The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 27: Jasper

Levi turned off the alarm clock in our cabin. I realize this by waking up precisely five minutes before the start of morning activities.

Panic splits through my chest like an ax. I try to leap out of bed, but my legs get tangled in the sheets and I end up crashing-landing into the floor.

"Ouch," I mutter.

Levi doesn't even flinch.

Cursing softly under my breath, I tear free from the prison of sheets and stomp over to Levi's side of the room. There are at least six different pillows wedged between the folds of his blanket. I snatch up the one embroidered with a scene from Midsummer's Night Dream and whack him on the face with it.

"You"— whack —"are"— whack —"an"— whack —"idiot!"

Levi lets out a strangled yelp and flings his arms over his head. "Ow! Ow! Why are you hitting me with a pillow?"

"You turned off my alarm. I overslept, and now I'm going to be late for my morning activity!" I give his face another whack for good measure. "I just survived my first week of kitchen duty. I don't need to suffer through another!"

"If you're late to your morning activity, why are you wasting time hurting me?"

"We're both late to our morning activity, you moron. Think of this as your replacement alarm!"

"I don't want a replacement alarm. Why do you think I turned off the first one?"

"Probably because you only have two functioning brain-cells!" I lob the pillow at his chest and storm back to my side of the cabin. I'm so furious that I temporarily forget that I can't get changed in front of Levi, and I almost make the mistake of stripping out of my pajama pants. "Shit!" I rarely ever curse around other people, but this seems like the appropriate situation for foul language.

Usually, I get along pretty well with Levi; but if there's one thing I absolutely can't stand, it's people who mess with my routine. Sleep-talking about The Merchant of Venice is one thing. Making me late for my morning activity is another.

My parents practically drilled it into my head from birth that being tardy is unacceptable. I'm an only child, so they've always had high expectations for me. Can't be late. Can't swear in public. And yes, I know I've already done both of those things today. Can you blame me? This morning has been a disaster.

Feeling more frustrated than ever, I yank open my drawers—only to cause the glass of water I keep by my bedside to topple over and spill everywhere. And I'm talking everywhere. My pants, my shirt, the floor. I try to wipe some of it off but this only ingrains the stain more deeply in the fabric. "You've got to be kidding me," I groan. I wriggle into my camp t-shirt (being bare-chested doesn't bother me that much) but leave the pajama pants on. There's no time to get dressed discreetly. Today, I'm rocking the damp flannel.

My activity schedule is stuck to the wall with a piece of gum. I give it a glancing once-over as I head for the door. Eklunta Cabin. The cabin isn't too far away— I can probably make it there in five minutes if I jog.

I throw on my fleece hoodie and shoot Levi one last, scathing look. "You do realize that you're only screwing yourself over by turning off the alarm, right?"

"Of course," he replies through a yawn. "But the extra sleep makes it so, so worth it."

"I doubt it will be worth it when the counselors give you a crap-load of marks for missing your activities."

"Oh, they wouldn't do that. I've struck a deal with them. Well, one of them. Sun-Lee, to be specific." Levi tugs his blankets over his shoulders and yawns again. "She doesn't give me marks for sleeping in, as long as I don't quote Shakespeare around her. So, on the days that I have Sun-Lee as my activity leader, I can squeeze in a few extra hours of shut-eye."