I don't belong here.

This is the first thought that goes through my mind as I step into the cramped, noisy cafeteria. I'm ten minutes late to Initiation (I got lost on the way here. I have a horrible sense of direction), and the room is already filled to the brim— there's about thirty kids crammed into a building built with the capacity of fifteen people in mind, and the combined body heat has caused the temperature to climb unbearably so that it feels, somewhat ironically, like Hell.

I don't belong here, not in this unruly mass of sweaty teenagers, all of them talking and shouting and elbowing me in the gut. I don't belong here, not in this camp for delinquents and God knows what else. (They said that only kids with minor misdemeanors were allowed at camp. But I'm not sure if I believe that.) I'm not a psychopath. I'm not even a sociopath. If you saw me walking down the sidewalk on a rainy day, you wouldn't cross the street to avoid me. You might even stop to say hello, if you're that kind of person.

On the other hand, some of the kids here look like the type of people I would cross the road to avoid even on a sunny day. I actually saw one camper with a full tattoo sleeve— not that I have anything against tattoos, it's just that a whole arm of them seems like a bit much when you're only in high school— and another already sporting a black-eye.

Campers. Is that what we're really called? Usually when someone says the word camper, you think of making s'mores by the fire, hiking through the mountains, and sharing ghost stories with friends. These people do not look like campers. And if they were campers, they'd be the ones who pull up in a dented RV, blast loud music the entire night, and then spend the day shooting squirrels with BB guns and smoking weed by the campfire— definitely not the type of kids you'd want to share a tent with. Or a cabin.

I notice, with more than a little relief, that I'm not the only black kid here. It's surely a terrifying crowd of teenagers, but it's a diverse one, too. This isn't like my old private school, where we had more snow days than black students. I can already tell that most of the campers here come from wildly different backgrounds. (Hopefully, this will be a good thing, and not another reason to get beat up.)

I get elbowed in the gut three more times before the squeal of feedback echoes through the cafeteria, and a crackling female voice orders everyone to quiet down. Unfortunately for the speaker, it's impossible to hear clearly through the chaos, and the noise level only grows.

I stand on my toes and crane my neck towards the front of the room. Somebody's set up a podium there, along with a row of chairs; most of which have already been kicked over. There's a tall, lanky woman with dark black hair and blonde highlights (like, drugstore-dye highlights) standing next to the podium, flanked by a dozen blue-shirted counselors, none of whom look very happy to be there.

There's something very off-putting about the tall woman. Maybe it's the way she carries herself— like she's being held up by strings— or maybe it's the silver reflective sunglasses that completely obscure her eyes. Something about her stance makes me shiver with anticipation.

One of the counselors, a lean woman with aggressively cropped blonde hair and a jutting jaw, fiddles with an industrial-grade megaphone. I lean forward, trying to gauge her next move— until a heavily freckled boy steps in front of me and blocks my view of the podium.

Freckles instantly starts speaking. It takes me a second to realize he's talking to me, not just to the empty air. "Did I miss anything?" he asks breathlessly, like he ran here. Sweat drips down the bridge of his nose. "I really wasn't trying to be late, but my roommate told me the wrong time, and I got totally lost."

"You're alright, it hasn't even started yet," I reassure him. Freckles looks at me in confusion, and I realize he probably can't hear me over the roar of the crowd. I repeat my words, almost shouting this time, and he nods in understanding.

"Thanks," Freckles says brightly. He extends a hand. "I'm Finn, by the way."

I stare down at his (also) freckled hand. Does he want me to shake it? "Jasper," I offer, still staring at his hand. I'm afraid if I accept it, he'll judo flip me or break my wrist. Then, a little bit too late, I realize that this is a completely irrational fear, because there's nothing strikingly intimidating about Finn— I mean, he doesn't have a tattoo sleeve, which is nice.

I shake his hand, and he beams at me.

"Where're you from?" he shouts. "I'm from Indiana."

"Canada," I say. "Montreal."

"That's so cool. I've never met a Canadian before—"

Feedback squeals through the room, and a few campers let out pained cries, while others clamp hands over their ears. Then, the terrible noise is replaced by the female voice from earlier. It's much louder this time, and it sends shock-waves through the stunned cafeteria, practically rattling the window frames. "Alright, campers, please have a seat." I glance around. There are only a few chairs scattered across the room, and most have been knocked over. "I will only repeat myself one more time," the voice decrees. "Sit down and shut up."

The chaos fades away into a dull roar. I see a few campers gaze around in confusion, probably wondering where exactly we're supposed to "sit down and shut up". A few lucky people, Finn included, manage to snag a chair, but the rest of us are forced to sit on the floor.

