"Okay. Chuck's with us today," Fry starts. "Our little trainee—"
"He's a Cook?" I interrupt.
"No, no. He's just trying out some jobs."
"Trying them out? We never got to try our jobs out. We just chose what we liked."
And I chose Slicers because I felt bad for Winston. He was all alone, every single day.
Now he's alone again. And he doesn't even seem to mind. He barely looks at me. When he does, his eyes tell me 'sorry', but he never actually says it out loud.
"Alby's rule." Fry shrugs. "We decide what the Greenie will become, based on their results at every job. As I said, he's with us, today."
Chuck waves nervously. "Hi."
I take him in with my eyes once again. He can't be older than thirteen. Beautiful brown curls on his head. Big eyes, which twinkle half of the time.
Then I look back at Fry, swallowing and blinking at once. For a second— just a split second, his face morphs into Stan's, but then everything is back to normal.
"We need to make lunch and dinner. For lunch, we'll make sandwiches. Dinner's a cup of soup and some bread. Nothing too difficult."
"Do we have the ingredients here yet?"
"Partly. Newt will bring the tomatoes for the soup after lunch. We do have the toppings for the sandwich. You and Chuck will make some egg salad; you know how to make that, Zee. I will do all the chopping."
"But—"
"You make the egg salad, I do the chopping," Fry repeats, a smile now on his face. Not a mean one, not a teasing one— just a 'I know what you're implying, but it's not going to happen' kind of smile.
Helplessly, Chuck looks up at Frypan. "It's okay if she doesn't want to work with me. I can help you or do something else."
I feel bad, and I wish to just be kind to him, but for my own sake, he needs to stay out of my way.
"No. The egg salad is simple. Just go do it before we get some hungry and moody Gladers here."
I walk over to the counter without a word. The eggs, mayonaise, green onions, and dill are all ready to be used, along with bowls and cutlery.
"What do we do?" Asks Chuck. He has trouble reaching the counter.
"Peel the eggs," I say. "They're already boiled."
"Okay." He grabs the bowl with eggs and another empty bowl to put the peels in. But as he does, his elbow slams into another one of the bowls. Before I know it, it has shattered on the ground.
Chuck flinches, jumping away from it. I stare down at all the pieces of glass, then up at him. His eyes are wide. Frightened, as if he thinks I'll hit him or something.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, high-pitched.
Clenching my jaw, I walk over to get a dustpan and brush. Chuck watches in silence as I clean the glass up.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't mean to."
"It's fine," I say. "Go peel the eggs."
With a nod, he gets to work, fast.
After throwing the glass away, I grab a new bowl and put the right amount of mayonnaise inside. Then I start cutting the onions and dill.
"Did I..." Chuck begins shakily. "Did I do something wrong? To you?"
"No." My chops become harsher. "I- I just wanted to frog hunting," he's struggling to speak now, face pale. His voice sounds stranger by the second. "I'm sorry."
"But you hate frogs," I manage. Proof. He's not real. The real Minho doesn't like frogs.
"No, I—" he falls to the ground, his head slamming against it, so hard that his eyes close.
"Then why..." he trials off. Takes a breath and restarts, "Is it just your personality?"
"Is what just my personality?"
"This... kind of mean... and cold... demeanor you have."
The blood drains away from my face. Me? Mean? Mean and cold? I don't want to be mean. I just wanted him to leave— I didn't want to be mean or leave that expression."
"I—" I stammer. "I-I'm not mean."
He blinks a few times. I guess it means 'yes, you are'.
I stare at the ground. "I didn't mean to be mean."
"It's okay! I understand. You're probably just sad there's another boy and not a girl."
"I... yes," I say.
To be honest, I don't care at this point. The boys usually mind their own business. And Minho is better than ten best friends combined. Having him with me beats everything.
"You do also seem kind," Chuck acknowledges. "Minho says you're really kind."
"You talked to Minho?"
"Mhm," he hums. "I noticed you and him were very close, so I decided to ask him about your behavior. He said you're the kindest person he knows, but that I shouldn't be too offended if you're mean to me, because you're struggling with some things."
I nod, slowly.
"He's quite grumpy, though. He only answered that question."
"Guess it depends on the question."
"Right. I asked him if you're boyfriend and girlfriend and then he suddenly had to go. So, are you?"
My cheeks heat up. "No, we're not."
"You're best friends?"
"That's for sure," I confirm. "I don't know what else's going on."
"So you do like him?"
"I didn't say that," I deny. "It's just complicated."
"Jeff told me Minho forgot you and then started hating you and made you go insane and then he regretted it and now he's in love with you and you've been in love with him all this time. Is that true? And why do you have no ear? Oh, I don't think I was supposed to mention it was Jeff who told me."
Almost horrified, I stare at him. That's too many questions.
He raises an eyebrow. Not a 'sorry', just increased curiosity.
"I mean... yes— the first part is correct. I don't know about the love thing. I won't... decide for Minho, or whatever."
