I call dibs on the hot water,” he announced.

I groaned, “okay, Mr. Clean.”

“It's not my fault you smell like a dead rat.”

I rolled my eyes and pretended to scroll through my notes, though really, I was watching him. Not in a creepy way—more like a scientific observation. He had this annoying habit of tossing his hair every few minutes, like he was in a shampoo commercial sponsored by chaos.

At some point, he fell asleep mid-rant about tree spirits or cheerleader ghosts (I wasn’t sure which—he switches topics likeTV channels). I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing his soft, uneven breathing.

And I didn’t mind.

Day Nine:

We only had one job.

Just one.

Film a rare bird species at sunrise. That was it. Get in, roll the camera, catch the majestic flapping of wings against golden light, and go home with enough footage to “wow” the judges and maybe, just maybe, put Paramount High on the map.

But no.

Instead?

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