I end up next to a camper I haven't met yet, a girl with ringlets of dirty-blonde hair and pretty green eyes, who's glaring at the ground like sitting on it is the most revolting thing she's done in her entire life. "I bet this is just some scare tactic they use to psych us out," she mutters to herself, swatting microscopic specs of dirt off her bare calves. "Uh, what the fuck are you looking at?"

The sharpness of her words catches me off guard. "Oh— uh, nothing," I stammer, feeling a blush creep up into my cheeks.

"Then look away."

I take the girl's advice and turn my eyes back to the podium, where the loud blonde counselor is trying to adjust the microphone so that it reaches her mouth. (As if one voice-amplifying machine wasn't enough.) The microphone wire is putting up a good fight. I wonder if this is what the whole summer will be like— rude campers, and counselors who have no idea what they're doing.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. My roommate, a hefty, loud-mouthed kid named Levi, plops down next to me, already polishing glasses. I'm relieved to see him. He's a familiar face in a sea of strangers. I'm not the best at making new friends, but Levi is easy enough to get along with, and we hit it off at our cabin this afternoon.

"You know who the Director is?" Levi asks in his best stage-whisper. I shake my head. "Well, I heard he's ex-military. Got a Glasgow smile and only one eye. I also heard that he served three years in jail for beating up his ex, really messy stuff—"

The blonde girl scoffs loudly. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she declares. "First of all, the Director isn't a he. You see the woman with the highlights standing next to the podium? That's the Director."

Levi rubs his glasses a few more times before shoving them back up his nose. "Uh, who the hell invited you to join this conversation?"

"Please. I know more about this camp than either of you two combined," she says, grinning at us in an annoying, self-satisfied way. "My brother went here when he was my age, so I have all the insider information."

"Congratulations," Levi says dryly. "I couldn't care less."

"You'll want my help soon enough. My name is Giselle, by the way. Feel free to stop by Mendenhall Cabin when you smarten up."

"Thanks, Giselle. I definitely won't be doing that at any point this summer, but the invitation really means a lot to me."

"Suit yourself." The girl winks at him, then whirls away.

Levi's face turns as red as a tomato. "What a know-it-all," he mutters.

At the podium, the counselor finally gives up on the microphone and shouts into her megaphone instead. "Okay, everyone, let's settle down. The Director will be making her speech shortly."

"Told you so," Giselle says cheerfully.

Levi opens his mouth like he's about to confront her, but I cut him off before he gets the chance. "Don't. You're just giving her what she wants— attention." I give the girl a pointed look. She flounces her curls at me. "Just forget about it. The speech is starting soon."

The counselor hands the megaphone off to the scary sunglasses woman. She walks deliberately towards the center of the room, taking her place behind the podium like a queen at her throne. "Hello, campers," she begins. Her voice is chilling and subtly intense. "As you may have figured out by now, I am the Director of this camp. My name is Sibyl Scott, but you will call me the Director. I will preface my speech with this: while I want your experiences at this summer camp to be constructive and enjoyable, if you make things difficult for me or my counselors, I will make you regret that decision dearly. Do you all understand?"

The room falls silent. Then, in an act of either absurd bravery or stupidity, a camper actually wolf-whistles.

I can't see the Director's eyes behind her reflective sunglasses, but I can imagine them narrowing into tiny slits at the sound of the whistle. Her icy gaze roves across the cafeteria until it lands on a single camper: a brown-haired boy wearing a Van Halen t-shirt and a stupid, metal-filled grin.

"What is your name?" the Director asks. It's less of a question and more of an order, and the way she phrases it chills me to the bone.

"Matt Mernan," the camper replies, braces gleaming. "Pleasure to meet you."

Next to me, I see Giselle roll her eyes. This makes me dislike her a little less.

"I wish I could say the same." The Director's stony stare flicks back to the center of the room, even more glacial than before. "Thank you, Mernan, for making yourself the perfect example for my next point. You see, the main features of this camp are its mark system. Marks will be awarded for poor behavior, as the counselors or I see fit. Interrupting me, or any of the counselors, such as our friend Mernan just did, is one mark."

"What's a mark?" Matt calls out.

The Director ignores him. "Repeat offenses will double the value of the mark. Interrupting once will cost you one mark, interrupting twice will cost you two. I believe that means our friend Mernan here has just earned himself three marks, quite possibly a camp record for Initiation."

This shuts him up. A few kids "Ooh" in mock surprise, but a shh from the Director quickly silences them all.

"Marks will also be given out for other foul behaviors, such as cursing," the Director continues. "More severe behaviors, such as stealing and vandalizing, will sensibly be given more marks. Physical violence will be given no marks, but the offender will be expelled from camp permanently. Five marks means kitchen duty for a week. Twenty marks will result in your permanent expulsion. The system restarts every two weeks— let's hope none of you reach twenty during that time."

