Free Survive the Night by Danielle Vega

play,” I’d said. He laughed while I made a big show of waving my hand over the row of games before dropping it on an old Twister box.
    â€œI don’t think you can manage Twister,” Sam said, nodding at the bulky knee brace I had to wear after my accident.
    â€œRain check,” I’d told him. He found a piece of paper and scribbled IOU one game of Twister on it, along with his phone number.
    I can’t help remembering that moment now, as I watch this much messier game of Twister. I swivel around, trying to find Sam in the crowd. I know things have been weird between us, but an IOU is an IOU. He owes me a game.
    â€œRight foot, blue,” the announcer shouts. I grin as the players weave and duck around one another and people lose their balance and tumble to the floor. I finally spot Sam a few feet away. He slides his bare foot onto a blue puddle, a streak of red paint smudged across his face.
    The smile freezes on my lips. He’s already playing. Without me.
    The announcer shouts something else, but his voice sounds like static. A girl leans over and whispers something in Sam’s ear. She’s beautiful and blond, and wearing a shirt that’s so short and tight it’s practically nonexistent. Sam laughs and touches her bare shoulder. The hurt burns inside me, turning to fury.
    I push through the crowd to get to the game, shedding my shoes as I go. Sam freezes when he sees me, his hand hovering above a goopy blue pile of paint.
    â€œOh, hey,” I say, flashing him my sexiest smile. “I didn’t see you playing.”
    The blond girl glares at me, and I very maturely stick out my tongue when Sam turns his head.
    â€œRight hand, green,” the announcer calls. Sam slides his hand onto the same green blob I’m aiming for, and his thumb brushes against mine. I glance up at him. A blush colors his cheeks, and he jerks his hand away.
    â€œSorry,” he mutters. I grin, and flick a little red paint at him. It splatters across his hair.
    â€œSorry!” I say, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
    Sam cocks an eyebrow. “You’re going down ,” he says, wiping paint from his face.
    â€œLeft food, red!” the announcer shouts. I plop my foot down, and red paint oozes between my toes. It feels cold and slimy. I try not to make a face, but I can’t help scrunching my nose up in disgust.
    â€œEwww,” I say. Sam lowers his foot to a red puddle behind me.
    â€œLeft hand, yellow!”
    The blond girl hip-checks me, nearly sending me down. My knee twists, and pain flutters through my leg. Sam grabs my shoulder to hold me up. I regain my balance, and he pulls his hand back.
    â€œRight foot, red!”
    This time, Sam starts to stumble. He grabs my shoulder for support, and suddenly, we’re practically nose-to-nose.
    â€œHey,” he says. “You have a little . . .” He brushes something off my cheek. I hold my breath. A smile flickers onto his lips.
    â€œSo, I was trying to wipe away a dot of yellow paint,” he explains, “and I accidentally smeared green paint all over your face.”
    â€œLoser!” I push my hand into his face, leaving a bright blue handprint on his cheek. He laughs and dunks his hand back down in the red paint. I dodge backward, but I lose my balance. I grab Sam’s sweatshirt, pulling him into the paint with me. I hit the ground with a thud, and Sam lands on top of me.
    â€œYou and you!” the announcer calls, pointing to us. “You’re out.”
    â€œWe’re out,” Sam says. He pushes himself onto his elbow, but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he stares down at me. My breath catches. He’s so close. He could kiss me. I want him to kiss me.
    Finally, he clears his throat and pushes himself away. He reaches for my hand to help me up.
    â€œGood game,” he says with a smile.

SEVEN
    SAM PULLS ME TO MY FEET. “WE’RE A MESS,” HE