They’re more than their problems

Obsessive-compulsive teen Clarissa wants to get better, if only so her mother will stop asking her if she’s okay.

Andrew wants to overcome his eating disorder so he can get back to his band and their dreams of becoming famous.

Film aficionado Ben would rather live in the movies than in reality.

Gorgeous and overly confident Mason thinks everyone is an idiot.

And Stella just doesn’t want to be back for her second summer of wilderness therapy.

As the five teens get to know one another and work to overcome the various disorders that have affected their lives, they find themselves forming bonds they never thought they would, discovering new truths about themselves and actually looking forward to the future.

Four Weeks,

Five People

Jennifer Yu

Making sure that my mother thinks that I’m having a good time at camp is probably more important than actually having a good time at camp.

I’m used to not having a good time at things that involve interacting with other people. I’ve long resigned myself to a lifetime of avoiding unnecessary social situations at all costs and, if forced to go, standing in the corner awkwardly while more exciting people talk around me. My mother, on the other hand, has hopes for me. She wants me to put myself out there and have some normal teenage experiences with “kids my age.” I mean, that’s why everyone goes to camp, right? I’m not sure how to explain to her that “normal experiences with kids my age” at wilderness therapy camp means living with a roommate who has brought an arsenal of banned items, across the hall from someone who is probably a sociopath.

JENNIFER YU is a Boston resident and recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where she studied creative writing. In her free time, she enjoys reading books she’s too old for, roping unsuspecting friends into listening to her play the guitar and being far too invested in Boston sports teams. Most of her pop culture knowledge comes from binge watching late-night talk show clips and occasional nervous forays into the depths of Tumblr. Find her online at byjenniferyu.tumblr.com or on Twitter: @yuontop.

For my parents, Qifeng Yu & Mingzhu Chen,

To whom I owe countless novels’ worth of thanks.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Introduction

About the Author

Dedication

MOVE-IN

STELLA

CAMP UGUNDUZI (JUN 16-JUL 12)

CAMP RULES

CAMP SCHEDULE

CLARISA

MASON

ANDREW

BEN

STELLA

BEN

CLARISA

ANDREW

WEEK ONE

BEN

POEM

STELLA

ANDREW

MASON

STELLA

BEN

ANDREW

CLARISA

WEEK TWO

STELLA

MASON

BEN

CLARISA

ANDREW

MASON

STELLA

CLARISA

BEN

WEEK THREE

STELLA

BEN

CLARISA

MASON

STELLA

ANDREW

BEN

MASON

WEEK FOUR

CLARISA

STELLA

MASON

BEN

CLARISA

STELLA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

STELLA

A FEW WORDS of advice for those attending Camp Ugunduzi for the first time:

Contrary to what the brochure may have told your parents, siblings, grandparents, estranged uncles, teachers, psychiatrists, well-meaning friends, not-so-well-meaning friends, and other people of distant relation who “care about you” and have therefore shipped you to the middle of upstate New York (read: out of their lives) for one month of summer while everyone else just goes kayaking and eats hot dogs, you will probably not discover a way to change your life at this camp.

In fact, despite being at a camp named Ugunduzi—the Swahili word for “discovery,” because nothing says profound quite like Google Translate—you are unlikely to discover very much here. Things like...

Yourself.

The meaning of life.

Love.

What it means to be human

...will generally not be found during your time here. You’re actually fairly unlikely to discover anything other than 1) approximately ten new mosquito bites a day on body parts you didn’t know existed, and 2) at least fifty ways to hide alcohol from the counselors.

But hey, don’t let me get you down. Your parents are excited. Your grandparents are excited. Your therapist is less excited because she’s missing out on four weeks of checks, but still excited because this experience could be the next step to a healthy lifestyle. Your friends are the most excited of all, because they think a month of trust-building exercises in the woods is going to get them the “old you” back—you know, the one who did fun, stupid things with them, like go to the mall and giggle at every cute boy that walked by, or prank-call strangers at 3:00 a.m. while high off sleep-deprivation and Ben and Jerry’s. The one they grew up with, before the monsters under your bed found their way into your head and Lunchables turned into a stackable pile of pills and Truth or Dare started feeling like a confessional.

Believe me, I don’t want to ruin this for you. I know how it feels—like everyone else is so full of hope and excitement they’re counting on this camp more than you are. And I know that even though you yelled at your mom to stop counting down the days way back in April, and even though you rolled your eyes when you promised your psychiatrist you’d immerse yourself, and even though you told your friends it was just some “bullshit summer camp for psychos,” you’re also excited. Because you kind of want the old you back, too.

CAMP UGUNDUZI (JUN 16-JUL 12)

Camp Ugunduzi is an experimental four-week therapeutic wilderness program for teenagers ages fifteen to seventeen who may be experiencing a variety of mental health issues, including depression, anxiety, self-destructive behavior, antisocial behavior, and other mood disorders. Founded in 2010 by Dr. Ash Palmer, Ugunduzi operates upon the principal that teenagers struggling with emotional illness deserve a summer camp that is as recreational as it is therapeutic—one that taps into the natural healing power of the wild without the risks and potential dangers of similar boot camp programs. Over the course of the program, campers are introduced to the four basic tenets of Ugunduzi: 1) understanding and accepting the past, 2) forming authentic relationships, 3) celebrating personal success, and 4) forgiving personal failure. Ugunduzi should not be used as a substitute for inpatient treatment in the case of serious psychotic symptoms such as hallucinations, persistent delusions, or suicidal behavior.

CAMP RULES

 The main principle of Camp Ugunduzi is respect. Campers are expected to treat others, the property, and themselves with respect at all times.

 Horseplay, roughhousing, and physical altercations between campers are strictly prohibited.

 All forms of alcohol and drugs that have not been prescribed are strictly prohibited.

 All foul language is strictly prohibited.

 Campers must remain in the main camp area during individual time. They may not go on hikes unsupervised during this time.

 Campers must remain in their rooms after the day ends. There will be bed checks every two hours over the course of the night.

 Camper participation is required at all individual and group therapy sessions.

 Use of the TV is restricted to designated movie-viewing times on weekends.

 If at any point during a group session a camper feels triggered or emotionally threatened by the discussion, he or she may signal to leave and take a five-minute break.

 These materials are prohibited and should be turned in to the counselors at the beginning of camp: cell phones, other electronics, spiral-bound notebooks, hair straighteners and curlers, earrings, mechanical pencils, keys, blades, and knives.

 Razors, nail clippers, and hair scissors must remain in lockers at all times when not in the shower.

 Body checks will be performed every Friday.

 Campers will be weighed every Wednesday.

CAMP SCHEDULE

WEEKDAY SCHEDULE

9:00 a.m.: Day begins—wake up, shower, meds, etc.

9:30 a.m.: Breakfast, medications, goals for the day

10:00 a.m.: Hike (Mon, Wed) or Project Time (Tue, Thu)

1:30 p.m.: Lunch

2:30 p.m.: Individual therapy

4:00 p.m.: Individual time: letters, journaling, laundry, pool/rec time

6:30 p.m.: Dinner

7:30 p.m.: Group, revisiting goals for the day

9:00 p.m.: Quiet time and Meditation (Mon-Thu), Art by the Fire (on Fri)

10:00 p.m.: Return to room

WEEKEND SCHEDULE

10:00 a.m.: Day begins—wake up, shower, etc.

10:30 a.m.: Breakfast, goals for the day

11:00 a.m.: Individual time

1:30 p.m.: Lunch

2:30 p.m.: Quiet time and Meditation

5:00 p.m.: Individual time

6:30 p.m.: Dinner

7:30 p.m.: Group, revisiting goals for the day

9:00 p.m.: Individual time

12:00 a.m.: Return to room

CLARISA

MY MOM ASKS me how I’m feeling seven times on the way to camp. We have just left the house. She manages to merge safely onto the freeway before she looks over at me, eyebrows furrowed, and lets the words escape: “How are you feeling, honey?” She has been dying to ask this ever since we pulled out of the driveway, I know, and I feel bad for not being able to give her the answer she wants. But I also know that if I say anything resembling the truth—even if it’s something perfectly normal, like “a little nervous,” or “kind of apprehensive,” or, God forbid, “I’m kind of scared”—we will talk about it for the next three hours, until we get to camp. We will talk about it until we have rehashed every single conversation we have ever had about “stepping out of my comfort zone” or “trying something new.” We will talk about it until the sound of her voice makes me want to collapse and I have to put my head between my hands and count, very carefully, over and over again, just to get my heart rate back down. //

“I’m fine,” I say, and turn my gaze to the mile markers flying by outside the window. 23 (bad). 24 (bad). 25 (good). There’s something comforting in the numbers. There’s something stable and predictable and real. There always has been. //

I know it’s unfair for me to blow off her concern like this, but it’s hard to feel sympathy when I know that she knows exactly how I feel. How many times have I told her that the point of not having friends is that there’s never anyone dragging me out of the house to places I never wanted to go to in the first place? Or that I’m perfectly happy to stay in my room all summer rereading the Harry Potter series from start to finish for the twelfth time? I don’t know how much fun she expects me to have at this camp, but I can pretty much guarantee that it’s not going to be as much fun as Harry Potter discovering a whole other, magical world. And learning the true meaning of family for the first time in his life. And, oh, yeah, defeating Lord Voldemort, like, six times. The only problem is, I don’t think my mom considers living vicariously to qualify as, well, actual “living.” //

