With a name like "kitchen duty", the bar is set pretty low; but even with my standards at an all-time decline, Lightlake still manages to fail to meet expectations.

The kitchen is a one-room cabin located behind the Mess Hall, outfitted with two industrial sinks. The tap splutters out water that oscillates between three settings: freezing cold, scorching hot, and brown. There's only one window, and only one fan, and the machinery makes an insufferable whirring noise as it spins; clicking and clanking through every rotation like it could be its last. For fun, the counselors have thrown in a few sponges, one bar of soap, and a single rubber glove with a hole in the thumb. There's also a tiny AM/FM radio in the corner of the room, but it only picks up static.

The bare, wooden walls of the kitchen almost make me miss those cheesy inspirational posters. (Of course, the only poster the kitchen would ever have is a sign that reads "abandon hope all ye who enter here" hanging above the door to warn off newcomers.)

Matt Mernan, who has a knack for pointing out the obvious, gazes perfunctorily around the room before declaring, "Well, this sucks."

Sun-Lee, our counselor escort, grimaces at the stacks of dirty dishes. "Welcome to paradise, folks. You'll be spending the next six nights here, so I suggest you start getting comfortable."

"Is there anybody else coming?" Giselle asks hopefully. "A cleaning service, maybe?"

"Nope, it's just you three this week." Sun-Lee tucks a strand of bright-pink hair behind her ears. Out of all the counselors, she's definitely the most hip (with her rainbow-dyed hair, shiny septum piercing, and neon Reebok pumps, she could almost be mistaken for a camper), but I can tell that she also cares the least about her job. When we were walking over here together, I asked her why she decided to become a counselor at Lightlake, to which she replied, "It pays well."

Giselle lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. Her response isn't very soul-stirring— most of the things she does are loud and dramatic, so it fits right in. "This is going to take hours."

"I agree," Sun-Lee replies. (Definitely not the motivational pep-talk I was expecting.) "If you get started right away, you should be done by midnight."

"Midnight? My bedtime is at eleven!" Matt exclaims. I can't tell if he's being serious or not.

"Don't get yourselves too worked up. You still have a week left." With these reassuring words, Sun-Lee wiggles her fingers and us in farewell and heads for the exit. "If you have any questions, please don't ask me. Enjoy!"

The door slams shut behind her.

"Should we do introductions first?" Matt asks. "Like, get to know each other? Team-bonding?"

Giselle rolls her eyes. "God, you're even worse than Owen."

As much as I hate introductory activities, I decide to take up Matt's advice and participate in some team-bonding of my own. "I'm Jasper. Uh, Sostenuto."

"Nice to meet you, Uh Sostenuto," Giselle says. She sticks out her hand. I move forward to shake it, but then— instead of reciprocating the gesture— Giselle brushes past me and reaches for something on the counter. Her sweatshirt. She was reaching for her sweatshirt, not going in for a formal introduction.

A small piece of my soul splits away and flees into the humid air. I resolve never to willingly participate in a team-bonding activity again.

Giselle gives me a weird look but doesn't comment on my slip-up. She shrugs the sweatshirt on over her head, exposing the faintest hint of a butterfly tattoo on her hipbone— a monarch, if I'm remembering my species correctly. Then she jams the sweatshirt down (the front is decorated by the famous Andy Warhol painting of Marilyn Monroe) and the tattoo is gone.

"Nice tattoo," I say, in a hopeful attempt at conversation.

"Thanks. Monarchs are my favorite butterfly because they're poisonous to predators."

"Oh. That's... cool." Heat flushes into my cheeks. For some reason, everything Giselle does catches me off-guard.

"I like poisonous things, too," Matt blurts out.

"Nobody asked you, Mernan."

Humming to herself, Giselle pirouettes back to the sink and starts running the tap to clear out some of the gunk. While her back is to us, Matt turns to me and mimes shooting himself in the head.

I can already tell that this is going to be a long night.

Giselle fiddles with the rusty sink faucet. The water turns brown, and then... chunky. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Ugh. This has got to be some kind of health code violation."

"It doesn't look that bad," I say. "Oh— wait, no. Now it's turning orange."

