Chapter 22 Three Years Before
3 years before Penny
The air around the lake hums with energy. Everyone’s sunburned and laughing, squinting against the glare bouncing off the water as the cheerleader in charge climbs onto a picnic bench with her clipboard.
“All right, seniors!” she calls out, one hand shading her eyes. “For the next challenge, we’re doing a relay!”
Groans and cheers mix through the crowd, but the mood is nothing but good.
She gestures to the orange flags outlining a rough loop that snakes around the lake. “Each team member will take a section of the course. You’ll run, climb, or crawl—whatever your section demands—and hand off your baton when you reach the next teammate. Except this time,” she adds, grinning, “your baton is an egg.”
A few people whistle. Someone yells, “You’re kidding!”
“Oh, I’m serious,” she says, waving toward a crate full of cartons. “Twelve eggs per team. You can carry them however you want, but whoever finishes fastest with the most unbroken eggs wins. And you can't carry all twelve from the start, spread them throughout the players!”
That gets everyone’s attention. The chaos starts—people debating strategies, arguing over who’s fastest, where to put their eggs, who should go first.
We huddle up. Caleb immediately takes over like it’s a war briefing. “Okay, so the course loops the entire lake, right? Seven of us. That means one person per leg.”
“Who’s last?” Ryan asks.
“Logan,” Caleb says, pointing at me.
“Why me?”
“Longest legs,” he says simply. “And you don’t quit.”
Nate adds with a smirk, “Also, you’ve got the patience to not trip and shatter our chances.”
“Or our eggs,” Jemma chimes in, grinning.
I raise my hands in surrender. “All right, fine. I’ll anchor.”
Ryan’s already laughing. “Look at us—team green. We’re practically born for this.”
“Yeah,” I say, tying my bandana tighter around my wrist. “Green for victory. Or vomit. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Jemma giggles, bumping my shoulder. “Have some faith.”
I look down at the carton of fragile white shells in Caleb’s hands and shake my head. “Faith’s not gonna keep these things from breaking.”
“Then what will?” Caleb asks.
A slow grin creeps across my face. “I’ve got an idea.”
They all turn to look at me, curious.
I glance around the group, the lake gleaming behind them, and lower my voice like I’m about to reveal state secrets.
“Trust me,” I say. “It’s good.”
The teams line up at the start, the air buzzing with nerves and excitement. Six rows of us, each team clutching their carton of fragile white grenades like we’re about to storm a battlefield instead of run around a lake.
The cheerleader at the front raises her whistle. “One runner per flag! When I blow, first leg starts. Remember—fastest time and most intact eggs wins. You break ‘em, you lose ‘em!"
We scatter to our spots. Ryan’s first, Jemma second, then Margo, Stacy, Caleb, Nate—and me last. I can see my team fanned out along the course: bright green bandanas, determined faces, already hyped up.
I catch Jemma’s eye across the lake, and she flashes me a quick grin. Caleb gives me a thumbs up. I wink back, hoping the plan actually works.
“On your marks!”
The whistle shrieks.
Ryan explodes off the line, sneakers kicking up dust, three eggs balanced in his hands like he’s running a baby bird rescue. The first stretch is just a straight sprint along the dirt path, and he tears through it, arms pumping.
“Go, Ry, go!” Nate yells from our side.
I’m already counting the teams ahead—Red’s massive linebacker is eating up ground fast, Blue’s tiny cross-country girl is flying. Ryan’s holding strong though, leaning into the run, face scrunched with focus.
By the time he reaches Jemma, we’re fourth out of six.
Jemma’s already crouched, two eggs in her hands, ready to receive. Ryan’s panting hard but still grinning.
“Careful,” she says, holding out her palms.
He places two eggs in her free hand and—without hesitation—slips the third into her pocket. “For good luck,” he jokes, breathless.
“Don’t make me crack it,” she shoots back, rolling her eyes and breaking into a run before he can answer.
Her section’s tricky — a narrow wooden beam stretched over a shallow ditch, wobbling with every step. She spreads her arms for balance, two eggs in one hand, the pocket egg shifting dangerously.
“Come on, Jem,” I mutter under my breath, heart pounding.
She makes it across, jumping off with a little squeal and landing right in front of Margo.
“Still alive?” Margo teases.
“Barely,” Jemma pants, carefully transferring the five eggs — four from her hands, one from her pocket — into Margo’s.
