The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 52: Finn

I wake up with a knife pressed against my throat. It's not as terrifying as I thought it would be— my weeks at Lightlake have immunized me to threats of physical violence. "Both of you, get up," commands a harsh voice. I don't need a flashlight to see it's Clancey speaking. His trademark growl is unmistakable.

Slowly, I peel the sleeping bag off my legs and blink up at my attackers. The moonlight is just bright enough for me to see three people looming above me: Clancey, Eric, and Sean. All three of them are scowling at me in a way that means trouble, and I'd be freaking out if I wasn't so exhausted. I'm outnumbered three to one, and Clancey's easily got forty pounds on me— not to mention the other boys' impressive biceps, which are perfectly built for beating up on unsuspecting victims. If this turns out to be a fight, I won't be the one walking away smiling.

A realization pierces through the fog of my sleep-addled brain. The knife. It's the same one Owen announced was missing. Funny. The counselor didn't seem particularly worried when it was stolen, and now it's ended up pointed at my sternum.

I get up without protest. There's not much I can protest, not with a knife pressed to my throat, so I just do as Clancey says and follow him obediently outside of the tent.

"You too, Lockwood," Clancey snarls, as menacingly as he can without waking up the counselors. "We're not done with you yet."

One of the boys tries to shake Ronan awake, only to get thumped over the head with a flashlight. "Fuck!" cries Eric. The flashlight clips him on the shoulder and he scrambles out of the tent, cursing softly. "He fucking hit me!"

Ronan is fully lucid now, swinging his flashlight through the air like a billystick. "The next person who touches me is getting their fucking brains knocked out," he whispers furiously into the night. "I mean it. I won't fucking hesitate."

Clancey points the knife at him. "Keep your voice down and get out of the tent, Lockwood."

"You can stick that knife up your ass, Cleavon."

"Cut the attitude or I'll cut your throat. Do you really think you can beat my knife with your flashlight? Get the fuck out of the tent before I find somewhere to stick this in you."

"Fuck!" Ronan hurls the flashlight at the side of the tent, making the whole structure quiver. "You're all dead to me. You especially, Clancey." He claws his way out of his sleeping bag and shoves through the tent flap. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to fall asleep? Have you ever, personally, suffered from insomnia? I didn't think so! Come back and threaten us with a knife in the morning."

"Keep your voice down."

"You know, there are much better ways to get revenge. Much easier ways, too. There's really no need to go around disrupting people's sleep cycles like this. Why don't we all go back to our tents and figure things out when it's not two in the morning?"

"You talk too much."

"I get that a lot."

"How about this: you shut your mouth, and I don't tattoo my initials on your roommate's throat. Got it?"

Ronan's smile turns sharper than the edge of Clancey's stolen knife. "Whatever you say, boss." He mimics locking up his lips and throwing away the key. "My lips are sealed."

Now, Clancey looks ready to strangle him with his bare hands, but he somehow manages to power through his murderous urges and grinds out, "No more funny business, okay? Or I really will cut your roommate." To prove that he's not kidding around, he grabs me by the shoulders and holds the knife up to my neck. "One wrong word and he's dead."