Summer with Mr. Badboy

O N E

"SWEETHEART, IT'LL be totally fine," my dad insists from the front of the car, his voice dripping with optimism I know for a fact is 100% misplaced. Totally fine? Sure, this was going to be a fucking disaster. Just like I was totally fine after that time my brother dared me to skateboard down the stairs. No injuries, just a full disaster and six weeks in a cast.

But here we are, headed to a camp I've already scoped out online—a mental institution in the woods, packed with kids who look like they're auditioning for a teen horror film. And all because I borrowed my dad's car for one tiny little joyride. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. Truly the best summer ever.

"You mean being stuck with psychos for nine weeks?" I let the words roll from my tongue before I could stop them.

My mother's laughter fills the air. "You're making it worse than it has to be Myra. Don't worry." She looks at me from the front seat. "It'll be fine." She said with a huge smile on her face as if we're going to Disneyland. Which we unfortunately, are not.

After what feels like an eternity, the car jolts to a stop. I lurch forward and smack my clumsy head on the seat. I am, for one tragic second, genuinely disappointed I didn't get a concussion.

"We're here Myra." My father says. I peer out the window and immediately wish I hadn't. A mob of kids is loitering in front of the camp entrance. Counselors are sweating it out in what looks like three layers of camp-branded clothes. Some kids are lugging bags big enough to hold a whole fucking body.

And here I am with my own giant suitcase, doomed to fit right in.

My dad gets my stuff out, and I can already feel people staring at me like I'm some exotic zoo animal. Everyone here has probably been coming to this camp since they were six and has a whole crew of friends. But no, not me. I'm the newbie, which in high school terms means I might as well wear a giant 'BULLY ME' sign.

My mother is standing next to the car, half-crying like it isn't her fault I'm here. "Mom don't embarrass me.." I mutter as my mother wraps her arms around me.

"I love you Myra, you can call us whenever you want okay?" She sniffles and pulls away from the hug to look me in the face. I nod. "I love you too mom. And I'll try to call you as much as possible."

"Everyone gather at the gathering spot!" a counselor shouts who sounds like he's done this about 500 times too many.

"Well, guess I better go," I say with a forced smile. My dad gives me a quick hug, hands me my massive bags, and then my parents finally drive off, leaving me standing there like a lost dog on the side of the road.

With a resigned sigh, I drag my suitcases over to the mob, where one of the counselors immediately catches my eye. He's a bit chubby, with black hair pulled back into a sad little knot, and has this permanently sour look on his face like he drinks a bottle of lemon juice for breakfast. His dark brown eyes scan the crowd and then land on me.

"Ah, Myra Torres," he says, as if I'm some pest that has come pre-labeled. He motions me over with all the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk.

Dragging my bags over, I can feel other kids whispering and snickering. Honestly, I would, too. I look like an abandoned puppy with luggage.

"Do you know which group you're in?" he asks, folding his arms with a sigh that screams, I am way underpaid for this.

"Nope, I'm just here to suffer," I reply, glancing at his nametag. Eric. He rubs his forehead like he already regrets knowing me.

"Clara?" he calls to this older lady nearby, who looks like she's seen it all and is also entirely over it. Her gray hair is pulled back in a ponytail, topped with a camp-green baseball cap, and she's holding a clipboard like it's her weapon of choice.