Seconds (Camren)

Hours

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She's tired, and Carly keeps yelling at Beatrice for hogging all the sheets, and -

Hold up.

"Carly, what are you doing in Beatrice's bed?"

"Well, my sheets are in the wash, so this was my only option."

"You can bunk with me? I promise I won't hog the sheets."

"No, it's fine. Bea over here just needs to calm down!"

"Uh, they're my sheets, so yeah. Whatever." She yanks the sheets again.

"Plus you totally dragged out the chorus of Pumped Up Kicks. That was rude, I got thirty seconds. You got thirty minutes."

Hey, it was kind of true. At least to Camila.

She didn't have much time to dwell on it, because Carly calmly tugged the blanket back, coughing a bit as she did.

"Yeah, sorry, I got caught up in the moment. But it's a competition, Bea, go hard or go . . . home." Beatrice seemed surprised, having just started the argument to let off some steam. She relented her hold on the covers, coughing a bit herself.

"Uhm, yeah, it's okay. I'm sorry too, you're right. It's a competition, I could've done the same."

And Camila's like,

"NOW KISS. OR HUG. OR SOMETHING." But not out loud. Cuz that would be creepy. Actually, the entire train of thought was and still is creepy and weird. She just looked on at the awkward girls, feeling like an intruder.

Or like, a ninja.

"So, no to my bed? Rejection hurts, but it's cool. Always open if you need it." Then she heard the door creak open.

"Are you hitting on people two years younger than you?" The real intruder pauses to think.

"Again?"

"Normani, it was a one time thing. He was cute, too."

"He was twelve."

"And I was fourteen! So, whatevs."

"Psh, whatever you say. Lauren wants to talk to you, by the way."

"Oh, tell her I have a headache."

Then Lauren popped into the room behind Normani. Damn, she was good. Too good. We all know who the real ninja is now, don't we?

"Hah, nice try." Lauren stomped in, pulled Camila out, and left Normani standing without a purpose watching two young girls try to pass out equal portions of blanket.

"Know what? I'm done." Carly pulled Beatrice's arm onto the pillow, resting her neck on top of it.

"There, now we're close enough to where we're basically a really small sumo wrestler, and sumo wrestlers only need one blanket." Carly tucked herself deeper into the blankets, adjusting herself on Beatrice's arm until they're eye to eye.

"Oh, you have pretty eyes. I never noticed."

"Wow. Thanks for telling me my eyes are unnoticeable. How flattering." Beatrice said this with sarcasm, even as she was fighting off the redness in her cheeks.

And Normani's like,

"God, even the kids on X Factor are super gay. Oh, wait, where's mah boo Arin?" And then she left.

Camila doesn't like confrontation. It wasn't fun.

"So, you want to get up on dis. Is that correct?"

"Do you have to say it like that?"

"Yeah." Oh. Well.

"Oh, okay. Then yes."

"Good, now that it's cleared up. We should try to get you some therapy."

"Yeah. No. Who do you think you are? Oprah?"

"Yes. HOW YOU DOIN'?" Wait, what?

"That's Wendy Williams."

"Same difference."

"HOW DARE YOU? Oprah is a legend."

"Look, I'm trying to help my Jew."

"I'm not Jewish! I don't need your help, too."

"Yes you do! Do you remember that twelve year old?"

"IT WAS ONE TIME." Seriously. You get branded forever.

"Yeah, one time too many. I just don't want you to be caught up on me, when they're are tons of hot people out there. Even some hot Jews. We could find you one on JewishMingle.com.

OH SNAP. No way.

"What, they have that now?"

"Oh, yeah. I can make you a profile."

"Really? Great, here's my email - wait a minute! No, I don't want to go on some crappy website."

"Awesome, so I'll schedule an appointment with Dr. Phil, and we can just -"

"No, no, no, you're not getting it. I don't need any help getting over you." Lauren's left eyebrow is twitching. Oh no.

"Fine, how about this? If you're not over me by the end of our time here on the X Factor, I'll offer my help and you have to take it. Deal?" It was either this or Dr. Phil. Uh. Hard decision.

"Deal, but just, don't tell anyone about this, okay?" Then suddenly Lauren's paler than usual. Oh, no. She didn't. She can't have.

"I told Keaton." Is that what a stroke feels like? Like her head was pounding, her ears were burning, and she's angry, and sad, and ashamed, and everything hurt. Her head, her arms, her legs, her eyes, her heart.

"Why would you tell him? Why would there be any reason to tell him?"

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Shmuck, a Yiddish term, meaning male reproductive organs, commonly used in America as a foolish person.

Yutz, a Yiddish term, commonly used to describe an airheaded or dumb person.