Dinner was a success, no big surprise there— I've always been good at making friends out of strangers; it comes with the territory. I moved around a lot as a kid so mastering the social scene was just another survival tactic. My theory was this: you can't get bullied for being the new kid if you make friends with the bullies first.

Risky, I know. But back then everything felt so temporary that I didn't care if trying to chat up the bullies didn't work. I knew that no matter what I did, no matter who I talked to, no matter what mistakes I made... in a few months, we'd just be leaving all over again, and my slate would be wiped clean once more, ready for another go.

Until New York, of course. Things changed in New York.

I don't think I had a serious friend until Jesse. Maybe it's because I didn't try to choose him— he just walked up to me and asked if I wanted to start a game of football. At first, I wrote him off as an overeager nobody with shaggy brown hair and a gap-toothed smile— but it was like he had made it his personal mission to become my friend, and I just couldn't shake him. So I wound up playing football anyway. The next day, too. And the next.

Jesse. There's really nobody like him. Especially not at this camp. I already know that there's no kid here that could walk up to me, grin, and then instantly make me want to become their friend. I didn't come to this camp to make friends. And even if I did, none of these kids are exactly "best friend" material.

I decide to put my old theory to the test again. It's never failed me before, so I don't know why it wouldn't work out for me at Lightlake.

After watching Finn make a fool out of himself with the SPAM, I do a little tour of the cafeteria, searching for the cool kids. In the end, they're the ones that find me. I register the doors slamming open, but don't think much of the commotion until I hear my presence being summoned— "Hey, kid with the black-eye! C'mon over here!"

I pivot around to meet my new friends; three boys, all the type you could find in detention on any given Saturday. The obvious ringleader is the blonde boy in the middle, judging by the way the other two boys follow his every move. Blondie's cute, in a very William Zabka in Karate Kid way, but his sharp blue eyes, sharp in the way that coal is sharp after it's been compressed into a diamond, make me wary. His smile is friendly enough for a camper at Lightlake, but I've been around the block enough times to know that the worst people put on the best facades.

Or maybe he really is friendly, and I'm just being paranoid.

Blondie grins at me and waves me over to their table. "Yeah, I'm talking to you!"

Fuck it, I think. I throw caution to the wind and stride across the cafeteria to join the trio, tray in hand.

I'm blatantly breaking the camp dress code in my army jacket and polo shirt (approaching rules with flippant regard is one of my favorite hobbies), but Blondie and his friends looks like the kind of guys who would appreciate a little rule-breaking. They're all wearing their camp shirts, but Blondie has converted his into a wife beater by hacking off the sleeves. The tank shows off his muscles well— even from across the room I can tell that he's seriously ripped.

I walk up to the table and present my most charismatic smile. "What can I do for you, fellas?"

Blondie looks me up and down. His gaze catches on my black-eye and lingers there. "Nice shiner," he comments. He grins at me, looking impressed. "You get in a fight or something?"

"Maybe. You should see the other guy." And never-mind the fact that the other guy is a fuchsia wheelie suitcase.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side this summer. What's your name, camper?"

"Ronan. You?"

"I'm Clancey. This is Eric and Sean. They're cousins."

Eric gives me a pair of finger-guns. Sean just shrugs like he could care less."

"It's nice to meet you all. But I don't think you invited me over here to exchange numbers."

"You're clever. I like that," Clancey says. "Why don't you join us for dinner?"

I look around the cafeteria. Most of the tables are occupied by two or three campers, all trying to put as much distance between themselves as possible. There's one talkative group, but it's the one that Finn joined, and I'm trying my best to avoid him. I turn back to Clancey and his friends. Sean and Eric don't exactly scream popularity, but Clancey definitely looks like he's used to being at the top of the food chain.

I think that it's time to put my old theory to the test one more time.

I set my tray down on the table and take a seat. "Gladly."

"Aces." Clancey reaches across the table to clap me on the back. It's a friendly gesture, but the force of it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.

I stuff my sandwich into my mouth before I can start wheezing, but as soon as the sandwich bread reaches my taste buds I immediately regret eating it. The stale, moldy flavor reminds me of the time I lost a bet with Jesse and had to lick the subway floor. Gagging, I try to wash down the terrible taste with my cup of Kool-Aid.

"You good there?" Clancey asks.

I drop the sandwich onto my plate and push it away. "The food here is shit."

