The Theory of Second Best (Cake #2)

by J. Bengtsson

  My stomach rumbled as the boat bobbed like a cork on the choppy waves. I gripped my knees, trying to look calm and cool in the face of great distress. “One more shot,” the producer kept calling. I’d been hearing that for the past hour, and my insides were now rebelling. My clammy hands and tingling skin were signs of the inevitable: I was going to spew. I looked around in a panic, trying to determine the best vomit pose. What would look best on television? Bending over and barfing where I sat seemed easiest, but there was a cameraman directly below me. Maybe I should yack over the side of the boat. Could I even turn my body around in time? And most importantly, would my butt look big on camera?

  Oh god, this was like the ‘Notorious Zipper Incident’ all over again. The memory of that day had been burned into my psyche for eternity. I was thirteen-I knew better than to mess with the Zipper. No carnival ride turned my insides to mush quite like that one. But I gave into peer pressure. Tanner Crowell was there. And he was so cute. “It will be fun,” my friends urged. Why hadn’t I said no?

  My classmates and I filled all the cages, and then the vile ride started flipping and turning and jerking. I didn’t last more than 30 seconds before I violently began emptying my stomach, not only all over the unlucky girl sitting beside me but also onto every single cage spinning and twisting and whirling below me. Let’s just say by the time it was over, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I deservingly earned the nickname ‘Chunks,’ and spent the rest of middle school trying to live it down.

  And now I had a horrible feeling that this was about to become Zipper 2.0. Looking to my right, my eyes fell on an unbelievably polished, mocha-skinned beauty. A model? Or was she a pageant queen? In my panicked state, I couldn’t remember what she’d said earlier; however, instinctively I understood she would not appreciate my lunch being unceremoniously dumped onto her lap.

  I looked to my left. A scruffy, tattooed guy who reminded me of Shaggy from Scooby Doo sat blissfully unaware of the fate about to befall him. Perhaps sensing me staring, Shaggy looked over at me with a pleasant smile. His eyes met mine, and I saw the change in them immediately. His face formed into a mask of horror. He was smart enough to realize I wasn’t messing around and scrappy enough to try to save himself. Shaggy dove from his spot on the bench just as I tossed my cookies into his vacated seat. Like magic, every single person on my side of the boat disappeared. The vessel listed to one side, challenged by the weight of seventeen cast members desperately attempting to escape my gastric waterfall.

  In a display of great courage, a member of the medical team rushed to my side. He held my sweaty hair and rubbed my tense back as I got my body turned in the right direction and dry heaved over the side of the boat. When it was over, and I had successfully concluded my disgusting little sideshow, I glanced down morosely to take in the mess I’d made – only to discover crewmembers had mercifully already cleaned it up. My hopeful eyes continued along the boat until they reached poor Shaggy, who was being treated by medical for a cut on his arm, an injury he’d apparently acquired during his impressive escape. And finally, I remorsefully lifted my eyes to find a row of faces staring back at me in unabashed revulsion. Yep, definitely Zipper 2.0… only, this time, on a national scale. From somewhere on the back of the boat I heard a producer shout, “Cut.”

  TV Confessional

  “So…THAT just happened.”

  —Kenzie

  11

  Kyle: The Left Coast

  I watched the needle poke through my skin. What the hell just happened? One minute everything was fine; and the next, the backs of my legs and shoes were covered in vomit and I was getting three stitches to close up a cut on my arm! I glowered at the offending female, who was looking everywhere but in my direction. She’d appeared so sweet and innocent with those big blue eyes and delicate ivory skin, but that was right before she morphed into Linda Blair from The Exorcist and spewed green vomit from her guts.

  “Okay, so we’re just going to wrap this up and you’re good to go. We’ll keep an eye on it, and if you start to feel pain or swelling, let us know immediately,” the doctor said.

  “What about my shoes?” I complained, looking down at my brand new Nikes with chunks of god knows what embedded in the laces. I knew it was petty of me to care, but I did.

  “If that’s the worst you get on your shoes in 39 days, consider yourself lucky.”