“You doing okay?” my mom says when she can’t stand the quiet any longer. “Do you want some water? There’s some in the backseat.” 26 (bad). 27 (really bad). 28 (good). “I’m fine, Mom,” I say. //

Mile 45. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? Or eat? Are you feeling okay? You barely ate anything this morning.” Stop, I want to say. I barely ate anything this morning because it was 6:00 a.m. and I could barely muster up the motor function to walk to the table. //

Mile 57. “Clarisa?” “I’m fine.” We are an hour into the drive and a familiar note of concern has entered my mom’s voice. Outside, the buildings of New York City have dissolved into endless forests of deciduous trees. They cling to each other, branches locked together, roots trawling the dirt for space. I count the number of trees in every overcrowded cluster we drive by and feel the numbers fill my head, pushing the anxiety away: eight trees, ten trees, seven trees. //

“Drink some water, Clarisa,” my mom says. “You’re probably dehydrated. I don’t want you to get sick—” “—six, four, twelve, four, six,” I interrupt. “What?” she says. “The trees,” I respond. “They cluster together—I was counting them.” //

My mom bites her lip, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. I watch her blink rapidly—one, two, three. I feel bad for her, I really do. “You’re going to get dehydrated before camp even starts,” she says, starting to sound desperate. “I’m fine,” I repeat. Eight, nine, four—“What the heck, Mom!” //

My mom takes one hand off the wheel and reaches into the backseat, trying to feel her way to the water bottles. We are going sixty miles an hour on a busy highway, and I can practically see her saying, “Screw it all,” for the sake of getting me a flipping water bottle. “Mom!” I shout. I reach into the backseat and grab a water bottle myself before she can get us both killed. “What the heck are you doing? Are you trying to kill me before we even make it to camp?” The sheer terror in my voice must get to her, because my mom snaps her arm back, replaces her hand on the steering wheel, and takes a deep breath. //

“I just don’t want you to be dehydrated,” she says, so controlled that it’s almost scary. Her eyes are blazing. “This is not about me being dehydrated, and you know it!” I respond. “Honey, stop,” my mom says. “Aren’t you excited for camp?” I stare at her for a second. She is fighting so hard. //

“Honey? How are you feeling?” I can feel the still-unopened water bottle in my hand. There’s a part of me that wants to squeeze it until the plastic crumples under my grip and water bursts everywhere. Instead, I turn around and look back out the window—back to the mile markers, back to the trees. Back to the numbers. I can practically hear the fight go out. //

Sixty-six miles later, my mom finally breaks the silence. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she says. She sounds exhausted. “Are you okay?” I tell her I’m glad she asked. I mean it, too. There is nothing comfortable about silence between two people who have too much to say to each other to speak. //

It’s not long until the first sign for the camp appears. Camp Ugunduzi, it says, Next exit. My mom’s breath and mine catch at the same time. I put my hand on her arm, partially to reassure her, and partially to stop myself from shaking. “You packed sunscreen, right?” she says. “And bug spray? And Band-Aids?” //

“It’s going to be fine, Mom,” I say. But that’s another one of those things that neither of us really knows how to believe. So instead of talking, we just sit and watch as the camp grounds come into view. First there’s the main housing building, directly ahead of the parking lot, painted a hideous shade of bright yellow that makes it impossible to miss. Behind it, a lake unfurls, water sparkling in the sunlight. There are picnic tables scattered across the grass in front of the building and a volleyball court in the distance. And then we’re parked, unmoving, and I should be getting out of the car, I should be grabbing my suitcase from the trunk, I should be doing something, for goodness’ sake, but all I can think of is my mother’s voice, her question echoing in my head over and over and over again. //

Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? And just like that, I can’t breathe. //

“Um, Mom,” I say. My voice comes out shrill and uneven, which of course makes me feel even worse. “Oh, honey,” my mom says. She looks so touched. “Don’t be nervous. Ashley has sent someone here every year since they started the program and never had a bad experience, and Dr. Manning says the Zoloft should be kicking in over the next two weeks, too, so there’s nothing to—” “That’s not it,” I say. //

I close my eyes. “I need you—” I start, before a wave of panic rises in my chest and crushes the sentence. “I need you to...to ask me again.” “What?” she says. Breathe, I tell myself. And then again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and again. //

“I just need you to ask me again,” I say through gritted teeth. “How I am. You asked six times, so I just—Could you please ask one more time?” I can feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes. Pathetic, I think. Camp hasn’t even started and I’m already breaking down. //

I look over at my mom, who has frozen with one hand on the door handle. An expression on her face I know all too well. “We’re here,” she says, voice brutally calm. “How are you feeling?” I open my eyes, finish the rest of my water bottle, open the car door, and step out. I do not bother replying. She knows the answer just as well as I do. //

MASON

MY PARENTS, IN typically self-absorbed fashion, think that this is their fault.

You should hear them talking to each other about it when they think I have music playing through my headphones, or am sleeping in my room, or have gotten so absorbed in my phone that I’ve lost cochlear function. “We shouldn’t have spoiled him so much as a kid,” they say. “We shouldn’t have raised him in this neighborhood, it’s too gentrified, there’s too much here—it’s made him entitled.” Then comes the long pause when my mother looks at my father with sad, guilty eyes, and my father looks back at her, crossing and uncrossing his arms over the dinner table and wishing he had an answer.

“There’s nothing we could have done, Amy,” he always says.

There’s nothing we could have done.

They’ve been relying on that phrase for a while. In the fourth grade, when Brian Whitaker tried to steal my lunch box and I took a pair of scissors from the art corner and quietly destroyed his in return. There’s nothing we could have done. In eighth grade, when I called Jenny Winters a slut in gym class and she had a conniption of epic proportions even though, let’s face it, I was just the only one brave enough to say out loud what everyone else was thinking. There’s nothing we could have done. In sophomore year, when Peter Chu called me a faggot and opened his locker the next morning to find his stuff covered with fifth-period AP Biology’s supply of dead frogs. There’s nothing we could have done. It took a four-hour meeting with half of the administration to sort that one out, and the only way our bumbling pushover of a principal would let me stay at the high school was if my parents agreed to send me to a therapist for a serious psychological evaluation.

It wasn’t long until we were sitting in some over-air-conditioned, underdecorated therapist’s office in downtown Bethesda, listening to some psychiatric hack spout an endless stream of nonsense. It took only three words for all of my parents’ worst fears to be confirmed.

Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

“Narcissistic personality disorder?” my mom repeated.

“That’s not even a real thing, Mom,” I said. But she was already starting to fall apart, and I knew she wasn’t listening to me. In fact, I knew exactly where her mind was as she looked over to my father, teary and frantic, for reassurance.

There’s nothing we could have done.

They’re trying, of course. In one of the least self-aware moves two remarkably not self-aware people have ever made, they are now trying to undo what they see as the negative externalities of wealth by sending me to a twenty-thousand-dollar summer camp.

So here we are, staring at each other in the room I’m about to be imprisoned in for a month. I watch as my mom takes her hand off my suitcase and then puts it back, unable to decide whether or not she’s ready to leave. “Mason,” she says, and takes a deep breath. This is my mother’s holding-back-tears voice, which means that it’s time to rearrange my face into a sympathetic, pained expression. “Mason, promise me you’ll take advantage of this opportunity.”

“I promise,” I say, looking into her eyes. I walk toward her, place a hand on her shoulder, then draw her in for a hug. By the time we pull apart, she is dabbing at her eyes. This is a good thing, I say to myself. I am doing a good thing. My mom will go home and convince herself that she’s found the perfect program for me and that when I come home in a month, I’ll be a totally different person. Then she’ll drink tea and actually be able to fall asleep without worrying about me for once. I won’t have to deal with a lecture that I’ve heard a thousand times already, and my father can feel manly and important, since he’s footing the bill for this stupid camp. Besides, what else am I supposed to say? “Mom, everyone else at this camp is going to be a dipshit and there is no reason for me to be here. But if you’re going to make me come, the least you can do is hurry up and leave me in peace.” She doesn’t deserve the anxiety and I don’t deserve the fallout.

So I hug her, and I smile in the way that I know reminds her of my father, and I take the suitcase. “I got this,” I say. I move it to the side of the room, where there’s a pile of bags starting to form, and then walk back and shake my father’s hand.

“Be good, son,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” I say, and flash him a grin.

“All right, Amy,” he says, squeezing my mother’s hand and guiding her past the suitcase. They leave hand in hand—my mother teary, my father stoic. I see them exchange a look as they walk out the door.

There’s nothing we could have done.

ANDREW

IT STARTED KIND of as a joke.

I’m in this band, right? It’s called The Eureka Moment. And I know every single kid in every single band ever says this, but we’re actually pretty good. Jake is a killer guitarist, Aidan has been playing drums since before he could walk, Sam doesn’t get pissed about no one actually giving a shit about bass (way more important than skill when it comes to bassists, to be honest), and I have a good enough voice to get away with having pretty average guitar skills and even more average hair.

We weren’t very well-known for most of our time together. The first two years, we played a lot in garages and not a lot anywhere else. It was fun, obviously, but still, we dreamed about making it big just like any other band, you know? It wasn’t just the fame or the money—kind of the whole deal. The lifestyle, I guess. The image. I remember we’d spend hours looking at pictures of grungy lead singers with bands dressed in all black and ripped-up cigarette jeans that only anorexics and addicts can fit into. Heroin chic, it was called.