"Tell me about it." Clancey looks with equal disgust at the mound of SPAM on his own plate. "I don't even know what the fuck this is."

"That's SPAM," a new voice says.

I look up just in time to see a tray slam down on the table. The camper, a scrawny looking kid with curly hair like Slash, continues, "You know, like from the Monty Python sketch?" He slides into the empty seat next to me and instantly fills his mouth with the beige mystery meat. "I'm Matt Mernan, by the way," he says, spitting flecks of meat into the air.

Clancey stares at the kid in surprise. "Are you the camper that wolf-whistled at the Director during Initiation?"

"Hell yeah." Matt lifts his hand up, but looks unfazed when Clancey refuses to high-five it. "How'd you know?"

Clancey raises an eyebrow. "You told her your name."

"Oh. Right." Matt finishes chewing his SPAM and pounds back a cup of juice, thrusting out his neck so his prominent Adam's apple is on full display. When he's finished, he slams the cup back down at the table and wipes his mouth off on his sleeve, staining the fabric Kool-Aid red.

I stare at the kid in disbelief. He must have some serious self-confidence to waltz over here and take a seat uninvited, but I can't imagine where he gets it from. He smells like pot and looks like a twelve-year old, and when he opens his mouth, his braces catch the light like dozens of mini mirrors.

Maybe he's just really fucking stupid. That would explained why he decided to wolf-whistle at the Director (of all people!) at Initiation.

Clancey exchanges a look with Eric and Sean.

"Thanks for letting me sit with you guys," Matt goes on. "You seem cool."

Eric snickers to himself.

"Anytime, Mernan." Clancey flashes the camper a smile that's just a little too sharp for my liking. "Now, what could a kid like you have possibly done to get sent to a place like this?"

"My mom caught me dealing. She found my stash in my sock drawer." Mernan sighs. "It was a real shame, too. I was making big bucks at the time."

"You were selling marijuana?"

"Yeah. There's a high demand for it, you know. Makes for good business. I stay away from the harder stuff— that's just asking for it. But if you know what you're doing, dealing weed can get you off pretty well in high school."

Clancey nods. He doesn't seem very impressed by Mernan's story, but he also doesn't look like he wants to deck him anymore. "Did you manage to bring any of it with you here?"

Mernan grins. "No offense, man, but I don't know you that well, so I really don't think I'm at liberty to say. You never know what might get back to the counselors."

"C'mon, I won't snitch."

But Matt just keeps grinning. "Ask me again later, when we're friends. Then I might consider letting you in on my little secrets."

Sean snorts.

"You're quite the enigma, Mernan," Clancey says.

"Ha. That's funny— people usually tell me that I talk too much."

Clancey turns back to me. "Ronan— I don't remember you telling us what you did to get sent here. Care to share?"

Ah. The moment I've been waiting for. I need to make a lasting impression on these campers if I want to gain their friendship, so I decide to build up the suspense. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say mysteriously.

Clancey's expression instantly changes to that of curiosity. Hook, line, and sinker. "Try me," he challenges.

"How about you tell me yours first?"

A smile plays on Clancey's lips. "Do you really want to know?"

"Do you?"

"Alright. I got sent to Lightlake for throwing an epic party and trashing my neighbor's house."

"You're lying."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It's still your turn to share."

I reach for my cup and down the rest of my Kool-Aid. When I look up, all eyes are on me.

"It was a Cadillac," I begin. "57' Deville. Beautiful car— unrivaled, really. My mother's colleague spent five years repairing it. That Cadillac was the kind of car that could sweep in awards at shows like nobody's business. It was destined to be a showstopper. So I stole it. I was at a party and I stole the keys, and I took that beautiful Cadillac out for a joyride. Boy, was it smooth. Best ride I've ever had."

The table waits in perfect silence for my next words.

"Then, when I was done, I crashed it into a telephone pole. Totaled it. You should have heard the sound the metal made when it crumpled— it was like stomping on a soda can. I got off without a bruise, but the car didn't fare so well. The last I heard, it was in the repair shop with thousands of dollars in damages.

"You can imagine how pissed my mom was. But shipping me off to summer camp isn't going to fix that Cadillac. Nothing will— I made sure of that."

Clancey stares at me for a few seconds. And then he bursts out laughing.

"That," he says, blue eyes shining, "is so fucking wicked."

Sean and Eric join in, cackling in unison like a pair of witches. Next to me Mernan grins from ear to ear. I can tell that I told my story right, but the enthusiastic response doesn't make me feel as good as I thought it would.

