"You do push-ups like a girl," Axel says, crossing his broad arms over his chest.

I let out a groan and drop down to the yoga mat, the backs of my hands resting on the ground beside my head.

Who invented this exercise, and how can I get a word with them?

"Isn't it surprising that I, Whitney Carmichael, a biological female, do push-ups like wait, what? A girl?" The sarcasm in my voice is as thick as fresh Vermont maple syrup.

Axel rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant. Let me demonstrate again." He gets down onto the cold, firm sand, not even bothering with the mat. After a few seconds, he glances back at me with a frown. "Are you even watching?" He waves a hand in front of my face to get my attention.

"Yes, of course," I lie, pretending like I wasn't staring at his biceps.

He nods and gets down on his hands again, kicking his feet back into the proper push-up position. He does about seven in a matter of seconds, arms pumping up and down with ease.

"There," he says, brushing his hands together and creating a cloud of sand. "You try it."

I plant my hands firmly onto the mat again and kick my legs back behind me. I shift my feet and move my arms closer together, making sure my hands are directly underneath my shoulders. I hear him let out a breath behind me.

"You're still doing it wrong," he says.

I drop to my forearms, my body exhausted from holding itself up, and give him the simplest solution. "Then help me."

He gets down on the ground next to me, a playful sparkle in his eyes. "Well first, Whitney, your arms are too close together." He wraps his hands around my forearms, forcing me to widen the gap between them. "And...your back needs to be completely straight."

A strange feeling courses through my body as his fingers dance against my stomach and push my core upwards. They slip underneath the hem of my shirt for a moment, brushing my bare skin.

"There. Pretty sure you're capable of the rest."

I bend my arms down and back up again, feeling the strain on my chest. The first few tries mimic his form, but by the fifth push-up, I'm inventing some combination of a plank, push-up, and belly flop.

He sighs, digging his fingers into his forehead. "Let's not waste any more precious time." He orders me to get up and then asks, "Do you know what a burpee is?"

I stifle a snicker at the name. "A burpee? What kind of dumb name is that?"

"Oh yes, because I invented the exercise," he says. I laugh again, unable to control my immaturity, and his face softens. "Alright, looks like you're gonna make me work today."

He jumps up and does a complicated series of motions that consist of some half push-up and an awkward jump squat that ends with him standing before me again. I stare at him wide-eyed in the dim light of the evening.

"Hold on a second," I say, holding up my index finger. "You decided that since I suck at both push-ups and jump squats, it'd be the perfect idea for me to try them together?"

"I was hoping the whole would be more impressive than its parts," he reasons, but even he looks like he knows I'm going to disappoint. "Let me break it down a little further before you give one a shot."

When his series of detailed demonstrations end, I keep a vivid mental image of how this "burpee" works and attempt it myself. Surprisingly, I don't fall over on my face, but by the third one, my thighs and arms feel like they're on fire, burnt out from all the squats, lunges, and planks I completed before Axel came up with this brilliant idea.

"Finish this set, and you're done for today," he says, noting my struggles.

"This might not be too pretty," I say, and boy, was I right. I'm dead by the end, unable to even pick myself up. I stare up at the golden-blue sky until my vision unblurs. After a few moments of contemplation, I sit up and stare at him.

"You know, I didn't need this right as I was starting to get confident in my abilities."

"Oh, come on, don't be so hard on yourself," he says, extending a hand to help me up. "I'd give your performance a solid...six out of ten."

So a D...but the wrong kind.

"Rude," I bite back and pout. "Why are you no fun today?

"You want fun?" He glances at the choppy water behind him. "I think I have an idea."

My heart sinks to my stomach when he walks over to me and grabs one of my arms. His other hand comes behind my knees. He lifts me up with ease, keeping the slightest distance between our bodies as he jogs to the water.

"Axel, no!" I cry, grabbing on to his bicep. "Please, I'm gonna freeze!"

"You didn't last time!" he yells.

Before he can plunge us both into the unforgiving ocean, I yank off my sneakers and socks and throw them to the shoreline with as much force as he uses to chuck me into the frigid water.

When I emerge from under the surface, I spit out some saltwater and wipe my eyes, staying frozen in place.

