The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 14: Becca

I wake up to the sound of my roommate snoring.

I roll over and stare at the powder-blue alarm clock I brought with me to camp. A thin layer of sleep still clings to my eyes, making the digits fade in and out of my vision like a corrupted movie film. I blink vigorously and glare at the clock again. Now I can see that the hands are pointing to half past five in the morning.

Great.

Angela, the tall brunette I'm sharing a room with, sighs loudly in her sleep and tumbles over to the other side of the bed, the mattress springs creaking and moaning. She's a restless sleeper, and her tossing and turning kept me awake all night. I think she has nightmares. If I tried hard enough, I could probably see them. It's easy to steal a snippet of a dream— as easy as plucking an apple from a tree. But I wouldn't try to sneak a peak into Angela's mind like that. What she dreams about is none of my business, and I could care less about how she torments herself in the night.

I just wish she'd shut up so I could actually fall asleep.

My new roommate is only talkative at night. We've spoken approximately ten words to each other so far, mainly about what side of the room we're going to sleep on. I don't mind the detachment. Conversation with strangers has never been my strong suite.

I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but I can already tell that it's not going to happen. My brain is set in its stubborn ways of waking up early in the morning to run, and even with the time difference and Angela waking me up at ungodly hours in the night, my body has decided that it's awake and ready to start the day.

I glance at the clock again. Two minutes have passed since I woke up.

Angela whispers something in her sleep. She speaks nonsense most of the time, but now I clearly hear her speak two different names. The names are spoken in sharp, jagged syllables, like Angela is trying to forcibly expel them from her head. There's a tinge of sadness to them, too. I find myself wondering what happened to the people who the names belong to— and why Angela keeps talking about them in her sleep. It makes me wonder what happened to my roommate herself.

I've been puzzling over a lot of the camper's backstories. I can't help it— I was born curious, even though I hate to admit it. I want to know what they did to get sent to Lightlake, and how they feel about leaving their friends and family behind. I want to know for the sake of knowing, because I like knowing things and being left in the dark is a cold and terrible thing. We're all mysteries here. Everyone has a backstory, and every backstory comes with a million secrets. I'm sure that every camper has names they whisper in their sleep, and faces that plague their dreams at night. I know that I do.

Angela sighs and falls silent. I push myself out of bed and pull on a pair of leggings.

I started running track in junior high after I transferred (expelled, really, but my family would rather die on the stake than admit that) out of the ultra-conservative, all-girls Catholic school that my parents forced me to go to. It was my cousin Julia that got me addicted to the sport. Julia is my age and lives in my neighborhood, so we've always been pretty tight. When we got to high school, she convinced me to try out for the team with her, and I did. During our time trial we crossed the finish line within seconds of each other. Six minute mile, flat. The same thing would happen when we started racing, too. Sometimes we'd cut it so close that our coach would just shake her head and call it a tie, knowing that we wouldn't mind getting the same place.

We ran together until junior year, until Julia had her accident and had to stop. But just because Julia can't run anymore doesn't mean I'm going to stop. Sometimes, running is the only thing that keeps me sane. If I don't move around I get restless. And people don't like me when I'm restless. To me, running is like scratching an itch. I just have to do it. There's nothing optional about it— I need it, like I would water or food. My abuela says I'm crazy because of it. I prefer the word dedicated. Also, I'm sure that Julia would be horrified if she found out I quit track because of her. I know her well enough that I can say, confidently, that she wants me to keep running without her.