You see, Simon loved that car more than his wife. (I know this because he named the car, and I never heard him speak the name of his wife.) I'm pretty sure that if people were allowed to marry machines, Simon would have proposed to the Cadillac years ago. It was his source of pride, his source of joy. He spent seven years transforming it from a piece of junk to a shining beacon of hope for all aspiring rich men everywhere (maybe one day, if you work hard enough, you'll have a car almost as cool as mine!) ... Simon never drove the Cadillac, that was too risky, but he did show it off at every single fucking party he ever threw. It's funny how people will expose their weaknesses like that; even the ones that act like they have none. He would pluck the keys off the hook by the door and dangle them in the air, as if they were made out of fucking diamonds. Who wants to see me rev Myrtle's engine? (Myrtle was the Cadillac's name. I think it was some stupid Great Gatsby reference.)

And in the end it doesn't even matter. Yes, I crashed the Cadillac, but Simon's money will fix it— and if it can't, he can just use his savings to buy another one. He could even purchase an exact replica. Or, he could harass Sabrina into buying one for him— and it wouldn't even put a dent into her bank account. It's a fun story to tell, but in the end, it means nothing. It was all for nothing, just like Sabrina said.

"How the hell didn't you get sent to Juvie?" Clancey asks. "You must have insanely good luck. A stunt like that would have gotten me a lifetime of community service."

"My mom's loaded," I say. I shrug to make it sound like more of a casual statement than a brag. "I could've gone to jail, but the police didn't want to mess with her. She donates annually to the station."

"Wicked," Clancey repeats. "So fucking wicked."

I force a smile. Across the room, I can see Finn watching us, distaste coalescing in the creases of his forehead. I'm sure he hates that I'm pals with Clancey. I'm sure that he'd hate me even more if he heard my story about the Cadillac....

Let him. Like I already said— I didn't come to this camp to make friends.

I turn back to Clancey. "You want to tell me why you really got sent to Lightlake now?"

"No way, man. Nothing I could say will ever top that story of yours." Clancey shakes his head at me in amazement. "Wow. Seriously, wow. You better sit with us every day from now on. You're exactly the kind of guy I want to be hanging with this summer."

"Ditto," I say.

Clancey holds his hand out for a fist-bump. "Put it up."

We bump. He laughs. I smile, and this time, it doesn't feel so forced.

"Wicked. So fucking wicked...."

The counselors send us back to our cabins after dinner. Karen shouts at us through her megaphone (that she magically conjured up?) that a counselor will come by our cabins tomorrow morning at seven to wake us up, and that another counselor will be doing walkabouts to make sure everyone's lights are turned off by ten. In my opinion, seven is way too early to be waking up, but I don't think I could get away with skipping my morning activity to sleep in.

I give Clancey and the four other boys a parting fist-bump before returning to my cabin. I make sure to keep a safe distance between me and Finn on the way back, but he's too busy talking with some short kid with a limp to notice me. He only seems to realize that I'm walking on the same path as him when his friend leaves. I can feel his eyes on my back, like two question marks. His attention frustrates me. I flip him the bird over my shoulder and speed up, leaving him in the dust.

Finn reminds me of a gnat. He's constantly hovering around me and everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like one constant, annoying buzz. The Gnat. That's a good name for him. Maybe I'll call him that in the future.

The rest of the night passes quickly enough, even with the company of the Gnat. I finish unpacking by hanging up my Metallica "Ride The Lightening" tour poster (I own it solely for the purpose of pissing Sabrina off and brought it to camp to spite her from a distance), as well as a calendar, which I'm using to keep track of my remaining time at Lightlake. I fish around my duffel bag until I find a pen and draw an X through the June 10th square.

Now all I have to do is get to August 1st.

Once I'm done tidying up, I throw myself down on the bed and count the cracks in the ceiling until I feel sufficiently bored enough to try and fall asleep. I close my eyes, but I find myself thinking more about Jesse and Margot, and then the memories become too painful to bear and I have to open my eyes and stare at the ceiling some more.

I wish there was something else I could occupy myself with. One of the lovely perks of Alaska is that there's literally nothing to do, and for some dumb reason, I didn't bring much in the form of entertainment. I have a few comic books, including the one Jesse gave me, but I already read most of them on the flight in so they're too fresh in my brain. Now, I realize that I should have packed some books, or smuggled in a Walkman like Finn did... if only I had been focused on my time at camp rather than Sabrina while I was packing for camp.

