watches with keen interest. Sergeant Paintball fields the slew of stupid questions with practiced patience. We all receive our suits, helmets, kneepads. Then we’re armed.
We are adults undertaking a team-building activity in a professional capacity, so naturally we spend several minutes horsing around, striking poses with our paintball guns and making sound effects. Joshua and Sergeant Paintball watch us like orderlies at a mental facility. Alan, recent Birthday Boy, pretends to mow us all down. “Pew, pew, pew,” he intones in his grave baritone. “Pew, pew.”
I scramble out of the path of one fake skirmish and start to feel undersized and feeble. I look at all the long legs and eyes lit with paint-lust. Maybe tensions will boil over. They’ll all go rogue, Gamins versus Bexleys, swapping paintball guns for AK-47s.
Sweat is starting to bead on my brow and upper lip and whatever is going on with my stomach, it’s bad.
My lipstick is a faded pink Popsicle stain and my hair is stuffed into a heavy helmet. The smallest suit they had is still so big that people laugh when they see me. Such elegance. Such grace. I am going to need to concentrate really hard on getting through this afternoon.
Helene waves to me. She is standing on an observation deck, wearing a white visor, cream linen shirt, and white cigarette pants, sipping Diet Coke through a straw. Only Helene would wear white to a paintball park. Mr. Bexley is sulking about something and remains seated, arms crossed, a bullfrog in khaki.
“Have fun, everyone,” Helene calls. “And remember, we can see you!” With that eerie Big Brother comment ringing in our ears we begin.
Joshua reads out the first teams and I’m on his. We stride out with our teammates, Andy and Annabelle.
Two Gamins, two Bexleys. Our opposing team files out, a similar ratio. He must have sorted each team like this.
I should have opened my mouth this last week to ask him about the arrangements, but the awkwardness between us has been insurmountable. Plus, since my corporate retreat idea was completely destroyed I’ve felt lackluster and sulky about everything. He hijacked it, he can damn well organize it.
But as I realize the air is filled with palpable excitement, I realize my grand idea has now become his achievement. I’m such an idiot.
I spot Marion with the flag. She waves merrily with a pen gripped between her teeth, clipboard in hand, and binoculars hanging on her chest. She is taking her faux-important job seriously.
“What’s the plan, team?” I can’t see our opposition.
“Stick together or spread out?” Annabelle is unsure.
“Hmm, I’d say probably stick together, given this is a team-building challenge.” I prop myself up on some slender pine branches and wish I could wipe my face. In this suit I’m so hot I feel faint.
“We should pick one person who’ll be going for the flag, and protect them,” Andy says, which is a good idea.
“I like it. Who’s going to do it?”
They both peep furtively at Joshua, clearly fearful of him. Somehow, the helmet doesn’t look stupid on him. His gloved hand looks big enough to punch through a brick wall. He should be miniaturized and sold in toy stores for violent little boys.
“Annabelle,” Joshua decides. “And if she gets shot, we’ll go for the flag in alphabetical order, first names.”
Great. Meaning Andy, Joshua, and then Lucy. Basically, no one is protecting me at all. I’m cannon fodder. We file out and take cover. Andy sees my rising panic and smiles kindly. “We’ll all look after