The Holdout

by Laurel Osterkamp

  There were several other cast members on my flight, but we were escorted by a Holdout representative and instructed not to talk to each other. When we landed in Kalibo International Airport our luggage was scooped up and we were ushered into a van without delay. I wish travelling was always so efficient.

  Now I’m sitting in a docked boat with my castmates and all we’re allowed to do is eye each other up and down. I’m trying to look both useful and non-threatening while I drink my bottled water and eat the chewy beef jerky that the crew provided for us. It’s the last chance for food and the first chance for strategy, and turning down either would be like sacrificing sleep just to gain weight.

  A shiny black limo pulls up. Out of it emerges Joe Pine, the host of The Holdout. He’s wearing a blue safari shirt and khaki pants, and a red baseball cap covers his dark, movie-star type hair. My head swims and I grab the armrest of my seat to steady myself; maybe it’s leftover vertigo from the flight or new vertigo from the boat swaying, or perhaps I’m just star-struck. Joe confers with the cameramen, and their voices pool with ambient sounds from the dock. It strikes me that he looks smaller in real life, like a punter who is suddenly diminished when he stands next to a linebacker.

  Moments later we take off. Soon we’re clipping along, cutting through waves and rocking back and forth, while the wind is rushing past and blowing my hair into my eyes. I pretend like I ride on speedboats with camera crews every day, but already I doubt myself. They told me to wear green, so I have on a green t-shirt, cotton leggings, and a grayish green zip-up hoodie sweatshirt. My swimsuit is of course underneath my clothes, but looking around I see most of the young women are wearing skimpier outfits than mine, showing a lot of leg and even more cleavage.

  I’ve watched every episode of The Holdout in its eight seasons, and it doesn’t seem like winners ever get ahead simply by using sex appeal. And no matter what I use, I have to be smart in how I use it.

  Joe Pine gets a signal from a bearded guy standing in the back. Is that the director? Before I can figure it out, Joe grins at the camera and it’s the sort of smile you could snag your sweater on. No wonder he’s on television; even the air around him confirms that he’s smooth at being smooth. Then he speaks.

  “These sixteen castaways have not yet spoken to each other. They do not know each other at all. But over the next thirty-nine days they will be forced to work together, live together, and survive together, as they determine who will become the ultimate holdout.”

  Joe looks away from the camera, shifting his gaze to the sixteen of us sitting here on the boat as we get wet from the rough, lapping waves. “Castaways, it is time to separate into tribes. If you are wearing red, you are in the Tapang tribe. If you’re wearing green you are a member of the Lakas tribe.”

  I look around for the other seven people wearing green. Among them are a beautiful Hispanic girl wearing a tight miniskirt and a cardigan over a bikini top; a seventyish looking man sporting a buzz cut and a stern expression; a solid looking woman with frizzy, blondish hair; a guy in his forties who’s wearing a straw fedora; and a lean yet muscular hottie with a mop of short, dark curls and eyes like freshly-brewed espresso.

  The cute dark-haired guy meets my gaze and gives me a shy smile, the sort that seems to say, “Can you believe this?” I smile back, as if to say, “Hell, no.” It is the first conversation I have with anyone here, if you can count it as one. No matter. I’ll be talking to him soon.

  Joe signals to the two rafts that are hitched to either side of the boat.

  “Castaways, you and the rest of your tribe will have three minutes to board your raft and procure any of the provisions we have for you on this boat.” He gestures towards the back, where tarps, baskets of food, tools, and other survival gear are sitting out. “You are not allowed to move or talk until I say, and at that time, your three minutes will have begun. After the three minutes are over, anything that isn’t on your raft will be left behind.”

  The guy with dark curls meets my eyes again, and silently and subtly he gestures towards the snorkeling gear with his head. I see it, and I give him a tiny nod in response. The snorkeling gear was what I was going to go for anyway.

