The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 10: Ronan

There are few people in this world I can stand and even fewer that I actually like, so it's no surprise that my new roommate fits into neither of these categories and is one of the many people that rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it's because he's from Indiana— which has got to be the lamest state in the entire fucking country except for, I don't know, Nebraska or something; or maybe it's because he snuck a Walkman into camp (and hid it under the floorboards, so original), and I just know that the counselors are going to find it and blame me for breaking the rules— because, seriously, if you're comparing me to some freckled kid from Beauville, Indiana, who are you going to be more suspicious of? Whatever it is, I'm definitely not enjoying life with my new roommate. And I really wish that he would stop trying to talk to me.

I push myself off my bed and walk over to where my duffel bags are scattered across the floor. I unzip the larger one and carefully place Jesse's Superman comic inside. I read it on my red-eye over, and I've been trying to reread it at camp, but I'm having trouble focusing. The smaller duffel bag I don't touch, or even look at. The contents of that bag are reserved for emergency situations only.

Once I'm done, I push all of my bags under the cot and shrug on my jacket. Then I lace up my Buck's— they're already covered in grass stains, gross— and make my way over to the door.

This makes Finn perk up. "Where're you going?" he asks, way too eagerly, like he's half expecting for me to invite him to tag along.

"None of your fucking business," I snap, and slam the door shut on his stupid, wide, brown eyes.

I walk all the way to the horse pastures without seeing a single counselor. I thought there would be more security at a camp designed to rehabilitate teenage miscreants, but I'm not definitely not complaining. The last thing I want is a bunch of high-strung adults constantly breathing down my neck.

I guess I could get use to this, I think to myself, as I lean against the fence and stare out across the grassy meadow. I only think this for a brief moment, of course, because soon I remember that Sabrina sent me to this camp and that I'm obligated to hate it.

God, I need to stop thinking about Sabrina. All she's done for the last few days is make my life nothing but hell. For starters, she made me fly in economy class on the way here— as if going to this camp wasn't punishment enough. The flight was horrible, partially because I saw a man actually trimming his nails in his seat, and also because it's how I got my black-eye. I was lying when I told Finn that I was punched in a fight. In reality, I got my black-eye when some stupid woman's luggage slide out of the compartment and clipped me in the face. The flight attendants gave me some ice wrapped in a napkin and also an extra packet of peanuts, but I could tell that they didn't really care. They probably see shit like that all the time in the hellscape of economy class.

A roan horse roams past me, puffing white clouds of air out of its nostrils. For some reason, it reminds me of Margot, probably because she loves horses; her family used to live on a farm before they relocated to Manhattan. She shows pictures of the place to Jesse and I sometimes....

And suddenly I'm thinking about how I never really got to say goodbye to Margot, or Jesse, because Sabrina kindly intervened and told them both to fuck off before I got the chance. I never got to explain to Margot what really happened, and it's not like Jesse can tell the full story. He wasn't in the car. Or in the hotel lobby. My friends have no idea what's happening to me and I can't even call them to explain. This is so fucking unfair.

I scowl down at the splintering wood fence, a fiery feeling of anger surging in my chest. Then, just like clockwork, my eye starts twitching like I've had too much coffee to drink. I slap a hand across my face as if I can physically dispel the twitching, but of course this does nothing to help, and my eye just keeps blinking open and shut like a broken piece of factory equipment.