Last Family Standing

by Jennifer AlLee

  If we hadn’t been expressly instructed not to interact with them, I’d ask one of the camera dudes for directions. They’ve got to be as tired of walking in circles as the rest of us. But other than a grunt now and then, they’ve kept their feelings to themselves.

  Bob is examining the map, holding it up at shoulder level, his eyes darting back and forth between it and the vegetation. He squints, turns the map ninety degrees, and grunts. “Ah, there we go.”

  “You had it turned the wrong way?” Marcy, a fiftyish woman with super-short, bleached blond hair, sun-dried skin and muscle tone that speaks of a lifetime in the gym, tries to grab the map from him. “Let someone else take charge, you moron.”

  “Don’t talk to my dad that way.”

  Bob’s daughter, whose name I didn’t catch, waves a finger in Marcy’s face, only to have Marcy’s twin sister—the equally buff, equally blond Maxie—join the fight.

  “Who do you think you are, pointing your finger in her face?”

  I should do something, but what? The last thing this argument needs is more people getting involved.

  Jessica doesn’t feel the same way. She steps forward, her palms up in a friendly gesture of neutrality. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m hot and tired and I just want to get to camp and work on shelter before the sun completely vanishes.”

  It’s the most I’ve heard her say since meeting on the beach. Her voice is deeper than mine, but that just makes her sound confident and soothing. I’d follow her anywhere, and it looks like the others are considering the same thing.

  She smiles at Bob. “Would you consider giving someone else a shot with the map?”

  He looks like he’s trying to decide which is more important: defending his honor or finding our camp area before we all pass out. Thankfully, his honor loses. “Sure. But how do you know anyone else will do better?”

  Jessica faces the rest of the group. “Were any of you ever a Scout?”

  One man and two women raise their hands. Jessica carefully removes the map from Bob’s fingers and hands it over to them. “Why don’t you three work on this together?”

  As our Scouts examine the map, Jessica wanders a few feet away from the nucleus of the group and leans against a tree. I walk over and stand beside her.

  “That was impressive.”

  She crosses her arms and shrugs. “Somebody had to do something.”

  “Jessica, I—”

  “Jess. Nobody calls me Jessica. It’s Jess.”

  If I’d been in her life all these years, I’d know that. But I don’t, which makes me a nobody. I get it. At least she’s inviting me to call her by her preferred name. Maybe one day, I’ll move my way up and become a somebody.

  “We’ve got it!” One of the female Scouts calls out. “It’s this way.” She points in the opposite direction than how we’d been going, then the three of them take the lead.

  One of the twins mutters, “Let’s hope this one knows what she’s doing.”

  “Amen,” the other twin mutters back.

  Bob and his daughter glare at them.

  I smile at Jess, hoping to share a laugh with her, but her face is devoid of emotion. She shifts her canvas bag to the other shoulder and trudges past me.

  This is going to be the longest thirty days of my life.

  13

  As it turns out, it’s much easier to follow a map when it’s turned the right direction and you determine where north is. Our three former Scouts must all have earned merit badges in cartography, because twenty minutes later, we arrive at our destination.

  Eight identical crates are scattered around the clearing. Off to one side is a wooden pole with a flag bearing the LFS logo whipping in the wind. In the middle of the pole is a spike with a battered metal bucket hanging from it.

  Bob, most likely hoping to make up for his map blunder and do something useful, peers into the bucket and pulls out a scroll. “We have pail mail.”

  This is no great surprise, as every episode shows someone, at some point, going to the bucket to retrieve the “pail mail.” It’s the non-tech island version of texting. We all gather around as Bob pulls the end of the twine bow, unrolls the paper, and reads out loud.

  “Congratulations. You’ve reached your new home and completed your first challenge.”

  Bob pauses for a smattering of half-hearted applause.

  “But don’t get comfortable now. There are eight crates in your camp, one for each team, containing identical items. Will you work together or will you look out for your own team and no one else? The choice is up to you.”