  Instantly several unpleasant images flashed before my eyes. Was I in over my head here? And then a more agreeable picture popped into my mind: me rolling down some European interstate in a luxury tour bus, kicking back, playing guitar, and eating Cheetos.

  “You ready there, Kyle?” another staff member asked.

  I nodded.

  “We’ll just have you sit back down right over there.” And he pointed at the spot on the bench next to her!

  “Um…I’m not sitting back there.”

  “We cleaned it with bleach. I can assure you it’s safe,” one of the executive producers promised.

  “The seat’s not what I’m worried about,” I said, and tossed Puke Girl an accusatory look. Her head hung in shame.

  “We’ve already completed the majority of filming, so it’ll just take a couple more minutes. If you don’t go back to that spot, we’ll have to reshoot the entire bit.”

  Several of the other cast members shot irritated glances in my direction, as if I were being completely unreasonable in my request not to sit in a spot that, only moments earlier, had been covered in a glob of throw up. When did this all become my fault? I was the goddamn victim here, but somehow the offender had all the sympathy.

  The producer turned to the young woman and compassionately consoled her. “You all right there, sweetheart? You still feeling nauseous, or did you get it all out now?”

  Oh, I’m pretty sure she got it all out!

  “I’m better. I’m really sorry,” she apologized to the whole lot of us, still refusing eye contact with me. “I’m ready to continue now.”

  “Kyle?” The man motioned for me to return to my seat. Feeling that I had no other option, I begrudgingly took my place beside my tormentor.

  Thankfully, it only took twenty minutes to complete the filming, and then our boat was headed to shore. At one point, the remorseful girl leaned slightly over in my direction. Like a wuss, I flinched away. It would have been nice to remain calm, but I knew what she was capable of and was not about to give her the benefit of the doubt again.

  “Relax. You’re safe,” she said, regret clear in her voice.

  Flustered, I could think of no snappy reply so I just said, “Yeah, okay.”

  She turned away and we didn’t speak again.

  Marooned Rule #1

  The contestants are separated into two teams called ‘tribes.’ These two tribes live on separate, isolated beaches and will have limited contact with one another.

  All eighteen of us were ushered off the boat and onto dry land. Cameramen were everywhere. I glanced around at all the excited faces and wondered how long the euphoria would last. In a matter of days, our numbers would begin to dwindle, as we were picked off the show one by one.

  The producers split us up based on geography: East versus West. That meant, of course, that our team consisted of the free spirit (me, apparently), the actor, Miss Nevada, the vegan yoga instructor, the seven-foot-tall red-headed logger, the Silicon Valley tech nerd, the Division One college football coach, one braless lady, and – wait for it – the barfer.

  Glancing over at the East coast tribe, who were high-fiving their good fortune, it was easy to see that they had the brawns, what with their soldier, female bodybuilder, high-powered lawyer, and an assortment of other tough-looking people. Even their Harvard professor and male Broadway singer appeared more formidable than our weakest links.

  Aside from our very own Paul Bunyan, us left-coasters were like those frou-frou lap dogs that you’d see being carried around in a name-brand purse, while the East coasters were like badass Rottweilers, frothing at t
he mouth. It wasn’t difficult to determine who had the upper hand in this uneven match up.

  The two tribes were given maps to separate locations, and one look at the hand-drawn scribbling told me we were about to have a long, sweltering trek through the jungle to get to our beach. The nine of us took off through the labyrinth of tree limbs and dense bush, and in a matter of minutes, I was drenched in sweat, dying of thirst, and frantically swatting away Volkswagen-sized bugs. So far this really sucked! I was already missing my lazy, air-conditioned life.

  Almost immediately personalities began to take form, and straightaway, half the people on my tribe started rubbing me the wrong way. Maybe I was just cranky. Usually I had more patience dealing with idiots, but I’d had a rough day and wasn’t feeling real charitable. So when yoga lady commented for the twentieth time about the meditation sessions she planned to run on the beach every morning, I thought I might kick her in her perfectly toned shins.