  “Castaways ready, and go!” Joe Pine shouts, and we’re all up like a shot. This could be the most decisive moment of the game. The supplies I score will help feed and protect myself and my tribe, and it’s also a chance to be the cool, capable person that always gets picked first for teams. I’m not the only one who thinks so. We’re all like anxious children who have been let out for recess, instantly hunting for the fiercest set of monkey bars or the highest slide. The pushiest kids are going to win, and in the frantic, crazy noise, we all want to be at the top of the food chain.

  Which is why I push away a skinny, nerdy-looking guy dressed in red. He’s got to be on the other tribe, so he’s my enemy. He lands on his butt, and under normal circumstances I would apologize, extend my hand, and help him up. But crap. I play to win.

  I lunge towards the snorkeling gear and the tarp that he was about to take, and I hop over him and towards the edge of the boat, realizing that stress feels like wet plastic. I jump into the ocean, and my treasures want to slide out of my grasp when they become slick with water.

  I swim towards our raft like I’m a River dancer, ridiculously gesticulating in the ocean without my arms. When I get to the raft I hurl everything onto it, making sure the gear and the tarp are in the center where they won’t easily slip off. Then I do the crawl stroke back to the boat and hoist myself up. I start grabbing whatever is in my range, whether it’s a lantern or a cooking pot. I throw them overboard towards my fellow Lakas tribemates who are still in the water. This is more difficult than you would think, because salt water is stinging my eyes and it’s hard to see, but I can still identify the other members of my tribe. I just hope the stuff I jettison over doesn’t hit any of them in the head.

  The thirtyish woman and the old military guy know what to do without being told; they catch whatever I launch at them, put it on our raft, and then come back for more. But the younger people seem kind of lost, like they don’t know whether they should be swimming or climbing. Meanwhile, my new dark-haired friend has taken hold of our raft, and is making sure nothing gets stolen or falls off into the sea.

  “Over here!” and “Hurry, come on!” He yells to anyone dressed in green, somehow becoming the leader of our tribe.

  Way too soon, Joe warns us that our time is almost up, so I dive back in and climb aboard our raft. The dark-haired guy offers me his hand and helps me up.

  “Good job on the snorkeling gear. I had a feeling you’d come through.” He smiles at me again, and his eyes crinkle in this way that makes me want to trust him. “I’m Grant,” he says.

  Our hands are still clasped, so I squeeze and shake. “Robin,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Grant.”

  §

  “We have to be careful about who we align ourselves with.” The next day Grant is walking ahead of me. He lifts a low-lying branch and holds it up as I pass underneath. The result is that for a moment we are standing very close to each other. He doesn’t even smell bad. We’ve been out here for more than thirty-six hours, and after sweating through the building of our fort, the clearing of camp, the first immunity challenge and the pursuit of fire, you’d think he’d be a little ripe. But no. Unless I stink so bad I can no longer smell anyone else’s stench, he’s fine.

  “Who do you suggest?” I ask.

  He pulls his eyebrows together in concentration. “I think we should establish a tight alliance of four with people who need us more than we need them. I say we go with Bailey and Beth.”

  Conrad Bailey is in his seventies and he used to be a Merchant Marine. Beth is in her late thirties and she works in a middle school cafeteria. They’re both hard workers but they did little to secure our win in the first immunity challenge. Part one was physical, with lots of running and climbing, and Grant and the younger tribe members were the best at that.

/>   The second part of the challenge was about putting together a puzzle. All my hours spent practicing at home, timing myself doing the Rubik’s cube and word scrambles paid off, and I was able to step up and lead my tribe to our first victory.

  “Are you sure?” I ask Grant. “There are other strong players.”

  “We don’t want someone who is too strong,” Grant explains. We continue to walk and search for our clean water source. We’d found it yesterday, but I’ve already lost my bearings. I wasn’t prepared for how thirsty I’d be. I feel like I swallowed a carpet sample.

  Grant continues. “We don’t want to be up against anyone who is too likeable in the finals. And if we align with someone who could win a lot of individual immunity challenges at the end, we could also really get screwed.”

  A sudden rustling startles me, and I panic, thinking a tribemate has followed us. But it’s just the camera guy. I’ve already gotten so used to being followed by him that I barely notice his presence.