"But you do like him?" He asks again. "You've liked him since the beginning?"
"No, I— well, I mean, yes, but half of the time, it was the old version of him."
"But now you're close again, so now you're in love with that version," he finishes, tone slightly questioning.
I decide to just turn back to cutting the green onions.
"Right?"
"You don't seem very good at keeping secrets, Chuck. You already spilled who told you my whole life story."
"I promise I'll zip my mouth shut. The words will forever stay inside." He holds up his pinky. "I already know this means you're in love with him anyway. Otherwise, you wouldn't have told me." He smiles as if he just solved a hard puzzle.
With a sigh, I hook my finger around his. "Never tell anyone."
"Everyone already knows."
I freeze. Did I zone out and somehow, subconsciously, write a note, and did it get found? Did I say something?
"How?"
Chuck shrugs, his curls wiggling. "It's kind of obvious. I have sat with multiple boys and every time you and Minho pass, they talk about you two nonstop. Doesn't matter who the boys are. They don't mind telling me all about it."
"Oh. That's... a nice... bonding moment," I manage.
"Sure is," at the sudden voice, both Chuck and I yelp.
Frypan has an innocent expression on his face. "What? I was here the whole time, chopping food, literally ten feet within your space."
"Pleasedonttellanyone," I plead.
"Don't worry, Zee, I've been keeping it a secret ever since Jeff told me you two kissed." He winks.
Chuck gasps out loud. He nearly makes a jump. "Right! They told me about that, too."
"No one knows about that," I assure.
"I do," Fry confirms. "And Newt does."
"But y'all can keep a secret."
"Jeff also knows," Fry adds dryly.
Jeff can't keep a secret.
"So... everyone knows?"
"I think Minho is the only one who doesn't. Or does he, by now? Did you remind him of it?"
"Of course not!" I nearly throw my hands in the air. "And I won't."
★
After a whole day of two boys bugging me with questions about the previous days, we're serving dinner.
I'm impatiently bouncing on my place. Minho is nowhere to be seen in line. What if he came across a Griever? What if something happened? What if— no, Minho is the strongest person here. He won't let anything happen. He promised me.
He promised me this morning, when I was telling him the daily 'bye'.
Minho finally approaches the counter, looking a little more disheveled than usual. His hair is tousled, his clothes streaked with dirt, but his face lights up the moment he sees me.
"Long day?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual despite the relief flooding me.
"Longer than you could imagine," he replies. "What's on the menu?"
"Cup of soup and bread." I slide a plate over to him. But instead of taking it, he just stares down at it with a little smirk on his face.
"Got anything extra?" he asks.
"Extra?" I squint at him. "You're not expecting special treatment, are you?"
His grin grows wider. "Well, I did just spend the whole day mapping the Maze for you lot. I think I've earned a little extra something."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling widely. "What, you want me to sprinkle some... dill on your bread?"
"Maybe," he says, laughing before he leans closer, like he's about to tell me a big secret. He even starts lowering his voice. "Or maybe you could... I don't know, sit with me while I eat?"
"I wouldn't call that special treatment. I'd always sit with you."
The corners of his mouth move up even more, to the point where his eyes squint. I slip around the counter, grabbing a plate and bowl for myself. We find a quiet spot at the edge of the woods.
"So," he starts, taking a sip of soup, "how'd your day go?"
"Oh... not horrible. Chuck dropped a bowl, and I nearly cut my finger off. Nothing as exciting as nearly getting squashed by a Griever."
"I'd trade places with you any day."
"Liar. You're too proud of your position." I bump his shoulder with mine, and he chuckles, shifting a little closer.
For a few minutes, we just sit in comfortable silence, eating side by side. Then his eyes start dancing with amusement. "A little birdie told me you were pacing around all afternoon, looking for someone. Someone... tall, good-looking, loves mapping the Maze."
I roll my eyes at his desperate attempt of teasing. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Come on, admit it. You definitely missed me."
My face becomes rosy. "I'm not wrong for that."
He looks down at his soup, still smiling, then glances back at me. "Well, good for I might have been thinking about you out there today, too."
My heart starts pumping faster. "Yeah?"
"Just... you know, hoping I'd get back in time for dinner. Didn't want you sitting here alone," he adds.
Even though he sounds playful, I still reach inside my pocket to hand him a perfectly folded, purple butterfly.
"Why thank you." He takes it from me, his hand lingering. Then, with his other hand, he reaches over, brushing a stray braid behind my ear. His fingers slightly graze my cheek.
My body is practically trembling from the fireworks exploding inside. I take another butterfly, pressing it in the hand that's still up my cheek, fingers tentatively curling around his. After lowering our hands so that they're resting on the ground, he laces his fingers through mine.
"So," he says, breaking the silence, "We could keep doing this?"
"What, eat soup together?" I laugh, but my voice betrays my nervousness.
"For example."