  Worse still was the self-absorbed, unemployed actor, Bobby, who peeled off his shirt to reveal sparkling pecs, and then proceeded to outline every single workout he had done to get every single one of those muscles. He’d only traveled about halfway down his body when I glanced at puke girl… the poor, sweaty little thing. She was not taking this hike well. Her breathing was so labored that there was this wheezy whistle emitting from her nose, and her body was hanging dangerously low to the ground. I half expected her to start walking on all fours.

  She must have sensed me staring. Her mascara-smeared eyes met mine and she shook her head, obviously embarrassed by her Cro-Magnon man posture. I smiled at her sympathetically. What else could I do? She was a shit show. I couldn’t imagine her lasting more than a day out here.

  Bobby continued his nauseating monologue on weight lifting and protein powder. The cave dweller lifted her weary head. Somehow she found the strength to flick her eyes in Bobby’s direction, roll them dramatically, then put her finger in her mouth and – you guessed it – fake-barf. Surprised that she would go there so soon after actually going there made me laugh out loud. Who would have predicted that the knuckle dragger who’d blown chunks on me only an hour earlier would end up being the least offensive person on my tribe?

  TV Confessional

  “I mean, it’s not the first time a girl has thrown up on me.”

  —Kyle

  12

  Kenzie: The Island Of Misfit Toys

  I could not have felt sicker if I tried. The sticky heat had zapped me of the only energy I had left in my depleted body. Having purged all necessary nutrients in my earlier escapades, I was stumbling through the thick foliage, arms swinging limply in front of me, like a zombie from The Walking Dead. And if that weren’t bad enough, I’d come under heavy attack from the shivers. The fine little hairs on my arms and legs stood at attention. Sweat drizzled out of every pore in my body; in fact, I was convinced those little suckers had multiplied by the billions just for today. The quivers made my teeth knock together so violently that I feared they would crumble in my mouth. Oh, yeah, that would really complete the whole apocalyptic vibe I had going on.

  I purposefully avoided all eye contact with the other tribe members so as not to alert them to the fact that I was in a rapid state of decline. I needed water badly. I needed rest. What I did not need was for Shaggy to observe me doing the zombie shuffle or flash me that pathetic pity smile of his.

  I should be the one consoling him. Every time I looked in his direction, I felt a tightness in my chest. I wanted to properly apologize, but I wasn’t sure if he would allow me get close enough to do so. And I didn’t blame him one bit. He had three stitches in his arm because of me. I’d always had a weak stomach, but Shaggy was its first real casualty.

  I heard the rest of the tribe cheering, and I raised my weighty head to discover that I was trekking through the tropical forest alone. Using the carefree sounds the human people were making as a beacon, I gathered my last remaining strength and dragged myself across the finish line, literally collapsing in front of my indifferent teammates.

  So for the second time in a day, the medical team was called to my side. While everyone else was busily setting up camp, I was being treated for dehydration and heat exhaustion. The rest of my tribe mates had no doubt already written me off as dead, and really, who could blame them? My antics, up to this point, had not painted me in the best light. Kicking me out at the first opportunity would seem a no brainer. There was just no coming back from this humiliation.

  It took about an hour and a gallon of water, but I was finally starting to feel mortal again. My skin had returned to its natural sickly pale color, and my overactive sweat glands had decided to take a well-deserved rest. Although my stomach still hurt a bit, the helpful doctor assured me that my earlier violent vomiting spell was most likely the cause of that particular ailment. At least my abs had gotten a good workout.

  Once the medical team left, I sat in the shade a few minutes longer, gazing longingly out at the clear blue ocean and wondering what color it would turn once I dipped my rank body into it. But there was no time for that now. Somehow I had to turn around the worst first impression in the history of first impressions. I wasn’t sure if it was remotely possible, but I had to try. Not only would my embarrassment be complete if I were the first to go, but also I would miss out on a chance at the money. And if there was one thing worth fighting for, it was that.