"That is like so, so gross." Giselle spins away from the sink as if she can't stand the sight of it, refocusing her attention on me instead. "Let's please talk about something else. Jasper, what terrible crime did you commit to get kitchen duty in the first week of camp?"

"I, uh...." My mouth goes dry. I can't tell Giselle and Matt what really happened after Initiation, but I'm also terrible at coming up with lies on the spot.

"What is it? Did you stab someone?"

"Uh, no. I'm just... so embarrassed. I spilled SPAM on one of the counselor's shoes."

"Really? I thought it was the Fish kid that did that."

"Uh, we both did. At the same time, actually. One tray for each foot. We're both vegetarians, so we decided to make a stand together."

"How very noble of you," Giselle drawls. I can tell she doesn't believe me, but it doesn't seem like she cares enough to call me out on it.

"What about you?" I ask, desperate to turn the conversation away from myself.

"Oh, me? My story isn't very exciting. Maria caught me smoking a cigarette behind the garden shed." Giselle shrugs lazily. "It's fine. At least I can smoke in peace here."

Just like that, she wiggles a magenta lighter and a single cigarette out of the pocket of her jeans shorts. She sticks the white cylinder between her lips and lights it like a 1920's debutante.

Matt stares at the cigarette wistfully. "Care to share?"

Giselle inhales deeply. "No," she says, blowing the smoke in his face.

"Fine. I don't need your shit anyways, I've got my own stuff."

Giselle reaches into her pocket again. This time, she pulls out a small plastic baggie stuffed with what looks like... dried lettuce? "My stuff now," she teases.

Matt does a double-take. "How— what—?"

"Before I got caught and sent to Lightlake, I was making ten grand a year off of pick-pocketing," Giselle explains. She flashes us both a mischievous grin. "I've got the quickest fingers south of the Mason Dixon line. Ask anybody." She tosses the baggie back to Matt, who catches it with fumbling hands. "You can keep your weed. It's probably shit anyways."

"It is not shit! Also— don't pick-pocket me again!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Giselle replies sweetly. She points at my right shoe, and my heart skips a beat. "Your laces are untied."

I bend over. "No, they're not—"

"Made you look."

I glance up at Giselle. She's holding my belt.

"How did you—?"

"Like I said. Quick fingers." She waggles her hands in demonstration. "People are easy to manipulate. It's called the art of misdirection."

"I don't care what it's called. Give my belt back!"

I make a grab for the belt, but Giselle snatches it away. She has the advantage of being taller than me (most people do, and Giselle is taller than most), so it's easy for her to keep the belt out of my reach. We play an infuriating game of keep-away before I finally give up and fold my arms across my chest.

"Whatever. I don't need a belt. My waistband is tight enough. You can keep it as a souvenir for all I care."

Giselle clucks her tongue and tosses the belt back to me. "You're no fun."

"I didn't come to this camp to have fun," I say shortly, quickly strapping my belt on to avoid getting pantsed. "Can we please start washing dishes now? And can you—" I gesture at Matt, who's still standing dumb-stuck, his baggie of definitely-not-dried-lettuce dangling from his hand, "please put that away before Sun-Lee comes back and gives us all kitchen duty for the rest of the summer?"

Grudgingly, Matt shoves the baggie down the waistband of his pants (but not before giving Giselle a distrustful look). "She's right. You really are no fun."

I pluck a dish-cloth off the counter and fling it at him. "I'll dry. You and Giselle will wash. Can you handle that?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Great. Then let's get this over with."

I shuffle over to the counter and survey the surrounding mess. The number of dishes glaring at me from the counter is astounding. I do the math in my head: if there are thirty-two campers at Lightlake, and they all eat three meals a day, that's ninety-six sets of plates, cups, and whatever utensils were deemed appropriate for the food.

"This sucks," Giselle declares. "I'd rather eat my foot than wash all of this crap."

"I'd pay to see that," Matt says, and she slaps him with her dish-cloth.

After a few more minutes of complaining and cajoling, Matt is finally scrubbing away at the dishes, Giselle working even harder at his side. I pick up the slack by drying the clean dishes with my washcloth and returning them to the labeled cabinets. Eventually, everything finds its place.