  I hitch up my leggings, which are grubby and damp and falling off me. I can’t have lost a lot of weight yet, unless it’s water weight. I’m only wearing the pants to keep my legs from getting scraped and bitten, but I’m starting to wish I had left them back at camp.

  “So you think Bailey and Beth are the best to go to the finals with?”

  “They’re likeable, but not too likeable. We can depend on them. They both have good work ethics. But in the end, we could beat them.”

  I stop, and once he realizes I’m no longer walking, Grant stops too. The camera guy has got to be thrilled; we're giving him the perfect angle from which to film us.

  “We can’t beat them, Grant. Only one person can win.”

  He laughs, and his teddy-bear eyes crinkle around the edges. “Well, yes,” he says. “Of course. But we can take each other to the final two and then let the jury decide.”

  I rub my fingers together and knot them up into little balls while I look off in the distance, away from the camera and away from Grant. Should I trust this guy?

  He’s the sort of guy you meet in a coffee shop while you’re standing in line for a skim latte. He’s standing behind you, his hair still damp from his morning shower, and the scent of his shampoo mixes perfectly with the coffee smell that lingers in the air. He accidentally bumps into you when you get your drink, causing you to spill and stain your new cream-colored coat and he feels so bad that he offers to pay your dry cleaning. He also insists upon taking you out for dinner at the newest, swankiest restaurant where only big names can get a reservation on such short notice. While there, over wine and under mood lights, he confesses all his insecurities. You quickly fall in love.

  No, wait. That sort of thing only exists in romance novels. I have absolutely no reason to trust this guy.

  “Do you think I’m really weak?”

  Grant’s eyes widen in surprise, and he does a double take. “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Then why do you want to be sitting next to me in the final two?”

  “I don’t!” he says. “I…I just mean,” he stammers and runs a hand through his thick hair. I can’t help but appreciate the sight of his bicep and well-developed chest when his arm is at such an angle. “I have to find someone to trust out here, right? You seem like the best choice. You’re obviously smart and you’ll be good at the challenges. If the jury picks you over me, so be it. But I plan to align myself with someone strong.”

  I squint at him. Is he for real?

  Right now my power of reasoning is about as strong as it was during those late night cast parties from my college years. God knows I made some bad decisions when I was sleep-deprived and strung out from adrenaline, chips, and cheap beer. But going home with the hot but unavailable stage manager is nothing compared to the monumental missteps I could make out here, when a million dollars is on the line and millions of potential eyes are on me.

  Now I’m thirsty, hungry, and I feel like I slept on a bed of rocks, probably because last night I did. I don’t want to be this season’s empty-headed blonde, naïve and near-sighted. I can only imagine what the viewing audience will think of Grant, but if he’s half as appealing on screen, packaged into good-looking sound bites, as he is in unedited real life, then he’ll be this season’s fan favorite.

  Without making a conscious decision, I’m extending my hand to Grant.

  “Fine,” I say. “But if you lie to me, you’re going to pay.”

  He shakes my hand, and his grasp is warm and dry. It is the first thing I’ve touched all day that hasn’t been damp.

  “I know.” He smiles at me again, and he lets go of my grip, slowly, like he wishes he could hang on. His gaze drops down and follows my hand, falling to my side. Then he looks up at me, and I feel myself breathing, each inhale and exhale, a little more vividly than I had a moment ago. “I won’t screw you over, Robin.” He’s whispering now, and he steps in, just a little bit closer. “We’re in this together, okay?”

  I nod and try to calm my racing pulse. Then off in the distance, I see it. The water source.

  “Oh, thank God!” I say. And I rush to go take a drink.

  “Who let the fire go out?” Joel, a lawyer in his forties, yells this to nobody and everybody. “I leave to go fishing and when I come back, the fire is out!” His face reddens and I see a vein popping out of his neck.

  Joel fixes his gaze on Klemi (short for Klementina), who is basking in the sun, wearing nothing but a tiny string bikini that shows every curve and possible inch of her skin to its best advantage.

  “Were you on fire duty?” He demands.