  So I fixed my attention on the other players, trying to figure out the complex dynamics that had been rapidly evolving during the hour I’d been sprawled out in the throes of death. Clearly, the alpha players were already firmly in control of the camp, and I needed to get back on my feet and prove to them I wasn’t the puke-spewing death walker they’d all taken me for.

  I allowed myself the time to really observe the other eight players on my tribe. It became clear that a strong sub-group of five had already formed, and it had a leader in the form of Gene, a retired Division One football coach. He was boisterous and domineering, and for reasons I could not yet understand, the others had fallen in line behind him. I rubbed my temples as his voice penetrated my weakened immune system. Did no one else hear the man? Was I the only one who wanted to gag him with duct tape?

  Fingers snapped in front of my face. Startled, I blinked in rapid reply.

  “You all right there, girly?”

  It was the gray-haired lady with the long pigtails and denim overalls. I remembered my stunned reaction to seeing her for the first time. Her style was unique, to say the least. I’d always held the belief that at a certain age – like ten – pigtails and overalls were a fashion no-no. But then what did I know? I lived in a place where a Walmart twenty miles away was the main clothing source for young and old. Maybe her farmer look was all the rage in the big cities, and I just hadn’t gotten the memo. Still, she was the first person to show even the slightest concern for me, and I was grateful.

  “Yes, I’m feeling so much better,” I said, forcing a healthy, happy smile.

  “Oh… well, good for you,” she replied, with clear disappointment in her voice. She then patted my shoulder and walked away. Okay. So much for concern!

  My eyes caught the giant of a man, Carl. I remembered him quite vividly from the boat ride. He wasn’t one of those forgettable types. The man had to be pushing seven feet tall, and his close-cropped ginger hair was offset by thousands of tiny freckles. This was a person who you didn’t just glance at if you saw him out in public, you stopped and stared – maybe even took a covert picture as he passed by. And it wasn’t just his exceptional height that set him apart but his impossibly broad shoulders. If you slapped some green paint on the guy, he could totally pass for the Hulk.

  And what I could tell from first impressions, Carl even had the temperament of the green-hued monster. He was impatient and gruff and seemed exceedingly annoyed with Gene, who had taken to micromanaging the lodging project. I could understand his annoyance. Carl seemed to be the only one who had a clue how to build a shelter, and
yet, he was still forced to take direction from a loudmouth who probably hadn’t built a thing in his entire life.

  Knowing my love for people watching, I could see myself becoming overly invested in Carl. He was just that enjoyable to observe. The guy had that whole Grumpy Cat face going on. I wondered if, much like the cat, there might be a sweet center beneath his cantankerous surface.

  I had no such illusions about Gene. He was transparent in his dealings with others. There was no furry little kitty living inside Gene. He ate loser fluff-balls for breakfast. This was the stereotypical man’s man who spoke in sports metaphors and called females ‘little ladies.’ Gene, with his silver hair, blue eyes, and a stunning golden tan, was in his early sixties and in impeccable shape. Certainly he had run circles around me today, and I was forty years younger.

  We were informed several times by the man himself how successful he had been in his coaching career. And from what I gathered, Gene really, really liked winning. I mean, I was rather fond of it myself, but it wasn’t the main focus of my life. In the few hours I’d spent with Gene, winning was all he’d talked about. So important was that character trait to the man that he diligently began building his team of winners the minute we hit the beach. Carl, of course, was at the top of his list. And Summer came in a close second.

  What to say about the yoga instructor? Summer appeared to be in her early forties, but possessed the most rockin’ bod on the island. And I knew that because the minute she stepped foot on the beach she stripped down to the barely legal limit, and every male eyeball bulged in admiration. I imagined the editors would have a field day with her screen time. No doubt little black boxes would be blocking out Summer’s sensitive bits on television sets across America.

  In addition, I felt it would be a travesty not to mention Summer’s noteworthy backside. I’d never been one to admire other women’s booties, but Summer’s was just that spot on! Perky, rounded, and impossibly toned, I’d venture a bet that she didn’t carry an ounce of cellulite on that impressive rump.