Two hours pass. Giselle smokes another cigarette. Matt entertains us with a tale about his stoner English teacher. By the time all the dishes are stacked up into neat, glittering piles, my arms and back are aching like mad, and there's salty sweat dripping down my face. Still, I've arrived at the conclusion that kitchen duty isn't hell, but maybe only purgatory. Washing dishes really isn't that bad once you get into the rhythm. And once Giselle and Matt finally started cooperating, we functioned like a well-oiled machine.

Maybe, against all odds, I really will survive the rest of this week.

Giselle stretches her arms up over her head and yawns loudly. "God, I could sleep for fifteen hours. I don't know about you guys, but I'm skipping the camp fire and going straight to bed."

"I second that motion," says Matt, also yawning. "But first— wanna let bygones be bygones? It's too early in the summer to start making enemies."

He fishes the baggie out of his pants. Giselle tries to act disinterested, but it's hard to miss the glint of curiosity in her eyes. She sucks on her lower lip for a solid thirty seconds before answering.

"It has been a long night. I guess we all deserve a break." She gives her blonde curls a careless flick. "Might as well."

"Neat-o."

"Don't say that."

Matt pulls a few strips of paper out of his pocket and lays them on the counter-top. "Watch and learn, folks." And thus I witness, for the first time in my life, the act of someone rolling a blunt.

"Very educational," Giselle remarks.

"I learned from the best. Can I borrow your lighter?"

"Nope. Nobody touches my lighter except for me."

"Have it your way, then." Matt slides the two sticks over to her. She ignites both of them with the snap of her wrist, passing one to Matt and keeping the other for herself.

I can't do anything but stare at them. It feels like I'm watching my expulsion from camp unfolding in slow-mo in front of me.

Giselle mistakes my horror for envy. "Oh, I'm sorry, Jasper; I totally forgot about you. Do you want to smoke too?"

"No, thank you," I say hastily. "I don't want any part in this. Count me out."

Matt immediately launches into a defensive tirade, like I've just threatened his honor or something. "You need to relax, dude. It's not like the counselors are ever going to find out."

"Nope. No way." I'm already heading towards the door. "You two have fun smoking illegal substances, but please don't involve me. I'm not planning on getting kicked out in the first week of camp."

"All the counselors are at the bonfire. Nobody's going to find out," Giselle says. I think she's trying to be reassuring.

"I don't care. I'm not taking any chances." I try to phrase this in a way that comes across as bored and cool, but I'm pretty sure I just sound sad and lame. Oh well. If being sad and lame is the price I have to pay to not have my butt booted back to Canada, I'm willing to pay it. "See you guys tomorrow night."

"C'mon Jasper, you're going to miss all the fun if you leave now. Stay and hang out with us for a little while longer. You don't even have to smoke."

"I think you're missing the point," I say. Unfortunately, Giselle's words have already started to work their magic. My hand freezes on the door.

"We're dish-washing buddies now. We should get to know each other." Giselle smiles sweetly at me. It's the smile of somebody who's always gotten exactly what they want—  ten grand in stolen goods, my belt, or just my presence. "I know you don't want to miss out, Uh Sostenuto."

I shift uncomfortably in my shoes. I hate putting myself in a position like this, where any counselors could randomly walk in and bust us... but still, Giselle's offer is tempting. It also hits me in a weak spot. I've always been desperate to find a group, to fit in with the so-called cool kids. It's part of the reason I got sent to Lightlake. 

They're the people I always wanted to hang out with, but never got the chance. I have that chance now. Am I just going to throw it away?

Remember, hisses a tiny voice in my head. It reminds me of the cricket that serves as Pinocchio's conscience; the angel on my shoulder, trying to get me to do the right thing. Remember what you did. What they did to you.

The last time I tried to hang out with kids like these, it backfired in my face and I got my entire summer ruined in the process. You think I would've learned to be more wary by now. That my cricket-conscience would've finally wisened me up.

I guess I'm not very good at learning lessons.

Sighing, I step away from the door and rejoin Matt and Giselle on the counter-top. "Fine. But if one of the counselors shows up, I'm blaming everything on you."

Giselle beams at me. "That's the spirit."

I can already tell that I'm going to regret this later.