I let out a sigh. This is going to be a long night.

Even the Gnat has found something interesting to do. While I lay on my cot and read graffiti carved into the wall, Finn does difficult-looking core exercises on the floor. Training for Cross Country, he tells me, not that I care or even asked. All I know is that he keeps grunting and it's really fucking annoying.

Soon the air starts to smell sweaty and gross, so I glower at Finn until, sheepishly, he quits working out. Then I complain at him until his goes to open one of the windows, but all that does is make the cabin cold and sweaty, so I complained some more and he closes it.

"I really don't know what you want from me," Finn told me, as he drew the curtains back over the windows. "I feel like no matter what I do you find a way to get mad at me for it."

"Maybe you should stop doing things, then."

"You know what? That's a great idea. How about I just curl up in the fetal position and not say a word for the rest of the summer."

"Fine by me."

At some point, Finn leaves to go take a shower. I decide to save my dirty body for tomorrow; I really don't want to trek out into the woods right now. (The cabin doesn't have a bathroom in it, you actually have to hike to take a piss.) When he gets back, he turns the light off, citing the ten p.m curfew, and plunges the cabin into darkness.

The word darkness is misleading. Outside, the sun hasn't set yet, so the only thing maintaining our normal Circadian rhythm is the heavy black-out curtains hanging over the windows. The weather is mad-fucked here— the sun sets after midnight, and then rises around three in the morning, so "night" doesn't really exist. The curtains do their job pretty well, but it's still weird trying to go to bed knowing that the sun is shining brightly outside.

About fifteen minutes after Finn turns off the light, Maria, one of the counselors, stops by and tells us to get some rest. She acknowledges the extended daylight, but in an offhand way that shows she doesn't mind it much— the counselors must have all gotten used to the longer days by now. I wish I could adapt as quickly. Before she leaves, she stops and smells the air inside the cabin for a few seconds too long— sniffing for smoke, probably— and leaves without saying goodnight.

Clearly, this camp is just huge on hospitality.

I toss and turn in my bed, unable to find a comfortable position. Outside, the forest is almost deafening. I can hear tree branches rustling and leaves scraping against each other like sandpaper, birds calling back and forth to each other in the foliage, roots groaning in the wind, and, deep in the woods, the sound of water rushing over rocks.

After living in New York, the city that never sleeps, for so many years, I'm used to noise at night— car engines and horns honking and shouting in six different languages. But the dull roar of NYC is nothing like this. Nature is so much more powerful here. It's hard to sleep knowing that I'm at the whims of the outdoors— seriously, a grizzly bear could probably waltz in through the front door and rip my face off and nobody would arrive in time to save me. The counselors probably wouldn't even care. I bet bear attacks happen all the time and they just cover them up.

It's too damn noisy to sleep.

And it also doesn't help that I'm a total fucking insomniac.

I twist around on my cot, contorting my limbs into insane positions in an attempt to relax. I have absolutely no luck. My mattress is about as thick as a piece of paper and the blankets feel like Kleenex— I've stayed in bargain motels with more comfortable beds than this. I wish I had a thick, down comforter. And ear plugs. (Or at least thicker walls.) And a door with sturdier hinges and an actual lock.... (Our door is equipped with one lock, but it's just a flimsy sliding one. It looks like something that a grizzly bear would sprinkle on top of its breakfast, right next to a side of defenseless camper.) Two hours in, Finn snaps at me to stop moving around. His exact words are this:

"If you keep fucking around like this, neither of us are going to be able to fall asleep."

"Excuse me?" I demand. I didn't know he was still awake, but now that I do I feel vaguely alarmed. He might've been staring at my back like a creep the entire time, and I wouldn't have noticied. Which is really disturbing and makes me want to close my eyes and go to sleep even less. (Being at this camp has made me extra paranoid. I'm just piling on the layers of crazy here.)

"It sounds like you're playing a game of soccer under the covers," Finn says wearily. His voice reminds me of a Slinky that's been stretched to the point where its metal springs aren't bouncy anymore, and it's so tired and sad that can't even hop down the stairs and the only thing you can do is throw it away. He asks, "Would it be so impossible to just try and lie still?"

"Yes." And then, because I'm exhausted and my nerves are shot and I have absolutely no patience left, I kick my foot against the wood of the bed frame hard enough that Finn jumps under his covers. "Goal," I say,my words dripping with sarcasm.

