My fellow trainees stand in an uneven circle, some laughing and others looking disgruntled, like they'd rather be in a six-hour math class than here. My mouth expands into a wide yawn, as there's nothing I want to do besides curl up under a tree and take a long nap.

It's mid-afternoon on Sunday, and it's the day of the first team challenge. Our hard work should be paying off right now, but I feel more drained than ever.

I look up from the small mound of dirt just under my white sneakers to find Axel off in the corner, leaning against the back of the central building next to Austin. Their chuckles practically float all the way over to me, making me realize Martina was right that they're friends. He turns his head and sees me looking at him. He gazes at me for a few seconds and then gives me a nod of assurance with a whispered something before leaving.

Good luck?

Martina runs up to me and taps my shoulder, a wide smile on her face.

"Why are you so happy?" I ask with a laugh.

"Because we get to compete in groups now, which will make our fuck-ups less noticeable. Plus, you're in my group, so that makes it better."

Cindy jogs with another young woman towards us, clad in bright green workout clothes that probably glow in the dark. "Hello everyone, and welcome to your first team challenge!" she exclaims, as peppy as ever. "I know you may not all know each other as best as you wish, but these challenges are designed for you to learn how to work together and compete for yourself."

A wave of chatter runs through the girls, and a couple race to the front, as if that will earn them more points—or any points at all.

The other girl steps forward. "Some of you may already know me as Isla, but if not, hello guys." We all smile and nod, but Natalie appears unamused. She must be the blue-haired trainer, although the style is less garish than I thought. "For the first half of the challenge, we'll start with a basic half-mile run. We hope that you've had plenty of time to sharpen your running skills this week, but if not, just remember there's no pot of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow, so try to have fun—if you can."

Cindy continues. "We'll follow the same route as last time, only now we've divided the road into four lanes. To change things up, team D is up first!"

Grumbles and groans sound throughout our group, but I remain quiet. I have no qualms about running, considering the marathon I ran this week with Axel. I am worried about the rest of this competition, especially if it involves rope climbing. I have to convince Axel to take me back again some day.

"On your marks, get set, go!" Cindy calls, clicking the button on her stopwatch.

We dash from the starting point, each zeroed in on the road ahead of us. I cruise in front of the other three girls in my team, confidence only slashed by a steadily creeping Willow, presence right by my shoulders. She strides ahead of me with her long, lean legs. Gritting my teeth, I press forward, finding the strength to close the gap and bolt past her. She whips her head to the side in shock.

My lead lasts only a few seconds, once again cut short by Willow, but some supernormal strength soon builds in my legs, absent whenever Axel and I run. I use it to overtake her by several feet, not even looking back once.

For the next leg of the race, I enjoy my solitude, even staring off at the greenery while I run. But right as I can eye the finish line, my legs start cramping, impeding my inhuman speed. Willow takes my fall from glory as the perfect chance to beat me once again.

Fucking bitch, I seethe in my head, as I cross the finish line ten seconds later.

Our eyes lock when I can stand up straight, despite my nearly collapsing lungs.

"You're good at this, Whitney," she murmurs before walking away to get some water.

A compliment from her? What a stark contrast to her words last year, spoken on behalf of her cult following.

"Guys, maybe if Whitney stopped eating everything offered in the cafeteria, she could actually run. Have fun making last place in gym class today! We're rooting for you, Whit!"

Footsteps digging into the dirt, I stomp over to Martina, where we wait for the next team to finish their mile.

"Are you okay?" she asks, eyeing my frown.

"Never been better."

For the next challenge, we're led across the campgrounds to a place that seems somewhat familiar. Then, I realize it is familiar—the same hill responsible for my sore legs a couple days ago.

"For this challenge, you will take this," Isla explains, holding up a thick, coiled gray rope, about six feet long. "You will hold one end, and your partner will carry the other while you climb up this hill. If you let go of the rope, or have only one teammate carry it, you will have to start over. Who wants to go first?"

Expressions of dread laced with fear mark the faces of the other girls. For once, I don't bear the same worries.

"We will," I say. I raise my hand and then point to Willow's.

Her mouth drops, expression reading are you crazy?

I step up to Isla and grab the rope, my arm sagging from the weight. "Your end," I tell Willow, and she yanks it from my hands. We venture to the bottom of the hill, the muscles in our arms already straining from rope, as heavy as a small child.

"Why would you ever suggest going first?" Willow grumbles, more to herself, as we take our first step up the hill.

"Maybe because I wanted you to root for me again," I bite back, eyes narrowing as I finish, "like you always did in gym class."

Her small pink lips flatten, but she says nothing. Funny how words escape her now, but I guess she's a little weaker without her brainless freshmen and sophomore worshippers on standby.

