The sun over Lake Wawanakwa wasn't just shining; it was punishing. It beat down on the twenty-two teenagers huddled at the edge of a jagged limestone cliff that Chris McLean—with his usual disregard for the Geneva Convention—claimed was a three-hundred-meter drop.
Noah stood at the very back of the pack, his arms crossed tightly over his red vest. He wasn't shaking like DJ, and he wasn't vibrating with misplaced adrenaline like Tyler. He was simply staring at the back of Chris's head, mentally drafting a lawsuit that would strip the host of every hair-gel-related asset he owned.
"Three hundred meters," Noah muttered, loud enough for Gwen to hear. "Mathematically speaking, at this height, the surface tension of the water is roughly equivalent to landing on a paved parking lot. If we miss that bójaring, we aren't 'campers' anymore. We're just human-flavored strawberry jam."
"Thanks for the pep talk, Schemer," Gwen shot back, though her grip on her own elbows tightened.
"Don't mention it. I've already calculated the wind resistance. If you want to survive, I suggest falling in a vacuum. Since Chris failed to provide one, I suppose we'll just have to rely on the 'freshwater man-eating sharks' to break our fall."
The Killer Bass were up first. Chris stood there, glowing with the malevolent joy of a man who knew his insurance policy was ironclad.
Bridgette was the first to step up. She looked at the water, looked at the sharks, and with a surprisingly calm breath, leaped. She sliced through the air like a pro, hitting the center of the safe zone.
"One point for the Bass!" Chris shouted.
Next was Tyler. He warmed up by shadow-boxing the air, screaming "EXTREME!" at the top of his lungs. He leaped with enough confidence to fuel a small jet, only to realize mid-air that his trajectory was horribly flawed. He hit a buoy face-first with a wet smack that echoed off the cliff walls.
"Ouch," Noah deadpanned from the sidelines. "I'm no dentist, but I'm fairly certain Tyler's incisors are now a permanent part of that plastic bójaring. That's one way to leave a mark on the game."
Geoff, Eva, and Duncan followed in quick succession. They jumped with the grit of people who had spent their lives jumping off things they shouldn't have. Duncan even managed to look bored while falling, which Noah found impressively pretentious.
But then, the momentum died. DJ, a mountain of muscle who could probably bench-press a small car, was paralyzed.
"I can't do it, man! I'm fear to heights!" DJ wailed.
"Heights aren't a pollen, DJ!" Courtney snapped, her hands on her hips. "Get down there! We need the points!"
Despite the badgering, DJ took the Walk of Shame to the escalator, forced to wear a humiliating plush chicken hat.
"Look at that," Noah whispered to Owen. "Seven feet of pure brawn defeated by a slight change in altitude. The chicken hat is really the most honest thing he's worn all day."
Then came Harold. He stepped to the edge, adjusted his glasses, and leaped. He didn't hit a shark, and he didn't hit a buoy. He hit the water perfectly flat on his "kiwis." The high-pitched shriek that followed was so loud it actually made a nearby seagull fall out of the sky.
"That sound," Noah remarked, "was the collective resignation of Harold's future descendants. They've officially opted out of existence."
Ezekiel was the wildcard. To everyone else, he was just a homeschooled kid who didn't know how to talk to girls. But as Zeke stood at the edge, his eyes weren't on the sharks.
They were on the horizon. He had spent the last three days memorizing every single comma and semicolon in the 200-page participation contract. He knew about the hidden perks. He knew about the resort.
Idiots, Ezekiel thought. They're fighting for a wooden shack with splinters. I'm going to the spa.
Zeke "tripped" over a stray branch. It looked like a clumsy, pathetic fall. But he spun mid-air with a precision that would have made an Olympic diver weep, slicing into the water without a single splash.
"Look at that luck," Noah sighed. "He trips over his own ignorance and somehow lands like a pro. The universe truly protects the dim-witted."
Courtney refused to jump, citing a "legal and medical safety concern."
"I'm a C.I.T.!" she screamed as she took the chicken hat. "I know my rights!"
"Your rights don't include a marshmallow, honey," Noah muttered.
The Gophers were even more dramatic. Heather and Lindsay spent ten minutes arguing that the salt water would ruin their hair and skin.
"My contract says I have to be filmed, not drowned!" Heather barked.
Leshawna had reached her limit. Without a word, she grabbed Heather by the waist and chucked her off the cliff like a sack of garbage.
"Watching Heather's dignity fall at 9.8 meters per second squared is the only thing that's made me smile since I got off that boat," Noah said, actually cracking a tiny grin.
Lindsay, Gwen, Cody, and Izzy followed.
Justin jumped, and even though he missed the target, the sharks were so dazzled by his bone structure that they actually formed a raft and carried him gently to the beach.
"Even the wildlife is shallow on this island," Noah groaned. "It's statistically depressing."
Finally, it was Noah's turn. He didn't scream. He didn't pray. He just checked the wind, adjusted his red vest, and stepped off. He hit the water with mathematical efficiency, surfacing with his hair barely out of place.
"Sixty-two percent survival rate," Noah said, wiping his face as he reached the shore. "Still better than a conversation with Tyler."
Then came Owen. The cliff groaned as he leaped. When he hit the water, it wasn't a splash—it was a tectonic shift. A literal tsunami swept across the lake, tossing Noah and Trent fifty feet back onto the sand like pieces of driftwood.
"Great," Noah coughed, spitting out a small perch. "Owen displaced the entire ecosystem. I think the lake is now five inches shallower, and I've got a fish in my shoe."
Because Owen's massive displacement counted as a "hit," the Gophers won the crates and the carts. Noah spent the afternoon sitting on a crate while the others pulled, watching the Killer Bass struggle with their heavy boxes.
