Dear Ronan,

Hey. It's Jesse again. Do you like the postcard? The Cyclone has always been my favorite ride at Coney Island. I wish you were here to ride it with me— last year was so much fun. It really sucks that you're stuck in Alaska for the summer. You're totally missing out.

In other news, not much has changed around here since you left. I've walked past your apartment a few times, but I never see Sabrina. I heard she's super busy working on some new project or something. (Does she ever write you? I seriously doubt it.) When I went inside to get the details from Fred, some random dude sitting behind the desk told me he'd been fired. Poor guy. He was always so chill. Every time I'd see him, he'd share some of his Bugles with me.

Anyways, I'm running out of space on this postcard, so I better skip to the important stuff. Something crazy happened last week. I wish I could write you about it, but I really need to tell you about in person. Is there any way you could call me? If you can't, that's okay— I understand. I can wait until you come from camp. Well, maybe. Keeping a secret this big might just kill me. Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration (or was it...?). Still, you're my best friend, so I want you to hear the news first.

I hope you still have that Superman comic. (Or at least have my number memorized by now.) My mom always says that if I write my phone number on a letter someone will read it and use it to steal my identity. I don't know how that would work, but better safe than sorry, right? So, I'm counting on you to shoot me a call. Or send me a carrier pigeon. You know what I mean.

Your friend,

Jesse

***

Tustumena Cabin is the first victim of the rain. The roof opens up with leaks after a night of non-stop downpour, forcing us to relocate Sharing Circle to the Arts and Crafts building, which is slightly less flooded. The air is clogged with so much humidity that walking feels more like swimming, and by the time we reach Eklunta, I'm more than ready to sell my soul for a dry seat and a cabin that doesn't reek of mildew. Fortunately, I don't have to sell my soul for anything (yet), and Sharing Circle begins relatively uneventfully.

Most of the campers have given up on arguing with the counselors by now— we've all been sufficiently beaten down, subdued to the point of reluctant compliance. I'm still not totally on-board with the whole "let's share our personal secrets in front of everyone" idea, but it's easier to tell the counselor a half-truth rather than a full-out lie. When Owen turns his attention on me, I manage to satisfy him with a few monotone sentences about my friends back home. Jesse's name comes up once or twice, but I don't say much about him— I have an irrational fear that bringing him into a place like Lightlake will contaminate my memory of him somehow; as if all our years of midnight Dairy Queen runs, grass-stained football games, and joint detentions will somehow be replaced by the sound of Owen asking, "Is there anything else you'd like to share?" and the feeling of the muscles in my eyelids pulsing beneath my skin. Thankfully, Owen doesn't try to delve too deeply into our friendship, so I'm able to keep Jesse to myself for one more day.

Once I'm done with my little soliloquy, the counselor moves on to the rest of the campers, forcing stories out of everyone. Emily begrudgingly shares the tale behind her parents' gritty divorce. Giselle talk in circles about a shitty boyfriend she had when she was sixteen. Matt describes, in vivid detail, the first high he got from smoking weed (Owen gives him a mark for "promoting drug abuse"). I zone out when Finn starts gushing about his frogs, but my attention returns when the counselor calls on James. I haven't spoken to James since the disastrous Capture the Flag game, so I'm curious to hear what he has to say.

"I believe we were talking about your parents at the last Sharing Circle. Would you like to continue that discussion?" Owen asks, in the same infuriatingly soothing tone he uses on all the campers.

"Sure," James says. He's looking a bit worse for the wear— there are heavy bags under his eyes, and the sunburned skin on his nose is starting to peel. Even worse, his eyebrows aren't looking as bold as they used to. It's like someone sucked all the spirit out of him with a Krazy Straw. "That's an easy one. My parents suck."

Owen's lower lip quirks downwards, the only indication of his surprise. I can understand why— James usually avoids confrontation like the plague, so it's unlike him to act out during Sharing Circle. "You sound upset, James. Is there anything else you'd like to share?"

A fiery blush rushes into James cheeks, and he digs his fingernails into his palms, forcing all the blood out of his knuckles so they turn white as bone. His reaction reminds me a little of Becca's during our first Sharing Circle. Hopefully, he doesn't try to follow her lead by taking out his frustration on the cabin furniture."Oh, sure. I'm sure you already read the letter my parents sent to me, so why don't I talk about that? Apparently, they don't feel like I've made enough progress at camp, so they're sending me here for a second summer. I'm coming back next year."

His statement catches the attention of the rest of the room. I'm no longer the only camper staring at James— all eyes are on him now, each conveying a mixture of surprise, confusion, or pity. I'm sure we're all thinking the same thing. One summer at Lightlake is hard enough, but two is unimaginable.

