“You should have gone. I was covering for you. Now we’ve lost.” Another wave of nausea nearly knocks me over.
“Sor-reeee,” Joshua says sarcastically. Rob is approaching, gun lowered. I’m making whimpering noises. The pain is throbbing in points all over me.
“Sorry, Lucy. I’m so sorry. I got a bit . . . excited. I play a lot of computer games.” Rob takes a few steps back when he sees Joshua’s expression.
“You’ve really hurt her,” Joshua snaps at him, and I feel his hand cup my head. He’s still pressing me against the tree, knee braced between mine, and when I look to my left I see Marion watching us with her binoculars. She drops them and writes something on her clipboard, a grin curling her mouth.
“Off.” I give him an almighty shove. His body is huge and heavy and I’m so boiling I want to rip my suit off and lie in cold paint. We’re all panting a little as we walk back to the starting point under the balcony. I’m limping and Joshua takes my arm brusquely, probably to move me on faster. I see Helene up ahead, lowering her sunglasses. I wave like a sad cartoon kitten; womp, womp.
Casualties abound. People groan as they press the painted parts of their bodies gingerly. Dozens of reenactments are taking place. I look down and realize my front is almost solid paint. Joshua’s front half is fine, but his back is a mess. Trust us to be opposites.
When I strip off my gloves and helmet, Joshua gives me his clipboard and a bottle of water. I raise it to my lips and it seems to be empty quickly. Everything feels weird. Joshua asks Sergeant Paintball if they have any aspirin.
Danny picks his way through our fallen comrades to join me. I’m acutely aware of how disgusting I must look. He looks at my front. “Ouch.”
“I’m seriously one big bruise.”
“Do I need to avenge you?”
“Sure, that’d be great. Rob from corporate is the definition of trigger happy.”
“Consider him taken care of. And what was that, Josh? You shot me in the leg and I was in a completely different game.”
“Sorry, I got confused,” Joshua says, insincerity ringing in his tone.
Danny shades his eyes and Joshua smirks up at the sky. Our colleagues stumble and flail, paint slicked and in pain, unsure of what to do next. Things are rapidly starting to disintegrate. I consult the clipboard. I see he’s written me on his team for every rotation, probably at Helene’s request. She’d never know. She’s doing a Sudoku puzzle. I quickly use a pencil and change it before calling out the next teams. People clump together, complaining.
“Wait, they’re getting the first-aid kit. You’d better sit the rest of the afternoon out. Something’s wrong with you,” Joshua says. I glance up at Helene again, and then look at everyone around me. I could be in charge of this bunch soon. This afternoon is an audition, no doubt about it. I’m not going to fail it now.
“Yeah, you’ve been telling me since the day we met. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.” I walk off without a backward glance into my new team.
It feels like the longest afternoon of my life, but it also goes by in a flash. The feeling of being stalked and watched is unnerving, and in our small teams we do form instant bonds. I shove Quintus from accounts receivable into a bunker as pink pellets rain down over us.
“Go! Go!” I roar like a SWAT team leader as Bridget goose steps through to the flag, bursts of paint clipping at her heels. The extent of how sick I am reveals itself during my third rotation, after I snatched the flag. I knew it was deeply tragic of me to feel so triumphant, but honestly I felt as though I’d scaled Everest. My teammates screamed, and big basketball-player Samantha—a Bexley—picked me up off the ground and swung me in a circle. I threw up a little in my mouth.
My arms shake from the strain of holding the gun. Everything feels slightly surreal, as if at any moment I’ll awake from a bad afternoon nap. The sky overhead is a silver-white dome.
I look at the faces surrounding me, shining with sweat. I feel such a kinship with these people. I watch a Gamin high-five a Bexley as they burst out laughing. We’re all in it together. Maybe Joshua had a good idea with this, after all. Maybe the only way to truly unite people is through battle and pain. Confrontation and competition. Maybe surviving something is the point.
Where is Joshua, anyway? I don’t see him for the rest of the afternoon except for the team rotation breaks. With every person stalking through the trees my eyes would play tricks. I’d see him kneeling down, reloading, and taking shots. I’d see the shape of his shoulders and the curve of his spine. But then I’d blink and it would be someone else.
