The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 17: Becca

This camp is so fucking stupid. I can't even storm off in a proper rage without some counselor breathing down my neck in the process; can't even vent my feelings for a second without being collected by some blonde-haired counselor bitch named Karen. She doesn't even try to chase after me or grab me by the arm or anything, just plants her feet in the dirt and hollers, "Fisher!"

My last name. It catches me by surprise. I stop.

I didn't make it far after escaping the Sharing Circle— I didn't know where I wanted to go, I just knew that I needed to run. I watch as Karen marches across the field to where I'm standing. I could easily bolt, but I want to hear what she has to say first.

"So, you're the one with the attitude," Karen says, phrasing this like a question but not really saying it like one.

"You tell me. You already know my name."

"I know a lot about you, Fisher. It's kind of my job to know things around here."

I glare up at her. Karen isn't the kind of person that immediately commands your attention— she's a little too short for that, and her blonde lob makes her look like a soccer mom— but she's good at looking stern, and not in that lame way that adults always try to look stern when they want you to feel like you're in trouble.

My respect towards the counselor grows, but my distrust remains the same. I don't trust adults. Never have. "You don't know anything about me," I tell her. "Just leave me the hell alone."

If I were at school, this would be enough to shock any teacher into submission, but Karen doesn't give so easily. She just rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head, as if she's dealing with nothing more than an unreasonable child.

"Look, I get it— Sharing Circles drive people crazy. You have to talk about shit you don't want to talk about in front of a random strangers who are only going to judge you for it. Sharing Circle sucks. I know that it does. But if you don't show up at the Director's cabin in the next five minutes there will be hell to pay, so why don't you stop making things harder than they need to be and come with me."

Not a question. An order. And because I don't feel like paying any hell, at least not just yet, I decide to do what I'm told.

"Fine," I say.

She nods. "You're making the mature choice here."

Ha. As if I have a choice.

Karen escorts me to the big log house in the middle of camp. I already knew that it was the Director's (I know things too, Karen) but even if I didn't, the sense of propriety that the building exudes would make it clear who it belongs to. People leave behind imprints of their energy when they stay in a place long enough, and I could feel the the Director's from a mile away.

I'm not complimenting the Director, in case you were wondering. She might have a big cabin and an intense personality but that doesn't make her a good person. I don't trust her, the same way I don't trust Karen, or any other counselor at this camp.

Karen hangs back when we reach the door. "This is where I leave you," she says. "Sibyl will be waiting for you inside."

Hearing the Director's first name— Sibyl— is so weird and jarring that I don't question what Karen told me or why I'm being forced to speak with the Director in the first place. I just push the door open and step inside.

The Director's cabin is dark and smells like pine and smoke. In the center of one of the walls is a large fireplace, crackling with flames and puffing glowing embers up in the chimney. I stare into the fire for a few seconds before moving in the middle the room.