"You say that likes it's a bad thing," Owen remarks. "Do you not want to return to Lightlake next summer?"

"No, I really don't. This may come as a shocker to you, but Lightlake isn't exactly loads of fun," James says bitterly. "I've got better things to do than spill my guts to a bunch of strangers and do coloring pages in crayon. This place is a waste of my time."

"So, you agree with your parents— you don't think you've made any progress at camp?"

"I don't think it matters what kind of progress I've made," he fires back. "I'll never be good enough for them. Not even a decade of summers at Lightlake could change that."

"I'm disappointed in you, James. I thought you were working hard to make a positive difference in your life."

James glares down at the floor. "Yeah. I used to think that, too."

Owen lets out a weary sigh, looking more tired than I've ever seen him look before. I wonder how many campers have told him they're spending another year at camp, and how many have said they've given up. It's can't be an easy job to be a camp counselor at Lightlake. (Not that I pity them— it's their fault for applying.) "Well, I can't change your attitude, but I can hope that a second chance at this camp will improve your relationship with your parents. Thank you for sharing."

James doesn't reply. He keeps his gaze focused on the floor, as if it's the only thing he can bear to look at. I wish I could say something to him— my condolences, or maybe, wow, that really sucks— but he's sitting on the opposite side of the room, and Owen has already moved on to some tattooed girl that I barely recognize, and I can't exactly shout "I'm sorry!" across the room without looking like a crazy person.

I resort to waiting until the end of Sharing Circle to get his attention. "Hey. Hey." I have to repeat myself twice, loudly, to turn his gaze away from the floor. "Earth to James. Can we talk? In private?"

James glances around at the empty cabin. All the sensible people sped over to the Mess Hall to grab lunch the second Sharing Circle ended, so we're the only ones left. "I dunno," he says, in the same scathing tone he used earlier with Owen. "Is this private enough for you?"

His anger catches me off-guard. I didn't think he'd go easy on me after everything that happened, but I didn't think he'd ask so harsh either. And it's not like him to hold a grudge. "Are you seriously still mad at me?" I ask.

"Maybe."

"It's a yes or no answer."

"Take a wild guess."

"That wasn't a yes or a no answer."

James rolls his eyes at me. Coming from him, it's a record level of sass. "I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out by yourself. Now, if that's all you wanted to ask me, I think I'm going to go get lunch—"

"It's not." Then, before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Why didn't you tell me about the letter?"

"Excuse me?"

"The letter your parents sent you. The one that said you have to do a second summer at Lightlake."

"I didn't tell you because it wasn't any of your business," he says shortly. "And, to be frank, I didn't think you'd care."

"No need to be so presumptuous," I mutter.

"Look, Ronan, I don't need to explain myself to you. This is just something that I need to deal with, on my own—"

"How? It's not like you're going to stand up to them. You're not even going to try."

"No, Ronan, I'm not going to try. Arguing with my parents is like having a screaming match with a brick wall. It's pointless. There's nothing I can say to them that will ever make them change their minds."

"You're giving up, then."

He squares his jaw. "Maybe I am. What's so wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with you?" I demand. "I can't believe you're just taking this lying down. You're letting them walk all over you!"

"Yeah. And do you know why? When I try to stand up for myself, bad things happen. I lose friends. I get kicked out of school. I have to hitch-hike to the middle of fucking nowhere Alaska. Nothing ever changes, and nothing ever gets better."

"Don't say that—"

"Why not? It's the truth. I've already decided that I'm never going to play the guitar again. It's not like my music school would let me back in, anyways."

"That's ridiculous. There are other music schools you can attend."

He shrugs. It's a casual gesture, but I can see the tension in his shoulders; the cords of muscles tightened by weeks of stress. "Maybe. Depends on whether or not they'd accept me. And with my track record, I doubt they'd want to."

"But you're so good at the guitar," I protest. "You can't just stop now."

James offers me a tight, thin smile. Somehow, seeing it is worse than seeing no smile at all. "I prefer to think of it more as starting over."

"You sure about it? Because in my opinion, it sounds like an ending, not a beginning."

"No offense, but I didn't ask for your opinion. So, if that's all you have to offer, I think I'm going to leave. See you later, Ronan."

"Wait— you're leaving? Where are you going?"

"Lunch. Aren't you?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Shame. I heard that they're serving cheeseburgers today."

"Well, are you at least going to Jasper's birthday party tonight?"

"Nah, I think I'm just going to go to bed." James glances over his shoulder at me as he heads for the door, his expression unreadable. "Have fun, though. And stay out of trouble."

"I'll try," I say, but by the time the words leave my mouth, he's already gone.