One of the campers raises their hand. "How do you keep track of how many marks we have?"

"That is knowledge for the counselors to have, not the campers."

Another camper raises their hand. "What if one of the campers messes with the system to give someone they don't like more marks? Or to take away some of their own?"

"I can assure you that it is very difficult to 'mess with the system', and that anybody who attempts to do so will have their own amount of marks doubled. Now, you. last question."

This time, it's Giselle who speaks up. She asks, in a haughty tone of voice, "What happens if you get permanently expelled from camp?"

"I imagine you would go to wherever you were supposed to go before you came to this camp," the Director answers coldly. "Which, for some of you, is not very promising."

With those ominous last words, the Director hands the megaphone back to the blonde counselor, then stalks away from the podium and glides silently through the double doors. Nobody dares to say anything until she leaves, and not even the counselor speaks up until the doors slam shut.

"Speaking of counselors, I think it's time we introduce ourselves to you all," she says, ignoring another shrill shriek of feedback. "I'm Karen." She jerks a finger at the pale, moon-faced counselor next to her and continues, "That's Owen. The short guy there is Jackson, the brunette standing next to him is Maria, and then there's Sun-Lee, and Christopher— or Chris, for short. Any questions? No? Moving on, then. The Director already explained to you our marks system, but there are a few more basic things that you all still need to learn."

Karen hands the megaphone off to Owen. When he speaks, I'm taken aback by how cheerful his voice sounds. It reminds me of the old men that dress up like Santa Claus at shopping malls.

"I'd like to start off by saying that cabin assignments are permanent. We've already gotten a few complaints about that, but trust me, no amount of griping will get you a different roommate." A few people groan. Owen smiles at them sympathetically. "Also, if you haven't picked up a camp handbook yet, I highly recommend doing so. It comes with a map of Lightlake, and a list of rules that will help you straighten up and fly right."

Karen pulls the megaphone towards her mouth and snaps, "Stop whining, it's not that hard to listen to us speak for ten minutes. That means you, girl with the braids. I can hear you complaining from up here."

She passes the megaphone back to Owen, who winces as the device squeaks in protest. "A few more things— there are plenty of trails in the woods for recreational use, and a small library in the Arts and Crafts cabin." He pauses thoughtfully. "Well, I think that's all from me today. Karen, the megaphone is yours."

"Initiation is over," Karen says brusquely. "Report back to your cabins promptly; dinner will be served here at seven."

As soon as Karen dismisses the crowd, the cafeteria swells with noise and all thirty campers make a mad-dash for the exits. Giselle is the first to escape, shoving herself aggressively through the pulsating crowd, while Finn takes the more polite route, muttering "excuse me" and "sorry" as he wades towards the podium, probably to grab a handbook. I look over my shoulder, expecting to see Levi standing behind me— but he's gone, too. Swallowing my dismay, I continue onward alone.

I get elbowed in the gut three more times before I make it out, and then some blonde guy who looks bulky enough to be on the Montreal Canadians hockey team stomps on my foot, leaving me limping. I can't hobble fast enough to keep up with the rest of the campers, and I quickly fall behind. Before I know it, I'm alone on the forest trail.

It takes me ten minutes to realize I've been doing circles around the same crooked oak tree. I do a three-sixty, hoping to find a helpful stranger, but there's nobody around to ask for directions. Sighing, I plop down in the dirt and massage my aching foot. Great. I'm lost in the woods, again.

The absolute immensity of the Alaskan wilderness is a little frightening. I bet there's bears in this forest. I wouldn't be surprised if the nearest one was less than a kilometer away. And I can't forget about the moose, either— just because they're herbivores doesn't mean they're less willing to gore me with their antlers and turn me into a Jasper flavored Shish Kabob.

Nearby, a twig snaps in two, and my body immediately switches into fight or flight mode. There are so many things in Alaska that could kill me. Hell, they wouldn't even have to try that hard— a mildly venomous snake could probably do me in.

The noises grow closer. I leap to my feet, preparing to run— until I hear something that stops me in my tracks. Voices. Human voices!

"... the lake? Why does the Director want to talk to us about the lake?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure it's about the currents. You know that's why swimming in the lake is banned, right? It's got these hidden, underwater currents that could just about wash you away.... Didn't you hear about what happened in the summer of '69?

My muscles slacken with relief. Finally. I've finally found a pair of counselors that can help me find my cabin. I'm not going to die alone in the Alaskan wilderness.

Grinning ear from ear, I wait patiently for the counselors to round the bend of the trail— until Karen and Owen appear, and the smile is wiped from my face. They're not just going for a casual walk. They're holding hands.

Karen's eyes instantly lock onto mine.

"Oh, beans," I whisper.

