The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 12: Finn

The thought of eating dinner with thirty other kids— all delinquents— makes my stomach uneasy. I know that I'll have to face the music eventually. I haven't eaten anything except granola bars all day and I know that things are going to go downhill fast if I don't eat dinner. (Sarah likes to call me PAC-MAN when I'm hungry. She thinks it's funny. I don't.) Also, Ronan is taking a nap right now, so it's the perfect time to leave the cabin without having to deal with him on the way out.

I check my watch, a cheap, plastic-y thing that I found in a cereal box and had to fight the Twins tooth and nail for. It's always six minutes slow and occasionally beeps for no reason at all, but it keeps the time well so I haven't gotten rid of it yet. Currently, the watch hand points to a quarter past eight.

I wiggle into my sweatshirt and sneak out the door, silently, so I don't wake up my roommate. I think my best course of action for the rest of the summer is to just avoid him. He always seems to be in a bad mood, and no matter what I say to him, he finds a way to insult me about it. Take earlier today, for example. I made the mistake of asking him what time Initiation was— to which he gave me the wrong time, and then left under the pretense of "using the bathroom". I caught on pretty quickly when he didn't return, but I was still late to the meeting.

Cabin assignments are permanent, Owen's voice whispers in my ears.

Scowling, I set off down the dirt trail, trying to get my mind off Ronan. Outside, the sky is cloudy and the air is brisker than it was this morning, and a chilly wind stings at my cheeks. I plunge my hands into my pockets, wishing that I had brought my gloves.

When I arrive at the Mess Hall, it's substantially less crowded than it was at Initiation. There aren't enough tables for every camper to sit alone, but nobody seems to be having conversations.

I scan the room for familiar faces but find none. My heart rate speeds up. I need to get out of the doorway— I've been lingering too long, and everyone knows that nervous hovering is the social equivalent of dumping blood into an ocean full of sharks. I decide to head over to the buffet table, to give myself some extra time to plan out my next move.

The mess hall isn't a very large building (a fact I learned the hard way during Initiation) and the lack of windows gives it a more cramped, claustrophobic feel. Everything about it seems cluttered and disorganized; the tables and chairs scattered haphazardly across the room, the podium, now knocked over, left abandoned by the wall... Even the food, which I was looking forward to, comes off as rushed and unappealing. "Dinner" consists of a few hastily thrown together sandwiches scattered across the dented folding table, a pile of something lumpy and brown that looks like SPAM gone wrong, and a tray weighed down with sad, wilted fruit. My stomach sheds a lone tear at the sight of the pathetic spread. Do the counselors expect us to eat this crap?

I look for more food options, but there are only more platters of unappealing breakfast meat that I can't have. Swallowing my disgust, I walk over to the folding table to grab a tray.

At the end of the buffet table, a tired-looking counselor, easily identifiable in her vibrant blue camp shirt, dollops the mystery meat onto an unfortunate camper's plate. Grimacing, I reach for the spatula to serve myself some fruit instead.

"Dinner of champions," I mutter, my stomach grumbling sorrowfully as I sulk towards the end of the table. If every meal is like this, I think I might starve before summer is over.

I'm about to leave with my depressing dinner when the counselor beckons me over. Annoyance simmers off her in waves, and I can see the judgment in her flinty eyes. (Is there an adult at this camp that doesn't hate kids on sight?) "Do you want some SPAM?" she probes. "Campers are required to have protein at every meal. That's one of the rules in the handbook."

"I'm aware. Can I go now?"

The counselor squints at me. "Do you think you're being funny?"

I shake my head. Something tells me this conversation isn't going to end well.

"You'd be surprised how many kids like to crack jokes at us counselors here, so forgive me for not being so big on humor."

"Can I please go?"

"Nope. Leaving isn't going to be an option until you add some protein to your plate. How about some SPAM? I'm the lucky scooper of the day."

I stare miserably up at the counselor. Her name tag, a smudgy plaque pinned to her neon blue shirt, reads Karen. "No thanks, Karen" I mutter, slowly inching away from the buffet table, praying that she'll let me off the hook.

But of course, I have no such luck. "Hold on." Karen grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me back, cutting short my attempt at escape. "Did I not make myself clear? Campers must have protein at every meal, which means you can't just eat fruit. How many times to I have to repeat myself before you start listening?"

"I'm not hungry."

She raises an eyebrow at me, unimpressed. "Rules are rules, kid. Now go grab a sandwich, or let me serve you some of this SPAM."

I glance back at the sandwiches, all of them stacked in a sloppy sort of heap with little labels on them that read "Ham & Cheese". They look aggressively prepackaged. Despairingly, I say, "But I can't eat—"

And then, in the corner of my eye, I see that Karen has only used the sandwiches to distract me from the scoop of SPAM about to land on my plate. I let out a small, terrified gasp, and without thinking, I yank my plate backward.

The SPAM hits the floor with a sickening slap. I cringe as it explodes on impact, chunks of soggy meat careening across the floor and skittering under tables and chairs like a fucking SPAM bomb. More than a few campers burst out laughing at the SPAM massacre; on the opposite side of the room, the girl with mismatched eyes clamps a hand over her mouth, either in shock, or to prevent herself from laughing too.

"What the hell?" Karen demands. SPAM is splattered everywhere— the floor, my pants, her shoes. It's somehow even on the walls, a solid five feet away. "What the hell is your problem, kid?"

"I'm a vegetarian," I mumble.

"What?"

"I'm a vegetarian!" My voice cracks and I want to throw myself off a cliff and into an ocean filled with venomous snakes and a thousand aquatic spiders; anywhere, anywhere but here. I wish I could melt into the floor and disappear forever. I wish that I had been expelled from high school instead of being sent to this hellish camp. "I don't eat meat!"

"I know what a vegetarian is!"

I stare at the ground and the lumps of SPAM scattered around my shoes.

"Jesus. I don't get paid enough for this...." Karen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Just take a seat, kid. And eat something other than goddamn fruit."

"Like what? Ham and cheese sandwiches?"

Karen fixes me with the evil eye. "Vegetarians," she mutters under her breath like it's a dirty word. She reaches for her walkie-talkie, and for a second, I'm afraid she's going to report me and I'm going to get kicked out of camp for reckless behavior and destruction of SPAM— but all Karen does is call for a clean-up crew. And mumble the word vegetarian a few more times, too, as if there's nothing worse in the world.

Then, after sighing loudly and angrily (why do adults sigh so fucking much?), Karen tells me to go eat my dinner. Again. She doesn't mention my goddamn fruit, which I guess is an improvement.

I take my tray of fruit and turn to go sit down. But as I do, I catch a glimpse of a skinny kid with dark, spiky hair— Ronan.

"Do you give free shows like this every day?" he asks, grinning.

"Yup. Don't forget to book your tickets at the door."

On the other side of the room, someone shouts my name. "Hey, Finn! Come sit with us!" hollers Jasper, waving me over.

Ronan tips his head at me. "Your friends are calling."

I consider giving him the finger, but I can still feel Karen's eyes on my back so I just mouth fuck you at him instead. If Ronan sees this, he doesn't give any acknowledgment; he just saunters off like the linoleum floor is his red carpet.

Jasper shouts my name again. I drag my gaze away from my roommate and walk over to join him.