The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 59: Ronan

When I arrive at the Mess Hall, I don't bother eating breakfast. I have more important things to do than be hungry, so instead of grabbing a plate of food, I head straight for Finn and Becca (they're sitting right next to each other; it's like a two-for-one deal), and grab them by the shoulders, guiding them over to a part of the Mess Hall where nobody will eavesdrop on our conversation. Neither protests this abrupt abduction. I guess they've gotten so used to being randomly pulled aside for secretive discussions that they aren't even surprised by it anymore.

"I'm sensing you're about to explain to us a plan that will either get us kicked out of camp or left for dead in the Alaskan wilderness," Becca says, her tone nonchalant. She chews thoughtfully on a stale-looking bagel while she speaks. "But that's just me."

"Funny," Finn mutters. "I was sensing the same thing."

"So, which one is it today?" asks Becca. "Expulsion, or death?"

"Neither," I say firmly. I'm confident in my plan and I want them to be, too. "I've been thinking things over since the whole Clancey incident, and I've decided that our best course of action is to force Wolseley to talk to us about what happened in the summer of ′69."

"Expulsion it is," Becca says.

Finn shakes his head frantically at me. He's been agitated ever since we found Clancey in the woods, and now, even the idea of danger puts him on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "Nope. No way. Hard pass. I already told you, Ronan, I'm done with your crazy plans. Breaking into the Director's cabin was enough for me. I don't want to be the next unconscious camper discovered in the bushes, so just leave me out of this."

Becca shoves him playfully in the shoulder. "Seriously, Finn, you need to grow a pair." Or at least that's what it sounds like she says— there's too much bagel in her mouth to tell for sure.

Bagel or not, it does the trick, and Finn's cheeks flush a pale shade of pink. "What's wrong with not wanting to die?" he demands. "Am I the only person in this group with any common sense?"

I stare at him. "You have common sense?"

He gestures at me with a specific finger. "Go to hell."

"Well, if we're a group, we're going to need a cool name," Becca reasons. "Any suggestions?"

"There will be no cool names!" Finn snaps, pressing a set of fingers against both temples. I have to resist the urge to smirk. It's so entertaining when he gets worked up like this. "I'm done with secret meetings and mysterious talks and almost being murdered by someone I don't even know! I'm done picking locks and breaking windows and running from hornets—"

A head of shaggy brown hair bobs up to us, carrying with it the distinctive reek of marijuana. "Hey, look, it's the Dream Team!" Matt Mernan crows, flashing us a mouthful of metal. "I have to ask— is membership to your club audition-only, or do you accept walk-ins?"

All three of us make eye contact at the same time. Becca looks triumphant, Finn looks horrified, and I'm just here for the show.

"The Dream Team," Becca exclaims, while Finn cries, "No!"

Matt wedges a fingernail between his two front teeth and flicks a piece of greenery out of his braces. "Well, there go my hopes of being one of the cool kids." He wiggles his hand at us in a cheery wave. "See you later, Dream Team!"

The stoner saunters away, whistling an upbeat tune that sounds a lot like the sea shanty "Drunken Sailor". Finn wrinkles his nose at Mernan's retreating form. "Dream Team?" he repeats incredulously. "Does he really think that's original?"