The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 11: Jasper

I don't belong here.

This is the first thought that goes through my mind as I step into the cramped, noisy cafeteria. I'm ten minutes late to Initiation (I got lost on the way here. I have a horrible sense of direction), and the room is already filled to the brim— there's about thirty kids crammed into a building built with the capacity of fifteen people in mind, and the combined body heat has caused the temperature to climb unbearably so that it feels, somewhat ironically, like Hell.

I don't belong here, not in this unruly mass of sweaty teenagers, all of them talking and shouting and elbowing me in the gut. I don't belong here, not in this camp for delinquents and God knows what else. (They said that only kids with minor misdemeanors were allowed at camp. But I'm not sure if I believe that.) I'm not a psychopath. I'm not even a sociopath. If you saw me walking down the sidewalk on a rainy day, you wouldn't cross the street to avoid me. You might even stop to say hello, if you're that kind of person.

On the other hand, some of the kids here look like the type of people I would cross the road to avoid even on a sunny day. I actually saw one camper with a full tattoo sleeve— not that I have anything against tattoos, it's just that a whole arm of them seems like a bit much when you're only in high school— and another already sporting a black-eye.

Campers. Is that what we're really called? Usually when someone says the word camper, you think of making s'mores by the fire, hiking through the mountains, and sharing ghost stories with friends. These people do not look like campers. And if they were campers, they'd be the ones who pull up in a dented RV, blast loud music the entire night, and then spend the day shooting squirrels with BB guns and smoking weed by the campfire— definitely not the type of kids you'd want to share a tent with. Or a cabin.

I notice, with more than a little relief, that I'm not the only black kid here. It's surely a terrifying crowd of teenagers, but it's a diverse one, too. This isn't like my old private school, where we had more snow days than black students. I can already tell that most of the campers here come from wildly different backgrounds. (Hopefully, this will be a good thing, and not another reason to get beat up.)

I get elbowed in the gut three more times before the squeal of feedback echoes through the cafeteria, and a crackling female voice orders everyone to quiet down. Unfortunately for the speaker, it's impossible to hear clearly through the chaos, and the noise level only grows.

I stand on my toes and crane my neck towards the front of the room. Somebody's set up a podium there, along with a row of chairs; most of which have already been kicked over. There's a tall, lanky woman with dark black hair and blonde highlights (like, drugstore-dye highlights) standing next to the podium, flanked by a dozen blue-shirted counselors, none of whom look very happy to be there.

There's something very off-putting about the tall woman. Maybe it's the way she carries herself— like she's being held up by strings— or maybe it's the silver reflective sunglasses that completely obscure her eyes. Something about her stance makes me shiver with anticipation.

One of the counselors, a lean woman with aggressively cropped blonde hair and a jutting jaw, fiddles with an industrial-grade megaphone. I lean forward, trying to gauge her next move— until a heavily freckled boy steps in front of me and blocks my view of the podium.

Freckles instantly starts speaking. It takes me a second to realize he's talking to me, not just to the empty air. "Did I miss anything?" he asks breathlessly, like he ran here. Sweat drips down the bridge of his nose. "I really wasn't trying to be late, but my roommate told me the wrong time, and I got totally lost."

"You're alright, it hasn't even started yet," I reassure him. Freckles looks at me in confusion, and I realize he probably can't hear me over the roar of the crowd. I repeat my words, almost shouting this time, and he nods in understanding.