"You're such a jerk."

"Thanks. Now, just close your eyes and plug your ears and I won't bother you at all."

Finn groans. "I want a new roommate."

"What a coincidence. So do I."

"Ha, ha. Fuck you."

"Pass. You're not my type."

The sun is finally setting now, but the dusky glow of twilight filtering through the curtains is still bright enough for me to see Finn scowling at me. He makes a rude gesture that I choose to ignore. "Smart ass," he tells me.

"You know, the sooner you quit talking to me, the faster you'll fall asleep."

Unimpressed by my stellar wisdom, Finn lets out a momentous sigh and rolls over onto his back, the motion so dramatic that his whole cot shudders. "I can't sleep," he says unhappily, as if he almost expects me to feel sorry for him. Or to start commiserating. (If there's one thing I never do, it's commiserate with strangers. There's no way Finn freaking Murphy is getting my pity.) "I feel like I'm going crazy."

"You do realize that you're talking to an insomniac here, right? Don't go asking me for any sleep advice."

"I didn't know you were an insomniac," Finn says. He's surprised. As if sleep disorders are so fucking uncommon. "Finally, an explanation for why you're so cranky all of the time."

"Don't push me, Fish." (Clancey mentioned the nickname to me during dinner and I've been dying to bring it up in conversation with Finn every since.)

"Seriously?" Now he sounds betrayed. "You too?"

I shrug. The sheets crinkle around my shoulders. "What can I say? Clancey's growing on me."

Finn makes a disgusted noise. "Like a fungus."

"Say what you will. You're entitled to your own opinion."

"And you're entitled to sit with that douche-bag at dinner, even though I know you only did it to piss me off."

"That's not true— I like his sense of humor."

"I don't think he has one."

"Hmm, I don't know. He laughed pretty hard when you spilled that SPAM all over the floor."

"Shut up, Ronan."

"He laughed even harder when you announced that you're a vegetarian."

"Shut up, Ronan."

"I have to ask, it is a dietary choice? Or an ethical one? Because I can't decide which one is lamer."

"I know that it's hard for you to understand why I'm a vegetarian because you have no ethics of your own," Finn hisses at me, "But I don't believe in eating the meat of animals raised for slaughter. I don't think it's right."

"Cry me a river, Murphy."

"Only so you can drown in it."

"That doesn't sound very ethical to me..."

Finn growls out a curse. "You are such a jerk!"

"You already called me a jerk once tonight. I wish you'd come up with more original insults."

Finn happily gives me a suggestion about what he wishes I would do.

"That's not very polite."

"Sorry, I left my manners back in Indiana."

Eventually, after a drawn-out exchange of side remarks, the conversation drifts away to a new topic: Lightlake.

(Trust me, I don't want to be conversing with my roommate at one in the morning, but it's not like I have anything better to do.)

"There's just something about this camp— something off," Finn remarks. "It creeps me out. I can't close my eyes. I feel like if I do... I'll wake up with somebody's face hovering over me."

"You're so fucking weird. I did hear that the lake was haunted, though."

"From who?"

"Clancey."

"The only thing that's haunting the lake is his God-awful haircut."

"The mullet was an unfortunate fashion choice...."

"If only he realized that, and decided to spare our eyeballs."

The rest of the night continues like this. Me, saying something inflammatory, and Finn grinding out a response in return. But by the time it gets to be three, it's actually dark outside, and Finn is getting tired, yawning between every word. Of course, my own brain refuses to cooperate and do the same.

"I'm going to sleep," Finn finally says to me, his words so slurred with drowsiness that I'm surprised that he's still talking at all. "I hope the bed bugs bite you all night long, asshole."

"Bed bugs don't even live in Alaska. Dumb-ass."

Finn snorts reproachfully before falling into silence. I do the same. (The falling into silence part. Not the snorting. Because I have manners.) Eventually, Finn's breathing deepens and evens out, and when I glance over at him, I see that his eyes are firmly shut, his arm tucked away safely beneath his head. The Gnat isn't as annoying now that he's stopped talking at me, and I do suppose that he looks peaceful sleeping, in a way. Those core exercises must have really knocked him out.

For the first time, I find myself feeling jealous of my roommate, but only he's capable of doing something that I haven't managed to teach myself for seven years: closing my eyes and falling asleep.