I’m expecting that one fatal shot. A big red splat, straight to the heart.
“Where’s Joshua?” I ask the flag marshals and they shrug. “Where’s Joshua?” I ask everyone I pass. “Where’s Joshua?” The answers start to get clipped and irritated.
I tug at my paintball suit despite the rhythmic pops and cracks of live fire. I pull down the neckband ineffectually, baring half an inch of sweaty skin to the cold air. Then I throw up. It’s nothing but water and tea. I didn’t feel like lunch today. Or breakfast. I kick sand over it and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. The planet is circling too quickly so I hold on to a tree.
The air is beginning to chill as the final horn sounds and we all trudge back to HQ. Everyone is visibly exhausted and there is a great deal of fuss as we strip out of our suits. Everybody is complaining. Sergeant Paintball looks like he’s evaluating his life choices. Joshua is standing with one hand on his hip and I instinctively raise my gun. It’s time.
Lucy versus Joshua, total annihilation.
He walks over to me, completely unperturbed by my action-man pose and takes the gun. I pull my helmet off. He steps behind me and his fingers slide in the sweat on the nape of my neck. It’s like he’s touched a live wire and I make a weird gurgle. He grips the zipper of my suit and slashes it down my back. I hop around to get it off, batting away his hands.
“You’re sick,” he accuses. I shrug noncommittally and weave up the stairs to where Helene and Fat Little Dick wait.
“Looks like some excellent teamwork went on,” Helene says. We let out a weak cheer, propping each other up. I lift the edge of my T-shirt. My bruises are purple. The smell of coffee makes me feel ill. I make my way to the front. Joshua’s been running this little show for too long. I can salvage this.
“Can I call our four flag marshals to stand and discuss the acts of teamwork and bravery they witnessed?”
The flag marshals make their observations and I try to hold it together. Apparently, Suzie caused a commotion, allowing her teammate to slip up and get the flag.
“I got four shots for that,” Suzie calls, patting her hip and wincing.
“But you took the shots for your team,” Mr. Bexley says, rousing himself out of his stupor, which I am beginning to suspect is caused by prescription drugs. “Good work, young lady.”
“And speaking of bravery,” Marion says, and my stomach sinks. “Little Lucy here did something quite remarkable.”
A cheer goes up and I wave it away. If one more person calls me little, small, or ridiculously small I am going to karate chop them.
“She took at least ten rounds for a colleague today, protecting him from someone who was going a little overboard. That person remains nameless.” She looks pointedly at Rob and he cowers lower to the ground like a guilty dog. Other people frown at him.
“She’s standing in front of her colleague, arms outstretched, protecting him to the death!” Marion mimes my actions, arms scarecrow straight, body jolting from the shots. She’s a good actress.
“And to my surprise, I see it’s none other than Josh Templeman that Lucy is protecting!”
A big laugh breaks out. People swap amused looks and two girls from HR elbow each other.
“But—but then! He swings her around to protect her and takes paintballs in the back! Protecting her! It was quite something.”
Another fun fact: Marion reads romance novels in the kitchen at lunchtime. I catch Joshua’s eye, and he wipes his forehead roughly on his forearm.
“It seems paintball has brought us all together today,” I manage to say and everyone claps. If this were a TV episode, we’ve just reached the little moral conclusion: Stop hating each other. Helene is pleased; her lips are pursed in a knowing smile.
The Day Off Prize is awarded to Suzie, and she accepts her little mock certificate with a deep bow. Deborah has taken some good action shots on her camera and I ask her to email them to me for the staff newsletter.
Helene catches me by the elbow. “Remember, I’m not in on Monday. I’ll be meditating under a tree.”
Everyone heads down to the bus, and I’m gratified to see it’s now harder to tell who’s Gamin and who’s Bexley. Everyone looks like a train wreck; bedraggled clothes and red, sweaty brows. Most of the women have panda eye makeup. Despite the physical discomfort, there’s a new sense of camaraderie.