  She barely raises an eye. “Last time I checked it was going strong.” Her Puerto Rican accent makes everything she says sound like a line from a Rita Moreno movie.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not ‘going strong’ now.” Joel uses air quotes to emphasize his point. His voice is like Alan Alda’s, so everything he says sounds like a line from Mash. “It’s out. What are we going to do?”

  “Well…” Klemi puts her index finger to her chin, and tilts in her head in a way that’s obviously meant to be mocking. “We could restart it?”

  Joel kicks at the half-burnt firewood, swears under his breath, and storms off. Klemi laughs, rolls her eyes, and returns to sunbathing. I continue to scrub the pot we used for breakfast and say nothing.

  But inside me a knot unravels.

  Our tribe suffered its first defeat today at the immunity challenge and now one of us has to go. Klemi’s neglect at letting the fire go out simply fans the flame for her expulsion.

  I’m not going to cry about it. Klemi is only happy when she’s putting someone else down. You would think she and I would be friends, since we’re tribemates, female, and close to the same age. But Klemi claims that all the “female bullshit” is too much for her and she can only get along with guys. I look over and see that she’s basking in the sun, a self-serving smile plastered to her face, and I imagine what her expression will be when she gets voted out tonight.

  So yeah. I could have saved the fire from going out but I chose not to so Klemi would get blamed. Now the dead flames and smoldering wood smell like victory. I put my bowl down and walk to the beach, where Beth is gathering driftwood.

  “Can I join you?” I ask.

  She nods, and her hair, now more bleached and damaged from the sun than it was when she arrived, blows in the wind. Beth more than anyone has lost noticeable weight in the ten days we’ve been here. Eating a diet of rice and the occasional fish will do that to you.

  I pick up some sticks and inch closer to Beth. “We need to talk,” I say.

  “Has Bailey or Grant said anything?” Beth asks.

  “Not yet. There hasn’t been a good time.” I look around, and when I’m sure the only extra pair of ears belongs to the cameraman, I say, “I think we should vote out Klemi. She’s weak in the challenges, and until we get to the merge we need all the muscle we can get.”

  “I’m fine with that,” says Beth. “That girl is
lazy as shit. Good riddance, I say.”

  I intentionally give Beth my best unintentional smile. The hardest part of being out here is all the self-monitoring I have to do, like I’ve become my own parole sergeant. I have to stay safe and safety comes from always playing to the middle. Work hard, but not so hard that the slackers around camp resent you. Be good in the challenges, but not so good that you’ll be perceived as a threat. Be nice, but not so nice that you’re popular enough to win, because that’s the quickest way to get voted out. And if the stress from being pulled in a million different directions makes your head explode, pretend to be fine.

  My degree in theater gave me practice at pretending, though acting on a college stage is a million miles from this island I’m on. There aren’t any costumes or curtain calls out here, and if someone tells me to break a leg, it’s during a challenge and it means they hope to see bone sticking out from my skin. But I’m still playing a role, and when I see the cameras I remember to be sort of likable, uncontroversial, and never brash.

  I grab another piece of wood, the last I can possibly hold, and head back to camp. “I’ll tell Grant and Bailey that it’s Klemi tonight,” I say to Beth. “I’m sure Joel will be on board too.”

  But on our way to Island Assembly, Grant walks up to me, his unlit torch wavering slightly in his grasp. “It’s got to be Joel,” he whispers.

  “I thought we agreed on Klemi,” I whisper back.

  “I know. But Joel is more of a threat.”

  I look up at him, maintaining my pace as we walk. “Should we be worried about that before the merge? We need Joel for the challenges.”

  Grant looks both ways. We’re at the back of the line, and quickly, before anyone can see, he places his free hand on my shoulder. “I know. You’re right, I know. But Bailey wants Joel out, and the merge is coming soon. Don’t worry. The four of us are tight, and we’ll have plenty of time to vote out Klemi.”

  “Why does Bailey want Joel out?”

  Grant’s eyes twinkle in amusement. “He doesn’t like him. You should have heard the expletives he used. Bailey thinks Joel is gay because of the straw fedora he wears.”