  Nobody says anything. Bob rolls the paper back up and drops it in the bucket. As far as I’m concerned, working together sounds like the smartest thing to do. We can build a stronger, bigger shelter, and build it faster, if we all pitch in. And then I can take off these terrible, still damp, still sandy shoes, and we can all get some sleep.

  Emboldened by Jess’s earlier intervention, I speak up. “I think we should work together.”

  “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Maxie has her hands on her hips and is staring me down. “I can just see it now. Half of us will end up doing all the work, and the rest of you get to take advantage of it.”

  “No. That’s not what I had in mind at all.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s what would happen.” Marcy jerks her head toward the crates. “My sister and I will fend for ourselves.”

  “Us too.” Bob and his daughter pick a crate and drag it under a tree.

  Trevor, one of the Scouts, pulls his wife away. “Come on, before all the good spots are taken.”

  Another male/female team walks away, leaving Jess, myself, and six others.

  My shoulders drop in defeat. “That was a dismal failure.”

  “Not necessarily.” A tall, African American man who could have stepped out of a modeling portfolio, looks over his shoulder at the teams struggling to open their crates. “I think you may have just separated the troublemakers from the team players.”

  I hope he means what I think he means. “Do you want to work together?”

  “Sure. Look at us. We’re like a UN delegation. Let’s set a good example for the world.”

  Now that he mentions it, we are a diverse group. Between the eight of us, we represent the African American, Asian, Hispanic, and Caucasian communities. The song “Jesus Loves the Little Children” pops up in my head, but I refrain from singing, mainly because, as well-meaning as it is, some people might find it offensive. “Red and yellow, black and white” . . . nobody really has skin in any of those colors.

  We quickly agree to join forces and drag the remaining four crates into a lopsided semicircle. I turn to ask a question and find my face inches away from the unblinking eye of a camera. The crew has been so quiet, I forgot they were there, which is a dangerous thing. If I don’t want to come off like a total idiot, I have to remember that everything I say and do is being recorded, and any of it could appear on television. Trying very hard not to commit the cardinal sin of the island—acknowledging the man behind the camera—I turn away and join Jess at our crate.

  As we get to work cutting bamboo, the eight of us introduce ourselves and share some personal information. There’s Sal, whose full name is Guillermo Salvador, but as he says, “Hardly anyone can get Guillermo right. It’s just easier to go by Sal.” He’s playing with his daughter, Gracie. She’s about the same age as Jess, and has an inviting, bubbly personality. Her long, silky black hair hangs free down her back, and my fingers itch to braid it for her before it becomes a mess of snarls and tangles.

  Evelyn Cho, the Scout who took the lead and finally got us to camp, is a widow in her fifties. Her sister, Jasmine Goldstein, is ten years younger and lives with her stockbroker husband in Upper Manhattan. “He’s Jewish and I’m Buddhist,” Jasmine jokes. “When people ask about our kids, we tell them they’re Jewdists!”

  And finally, there’s Malcolm Carter, the man who put our little band together. “I had n
o desire to be on this show, but Layla begged me. I even tried to bribe her out of it. Told her that she could either have a car for her twenty-first birthday, or she could write my name down on the application and see what happened. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Got me out of buying a car, and the chance of us being picked was miniscule. Guess the joke was on me.”

  Layla grins as him. “Dad just forgot what he’s always telling me: have faith. Good thing I had enough faith for both of us.”

  “Oh, I had faith, all right. My faith was just leaning in the other direction.” He winks at his daughter and picks up a palm frond. “We’re going to need more of these once we get to the roof. Why don’t you go gather some?”

  “Sure. Hey, Jess.” She bounces over to Jess, who’s taken the one-pound bags of beans and rice from each of our crates and combined them in one. “Come help me hunt for palms.”

  A hesitant smile creeps onto her lips. “Okay.”

