Page 12 of Down and Dirty Celebrity Edition

“Catherine is beautiful,” Amy admitted, hating the prick of jealousy needling her chest. But why was she jealous in the first place? A few hours ago, she had disliked Savannah enough to hope she would quit the game and leave the island. What had changed? Or, more importantly, why was Amy so easily swayed?

She took a sip of her slushie, embraced the kick of the vodka, and turned to face the screen and watched the rest of the cabin scene in silence. By the time the credits finally rolled, Amy had gulped down three of those spiked slushies, eaten copious amounts of popcorn, and stashed a few Twizzlers in her bra for later.

“We should probably talk strategy,” Brenda said, stretching her arms above her head.

There were a few crumbs of cookie dough on her chin and a whole gathering of popcorn, which she promptly dusted off into the sand. “What do you ladies think about voting for Luna and Kate at the next Sending?”

Amy stood up so fast she swayed as the vodka caught up with her knees. For a second, it almost felt like she was going to fall. She even reached out a hand, but there was nothing to reach for. Then, out of nowhere, Savannah’s hand landed on her thigh. Her fingers were soft and warm. And yet they still managed to send a chill right up Amy’s spine.

“You alright?” Savannah asked, frowning up at her.

“Fine,” Amy replied quickly, stepping away. “Just got up too quickly.”

“So, what do you two think?” Brenda asked again, rolling off her pouf in what had to be the most ungraceful manner ever. She jumped to her feet and dusted sand off her knees before helping Avery up. “I think production left us a little clue by playing Orion’s Peak. Kate is a Hollywood legend, so she’s going to become popular fast. If we don’t get her out soon—”

“She’ll get us out,” Avery completed.

Vote off Kate? Amy couldn’t think of a worse idea.

But before Amy could counter with “Why not vote out Sloan, or Jade, or even Wyn,” Savannah said, “We’re in. At the next Sending, you’ll have our vote. Right, Amy?”

Amy stared at Savannah with an expression she couldn’t even describe. Panic? Shock? Horror? A combination of all of them. But could she really go against all three of them?

“Right,” she muttered so softly her lips barely moved. “Vote out Kate.”

Chapter Eight

Savannah couldn’t stop crying. The tears kept rolling, and although she wasn’t particularly sad or upset and her neck pain was at a manageable six out of ten, she couldn’t stop the waterworks. Some people were happy drunks. Others became aggressive or wildly over-affectionate. Somehow, Savannah had the misfortune of falling into the category of a weepy philosopher. It didn’t take much alcohol to affect her. Two cups of spiked slushie were enough to drag every bad memory back and play them on a loop in her mind.

She could see the cold, wind-whipped sand of Coopers Beach in the Hamptons, her little feet freezing in the frothy surf as Miles, her older brother, handed her a smooth stone to skip while he told her he was moving to London with their dad. Then she saw herself coughing through her first stolen cigarette at fourteen, the sticky velvet-lined booths of the basement clubs in the Meatpacking District, the dizzying blur of strobe lights at an illegal warehouse rave in Bushwick, the Chanel blazer her father sent her for her eighteenth birthday, which she’d ruined with spilled champagne on a rooftop in Bushwick. Then the haze of after-work parties as she climbed to senior culture editor at Rosewood Media Group. Then she saw the Range Rover barreling directly toward her, its headlights blinding her moments before the deafening crunch of metal. She saw the blinking heart monitor, the blur of faces rushing around her, and then the endless cascade of Instagram notifications lighting up her phone screen. Then there was the absolute madness of the fame that followed: first-class flights out of state for literature festivals, late-night talk show after-parties in Los Angeles where she drank top-shelf vodka with people whose names she forgot by morning. Finally, she saw Sheri, her ex-girlfriend, telling her she couldn’t be with someone who used words as a weapon.

A pathetic, watery hiccup escaped Savannah’s mouth. She sounded like a dying bird in the dead silence of camp. She froze and pressed her lips together so hard that her teeth bit her tongue.

To her left, Erica let out a rattling snore, which was followed by Brenda’s wheezing. Although Savannah was quite certain everyone was asleep, she was still desperate to stop the crying. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that might do it, but it only squeezed out two fresh, hot rivers down her cheeks. Ugh! Why was this happening? Why hadn’t she just stuck to the blue raspberry slushie?

Savannah suddenly felt desperate to escape, desperate enough to brave the darkness. Moving as quietly as possible, she crawled out of the front of the open lean-to and then bolted toward the sea. She took a sharp right, using the sound of the waves as guidance, and continued all the way until her knees hit the rock at the very far end of the beach where no one could hear her crying.

“Are you alright?” a voice asked suddenly behind her.

Savannah snapped her head back so fast she nearly toppled over, but thankfully the rocks pressing against her shins gave her just enough balance. She smacked her hand to her chest in case her heart jumped out of her ribcage. The last thing she had expected was a voice in the darkness. Especially Amy’s voice.

“Are you following me?” Savannah asked breathlessly.

“I thought you might need some help getting around,” Amy said. “If you’re looking for Moon Pit, you’ve gone the wrong way.”

“I’m not looking for Moon Pit,” Savannah replied, though she was quite certain that if she were, she wouldn’t find it. It was tricky enough to get to the small clearing hidden by the umbrella-shaped leaves of the embúaba trees in the daytime. With her night blindness, it would be entirely impossible to locate the place where everyone did their business in the dark. “I just couldn’t sleep.” She tried to sound dignified, but before she could stop it, a violent snort-sob ripped past her lips.

“Are you crying?” Amy asked. “What’s wr—”

“Of course not,” Savannah interrupted, scooting back onto the rock. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, her chin, and then her slobbery nose. “I’ve got allergies.” How could she explain that she wasn’t crying because something was wrong; she was crying because once upon a time something had gone wrong in her life and the far too many slushies had made her relive it?

“You’re night-blind and allergic to air,” Amy said. Then, without asking for permission, she sat down on the rock beside her. Savannah could feel the heat of her knee from half a foot away. “How many other medical conditions are you hiding?”

Savannah huffed.

Amy laughed, and the next second, Savannah felt a bump against her shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, my family line includes a long list of assholism. And alcoholism and basically anything with an -ism. We’re not night-blind, but we are blind to anything tasteful. My childhood house had wall-to-wall shag carpet. In mustard. Do you know how painful that is to look at? And don’t even let me get started on the sofa and the curtains. They were both the same hideous chintz pattern. I mean, who even likes cabbage roses?”

“We didn’t have curtains in my house,” Savannah said, because saying anything else, especially addressing Amy’s apparent familial issues, felt a little dangerous.