Camp Kiwi H.S.

She was a troubled teen sent away by her parents.
He was a counselor at an all girls summer camp.
Falling in love was forbidden . . . but inevitable. Or was it?


8. VII. Tales from the Campfire


One Direction as themselves

Barbara Palvin as Cheyenne "Chey" Bryant

Miley Cyrus as Melody Bryant

Pepi Sonuga as Kiera Jones

Lucy Hale as Brynn Sharpe

Emeraude Toubia as Demi Dargot

Aly Michalka as Ginny Alhurst


    Chapter Seven: Tales from the Campfire  


         Never did I ever have a fear of public speaking.


         In fact, one of my only useful life skills was that I could hold my own during a class presentation. I never experienced stage fright, never had a shaky voice, never felt beads of sweat sate my palms when I had to get up in front of the room and speak. I thrived on being the center of attention even when the attention wasn’t necessarily beneficial.


         That is, until right now.


         Right now, I would have given an arm, a leg, any other extremity to not have everybody staring me down as I attempted to dig up some bullshit about my pathetic little life.


         Harry’s whole body is turned towards me, only fueling my perturbation further. In his perfect fucking British accent, he chides, “All right Cheyenne, tell us about yourself.”


         He remembered my name.


         God I’m such a dork of course he did, I just met him six hours ago. If he didn’t remember my name then we should probably be concerned for his hippocampus.


         I watch a lot of Grey’s Anatomy.


         “Um, like what?” I bring my thumb to my mouth, nibbling at the short nail there. A disgusting habit brought to life when I’m in the middle of having a miniature panic attack. I’m so rattled that I still neglect to correct him with my nickname.


         “Like your age, where you’re from, what you enjoy doing in your free time, anything you want!” Did he have to sound so . . . over enthusiastic all of the time? I could definitely see this pissing me off if it continues.


         “Uh, I’m from Manhattan, I’m practically eighteen and I think I’m way too old to have been dragged here by my parents,” I say lamely. This certainly was not the time that I wanted to unleash my repressed anger stemmed from my mother but I couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. As usual.


         “I appreciate your bravery in leading us off in this activity but you still haven’t told me anything about yourself,” If it were anybody else saying this to me, I wouldn’t have hesitated to make a snarky comment and slap them across their unworthy face. Because it was Harry, I restrained myself from my innate urges.


         “I like to . . . uh, I like to paint, I guess.” Why do I sound like such a spaz?


         “Okay, what else?” Harry leans forward even more, if I were to move any closer our bare knees would be touching. I shiver at the thought.


         “Nothing else,” I lie.


         “That can’t be true,” he pushes. Why is he being so nosy? Is he like this all the time, prying girls for information about themselves or was he just doing it to me to get back at me for being late?


         Still, a voice inside of me was inclined to tell him more against my internal will not to. Taking in a breath, I say, “I love dancing. That’s all I do in my free time, really. I mean, whenever I’m not painting or taking pictures. Dancing is my favorite and I would kill to go to Julliard next year.”


         I don’t think I have even admitted that to my own family, let alone a lot of strangers. But one of Harry’s talents, I realized, was that he made you feel like you were the only two people in the room. Everybody else remained a blur in my peripheral vision. Only his green irises were visible. 


         He smiled a toothy grin and I caught a gleam in his eyes. “Thanks so much for sharing darling,” he shifts his weight to his other side, facing my vanishing cabin mate, “Brynnie, you’re next!”


         What did he just call her? Brynnie? How juvenile. It suited her though, she had an aura about her that gave off vibes reminiscent of a toddler.


         Wait, more importantly, what did he just call me?




         It sounded like a caramel delight rolling off of his British tongue.


         Wow, I need to get a serious grip. I’ve been here for a measly eight hours and the only thing I have accomplished is developing a weird attraction to my goddamn counselor. I haven't even scouted the area for any prominent escape routes yet. I need to stop getting sidetracked and start Operation Get Your Life Back immediately.


         Brynn looked like she was about to crack from pressure. The girl reminded me of a mouse in every aspect. Small, quiet, and loved to stay hidden. Nevertheless, she opened her mouth and stuttered, “Um, Brynn is my name, I’m seventeen and I’m from Minneapolis. I enjoy writing and uh, I like carrots . . .”


         Did she just say she liked carrots? I literally had to bite my tongue in order to keep from bursting out into obnoxious laughter on that one. I gave my attention to Harry to see what he had to say about that. Her blurb was even worse off than mine, I’m sure he’ll grill her for it.


         He kept his cheeky smile plastered on his face and said, “Lovely. Kiara, you’re up.”


         “It’s Kee-rah. Like ‘key’ and then ‘rah’.” She crosses her arms and straightens her posture causing her stance on the log to seem more defiant.


         “That’s what I’ve said . . . Kiara,” he repeats. She must be referring to his thick accent. The way certain words came out of his mouth were different, the accent turned the long ‘E’ in her name into a short ‘A.’


         I may have studied linguistics one summer when I was bored. 


         “Ugh, whatever; you butchered it last year too.” She throws her wild brunette mane over her shoulder and continues, “I’m Kiera. I’m seventeen, from Kansas, and I love drawing.” She says the last part in a lower tone of voice, adding a certain sultriness to it. I had no clue that she was into art, or why in the world she said it like that. Like there was a sexual undertone in it or something. Nonetheless, I make a mental note to show her my sketchpad later on.


         “Terrific, next please!” Harry checks off something on his clipboard and then continues, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”


         “It’s Blake,” some girl with tattoos up to her neck says. She really seemed like the type who would beat you up and ask you for your lunch money in the school cafeteria. I make another mental note to stay as far away from her as possible.


         I nudge Kiera’s elbow. “Hey, you didn’t say that you were into art.”


         “That’s because I’m not,” she whispers, not making eye contact. I try and trace where exactly her sights are set on so steadily and instantly, I find the culprit. “But, he is.” She points to where my eyes have already landed and for some reason, I cannot peel them away.


         A cold yet daunting golden gaze coupled with sleek ebony coiffed hair made for the deadliest of combinations.


         “That’s Zayn,” she confirms with a sigh. He must have noticed our staring because within a fraction of a second, he’s boring his copper orbs into my soul. I immediately break the contact, shamed for have invading his privacy.  


         “He looks . . . nice.” Out of all of the idiotic things I’ve said today, this is by far the worst. With his pink lips sculpting its way into a crooked smirk, I can tell that he’s anything but.


         Kiera must be aware of the blunder of my first impression because she laughs. “He’s the exact opposite. But that’s why I like him.”


         Glancing his direction once more, I noticed that his hazel eyes were still planted on me.


         It was as if they had never left. 




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