  It’s a surreal moment, watching my newfound daughter with her newfound friend, each carrying a machete as they stroll into the jungle. I might be worried if I didn’t recognize the cameraman following right behind them. From the stocky build and unruly hair, I’m fairly sure that’s Bruce.

  Malcolm laughs. “I wouldn’t admit this to her, but I actually was praying that we’d be chosen.”

  “So you really did want to be on the show?”

  “Oh no, I really didn’t. But I knew how much it meant to Layla. If we’d gotten a no, she would have been crushed.” He moves over to the pile of bamboo logs and looks for the right size to add to our structure’s floor. “It’s just one of those sacrifices a parent makes for his child. But then you know all about that.”

  I stare after him as he walks off to find more vines, or whatever it is he’s using to lash bamboo together. What did he mean by that? Was he serious or was he being sarcastic? Should I be touched or offended? Before I can spend any more time tying my emotions in knots, Sal calls us into a group huddle.

  “Evelyn was just saying our shelter should be up off the ground.”

  “Because of the rain,” Evelyn interjects. “When it rains, and it will rain a lot, we don’t want our floor to be submerged.”

  Sal nods. “I agree.”

  Gracie looks from her dad to the shelter currently in progress. “It’s a great idea, but how do we get it off the ground?”

  “We need to cut more bamboo.” Evelyn’s suggestion is met with a groan from her sister.

  “I can’t chop anymore.” Jasmine holds up her right hand. “I have a blister.”

  Evelyn snorts. “You’ll have a lot more than blisters if you have to sit in water for days on end.”

  Gracie points toward the horizon. “We don’t have much daylight left. There isn’t time to cut more bamboo and raise the shelter.”

  “I think there’s another way.” I’m almost afraid to mention it, because it might be really stupid. Then again, it could save us a lot of time. “What about the crates?”

  We all turn and look at the crates together, and I wait for someone to laugh.

  “That’s perfect,” Sal says. “Four crates, four corners of the shelter. Let’s get to it.”

  “Should we wait for the others to get back?” Jasmine looks in the direction that Layla, Jess, and Malcolm went.

  I shake my head. “Gracie was right. We need to finish this quick. We’re not changing anything about the structure, just getting it off the ground.” Then I look over at the other four teams, the ones who have already finished their individual shelters. Some look sturdier than others, but each and every one of them sits squarely on the beach. “Do you think we should tell them?”

  Sal shakes his head. “No point. One crate won’t do them any good. Besides, they all chose to go it on their own. Now they’ll see if they made the right choice.”

  Without another word, we get to work. I take the beans and rice out of the crate Jess just put them in, and pile them on the stack of crate lids. Malcolm had mentioned something about trying to make a table from them. That’s an even better idea now.

  Evelyn, Sal, Gracie, and I each take a corner of the almost complete floor and lift it up. Then Jasmine maneuvers the empty crates underneath. Even though it’s made of bamboo, which is lighter than other types of wood, it doesn’t take long for the floor to get heavy.

  “Uh, Jasmine, do you think you could hurry?” Sweat rolls down the side of my face and into my ear.

  “I want to get these positioned right.”

  “This is no time to worry about feng shui,” Evelyn growls. “Just get them under there.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jasmine putters for another minute, then backs away. “Set it down. Gently.”

  We do, and then we step back and hold our breaths, as if any sudden movement might make the floor disintegrate. But it holds its shape. And we finally breathe.

  “What are you doing?” Malcolm’s voice booms as he trudges toward us, dragging a long bamboo pole beneath each arm, and a bunch of vines hanging around his neck.

  Uh oh. Layla and Jess are behind him, arms loaded with palm fronds. They don’t look any happier than Malcolm sounds. I stop breathing again.

  Sal takes over and explains what we did and why we did it. Malcolm lets the bamboo fall to the ground, then he squats beside the raised floor and looks beneath it. When he stands, he’s smiling.

  “That’s the way to do it. Good job, everybody. Now let’s get this thing finished.”