"There went my clothes," I say quietly to myself as I look down at my drenched shorts-and-shirt set. I watch him float on his back with a wide grin, somehow finding this escapade much more enjoyable than last time's. I shiver and wrap my arms around my torso, my thin blue top not offering much warmth.

"How have you lived in this corner of the country your whole life and still aren't used to the ocean?" He returns to a standing position and drags his hands through his hair. Blue lips painting a perfect paradox, he states, "Tolerating the cold is a rite of passage here."

"Guess I never mentioned my dreams of moving to California."

His playful smile quickly flattens into a firm line. He pushes through the current and stops before me. "Is your leg okay?" I look down and realize the bouncing waves conceal and reveal the gnarly purple bruise and red line at the top of my shin every few seconds. "I didn't think the fall was that bad when you asked for some time off."

"It wasn't," I say and hide the mark with my hand, feeling shy.

"I care about you, you know?" As soon as he says those words, he looks away, catching on to the blunder. Clearing his throat, he corrects, "I mean, it's part of my job as your trainer."

"Right," I concur and add much more softly, "your job."

***

As I walk back to the dorms, ready to take another shower, Adriana, Willow and Natalie sit in their usual spots on the stone benches, gossiping quietly. When Adriana sees me, her mouth twists.

"Why are you soaked?" she asks, dragging her eyes down my wet clothes. "I don't remember water sports being a thing here."

I stop in my tracks, amused. "They're not, Adriana. But I can be sure nosiness isn't a sport either, or else you'd be missing out on an Olympic career."

Natalie hides a smirk at my remark but composes herself when Adriana sends her a glare. I gladly walk away from this nonsense and continue my trek uphill, until a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

"Hey, Whitney," Willow says. She keeps a healthy distance between us, her hands shoved into the pocket of her baggy sweatshirt. "I just wanted to ask—well, basically, I'm wondering if your leg is okay after that fall."

I nod and look down at the massive bruise, forgetting I was wearing shorts. Fuck it, I should just start wearing pants. "Yeah, I'm fine. No worries."

"Okay, that's good," she breathes. She glances behind her and then brings her attention back to me, ignoring Adriana's cold stare. "For what it's worth, even my gymnast friends find the beam hard."

I smile at her sympathetic comment, trying not to think about what she would have said had this happened last year in gym class. Instead, I focus on the genuine kindness lacing her words. She looks so small and harmless before me: no makeup, baggy clothes, a soft smile.

"I'm gonna get going," I say and take a couple steps forward. Noticing her fading warm expression, I add, "But I hope you have a nice night."

As I rinse the saltwater out of my hair in the shower, a fading memory of Mina pops into my head. It was sometime near the end of junior year, when she returned to my house after another one of those ostentatious brunches Claudia set up for Willow, Adriana, and the rest of their well-heeled friends. Most weekends, she returned from those hours-long social gatherings a tad miffed, but this time, her mood did a whole one-eighty.

She was fuming.

"That little bitch!" she sneered, storming across my bedroom. She tossed her Saint Laurent bag onto my mattress and groaned into the ceiling. "I cannot believe her!"

"Can't believe who?" I asked, practically watching steam puff out of her ears. "What the hell happened, Mina?

"I am so done with her! No, with all of them! I will never spend another Sunday afternoon with any of those two-faced snakes again!"

"Mina, seriously, who are you talking about? Willow? Her friends? Her mom?"

She grabbed her bag back from my bed, muttering an apology for her aggression. "Never mind, forget it. It's not like ranting to you will change their opinions about me, anyway." She finally calmed down and looked me in the eyes, murmuring, "I'm so glad you're not like them, Whitney."

I lock myself in a stall after my shower and pop the case off my phone. I tip out the collection of notes I've been hiding in there—five in total now—and reread all of them, noting the coarse language and air of revenge. Whoever is writing these must be as mad as Mina was that day over something I also still can't figure out.

Unless...

No way.

I shove that thought to the side and keep rotating through possible names, realizing too many people rouse suspicion: Willow's posse, most glaringly.

But maybe that's it; who says these notes appearing in my room are the product of only one person's crazy, vengeful mind?