We trek up the hill in silence, taking turns heaving burdened breaths. Climbing a hill alone is one thing, but with a burdensome rope and someone you would prefer not to be in a six-foot radius of makes it a whole other story.

"I don't think—" Willow says, pausing to contain herself, "I don't think this was what I signed up for."

I don't know why you signed up in the first place, I want to say, waiting on her to continue.

She pales, eyes dancing in circles as she eyes the top of the hill. Another step almost sends her headfirst into the grass, legs shaking like Jell-O.

"Wait, are you okay?" I ask, tone softening. I close the gap between us and slide my hand to the middle of the rope, taking some of the weight off her. "Can you continue?"

Willow glances up, rubbing her forehead, and nods. "Yeah, I'll be fine," she murmurs. "Let's just finish."

With that, we clench the rope and race to the top, not making eye contact again.

***

I wake up the next morning to a soreness radiating up my right arm. I lean back in bed and stare at the ceiling, my face scrunching up in disappointment as I semi-recall yesterday. After that stiff team challenge with Willow, I didn't see her until dinner, when Natalie snuck away from our table mid dinner to go join her, Adriana, and Joanna, a seemingly unwelcoming trio.

Nevertheless, they greeted her with open arms, sharing a smirk only someone stalking them as closely as I was could see.

"I just want to hide under here until dinner," Martina complains, rolling over in bed to see me at the dresser brushing my hair. "How the hell are you so awake?"

"It's all this spite," I joke, zipping my makeup bag open. She arches a brow, and I add the necessary phrase, "Just kidding."

Sort of.

I notice something under my small bottle of lotion: another mysterious note. Ignoring the serious invasion of my privacy, I pick it up and read it, trying to shield the writing from Martina.

You may think you're the queen of this camp, but remember, I was royalty before you took my crown. - X.

"Martina, did you leave a note here?" I ask, my heart skipping a beat.

"No, why?" She walks over to me and stares at my clenched fist. "Did you find something?"

"It's nothing," I murmur, realizing she may be the wrong person to go to first.

***

My flip flops make an annoying clacking noise as I storm across the grass, obliterating any attempt to conceal my whereabouts. I'm not sure if I care because one, the last thing I want to wear are sneakers, and two, see reason number one.

Where could she be? I mull over this question as I hurry across the camp, chomping on the piece of mint gum in my mouth. I head back to the dorms and run into one girl, whose name I believe is Alina, standing in the hallway on her phone.

"This may sound weird, but I'm looking for someone," I say, placing a hand on the wall beside her.

"Who?" she asks, shutting her phone off.

"Her name starts with an M, I think. Kind of tall with fiery red hair, might be holding a coffee—"

"Oh, you mean Miranda," she says. I nod, glad I made it to the right place. "She's my roommate and a real pain in the butt to live with. If you need to talk to her, be my guest; our room is right in front of us."

"Thank you," I say, and Alina smiles and walks away, looking back at her phone screen.

I push open the door warily, not knowing what to expect. From the small opening, I find one half of the room pristine, with a freshly made bed and spotless ground, and the other an utter mess. It's not much of a feat to guess whose side is the latter.

Miranda doesn't even notice me when I walk in, the loud music blaring through her headphones and the bottle of Coke in her hands enough to keep her busy. My stomach rumbles when I stare at the large chicken salad sandwich in her hands, too appetizing to have been made in this hell camp's kitchen.

All I've eaten this past week are protein smoothies, salads, chicken, brown rice, and lots of fruit. Surprisingly, the nutritious diet hasn't been so bad, as my household has always been the organic type anyway, but I'm used to plentiful portions and plenty of snacks, not flavorless bird food.

"Hey!" Groaning when she doesn't answer, I stalk to the edge of her bed and tap on her headphones, making her head to snap up in my direction and the sandwich fly out of her hands onto her white bedsheets.

I can't tell if I feel worse for her bed or her lunch.

"I need to talk to you, and apparently your headphones make you deaf to the world."

"That's kind of the whole point of them. And why do you need to talk to me? Discover this camp is full of bitches yet?"

"You could say." I hold up the two notes, bringing them a few inches away from her face, so she can see the terrible chicken scratch.

"What do I have to do with a bunch of folded lined paper?" Miranda asks, standing up and brushing the crumbs off of her green shirt.

"You're telling me you know nothing about the stalkerish notes that have popped up in my room this past week?"

She just laughs, a deep throaty noise. "You really think that while I'm spending another summer in this hellhole, I'm going to waste my time sending petty stalker notes to you of all people?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" I mutter.

"Nothing," she says, "but I also have nothing to do with those. So, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do."

Like what, eat junk food and annoy your roommate?

