UNEDITED
Gemma Alder is used to being the unlucky one in the Alder family: from a nasty rumour about her back in high school to inexplicable mishaps, she seems to be the comical target for unfortunate situations. But if there's one thing she's good...
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Jake
We, meaning Gemma and I, end up winning the tourney. While Olive's reaction satisfies me immensely, it's not enough to carry over to dinner later. I'm still mortified by my body's reaction to Gemma and I's make-out session on the beach. I should have known better than to do something like that, but Olive's presence and her obsession with me sometimes cause me to act irrationally. I'm honestly afraid she's going to knock me out and lock me in her basement, handcuffed to a rugged bed, the kind you see in all those cliché thriller movies.
My own dreadful emotions aside, I'm glad to see Gemma still high from winning; she's been overly talkative at the dinner table tonight, telling slightly altered stories about the two of us back in high school, and she's sitting extra close to me. As much as I love her touch, the warmth of her skin, I'm still stuck in the gutter, enveloped by embarrassment. I don't care if she tried to tell me embarrassing things happen – she must think I'm a piece of disrespectful white trash.
Aimlessly, I bring a forkful of salad to my mouth and chew thoughtfully. Dinner, which was made by Nolan and Olive is surprisingly good: baked halibut with fresh slices of lemon and sprigs of thyme, roasted potatoes, sweet corn, and a salad. Ever since the majority of us got food poisoning, I've been wary of seafood. But I can't give up something like halibut – even if I am risking repeating the past. If I'm being entirely honest, though, I was mainly wary about touching the food, let alone chewing and swallowing it, because Olive had a hand in cooking it. Based on the sour look on her face after the incident on the beach, she could have had the motivation to spike my food with something like laxatives or worse, poison. Nolan, the poor guy who can't seem to get away from Olive, reassured me that he kept a careful watch on her and made sure she didn't pull anything rancorous.
Right now, Gemma is telling a story about the time back in sixth grade when we were playing dodgeball during gym class. The teacher, Mrs. Glasglow, had posted the team lists the day before. We'd tried to convince her to change the arrangements so we could be on the same team, but she wouldn't budge, telling us that if she allowed us a say, she would have to do so for the rest of the class. We both loved dodgeball – it's the best, most competitive game you could play back in the day – but only when we were on the same team. Gemma and I have always had chemistry in sports and other competitive events. It's almost as if we feed one another, inadvertently encourage each other to be the best, if not better. Much like today's tourney, we would always come out on top. That day, though, it came down to the two of us; we were the only people left from our teams and we couldn't hit each other no matter how hard we tried. It went on so long that Mrs. Glasglow had to end the game and call it a tie.
"Jake and I still joke about it to this day. It's a good thing we were put on the same team this time around or else we'd probably still be at the beach playing volleyball."
Out of morbid curiosity, I glance at Olive. She's glaring at Gemma, the look on her face clearly stating that she doesn't buy a single word that comes out of her mouth. Ever since her little outburst about Gemma and I being fake, she's been making stabbing comments, pointing out every potential fault. Lucky enough, Gemma has combed through every detail of our fake relationship with a fine-toothed comb; anything Olive says, Gemma knows how to counteract it and use facts to back up her logic. I have to give her credit – no wonder she's the popular choice for playing the fake girlfriend.