Helene and Mr. Bexley peel out again like Wacky Racers. A few people are being picked up by spouses, and there’s a confusing swirl of cars and dust. The bus driver puts down her newspaper at our approach and unlocks the door.
“Please hold on for a few minutes,” I tell her, and jog back inside. I make it to the bathroom and am violently sick. Before I can feel like it’s completely out of my system there’s a sharp rap on the bathroom door. There’s only one person I know who could knock so impatiently, and put so much irritation into it.
“Go away,” I tell him.
“It’s Joshua.”
“I know.” I flush again.
“You’re sick. I told you.” He jiggles the doorknob lightly.
“I’ll get home by myself. Go away.”
There’s a silence and I figure he’s gone back to the bus. I throw up again. Flush again. I wash my hands, leaning my legs against the sink until the splash-back soaks into my jeans. Elvis clings to me damply.
“I’m sick,” I confide to my reflection. I’m fevered, eyes glittering. I’m blue and gray and white. The door is creaked open, and I squawk in fright.
“Holy shit.” Joshua’s eyebrows pinch together. “You look bad.”
I can barely focus my eyes. The floor is spinning. “I can’t make it. That bus trip. I can’t.”
“I could call Helene. She could come back, she couldn’t have gotten far.”
“No, no, I’ll be okay. She’s driving to a health retreat. I can take care of myself.” He leans on the doorframe, his brow creased.
I steel myself, cupping a little cold water in my hand and slosh it over the back of my neck. My hair has been unraveling from its bun and sticks to my neck. I rinse my mouth. “Okay, I’m all right.”
As we walk back, he pinches the little joint of my elbow between two fingers like a bag of garbage. I can feel the avid eyes watching us from the tinted bus windows. I think of the two girls nudging each other and shake him loose.
“I could leave you here and drive back and get you, but it would take an hour, at least.”
“You? Come back and get me? I’d be here all night.”
“Hey. Don’t talk like that anymore, all right?” He’s annoyed.
Yeah, yeah, HR.” I wobble up onto the bus.
“Oh dear,” Marion calls loudly. “Lucy, you’re looking awful.”
“Lucy!” Danny calls from the rear of the bus. “Saved you a seat!” He’s so far back in the bus it telescopes claustrophobically. If I sit back there I will absolutely vomit on everyone. Sorry, I mouth at Danny and sit in the front seat and close my eyes.
Joshua presses the back of his hand to my damp forehead and I hiss. “Your hand is cold.”
“No, you’re burning up. We need to get you to a doctor.”
“It’s almost Friday night. What are the chances of that happening? I need to go to bed.”
The trip home is pretty bad. I’m trapped in an endless, unmarked period of time. I’m a bug in a jar being shaken by a kid. The bus is swaying, hot, airless, and I feel every bump and curve. I focus on my breathing and the feeling of Joshua’s arm pressed against mine. At one particularly sharp corner he uses his shoulder to support me upright in my seat.
“Why?” I ask uselessly. I feel him shrug.
We’re unloaded in front of B&G. A few women cluster around me and I try to understand what they’re saying. Joshua is holding me by the scruff of my damp T-shirt and tells them it’s fine.
He has a lively debate with Danny, who keeps asking me, “Are you sure?”
“Of course she’s fucking sure,” Joshua thunders. Then we’re alone.
“Did you drive?”
“Jerry needs another weekend. The mechanic. I’ll get a bus.”
He moves me forward; a heaving, sweating marionette. My mouth tastes like acid. His grip drops from my neck to loop a finger into the loop on the back of my jeans, the other on my elbow. I can feel his knuckle pressing above my butt crack and I laugh out loud.
The stairs to the basement parking lot are steep and I balk, but he pushes me on, hands tightening. He uses his swipe card to get us in and steers me steadily toward his black car. I can smell car fumes and oil. I can smell everything. I dry-retch behind a pole and he hesitantly lays a hand between my shoulder blades. He rubs it around a little. I shudder through another volley of nausea.
Joshua guides me to the passenger seat. He slings the bag I’d forgotten about into the backseat. He idles the car and I glimpse myself in a side mirror, my head rolled to the side, a dark flush on my cheekbones, gleaming with sweat, my mascara smudged.