Instantly, she morphs back into the no-nonsense, megaphone-toting counselor from Initiation, dropping Owen's hand like it burned her. "Camper! What are you doing here?"

Paralyzed by fear, I can only gape at her. "I... uh...."

Karen's face flushes bright red, her eyes narrowing with fury. Next to her, Owen refuses to meet my gaze, looking abashed. A smudge of pale pink lip gloss shines on his left cheek.

I can't believe my luck. All I wanted was directions back to my cabin, and now I've stumbled onto the cover-up of a forbidden counselor romance. I just saw something that I really wasn't meant to see— and now, I'm going to pay the price.

"Tell me your name!" Karen barks.

I debate giving her a fake name, but I already know that it wouldn't work. We're spending three months together— I can't hide from Karen forever; eventually, she'll find out who I really am.

"I'm Jasper," I start shakily. "Sostenuto. And I'm so, so sorry—"

"Don't apologize. Just tell me why you were eavesdropping on a private conversation."

"I— I wasn't! I got lost on my way back to my cabin and I was going to ask you for help— that's it, I swear. I wasn't eavesdropping, I would never—"

"How much did you see?" Owen asks, his voice strained. "Did you—"

Karen stomps on his foot, and he shuts up.

"How old are you, Jasper?" she asks.

"I'm seventeen. Ma'am."

Karen tilts her head to the side, sizing me up the way a hawk views a mouse. "We're all adults here, then. Which means that we can make adult decisions, together."

Please don't kick me out of camp. "Like what?"

"If you don't tell the Director what you saw today, I won't tell her anything, either. Does that sound okay to you, Jasper Sostenuto?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm totally fine with that. I won't say anything to the Director— Boy Scout's promise."

"I hope you know that if you decide to tell the Director about Owen and I, it will be your word against mine. Now, who do you think the Director will believe more— her trusted counselor, or some teenage delinquent?"

"You," I whisper.

Karen smiles at me. There's no warmth to it, none at all. "That's right. You're a fast learner, Jasper. That skill will get you far in life."

I don't say anything. I've never been blackmailed before; I don't know what to do. I try to nod my head, to show that I agree with her, but it feels like my entire body has frozen solid.

"I think we're done here," Karen says slowly. "Head back to your cabin, and please, try to avoid eavesdropping on the way. Also, I'm giving you five marks. For being a nuisance."

My heart flutters violently. "Five marks? But doesn't that mean... kitchen duty?"

"Would like me to make it ten, Sostenuto?"

I find myself glancing towards Owen, hoping that maybe he'll give me a pass, but all he does is shrug. He seemed so friendly at Initiation— I guess he's really just a push-over. "No. Sorry. I mean— I'll leave now." I force my legs to propel me away from the counselors and their unfortunate Romeo-Juliet romance. I still don't know how to get to my cabin, but that's fine; I'd rather eat a handful of tarantulas then go back and ask Karen for directions.

I pick up the pace, determined to put as much distance between myself and Karen as possible. It feels like my cheeks have been set on fire. Forget that— it feels like my whole body is burning, like I'm wading through a pool filled with scorching embers. Five marks. If that's what I get for being a nuisance, then how many marks would the counselors give me for doing something actually wrong?

Owen's laugh echoes off the trees behind me. "Kids," he says, and laughs even more, like some kind of battery-powered robot Santa. My cheeks burn (if possible) even hotter. That's all we are to these people. Kids. Nuisances. "Don't worry about it too much, Kar. There's no way he saw anything."

Great. They're on nickname basis. I am so, so screwed.

"You'd be surprised at how nosy these campers can be," Karen grumbles back. "There's a reason they were sent to Lightlake, Owen. It would do you good not to forget that."

My stomach twists threateningly. I pick up my legs and start running— well, jolting is a better word for it. I run and run and run until, somehow, I find myself back at the Mess Hall. There, I sneak into the building, snatch up one of the last remaining camp handbooks (I do have one, I just left it at my cabin), and use the map to find my way back to Skilak.

When I first arrived at Lightlake, I wanted to give it a chance, to see if it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be— but I don't know how much longer that streak of optimism will last. Here, the campers are rude and way too happy to stomp on my feet, the counselors are either condescending or openly vindictive, and, based on what I've observed in the past few minutes, there's some weird vibe of stealth and secrecy going around too. Not only are Karen and Owen secretly dating each other, but apparently the lake is dangerous, and something terrible happened in the summer of '69.

I can deal with the secrecy part, if only because I'm used to keeping secrets of my own. But everything else... the rudeness, the marks, the insults... I don't know how I'm supposed to survive another three months of that. And kitchen duty— well, kitchen duty is going to be the death of me, that's for sure.

I don't belong at this camp. Sometimes, I wonder if I belong anywhere at all.