Margo already has two into her own hands and takes the other five in both her pockets. “Got ‘em. Go team green!”
Her section is all agility—zigzag cones, uneven ground, low ropes. She weaves through like she’s been doing it her whole life, her long red braid whipping behind her. The jocks ahead of her are slower, trying not to crush their eggs in their beefy hands. By the time Margo bursts out the other end, we’re third.
She sprints to Stacy, gasping, “Seven safe!”
Stacy takes one look at the chaos in Margo’s hands and rips off her shirt without hesitation, leaving her in a sports bra. “Give ‘em here.”
“Oh my God,” Margo laughs. “You’re insane.”
“Efficient,” Stacy corrects. She rolls the eggs, as well as the three she has, carefully inside the shirt like she’s wrapping gold, holds both ends tight, and takes off.
She almost faceplants halfway through her stretch, tripping over a root, but she throws her weight forward, catching herself with a wild laugh. “Still good!” she yells over her shoulder.
“Holy shit, she’s gonna do it,” Nate murmurs, wide-eyed.
Stacy barrels toward Caleb, who’s crouched and ready. She thrusts the shirt bundle into his hands, breathless. “Ten! Don’t you dare drop them!”
He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He adds one more egg to the bundle, tightens the roll, and tucks the whole thing into the pocket of his hoodie. “Hands free, baby,” he says, starting his section — climbing a huge boulder, probably six feet high.
The other teams are slowing down now, yelling at each other, panicking. Caleb hauls himself up, his hoodie bulging with precious cargo, grinning through his teeth. He leaps down the other side like a hero in an action movie.
“Go, Nate!” he shouts, tossing the hoodie over his head.
Nate grins, slips it on fully mid-run, and cradles two eggs in his hands. “Twelve!”
“Don’t drown ‘em!” Caleb yells, laughing.
Nate’s section runs right through a shallow patch of lake water — shin deep and slippery. He splashes across, water spraying everywhere, people screaming encouragement and insults.
And then it’s me.
He stumbles up the bank and tosses me the hoodie, still dripping. I grab it quickly, pull off my bandana, and tie one end to each sleeve, knotting fast.
“Let’s make it count,” I tell him.
He’s gasping, “Go, go, go!”
I sling the makeshift bag across my chest, eggs tight against me, one still gripped in my hand, and run.
The path twists through the trees, uneven and full of holes, but I don’t slow down. My lungs burn, my heartbeat pounds against the eggs, every step a risk.
“COME ON, LOGAN!” Caleb’s voice booms across the field.
I can see the finish line ahead — the rest of my team jumping, yelling. Two teams ahead of me — Red and Orange.
I push harder, dirt flying under my shoes.
“Go! GO!”
I lunge at the line, practically flying through it. I hit the ground, roll, and pop back up, the hoodie still slung across me, eggs safe.
Cheers erupt.
“Second place!” the cheerleader announces. “Red, then Green!”
We all rush together, sweaty and laughing, gasping for air.
But then she grins, tapping her clipboard. “Let’s see your eggs!”
The Red team, all football players, puff out their chests and turn out their pockets — and instantly, half the crowd bursts out laughing.
Egg yolk drips down one guy’s leg, streaking his shorts.
“Ewww!” someone shouts.
“Bro!” the biggest one yells, slapping his teammate’s shoulder. “You said you had them!”
“You bumped me!”
“Man, that’s disgusting,” Nate says, gagging and laughing.
The chaos is glorious.
Then all eyes turn to me.
I crouch down, untie the bandana knots slowly — dramatically — and unfold the hoodie with care.
One by one, the eggs roll out onto the grass.
Eleven perfect.
And the twelfth, resting in my palm, a single tiny crack but still whole.
A beat of silence.
Then the cheerleaders erupt — clapping, whistles shrieking.
“GREEN TEAM WINS ROUND ONE!”
We all shout, jumping and hugging, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Caleb grabs my shoulder, yelling over the noise. “I told you, man! Long legs and brains!”
Jemma beams up at me, cheeks flushed. “Your idea worked.”
“Guess I’m more than just the anchor,” I grin back.
“Way more,” she says softly, and for a second, it feels like there’s no one else here but us — until Ryan tackles me from behind, yelling, “NEXT ROUND’S MINE!”
And just like that, the whole lake explodes in laughter again.