I don’t know how it happened, really, but I think we all kind of ended up adopting that look, thinking it would make us more popular. I mean, girls dig that shit, right? And then it turned into this stupid game, where whoever spent the most time smoking and the least amount of time eating “won.” There was never really any prize. I guess the satisfaction was enough. It was one of those jokes that everyone takes a little too seriously. We probably dropped a hundred pounds between the four of us in a few months.

The problem is that it worked. People were into us. Or maybe they weren’t into us, really, but they were at least interested in us. They gave us a chance, is what I’m saying. Our Twitter followers doubled. Girls started tagging us in Facebook photos their parents probably wouldn’t be thrilled about. The local newspaper picked up a couple stories about us. More and more people started coming to shows.

We never really talked about the game after we got more popular. I think the other guys just sort of realized it was stupid, quit, and went back to eating absolute crap and calling it “bulking.” You know, normal sixteen-year-old guy stuff.

But I couldn’t get it out of my head. I think maybe it affected me more than anyone else. I’m the lead singer, I guess, so people noticed my appearance more than some of the other guys. Smoking anything I could get my hands on and not eating and buying jeans I couldn’t afford and shouldn’t have been able to fit into and watching my cheekbones get more and more noticeable—I felt good about it. It was like accomplishing something, like becoming someone I wanted to be. And then, gradually, it pretty much became all I was. I mean, my friends were totally freaked out. My band mates hung around because we played together, but even they thought I was taking the whole thing a bit too far. The only people who really wanted to spend any time with me anymore by the time The Incident rolled around were people who dug the band but didn’t actually know anything about me as a person.

I’m not going to say that I don’t have a problem, because that would be kind of ridiculous at this point. I mean, I’m here, right? Camp Ugunduzi. I came willingly. I said okay when my parents suggested it and told them I would work on my issues and meant it. I’m not even angry about the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere. Or that they took our phones away. Or that we’re not going to have internet and I’m not going to be able to jam with the guys for, like, four weeks. I’ll take that if it means I can bring myself to eat a burger and fries when I get back.

And it’s not like it’s not nice here. They’ve gathered all the campers on the grass by the lake so that the director can give some kind of speech before we break into our groups, and I have to admit, it’s pretty much just as beautiful as the brochure promised it would be. This is the kind of place artists go when they need quiet inspiration. When they’re sick of playing distorted power chords all day long and want to do something acoustic, something peaceful. I sit down on the grass, head filled with melodies and choruses and wishing I had brought my notebook out with me so that I could get it all down before they disappear. Inspiration is like that. There, and then, all of a sudden, gone.

By the time the director finally joins us, there’s about fifty people out on the grass. Some of them have formed small clusters and are talking to each other, but most people, like me, are just sort of staring into the distance. And then there’s this deafening screeching that I’d recognize anywhere as microphone feedback. For a second, it’s almost like I’m back in Aidan’s basement, plugging in all the amps and messing around with mics before a show. It’s a sound I’ve grown weirdly fond of, considering how awful it sounds. But then the director starts talking, and I snap out of it.

“Welcome to Camp Ugunduzi,” he says. “My name is Dr. Ash Palmer, and I’m the director here.”

The first thing I notice about this man is that everything about him is gray. Gray hair, gray eyes, gray suit. Even his voice, which is low and deep and gravelly, makes me think of the color gray.

“I could not be more thrilled to be starting the fifth year of our wonderful pilot program with you,” Dr. Palmer says. Which sounds great and all, except it would be impossible for this guy to look any less thrilled. Seriously. Dr. Palmer looks like one of those dudes who is literally not capable of smiling.

“Unfortunately, my position as director means that, for the most part, I won’t be seeing much of you over the course of the next few weeks. With that in mind, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say this afternoon.

“Foreboding warnings against misbehavior and disobedience seemed like a bad way to begin what I hope—and I certainly know you all hope—will be a positive experience. Attempts to find some sort of grand, overarching teaching message that would apply to a group as complex and diverse as you seemed infantilizing, not to mention destined to fail. And the usual cliché words of encouragement—well, I’m sure you’re all sick of hearing those.”

At this point, I’m pretty confused. I mean, is he trying to be nice? Is he trying to be strict? Is he trying to intimidate us? Does anyone know? I look around the circle. Based on the looks on everyone else’s faces, the answer is definitely not.

“So I thought I would leave my opening dramatics to this, and leave the rest to our terrific, incredible staff,” Dr. Palmer continues. “For many of you, Camp Ugunduzi is a land of unknown. You may feel apprehensive, unsure, perhaps even scared, about what the next few weeks will entail. For others, it is a place where you’ve come to identify and address your problems. Your time here may hold many challenges, but you’ve come determined to confront them as best you can. Whatever role Camp Ugunduzi may play in each of your individual lives, I hope that for all of you it means an opportunity. To heal. To change. And, ultimately, to grow.”

Dr. Palmer does one last sweeping look across everyone gathered outside. Then he nods. “With that, I take my leave. You should now find your way to your group leaders, who are stationed around the area with signs with their group number on them.”

I stand up and start walking toward the woman standing next to the water with a giant 1L sign. Then I watch as everyone else finds their own group: clusters form around the 1R sign, then 2L, then 2R, then 3L, and so on until all ten signs are surrounded by five or six campers. But even as I look around, trying to take everything in at once, my head is still on Dr. Palmer, in his gray suit, giving his speech in his gray, gray voice. It was nothing unusual, I know. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Just standard stuff that you’d expect to hear on the first day of camp—about how we’re going to grow, and change, and help each other solve all of our problems and whatever else. It’s stuff that should make me excited actually—because this is why my parents sent me. Because this is why I came.

But the thing is, there’s a part of me that’s scared. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to grow, or change, or let anyone help me get through this stupid problem. Because sometimes it feels like it’s everything I have. Or everything I even am. And sometimes, like the nights before shows and the moments after eating something I know I really shouldn’t have and when I’m counting my ribs as I’m lying in bed, I can’t think of who I’d be without it.

BEN

Here is the exposition:

FADE IN:

EXT. CAMP UGUNDUZI MAIN GROUNDS—DAY

A field of grass.

The sun is shining. The air is warm. There is no noise other than the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the occasional crack of branches from the forest in the distance. All is calm. All is beautiful. All is perfect. Well, except—

PAN to reveal the UGUNDUZI 1L BLOCK: five unhappy campers standing in a circle and looking like they’re facing certain death. One of them, lanky with brown hair and green eyes, grimaces.

BEN (V.O.)

Yeah, so that’s me.

This isn’t as weird as it seems.

Think about watching a movie. Think about the feeling you get when you’re actually in the theater, watching stuff happen on-screen. You’re invested, right? You want to know what happens. You like the characters, or you hate them, or you want them to hook up, or you want one of them to kill the other, or you want everyone to kill everyone else because they’re all imbeciles (I call this last one the Michael Bay effect). The point is, you care about them as if they’re real humans. You react emotionally to the things they do as if they’re real humans. But at the same time, you know, in your mind, that they’re not actually real humans. You know that in half an hour, or an hour, or two hours, or way too many hours (Michael Bay effect again here), the lights are going to come back on, and the universe you’ve just been lost in for however long is going to disappear, and all of the people you just rooted for or cheered against or lusted after are going to vaporize, too. And so, while you care, there’s always a part of you that’s holding back. And sometimes, that part of you is strong enough to drown out everything else you’re feeling in a sea of indifference.

That’s what moments like this feel like. People always say that dissociation is when things don’t feel “real,” and I used to say that, too. But then I realized—that’s not true. I know that I’m standing outside in the middle of a state park in upstate New York, and that I’m with four other people, and that we’re all furiously avoiding eye contact with each other while waiting for the adults to start talking and tell us what to do, and that I would do anything to disappear and be somewhere else right now. Life doesn’t get much realer than that.

What it does feel like is that, at any moment, the lights will come on and the credits will play and I’ll be put out of my troubled, awkward, unavoidably real misery. Sure, I’m so panicked that I can barely breathe right now, but just wait until the act-two turn! And yeah, I’m positive that everyone can already tell how terrified and pathetic I am, but I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out in the closing pages of act three. Whatever mortifying thing I’m about to do or say, however much I feel like I’d rather be alone in a hole in the ground than have to talk to everyone standing here and make a total idiot of myself, even if it’s so bad that I feel like I can never justify getting out of bed again—none of it matters, not really. The girl glowering at the grass will exist to the left; the boy to my right will disappear offscreen. It’ll all be okay. Because that’s just how movies are.

* * *

Here is the rising action:

I’ve barely had a moment to look around the circle at the other campers before one of the counselors steps forward, a shit-eating grin splitting his face. JOSH (fifties), as his nametag reads, looks like what would happen if Zach Galifianakis and Seth Rogen had a love child, and then that love child was raised in an Amish family that didn’t believe in things like haircuts, and hygiene, and shaving. Bearded, potbellied, decked out in a T-shirt and sunglasses too small for his face, Josh’s presence is enough to halt the panic threatening to suffocate me—if only because it’s been replaced by a wave of disbelief.

JOSH

(booming, still grinning)

So, there’s this blind man, right? And he walks into a bar. And then a table. And then a chair.

* * *

Josh beams at us like he’s just told the funniest joke in the world. No one laughs. Not even JESSIE (forties), the other counselor holding our group’s sign, cracks a smile.