  As Jess walks past me with her load of ceiling fronds, she gives me a smile just slightly larger than the Mona Lisa look she usually sports. “Good thinking using the crates.”

  My ability to breathe is restored. “Thanks.”

  I want to run after her and strike up a conversation, but I hold myself back. There will be plenty of time to talk. Right now, we’re working together to complete something. Malcolm’s words come back to me, about how important the game is to Layla, which makes it important to him. It’s the same with Jess. Not only did she choose to play this game, she chose to play it with me. There’s no way I’m going to let her down.

  In the meantime, I’m actually enjoying myself. As the shelter takes shape, my sense of accomplishment grows. Finally, we’re done. And it’s beautiful.

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” Jasmine shakes her head.

  Evelyn pokes her in the shoulder. “You won’t think that when it keeps you dry tonight.”

  Gracie doesn’t look convinced. “Do you really think we’ll all fit in there?”

  “Sure we will,” Jess says. “Like eight cozy sardines.”

  “That’s another thing you’ll be thankful for,” Evelyn says. “Once the sun goes down, so does the temperature. The close quarters will keep you warmer.”

  Not once while we were building the shelter had I stopped to think about actually using it. Of course we would all cram in there to sleep. But who would sleep where? What would we use for pillows or blankets? There were several useful items in each crate—a machete, bags of rice and beans, a canteen, a cooking pot—but no bedding of any kind.

  Before I can bring up my concern, Bob walks up. “Nice shelter,” he says.

  From the look on his face, it’s obvious he wants something, but really doesn’t want to ask for it. His daughter bounds up beside him.

  “Can we borrow a machete?”

  Oh, now they want to share. I bite my tongue to keep from saying all the sarcastic thoughts struggling to be set free.

  “There should be a machete in your crate,” Sal says. “Why do you need to borrow one?”

  The daughter rolls her eyes. “Dad broke it.”

  “What?” Malcolm crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward slightly. “Those things are nearly indestructible. How did you manage to break it?”

  Bob really doesn’t want to share. But finally, he says, “Trying to open a coconut.”

  “It was a rock.”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  “I think
I know the difference between a rock and a coconut. It was a rock.”

  “Tracy!”

  More eye rolling from Tracy. “Whatever. Tarzan here broke the machete and you guys have, like, four of them. We just need to borrow one.”

  Bob glares at his daughter, but doesn’t call her on her rude behavior. The dynamic between those two is seriously messed up. Not that I have room to judge parent/child interactions.

  Malcolm and Sal look at each other, apparently deciding that since they’re men, they’re also in charge of any tools we may have. After some silent communication, they turn to Bob and say together, “No.”

  “Dude, seriously?” Tracy’s voice is a high-pitched whine. “We’ll give it back.”

  Evelyn cocks her head. “In how many pieces?”

  Tracy looks like she still wants to argue, but her dad cuts her off. “Don’t waste your breath. They won’t help us.”

  They start to walk away, but then Bob stops and spins around. “You think you’re a happy little team right now, all working together. But only one family can win this. Sooner or later, you’re all gonna turn on each other. Wait and see.”

  Jasmine bristles as we watch him stomp off. “Ooh, I’d like to loan him my machete, right in his—”

  “Down, girl,” Evelyn says. “He’s just trying to psych us out. Ignore him.”

  Easier said than done. As we return to work, getting things ready for our first night on the island, the atmosphere of happy camaraderie is gone. In its place is a strained quiet, and I’m pretty sure we’re all thinking the same thing. Even if we stay strong and work together to beat the other four teams, eventually, we’ll have to compete against each other. The closer we become now, the harder it will be when it’s every man and woman for themselves.

  Jess is collecting rocks to put around the fire pit that Sal and Gracie are digging. I haven’t even spent twenty-four hours with these people, and the idea of turning on them already makes me nauseated. But Jess is my main concern. I came here for her, and I want to win this for her.