"Look at them," Noah remarked to Trent. "The Bass are hauling the weight of their own failures. And look—Katie and Sadie just disappeared into the woods because they couldn't find a 'proper' restroom. I give them ten minutes before they encounter something that bites."
True to his word, the BFFFLs returned thirty minutes later, scratching their backsides with a ferocity that suggested they had sat in a hive of angry bees.
"Poison ivy," Bridgette diagnosed, wincing.
"I call it poetic justice for the constant squealing," Noah said. "And look at Courtney. A beetle bit her right in the eye. Now she looks like a pirate, which is fitting because she's trying to hijack the entire team's will to live."
Back at camp, the hot tub challenge began. The Gophers were surprisingly organized. Trent provided the rhythm, Gwen provided the logic, and Noah provided the "supervision" (which mostly involved him leaning against a tree telling everyone they were doing it wrong).
Heather approached Leshawna with a fake, plastic smile. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. Let's just be friends for the sake of the team."
Noah leaned over to Cody. "That apology is about as sincere as Chris McLean's interest in our well-being. She's not making a friend; she's just marking a target for later."
The Bass tub, meanwhile, was a disaster.
Courtney was barking orders at Duncan, who was more interested in carving skulls into the wood than sealing the leaks. Geoff was trying to turn the crate into a bar, and Tyler kept dropping his hammer on his own toes.
"Their tub looks like a 'Before' picture in a DIY disaster magazine," Noah noted as the sun began to set. "If the challenge was to build a leaky birdhouse for giant idiots, they'd be winning."
When the Gophers' tub actually held water and the Bass's tub collapsed into a pile of damp splinters, the first elimination was set.
At the bonfire, the atmosphere was thick with woodsmoke and regret. Noah sat in the winner's gallery, watching the Bass squirm. He watched Ezekiel—the supposed farm-boy—start a speech so blatantly sexist and backwards that it felt like a scripted performance.
"I just don't think the girls can do as much as the guys," Zeke said, deadpan.
Eva looked like she was going to rip Ezekiel's head off and use it as a bowling ball. Bridgette and Leshawna (from the Gopher side) were equally appalled.
"He's digging his own grave," Noah whispered. "And look—now he's picking his nose. On national television. He's not just a social pariah; he's a health hazard. He's basically begging to be kicked off."
Chris held up the final marshmallow. "The last one goes to... Courtney!"
Ezekiel stood up. He looked "sad," but as he walked toward the Dock of Shame, Noah noticed something. Zeke wasn't shaking. He wasn't crying. He walked with the steady pace of a man who had just completed a very successful business transaction.
"Wait a minute," Noah muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Why is he smiling at the Boat of Losers?"
Later that night, the Gophers were celebrating in their functional hot tub. The water was warm, the mood was high, and Owen was trying to see how many marshmallows he could fit in his mouth.
Noah sat on the very edge of the tub, his feet dangling but his body staying dry. He didn't do "communal water."
Suddenly, Izzy scrambled over to him. She didn't walk; she sort of rolled and tumbled, her orange hair a mess of twigs and lake water. She leaned in close to Noah, her eyes wide and darting around like she was dodging invisible flies.
"Psst! Hey! Brainy! You think you're so smart with your little books and your 'math'!" Izzy hissed, giggling manically.
"I don't just 'think' it, Izzy. It's a documented fact," Noah replied, trying to move away from her damp, erratic energy.
"Wrong! You're a big fat loser-face!" Izzy shrieked, then immediately lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You didn't read the back, did you? The flippy-floppy part of the paper! The part that smells like cheap ink and lies!"
Noah frowned. "The contract? I read the liability waivers, the medical release, and the clause that says Chris can't be sued if we're eaten by a bear. What are you talking about?"
Izzy started spinning in a circle, then flopped down next to him, poking him hard in the ribs. "Page forty-two! Section B! Under the part about 'Excessive Flatulence Liability'! It's there! The Playa Des Losers clause!"
Noah's heart skipped a beat. "The what?"
"The resort, silly!" Izzy did a backflip into the hot tub, surfaced, and shook her head like a dog. "Anyone who gets the boot doesn't go home to their mommy! They go to a five-star, all-inclusive, gold-plated spa on the other side of the island! Shrimp cocktails! Thread-count! No mosquitoes! Ezekiel didn't lose! He escaped!"
Noah froze. His mind, which he prided on being the fastest engine on the island, suddenly shifted into overdrive. He replayed the day in high-definition.
Ezekiel's perfect dive... that wasn't luck. It was a man who wanted to get the challenge over with.
The sexist comments... they were too perfectly timed, too inflammatory. It was a social suicide bomb.
The nose-picking... it was the final nail in the coffin to ensure no one would miss him.
"He played us," Noah breathed, his ego taking a massive, staggering hit. "That homeschooled brat... he manipulated the entire social dynamic of the group to get a vacation while I'm stuck here in a leaky tub with Owen's back-sweat and a girl who thinks she's a squirrel."
Izzy cackled, splashing water into Noah's face. "Zeke's eating lobster right now! And you're eating... whatever Chef calls that gray stuff! Who's the smarty-pants now?!"
Noah looked at the camera, his expression one of pure, unadulterated defeat.
"I officially hate Page 42," Noah said to the viewers. "And I officially hate that I spent all day being 'right' when I could have been being 'fed.' Tomorrow, the 'Smartest Guy on the Island' is going to start looking for his own exit strategy."
He looked at the celebrating Gophers, then at the dark woods, and finally at Izzy, who was now trying to bite her own ear.
"Actually," Noah sighed, "if this is the competition, I might just stay a while. If a guy who picks his nose can outsmart me, I clearly need the practice."