JOSH

Okay okay okay okay. Let me try another one. My friend Sal once told me that time flies like an arrow. I told him, I don’t know about that, Sal, but I do know that fruit flies like a banana.

* * *

The ASIAN GIRL standing next to me shifts uncomfortably. She’s pretty but looks TERRIFIED to be here. Entire body tensed. Fists clenched. Eyes squeezed shut.

BEN (V.O.)

Let’s just say that I can relate.

* * *

A DARK-HAIRED BOY standing directly across the circle from me blows his bangs out of his eyes and squints at Josh like he’s an apparition. He’s unhealthily thin—gaunt, in fact—but the long hair, bad posture, and black clothes combine to give off an aura of DISAFFECTED COOLNESS.

BEN (V.O.)

Let’s just say that I cannot relate.

* * *

Josh, who apparently has materialized straight out of a Coen Brothers film, continues to grin encouragingly at us.

BEN (V.O.)

The thing is, there are days when I would think that every single stupid joke that Josh is making right now is absolutely hilarious. Days when I’m the kind of person who thinks that every single thing period is hilarious. And I wish that today could be one of those days, if only to make this situation a little less unbearably awkward. But it’s not one of those days, and I’m not that kind of guy right now, so I guess all I have to be thankful for in this moment is that it’s not one of those other days—when it feels like the world is collapsing in on my chest no matter what I do or where I go, when no joke would get me to laugh no matter how funny it was.

JOSH

No? No? All right, I got one more for you guys. This one’s about pizza. Everyone loves pizza! But maybe I shouldn’t tell it. It’s pretty chees—

CAMPER

(over)

For Christ’s sake, Josh. Does that shit ever work?

* * *

Everyone turns around to look at the ANGRY GIRL who’s just interrupted—including the two counselors.

JESSIE

Watch your language, Stella.

STELLA

Ugh, are you serious? What are we, in kindergarten?

JESSIE

No foul language. Camp rule #4. You should know that, Stella, we’ve been over this.

* * *

Stella looks like she wants to argue, but—

STELLA

All right, fine.

* * *

She turns back to Josh.

STELLA

Does that stuff ever work, Josh? Seriously, those jokes haven’t gotten funnier since you used the exact same ones last year.

JOSH

Ah, Stella. If only I could have your wit.

STELLA

Yeah? I’ll trade you for emotional health.

* * *

Josh seems legitimately unfazed. If anything, he looks thrilled that someone’s actually talking to him. Stella stares back evenly, clearly unimpressed by the compliment.

BEN (V.O.)

Having seen every camp movie made since 1950, including the entirety of Wet Hot American Summer, I feel fairly qualified to make the assessment that Stella is the girl that every guy here falls in love with by the end of camp. First off, she’s apparently already been at camp before, so she actually knows what’s going on. And second, she’s kind of a bitch, which, according to every rom-com ever made, is the number-one way to attract people with emotional problems and low self-esteem.

I resolve to spend as little time with her as possible.

JOSH

Well, anyway. All of this is just to say—WELCOME, friends! It is so, so good to see all of you. And on such a beautiful day, too—isn’t it? Nothing gets the positive energy flowing like fresh air filling your lungs on a beautiful day. Except maybe some good old-fashioned classic rock. The Doors, anyone? Jethro Tull?

* * *

Josh looks around the circle hopefully, but no one says anything. I start to feel like we’re being hazed. I mean, I’ve never actually been hazed, but I have seen Animal House, and I’m assuming that movie wasn’t added to the National Film Registry for nothing.

JOSH

Oh, well. Regardless, I could not be more excited to be beginning our journey together. I can only hope it will be as rewarding, as wondrous, as transformative, as my journey has been since starting at Camp Ugunduzi its first summer four years ago. Today, my spiritually embattled campers, we begin anew.

* * *

Josh beams and turns to face Jessie. I look around and am relieved to find that no one else appears to have any idea what he’s talking about, either.

JOSH

And now—Jessie? Would you care to bestow some of your wisdom upon our campers?

* * *

Jessie—short brown hair, glasses—ignores Josh’s wink and steps forward, smiling tightly. It’s the kind of smile that’s only one ill-advised statement away from becoming a frown. Jessie, it’s pretty obvious, is not going to start her opening remarks with a lineup of corny jokes.

JESSIE

Thank you, Josh. And thank you for your, ah, encouraging words.

* * *

She pauses for a minute. If Josh can sense any irony behind her words, his face doesn’t show it.

JESSIE

Like Josh, I am thrilled to welcome you to Camp Ugunduzi. I am confident that you will find the next weeks to be productive and supportive, and that when we part four weeks from today, we will all be better for our time here.

I encourage you to use Josh and myself as resources in whatever way you need. We are here to help. We are here to educate. We are here to be a support system. Please never feel afraid to use it.

* * *

Jessie pauses, readjusts her glasses.

JESSIE

On the other hand, we are not here to be your best friends. We will not turn a blind eye to misbehavior or any dangerous, illicit activity. We are here to keep you safe and healthy. Is that clear?

* * *

No response. Jessie tries again, the question sounding considerably more like a demand this time.

JESSIE

Is that clear?

* * *

This time, we all get the memo. A chorus of dutiful yeses fills the air. But no one looks particularly happy about it. Jessie’s an obvious reminder that as hard as we might try to pretend, this isn’t exactly the kind of camp you go to when you want to have a summer of fun and games.

JESSIE

Excellent. Now we can proceed to the introductions that matter—yours. Stella, will you start us off?

* * *

Not really a question. Stella glares at Jessie, who looks back calmly. There’s clearly history there. A beat. Two beats. Three beats.

STELLA

(“fuck you”)

I’d love to. What exactly do you want me to say?

JESSIE

Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. Why don’t we do—name, age, hometown, what brings you to Camp Ugunduzi. Anything else I’m missing, Josh?

JOSH

Mmm. Happy place.

* * *

Confusion flickers briefly over Jessie’s stern expression. Stella buries her face in her hands.

JESSIE

Sorry?

JOSH

Happy place. Where is your happy place? The place where you feel most at home. At one with yourself. In line with the rest of the universe. At peace—

JESSIE

Right. Happy place. Of course. Go ahead, Stella.

STELLA

I’m Stella. Seventeen. From Wethersfield, Connecticut. My happy place is... Well, it’s definitely not here, I can tell you guys that much.

JESSIE / JOSH

Stella! / Hmm.

JESSIE

Is this really the note you want to start camp on, Stella?

STELLA

Well, I didn’t really want to start camp on any sort of note, thanks very much. Or at all. But since no one asked me, I guess this is the note we’re all stuck—

JOSH

Hmmmmmm.

* * *

Josh’s voice is so deep and mellow and pleasant that both Stella and Jessie stop arguing.

JOSH

If you could be anywhere else right now in the universe—feel free not to limit yourself to this world!—where would it be?

STELLA

Running. Well, that’s not a place, but—On the road, I guess. On the road, running.

* * *

Josh looks at Stella very seriously.

JOSH

Hmm.

JESSIE

And why you’re here.

STELLA

And why I’m here.

* * *

Deep breath.

STELLA

I don’t know. I used to be this normal, happy-go-lucky kid. But then at some point I couldn’t remember the last time I felt normal or happy-go-lucky. I couldn’t remember the last time I even wanted to get out of bed.

* * *

For a moment, Stella looks surprised at her own honesty. Then she pulls it together and makes the bitchiest face imaginable to compensate.

STELLA

The point is, I couldn’t bullsh—oops, I mean BS—about feeling fine well enough to get my psychologist to believe me. Whatever. You go.

* * *

Stella turns to the BLOND GUY next to her, who is tall and blue-eyed and tan in a way that makes me hate him instantly.

ANNOYINGLY ATTRACTIVE TEEN

Mason. I’m seventeen, and I’m from Bethesda, Maryland. My parents are idiots, is basically why I’m here. My happy place is...a land...governed...by rationality.

* * *

He pauses every few words, an obvious (not to mention incredibly irritating) effect meant to demonstrate how profound he is. I watch Stella’s eyes get narrower and narrower until they’re barely even slits.

MASON

Somewhere where people use logic instead of succumbing to blind emotion.

* * *

Mason sighs, as if the burden of being the lone rational agent in a dumb, emotional world is heavy on his shoulders indeed.

MASON

So, sure as hell not in that world. Oops, sorry, that might have been a little aggressive.

BEN (V.O.)

Mason is so into himself that it’s terrifying. Mason is Patrick Bateman in training. Oh, and if cinematic precedence means anything in the real world, it’s that Mason is so going to hook up with Stella by the end of Week 3.

* * *

Mason shrugs, then looks over at me, expectant. I realize, suddenly, that I am standing next to Mason, that the camera has panned left and I am on-screen with absolutely zero lines written and a captive audience. I take a deep breath and swallow hard.

* * *

Here is the anticlimax:

BEN

I’m Ben. Sixteen. From the suburbs of New York. I guess I would say that my happy place is...being in a movie theater. You know, like, the minute the opening credits roll. Which is, uh, which is kind of like the moment you disappear from this world, into another, if you think of it that way...

And why I’m here. Uh.

BEN (V.O.)

And just like that, I’m panicking. What other personality traits do you have, Ben? Intimately acquainted only with fictional characters? Literally incapable of human interaction? Caught between an endless string of down days and up days and days when you don’t feel anything at all?

* * *

Josh strokes his beard thoughtfully. Jessie raises an eyebrow. Mason looks terribly, terribly above it all. Stella makes an “And...?” face.