I sigh and try to appease her. "I guess you're right, but hear me out, Miranda. I found this note inside my personal makeup bag. Isn't that a little concerning?"

Her face goes blank. "No, because whoever wrote them is as dumb as you are to believe they're even threatening."

"Well I'm sorry I don't believe this is a laughing matter. I only came here because of your warning, anyway."

"The same stupid workouts, the same disgusting food, and some of the biggest bitches you'll ever find. You decide which will break you first."

She understands my concern at last and sighs. "Look, whoever wrote these notes obviously got some inspiration from one of the lame shows on TV. So, you can eliminate anyone smart enough from your list of prospective antagonists."

"Great, so that eliminates me," I remark, uncharacteristically vain.

"That's the spirit," Miranda says with a smirk. "Let me look at a note, at least."

I unfold the second one and hand it to her with caution. She looks it over for a few seconds and then cracks up.

"The writing is ridiculous. Who wrote this, a five-year-old?"

"Exactly," I mumble, snatching it back before she has any further ideas. "I'm just gonna go, because this is pointless. But thanks anyway." I head to the door, dodging a dirty pair of socks and a few crumpled tissues.

"Whitney, wait," she says, holding a hand up into the air, "I can at least tell you who I don't think is behind these."

"Who?" I ask, letting go of her door handle.

"Willow." She gives me nothing else and blasts her music again, tuning me out.

Infuriated, I storm outside, feeling no closer to finding out who is behind these notes. Part of my mind says to stop worrying and forget about it, but the other is screaming at me to dig deeper. I stop in my tracks and stare down the signature: X.

The one person I can think of here with the letter X in their name is Axel. But that doesn't make any sense. Why would a twenty-one-year-old guy be writing notes using the petty language teenage girls use when mad at one another?

It can't be him, and apparently, it's not Willow either.

After a few more distracted steps, my musing seems to manifest in human form.

"What the—" Willow says as she tries to pull herself up from the hard grass.

My notes and phone fall to the ground in front of me at the impact, and I hurry to collect them. I look up into her gray-hazel eyes, and I feel like I'm transported back to my sophomore year, only this time she doesn't steal my phone.

I hurried down the winding hallways between classes, trying to avoid the Luddite hall monitor, who would have surely confiscated my phone or reported me to my even crankier homeroom teacher. At least, I was texting for a semi-righteous purpose: to distract Mina from her pain, out sick with the stomach flu for the past week.

My heart almost popped out of my chest, thinking I ran into my doom. In a way I had, because Willow Gerard materialized before me, Gucci sunglasses and tacky handbag in tow. Both our iPhones landed on the tiled floor in the collision, and we reached for them at the same time.

"Oh, you want this?" she asked, holding up both her black-and-white cased phone and my bright blue one. I nodded and reached my hand out to snatch it from hers. She hid it in behind her back. "Hm, not yet."

To my utter horror and that of the pesky hall monitor—who decided not to interfere the one time it was actually called for—Willow scrolled through my phone, having picked it up while the screen was still on.

"Willow, give it back," I demanded, using my words first. My fingers were itching to sock her in the eye, curling into a fist by my side. "Come on, it's not funny."

The edges of her thin lips curled up into a smirk, devilish eyes twinkling. "Ooh, maybe it is. Were you really texting Mina about William King? Wait, let me see." With zero shame, she scrolled further back up our texts, her deep burgundy nails clacking against my screen. "Oh my god, you were. A senior, Whitney? Come on, you can barely get any of the sophomore class to like you—aim a little lower."

By then, a small crowd had assembled around Willow, consisting of Naomi, a freshman who worshipped the ground Willow walked on; her boyfriend of the month, Carter, a senior himself; and a few of Mina's teammates.

"Come on, Willow, knock it off," Carter urged, stepping in between us. "You're invading her privacy, which is pretty low, even for you."

"Yeah, plus has Whitney ever done anything to you?" Naomi chimed in. "It's not like she was the one who spread around your nudes last year."

Willow whirled around, eyes turning to fire. "Shut the fuck up, Naomi—you weren't even here last year."

If she was anyone else, the tears forming in the corners of my eyes would have started flowing, but I held them back and swallowed that hard lump in my throat. Carter handed me my phone and offered me an apology on his depraved girlfriend's behalf, but I snatched the device from his hands and turned away.

"You can all fuck off."

I parted the sea of people that kept coming and ran to my next class, reminding myself I could cry it all out at home, as always.

"Whitney, Whitney, are you okay?" Willow asks, interrupting my flashback.

I look down, remembering that the grass isn't tiled and the notes in my hands aren't my school textbooks. My phone still lies untouched, too.

But the girl in front of me is the same person—or so I believe.