BEN (V.O.)

Say something say something say something—

BEN

I’m horribly emotionally unstable.

* * *

I stop.

Everyone is still looking at me.

BEN

Except for when I, like, don’t feel anything at all.

* * *

Continuing expectant silence.

BEN (V.O.)

Here is a list of things I do not say:

I do not say: I am sorry. I am sorry that introduction was pointless and I am sorry I couldn’t come up with anything more interesting to say because it is one of those times when I don’t feel anything at all.

And I do not say: It’s not always like this; I’m not always so far away. Sometimes life is real to me, and I’m sorry this isn’t one of those days.

And I do not say: But the truth is I’m not sorry. The truth is that sometimes it is easier to not feel, to pretend we’re all just actors waiting for the credits to roll and disappear forever, than to be a cocktail of feelings waiting to burst into flames. The truth is that this is one of those times.

BEN

That’s it.

* * *

Here is the falling action:

BEN (V.O.)

I am trying to stay with the moment, but I am rapidly losing focus. The camera pans from one person to the next and I just can’t will myself into believing that it’s any different from an on-screen fight that falls flat, or a miscued pseudoromantic beat. I rewrite the lines I’ve already said six, seven, eight times in my head, as if the director will shout, “Cut,” at any moment and I will get the chance to say them again, but better this time.

This is the moment everyone always worries about, because I could do anything—because anyone could do anything—and it would all feel equally trivial to me. Stella could punch me, I could slice my wrists open, the Asian girl currently talking could melt into the ground and disappear, and I just wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t care, because—

* * *

Here is the denouement:

BEN (V.O.)

I am waiting for the screen to fade to black.

STELLA

I’VE ALWAYS BEEN awful at this first-day-of-camp business.

Even in middle school, way back when “camp” was still synonymous with rope swings and tennis courts and swimming pools, I was always the girl scowling through introductions and rolling my eyes every time anyone said anything particularly stupid—which, because this was middle school and middle schoolers are uniformly idiotic, was pretty much the entire time. Now camp is synonymous with being cut off from the rest of the known universe and being yelled at by therapists who won’t even let us swear, and it’s even worse. The problem with the first day of camp, see, is that I’m always the only one who’s realized how utterly miserable camp is going to be, and done the logical thing and just given up. Everyone else is all bright-eyed and hopeful as we introduce ourselves and get to know each other and learn about our next four weeks at camp! We’re supposed to put in a good-faith effort to be positive and friendly, which is sort of a problem for me on account of the fact that I am not very good at positive and downright terrible at friendly.

Needless to say, I’m pretty relieved when we finally finish introductions. “Does everyone remember each other’s names, or do we need to go over them again?” Jessie asks, and I have to resist the roll of my eyes and get myself yelled at again. Clarisa is the one who stammers through most of her introduction and has to be asked to speak up five times, Andrew is so skeletal that it’s not exactly a mystery what his issue is, Mason has the most punchable facial expressions I’ve ever seen in my life, and Ben looks so zoned out it’s like he’s on a permanent acid trip. There’s five of us. It’s not exactly rocket science.

After Jessie is done extorting deadpan yeses from all of us, she and Josh walk us all to The Hull, which is what everyone calls the residential building. “The Hull” sounds like a really, really stupid nickname for a building, I know—but once you see it, everything makes sense. For starters, it’s literally shaped like a ship’s hull: only five floors tall, but seems to extend on and on forever from one side to the other. Second, the entire thing got painted over in a really tacky wood stain when they started Ugunduzi so that it would fit in with the whole “camp” theme, but whoever was in charge of painting the building over didn’t do a very good job: the paint is completely uneven, and there are patches where it’s peeling off completely to reveal the gray, occasionally mossy, occasionally moldy blocks of concrete behind it. Needless to say, the building is fucking hideous.

Each floor of The Hull is designated a number and divided into a left wing and a right wing. Our group name, 1L, means that we’re housed on the first floor, on the left side. Like I said: the Ugunduzi founders may have been kindhearted and well-meaning and all that bullshit, but they sure as hell weren’t very creative.

Jessie and Josh lead us into our common lounge—where there’s a pool table, a bunch of sofas, and a kitchen area—and tell us that we can hang out until dinner and “bond.” I, of course, would rather impale myself on the pool stick they’ve left unwisely unattended, but my plan to spend the time sitting by myself and making a comprehensive list of all the ways I might be able to escape is ruined when Andrew plops down on the couch next to me.

“Hey,” he says, as if we’re two old friends hanging out in someone’s living room and catching up. It takes me a minute to realize that I am not, in fact, hallucinating.

“Hi,” I say flatly.

“So...” Andrew says. He bites his lip nervously. I’m starting to get the idea that Andrew is coming to me with the hopes of getting some sort of wisdom or advice, which is sort of a bummer for him, because I have no wisdom, I have no advice, and I have no inclination to share anything of the sort with random strangers I’ve just met, anyway.

“So...” I say back, hoping he’ll leave.

“So what’s it like here?”

No dice.

“Hmm,” I say. “Exhausting. Aggravating.”

I give it a few more seconds of thought.

“And soul-suckingly oppressive,” I add.

“No, seriously,” Andrew says.

“No, seriously,” I reply.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Mason walks over to Ben and badgers him into playing a game of pool.

“But it’s so nice!”

“Nice? Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No! All I’m saying is just—Look out the window! It’s like having one of those travel brochures right outside, except it’s not a travel brochure, it’s actually what’s outside—do you know what I mean?”

“We’re never allowed to be together unsupervised, just in case we accidentally end up murdering each other. The counselors do bed checks every two hours after lights-out. And every day of every week is planned with some dumb therapeutic activity that’s supposed to make us confuse exhaustion with actually feeling better. I’m going to go with no. No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“But don’t you feel kind of hopeful about it all?” Andrew says.

“Being hopeful didn’t work out so well for me last year. So I’ve abandoned it for a better strategy.”

“What’s the better strategy?”

“Unadulterated apathy.”

“Oh,” Andrew says. He looks down at his hands. “I guess that works...”

I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the fact that Andrew genuinely looks like all of his hopes and dreams have just been dashed. Maybe it’s the way he starts looking out the window again, all wistful and earnest and full of feelings. Maybe it’s that the kid just came up to me and started telling me his life story, for fuck’s sake, as if we’re best friends as opposed to strangers tossed into the middle of New York for a month. Whatever it is, before I can stop myself, the words come tumbling out of my mouth.

“But hey—don’t be too upset. It won’t be miserable, like, a hundred percent of the time. I’ll get us drunk. And there’s always The Ridge, even though no one—”

“You brought alcohol?” Andrew whispers, awestruck. His faith in humanity restored.

“Were you expecting to get through this experience sober?”

“Isn’t that kind of against the rules?”

I sigh. If this kid has spent his entire life trying to avoid going against the rules, it’s no wonder he wound up at Ugunduzi.

“Yeah, it is, so stop yelling about it. Look, are you in or not?”

“Like, now?”

“Yes, right now. Right now, right here, in front of Jessie and Josh standing across the room, both of whom will promptly see us and expel us from this lovely camp that our parents have pinned all their hopes and dreams on. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

Andrew looks taken aback.

“No, not now. Later, after lights-out.”

I pause. Is this really something I want to do? I was planning on waiting until the end of the first week of camp to break out the alcohol, when everyone is especially miserable with the realization that they still have three more weeks of camp. But right now we all have four whole weeks of camp left, and isn’t that even more miserable?

“Yeah, let’s do later tonight,” I say. “Look, you guys just have to sneak into our room. It’s really easy. We literally never got caught last year.”

“I don’t really—” Andrew starts.

“All you have to do,” I continue, cutting him off, “is wait until right after they finish the first bed check and then walk across the right wall of the common room to our side of the hall. Then as long as you’re back before two hours, it’s all fine.”

“That’s not what I was saying. What I was saying was—”

“Look,” I say, exasperated. “All you have to do is come over. It’ll be fun. And could you please stop looking like someone murdered your family pet? It’s making me uncomfortable.”

“All right,” Andrew says. “What’s the plan?”

Once I explain the camera blind spot and how foolproof the entire process is, Andrew is actually pretty down with the plan. He gets super into explaining all of the times he and his band mates snuck into various parks, or museums, or stores, which is impressive, I guess, considering it took three solid minutes to convince him to come over and drink. No, Andrew is all right. It’s Clarisa who ends up being the bigger problem.

“So,” I say to her when we’re alone in our room after dinner. “You ready for the initiation?”

Clarisa looks up at me, alarmed. “Initiation?” she echoes.

I take the last pile of clothes out of my suitcase and open up the compartment at the top. There, I’ve hidden eight water bottles full of vodka, obtained from one of my older brother’s friends through a potent combination of charm and cleavage (that is to say, ten percent charm, ninety percent cleavage), and six shot glasses.

“Stella,” Clarisa says, “tell me that’s water.”

I grin. “It’s a lot more fun than water, I promise.”

Clarisa closes her eyes and takes seven deep breaths.

“Stella,” she says. She puts down the poster she was in the process of taping to the wall and clasps her hands together. “Stella. Stellastellastellastellastella. That’s...that’s definitely not allowed.”

“Astute,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. Her words come tumbling out, one after another. “I don’t want to be, like, the lame friend, even though I’ve been the lame friend for the past fifteen years of my life. But—”

She takes another breath.

“—whatifwegetcaught?”

“We won’t get caught,” I say. “We never got caught last year, and no one last year knew anyone who got caught the year before. Getting caught is not a thing that happens. They never do room checks more than once every two hours, and they always do one at midnight. So between that one and 2:00 a.m., we should be fine. Oh, and I invited the guys over.”

“What?” she says. Clarisa is one of those people who deals with heated discussions on illicit topics by lowering her voice to a furious whisper, which would be great and all, except there’s no one who can hear us, anyway. “Stella, you can’t just do this!”

“What is your problem? This is a nice thing!”

“I don’t like nice things!” she whisper-shouts. “Not when they come out of nowhere and give me panic attacks!”

“Oh. Right.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I just—I already told Andrew to come over. I guess they could come and then we could ask them to leave, but—I don’t know. Don’t you feel like it’s camp, and you want to do camp things, and not let ‘your illness control your life,’ or whatever? Does your psychologist say that?”

“Every psychologist says that,” Clarisa says, and, well, she certainly has me there.

“Good point,” I say.

“Look,” she says. “It’s fine. Yes. You’re right. I’m supposed to be confronting my anxiety and moving out of my comfort zone, so I will try to do this, but I would just really appreciate some kind of warning next time you decide to carry out an entire illegal operation in our room, and also if then you didn’t try to pass it off as some messed-up therapeutic exercise.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. Look, it’s quarter of twelve. We should pretend to be sleeping for when they come to check on us.”

Clarisa shoots me one last dirty look and then starts taking breaths in groups of seven again. I shut off the lights and climb into bed and pretend to sleep, feeling an awful mix of guilt and resentment and annoyance. I hate it when I’m sorry.

The boys arrive fifteen minutes after the bed check. Andrew comes in first, having switched from a black V-neck and black jeans to a black T-shirt and gray shorts, which I suppose is a step up. He still looks emaciated, but there’s only so much progress you can make over the course of one evening. After him comes Ben, who is actually fairly attractive, in a perpetually mussed-brown-hair and dazed-looking way. Then comes Mason, who, of course, has decided to grace our room with his presence shirtless and in boxers.

“Mason,” I say. “Where the fuck are your clothes?”

“Thought I’d do everyone a favor and lose them,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “You know you’re not actually James Dean, right? I know it must be hard sometimes, to remember, but I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out by now given how much time you must spend thinking about yourself.”

“Feisty,” he says.

“And correct,” I say.

“So, what is this heralded ‘camp tradition’?” Ben says. “And also, is this the kind of thing that’s going to get us sent into the woods and fed only rice and beans for a week? Because I saw a documentary about wilderness boot camp once, and—”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happens,” I say. Ben’s eyebrows shoot up in horror. “And then they make you walk fifty miles naked.” Ben’s mouth drops open. “And after that, they waterboard you until you swear to never even think about breaking a camp rule ever again.” Ben’s expression reaches cosmic levels of dismay. “And then, when you’ve been reduced to a quivering, semiconscious puddle of obedience, they make you do lines.”

“Lines?” Ben whispers.

I muster up the most solemn face I can possibly arrange under the circumstances. “Yes. You have to write ‘I am a pathetic excuse for a sixteen-year-old boy who will believe anything anyone tells me’ one million times, until you’re not so gullible.”

For a second, Ben just looks confused. But then Mason and Andrew burst out laughing, and I guess he finally gets it, because: “Hey!” he shouts. “That was fucking mean!”

Mason holds up his hand for me to fist bump, which I calmly ignore. “I try my best,” I say. “But seriously, calm down. This isn’t boot camp. That’s Palmer’s thing, you know? He thinks all that crazy intense stuff does more harm than good. That we should have normal camp experiences just like everyone else. I think secretly he wants us to get together in the middle of the night and break all the rules.”

“So what are we doing tonight?” Ben says, looking incredibly suspicious. “Are we going to run through the woods naked or something?”

“Or, like, a time capsule deal?” Andrew says.

“Spin the bottle?” Mason asks hopefully.

“No, no, and almost,” I say. I whip the blanket off my bed to reveal the bottles. “Who wants to take the first shot with me?”

This is when I am reminded, despite my best efforts to pretend otherwise, that I am not, in fact, at a normal camp for normal people who want to engage in some perfectly normal illicit-substance-aided bonding, and am instead stranded in upstate New York with a bunch of lunatics.

“Oh, God,” Ben says. “Does everyone here think they’re in Wet Hot American Summer?”

“Uh,” Andrew says.

“Fuck, yes!” Mason says. I try to restrain myself from throwing something at him.

“Clarisa?” I ask, slightly desperate.

She looks at me. “I’d love to,” she says. “But then I’d have to take six more to make it an even seven, and I’m not so sure that that’s a great idea for my first night at camp.”

I look back at Andrew, who’s still staring at the bottles with an uncertain expression on his face. “I don’t think I can,” he says.

“What do you mean, you don’t think you can?” I say. “Aren’t you the one who wanted to do this in the first place?”

He shifts and looks away from the alcohol, to the floor in front of my feet. “I wanted to bond,” he says. “And, like, come over and hang out, and stuff. But drinking... Alcohol is just so unhealthy. It totally screws up your metabolism, and...and there are just so many calories, even in one shot, and—”

“Jesus Christ, guys,” I say. “Ben. We are clearly not in Wet Hot American Summer because if we were, we’d all be plastered and I’d have killed Mason already. And, Andrew, I know that it feels like if you take this one shot—because a shot is, what, a hundred calories?—everything you’ve ever worked for is going to be meaningless and you’ve failed. But everything you’ve ever worked for is meaningless, anyway, and it’s not like you’ve never failed before!”

“That was a terrible motivational speech,” Ben says. “I recommend more political dramas.”

I glare at him.

“But I’ll take the shot with you.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says, sighing. “I guess I will, too. But not more than two.”

“Fuck, ye—”

“I know you’re taking the shot with me, Mason. Jesus!”

“I’m going to sit this one out,” Clarisa says. “But, Stella?” She looks at me with big, sad, hopeful eyes, which means that the best course of action for me to follow right now would actually be to flee. “Make sure I do this at least once before camp gets out, okay?”

“Er,” I say. “Mason will do it. Right, Mason? Don’t say, ‘Fuck, yes,’ I swear to God.”

I pour out four shots of vodka and one of water, for Clarisa.

“And so our five dissolute campers make a toast to the experiences of their future,” Ben suddenly says. “It is stupid, it is night, it is youth. It is hope, it is rashness, it is liquid courage. It is—”

“Dude,” Andrew interrupts. “What are you talking about?”

“Sorry,” Ben says. “Do you ever think, like, if life were a movie with really dramatic voice-over, what would that voice-over be saying? You know, like, if Morgan Freeman was—”

Ben catches the expressions on our faces and cuts off. “Yeah, never mind. I think I’ve seen too many movies. Just ignore it.”

This is why I can’t pretend I’m at normal camp, I think. But I hand out the shots and raise mine, anyway. “To pretending we’re at normal camp,” I say.

We take the shots.

BEN

HERE’S THE PROBLEM: the first shot, the excitement of it all, the rush—it all makes me ridiculously happy. Which in turn makes me ridiculously stupid.

It’s not even just the alcohol that does it—it’s the entire situation. I mean, here I am, in the middle of the night, surrounded by people I barely know, after sneaking out of our room and risking CERTAIN DEATH. Well, maybe not CERTAIN DEATH, but definitely CERTAIN DISAPPOINTED LOOKS, and when you’re the literal antithesis of cool, like I am, that’s bad enough to make you pretty nervous.

I didn’t even want to come at first. I know better than anyone that putting me in social situations with a bunch of strangers is like sending a firefighter into a forest fire with a watering can. But Andrew wouldn’t shut up about “bonding” (no, thanks) and “haven’t you ever done anything exciting in your life? You know, just for the thrill of it?” (definitely not) and “please don’t leave me alone with Mason” (I begrudgingly gave him that last one). So here I am.

And I guess Andrew must have had a point after all, because I’m feeling surprisingly good. Shockingly good. Better than I’ve felt since watching Fast & Furious 6 a couple of years ago and having every negative thought obliterated from my brain through sheer force of CGI. It’s the first shot that does it, I think—the taste, lingering in the back of my throat, the burn that follows it all the way down my chest and into my stomach. This is why Nicholas Cage becomes an alcoholic in Leaving Las Vegas. I finally understand.

So I take another shot—because Stella and Mason are still going, so it can’t hurt, right? And then another one—“to not letting ourselves reach Norman Bates levels of insanity”—with Andrew. And then another one—“to motifs in movies,” I vaguely remember saying, “because they’re all we can derive meaning from!”—at which point nearly everyone is in hysterics, except Clarisa, who merely looks tentatively amused. Even Stella has managed to break out a genuine smile.

“I’m done, I’m done, I have to be done,” I say, and I’m so happy I can barely think straight, but then Mason fills my glass and shouts, “To not being a pussy!” and the four shots I’ve taken already are enough for that to actually force me into action.

The really stupid thing is that I know exactly how this ends. I’ve been to enough therapy sessions and sat through enough boring health classes to know that I really shouldn’t drink like this, especially here, with people who now probably think I’m a total dumbass, for the first time ever. I’m not fun. I’m not anywhere near cool. I’m pretty much the last person anyone would invite to a party. In the fifteen minutes during which I am feigning sleep after we sneak back into our room, I realize that a) I have been an idiot, and b) more urgently, I need to throw up, now.

It’s hard to describe the emotional sequence that follows, not least of all because I am excessively inebriated for most of it. I make it to the bathroom in time to spend the next half hour alternating between puking, feeling all the positive feelings gradually drain away from my brain, and wishing, wishing, WISHING that I could feel like I’m inside a movie again like I did on the first day of camp, that this entire disaster didn’t all feel so capital-R Real. I hate alcohol, I think. I hate alcohol, and I hate that it did this to me, and I hate myself for being stupid enough to drink even though I knew this would happen, and I hate myself for being ridiculous enough to be crying right now because of something so stupid, and I hate Stella for bringing the alcohol, and I hate Mason for calling me a pussy, and I hate myself for proving him right. I had one chance and I fucked it all up—

“Yo,” Andrew calls from outside the bathroom. “Are you okay? Dude, open the door!”

“And can you quiet down?” Mason adds. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” I shout, but I must not sound particularly fine, because Andrew opens the door and barges in. Pathetic, I think. He must think you’re so pathetic.

“Dude!” Andrew says. “Are you crying? Ben, what’s going on?” He pours me a cup of water from the faucet and hands it to me.

“What’s going on,” I repeat. I take a drink from the cup and then dry heave. “What’s going on? Our dissolute camper, once so filled with hope and youthful energy, is paying the price for his impulsivity, for the belief that he could ever—“Well, I feel terrible,” I say after catching the look on Andrew’s face.

“You have to stop doing that,” he says.

“I can’t,” I say. “And I drank too much.”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” he says.

“And they taught us in health class that alcohol is a depressant,” I add.

“Yeah, that happens, too. But I don’t think that’s what that actually means. Like, I don’t think alcohol actually makes you depressed, if you know what I’m saying. I think it just—”

“And I hate myself.”

Andrew shuts up.

“Oh, God,” I say. The nausea is beginning to fade now, into a constant, throbbing misery—the sense that I would be better off anywhere else, anyone else, or perhaps not at all. To make matters worse, Mason chooses this moment to walk into the bathroom, clutching—I kid you not—an issue of Playboy.

“I thought you were trying to sleep,” I say.

“I gave up,” he says.

I stare at him, speechless, before deciding that the best course of action is to pointedly ignore him.

“I shouldn’t have let myself do this,” I say, turning to Andrew. “People like me can’t do drinking.”

“‘People like me’?” he says. “What does that even mean? Depressed people? People who have emotions? People who do stupid things? People like us, Ben. Now shut up and drink water.”

“People like us?” Mason replies, not looking up from his magazine. “People like you guys, Andrew. Leave me out of it.”

I stumble out of the bathroom and climb into bed, thinking that camp so far has been far, far worse than Wet Hot American Summer.

CLARISA

THE SUNDAY SCHEDULE says we’re supposed to be up by 10:00 a.m., but waking up at a time like that is practically asking to have a terrible day. I set my alarm for 9:31 instead, and I’m feeling surprisingly well rested when it goes off. It’s going to be a good day, I think to myself. I’m going to get out of bed and brush my teeth. I’m going to write my mom a letter. I’m going to try to make friends. I sit up, open my eyes, and—//

—Freeze. There are four shot glasses pushed into the back corner of the room, definitely unwashed. Pieces of paper that Ben and Mason had been scribbling on all night, now crumpled up on my desk. Somehow, Ben managed to forget his shoes in our room. It’s not even the clutter that gets to me, which isn’t as bad for me as people always think it is—it’s the fact that everything is wrong; the sense that that’s not where those things are supposed to be, not on the floor, not on my desk, no, no, no, and then I’m up and throwing away Ben’s nonsensical scribblings and putting Stella’s shot glasses back on her desk where they belong. Equally horrifying is the fact that it would have been this easy for us to get caught: the shot glasses are inconspicuous, sure, but all it would have taken was one careful walk through the room with a flashlight to notice them. And what if the counselors realized that the pair of flip-flops in the middle of the room wasn’t actually mine or Stella’s? //

By the time I’m done cleaning up yesterday’s mess, I barely have time to finish my morning routine before we’re supposed to go outside for breakfast. “You do this every morning?” Stella asks as I’m in the process of checking my covers for the fifth time. They haven’t moved at all since the last time I checked them, and I know that they haven’t, but I can’t rip myself away before I’ve made sure. “Do you really have to?” Stella says. “Like, what’s the worst thing that can happen if you don’t?” “Okay, first,” I say, spinning so that I’m facing her. I’m wasting precious time, I know, and Stella’s offhand remarks aren’t worth getting riled up over, but something about her tone—smug, more bemused than anything—really gets me going. //

“Yeah, I do this every morning, thanks for asking. And second, you’re being pretty rude, you know that? Believe me, I don’t want to be doing this any more than you want to be watching me doing it. But I just...have to.” I stare at her, defiant. This, I think, is exactly why I didn’t want to come to this stupid camp. It’s bad enough when it’s just my mom thinking that I’m a total nutcase. //

But Stella surprises me. “You’re right,” she says slowly, like she’s just coming to the realization for the first time as she says the words. “Sorry, Clarisa. And sorry again about not checking with you before inviting the guys over last night. I guess I just didn’t anticipate these things—you know—being...problems.” “Well, that’s me for you,” I say. “A barrelful of unanticipated problems.” //

“That’s not what I meant,” Stella says. But it is. Trust me, I’ve been in this situation enough times to know. “Yeah,” I mutter, and grab our room keys and a jacket from my closet. The bed is fine. The room is safe. I’m ready to go to breakfast. //

* * *

I don’t end up making it through very much of breakfast because Jessie comes up to our table pretty much the moment I’ve set my oatmeal down on the picnic table between Ben and Andrew and asks if she can see me in her office. It takes me approximately three seconds—between the time I finish processing her words and actually get up to follow her—to conclude that we’ve been caught, and that I am totally, totally doomed. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t smile at me a single time while we walk from the picnic tables outside to the counselors’ offices by The Hull. By the time Jessie clears her throat to start talking, I’ve come up with six ways to apologize for getting roped into Stella’s awful plan, all of which sound ridiculous. This is it. I am definitely getting kicked out. My stomach sinks as I imagine how disappointed my mom is going to be when she finds out that her latest plan to convert me into a normal human being, just like all the other ones, has crashed and burned. //

After a few seconds of torturous, torturous silence, Jessie finally speaks. “You started sertraline three weeks ago, correct?” she says. I stare at her for a second, unsure of how to answer. Is this a prelude to the inevitable lecture? Is she trying to terrify me before kicking me out? “Um,” I say. “Yes?” //

“Are you experiencing any negative side effects? Any difficulty sleeping? Changes in appetite? Increased feelings of depression or suicidal ideation?” she asks. “No,” I say. Jessie writes for a few seconds on the clipboard. I start to think that maybe I’m not totally busted, after all. //

“What about positive effects of the drug?” Jessie continues. “Decreased anxiety, easier time focusing...?” This is when I sort of start to hate this conversation. When I start to almost wish that we had been caught, and that Jessie was giving me some stern lecture about “trustworthiness” and “camp values” as opposed to asking me about whether or not my meds are finally, finally working. Because no, they’re not. And now I feel like I’m letting her down. “Not really,” I admit. //

“Well, it’s quite normal for sertraline to take four to six weeks to fully take effect, so I’m not too concerned yet,” Jessie says. “I’ll check in with you again in a couple of days and see if anything changes. In the meantime, please let me know if you start experiencing any new side effects. Is that clear?” “Yes,” I say. I resist the urge to apologize even though I know she doesn’t know that I’ve done anything wrong. Then, before she can tell me that my skirt is too short or try to fix my posture, I bolt for the door. //

When I get back to the picnic tables, most of the other fifty or so campers have come out and started eating. I make my way over to our table and slide back into my seat, only to find that my oatmeal has gone lukewarm and my biscuit has been colonized by a family of ants. “Lovely,” I mutter. I push the plate away and turn to Ben. “Do you know when we’re having lunch?” I ask. “Because I’m actually kind of hungry, and I can’t—Oh, jeez, are you okay?” //

Ben looks exhausted. Half-dead. Like a different person from last night, when he seemed, well, just as energetic and happy as you’d expect someone who had taken, like, four shots of vodka in quick succession to be. “I’m fine,” Ben says. He gets really into his scrambled eggs. “Did something...happen?” I ask. “I mean, last night, you seemed really happy, and now...” //

“I’m just an idiot,” Ben says. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t think there’s really anything anyone can do about that. So, I’m fine.” There’s a part of me that wants to push further, if only because now everyone at the table is staring at us. But then I remember how I felt yesterday in the car when Mom wouldn’t stop asking me how I was doing. And look how that turned out. So instead I say, “Okay,” and turn my gaze to the camp ground around us. //

As a permanent resident of New York City, where your line of sight extends approximately fifty feet without hitting a skyscraper or a wall of smog, I’m not used to how beautiful it is here—how clean the air, how far we can see. There are mountains rising and falling in the distance, gray and jagged against the light blue of the sky. We’re sitting at a cluster of picnic tables between the cabins and the volleyball court. On the other side, I can see all the way to the other side of the lake. The lake, the cabins, and the rec area are all situated in a field of grass that’s almost entirely enclosed by trees. Before I can stop myself, I’ve forgotten all about my cereal and started counting them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. //

My mind goes into autopilot: start, count, stop, repeat. 7, 7, 7, 7. A part of me thinks that I can somehow count all the trees that form our perimeter—if it’s not a safe number, will they let me cut a few down? I wonder. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—//

“Clarisa?” a voice says. “Did you get that?” I realize with a start that I’ve completely zoned out, and that Jessie and Josh have joined us at our table. Jessie is clearly midlecture. “The expression of sheer panic on her face would indicate that she had retreated to the warm and welcoming—often too welcoming, I might add—recesses of her innermost thoughts,” Josh says warmly, as if that’s a perfectly normal way to describe someone who isn’t paying attention. “No need to worry, Clarisa. Why don’t we just repeat the last part again, Jessie?” //

“I was going over our weekend policy,” Jessie says, sounding significantly more annoyed than Josh does. And who can blame her? She’s right—I should have been paying attention, instead of getting lost in my head like I always do. “As I was saying,” Jessie repeats, “our weekends kick off every Friday night with Art by the Fire Fridays.” I don’t know what Art by the Fire Fridays is, but it must not be great, because Stella takes Jessie’s pause as an opportunity to groan loudly. “What were you expecting?” Mason drawls. “That in the last year they’d eliminated all the therapeutic camp activities at a therapeutic camp?” //

“Stella, you clearly have a lot of opinions about Art by the Fire,” Jessie says. “Would you like to explain to everyone what the principles and procedures are?” Stella scowls at Jessie but remains silent. “Thank you. And, Mason,” Jessie continues. “While I appreciate your willingness to, ah, help us counselors out, I assure you that Josh and I can handle it. Now, on to the important part. //

“Every Friday night, all of the campers at Ugunduzi come together. We light a bonfire, we make s’mores, and everyone across all the different groups has the opportunity to share something that he or she has written. It’s a great exercise. I know you’ll all be amazed at the things you share with each other. It can be a poem, or a journal entry, or stray thoughts about the week—anything you feel like sharing with the group. You guys should start thinking about that and maybe even writing, if you want to perform a poem or anything like that. Any questions before we move on? //

“Great,” Jessie says when no one speaks up. “After Friday night, weekends at Ugunduzi are fairly relaxed. It’s always been important for Dr. Palmer and the rest of the team here for campers to have time to explore and enjoy this beautiful area on your own terms, and we want you to know that we trust you enough to let you do that. Accordingly, we’ve left this time relatively unrestricted—with the provision that you stay on the main grounds and remain supervised at all times, of course. Ordinarily, at this time after breakfast, you’d be able to do an approved activity of your own choice. But because it’s our first full day together, we thought it would be a good idea to introduce you to your camp-long project and give you some time to start thinking about it. And so, if you’ll follow me...” //

“Isn’t it cute how they consider ‘boxed in’ and ‘supervised at all times’ to be ‘relatively unrestricted’?” Stella mutters to me while we stand up and file into a line behind Jessie. I choke back a laugh. Not because she isn’t kind of totally right, but because getting in trouble twice before it’s even eleven in the morning doesn’t seem like a great way to start camp. The five of us follow Jessie and Josh away from the picnic tables, in the opposite direction of The Hull, up to a small, unlabeled cabin by the water. Josh takes out a key and unlocks the door. “It’s...empty,” Mason says as we all step inside. “Totally empty,” Andrew echoes. //

Mason’s right. Not only is the cabin completely devoid of tables, couches, and decorations, but the walls are also unpainted, the windows bare and curtainless. “Exactly,” Jessie says. Solitary confinement, I think immediately. I picture being locked in here for a full day with nothing to do or look at or sit on, with no one to talk with and nothing to listen to, free of hiking, Stella’s sarcastic comments, trees, spontaneous episodes of youthful rebellions, shot glasses left lying on the floor all night... It would be like a dream come true. I resolve to get myself as committed as soon as possible. //

“It’s your Camp Project,” she says. “Oh, no,” Stella groans. “Not again. Wasn’t last year bad enough?” “The Camp Project,” Jessie presses on, over Stella’s groan, “is a Camp Ugunduzi tradition. Each team of campers every year is assigned a project that facilitates creativity, resourcefulness, and, most important, teamwork. Stella’s group last year, for example, took photographs and wrote articles for a camp guidebook for their friends and their parents.” //

“It was propaganda,” Stella says. “Forget friends and parents—Hitler could have learned a thing or two from that guidebook.” Mason snickers. “This year,” Jessie continues, her voice rising a few decibels, “we’ve decided to do something a little different. We’ve had this cabin built with the intention of turning it into a safe space for campers—a place where they could come to find peace, where they could clear their heads, to be surrounded by quiet, to reflect or write or play music. As you can see, we’ve left it completely undecorated. And that’s where you guys come in.” //

“You want us to decorate the cabin,” Andrew says. He sounds extraordinarily skeptical. “You want us to make it a...‘safe...space.’” “Exactly,” Jessie says. “You’ll probably spend most of the first week just working together on painting it, but after that, everything is pretty much up to you. Things like what you want to put on the walls, what function you want each of the rooms to have, if any, what color scheme you want for the cabin... Just design it, and make it happen.” //

“What does ‘safe space’ even mean?” Andrew says. “Like, toddler-safe? Like what Aidan’s parents did after his baby brother was born?” “Who’s Aidan?” I ask. “What if everyone else is incompetent?” Mason asks. Ben stays silent, looking like he’s about to collapse from nervousness. It’s a feeling that I’m all too familiar with. //

“This is a terrible idea,” Stella says, cutting him off without mercy. “What if I decide that I want to kill myself by drinking a bucket of paint or stabbing myself with the nail we’ve just used to hang up a painting? What if we get in a fight and I kill Mason with a hammer? We are, ahem, ‘depressed and troubled teenagers,’” she continues. She enunciates each of the last four words carefully, as if a psychiatrist reading from a clinical report. “We can’t be trusted with chemicals or sharp objects or hammers or...or anything else, for that matter. You should probably send us back where we came from, lest this safe space become not so safe.” //

We all stare at Stella, who looks at Jessie with a completely straight face. The problem, I think, is that no one can ever tell if she’s joking or not. Jessie sighs. “No one is going to kill him-or herself. Or anyone else, for that matter. Because all of your time working on the project will be supervised, and, more importantly, because I know you all have a great deal of respect for this camp, each other, and yourselves. Despite what you try your best to convince us of, Stella,” she adds. //

“I dunno, man,” Mason says. “I’m pretty convinced. So convinced that you might have to remove her from the premises for this to be a safe space for me.” “I’m going to remove your balls from the premises, Mason, I swear to—” “Stella!” Jessie says. “There is no swearing at Camp Ugunduzi. You of all people should try to set a better example for our new campers.” //

Stella scowls at Jessie, but I think that just motivates her to lecture us in an even sterner tone of voice. “There’s clearly no better time than the present to start building camaraderie. Remember, it’s important to work together to try to integrate everyone’s ideas. And I expect everyone to keep an appropriate, positive attitude as you work. By this Thursday, you guys should have a list of the things you need the camp to order to decorate the cabin. There are paper and pencils in the next room. Why don’t you all get started?” //

So begins the first brainstorming session for Project Safe Space, or, as Stella takes to calling it half an hour in, Project Doesn’t This Violate Some Sort of Labor Law? I’m not sure how to quantify the amount of progress we make over the next two hours. We decide, for example, that the color scheme will not include orange or yellow or violet, because Mason will “literally do everyone a favor and vomit on the walls,” or black or gray, because, as Ben notes, “Is there any better way to encourage someone to hang themselves from the ceiling fan?” We also decide that the cabin cannot have any mirrors, as that would be insensitive to people with eating disorders (“and people with faces like Mason’s,” Stella adds), and duly note that “posters of some made-up inspirational Marilyn Monroe quote about loving yourself printed over a picture of the sun setting over the Appalachians” are unacceptable on account of being “bullshit, and also way too girlie.” Things we do not manage to decide: what we actually want the color scheme to be, what wouldn’t be horribly offensive to put on the walls, literally anything else. It’s almost incredible, how much a group of five people can disagree on. I’d be impressed, if it weren’t so discouraging. //

“We should get one of those four-seasons painting collections,” Ben suggests. “That’s literary and calming.” “No,” I say immediately. It is the second time I’ve spoken in here. Everyone turns around to look at me and I feel myself flush. “It’s just—There would be four,” I say. //

“No kidding,” Stella says. “A four-seasons painting collection would have four paintings?” She’s sprawled out on the floor of the cabin, doodling on a sheet of paper. Her nonchalance is suddenly infuriating. “Shut up, Stella,” I say. The panic is rising up in my chest and I can feel my breath slipping away even as I say the words and I squeeze my eyes shut to try to get it to stop, but I can’t; it won’t—that’s never worked before and it doesn’t work now. The images come on too fast, too vivid—four paintings in a row, incomplete, not enough, not okay, not good, not safe, dangerous; four, and I can feel my brain short-circuiting; four, and I am watching the cabin get destroyed in front of my eyes; four, and disaster after disaster plays out in my mind, an uninterrupted sequence of catastrophes, each more real than the last. //

The roof, caving in after a snowstorm. The walls, blown over by torrential wind. The entire cabin, burning down after a candle falls or some idiot tries to smoke a cigarette indoors. Someone trapped inside, someone crushed by logs, someone burning alive, someone—“Clarisa!” Stella shouts. I open my eyes and realize that I’m shaking. 1, I think automatically, counting breaths, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. //

“Are you okay?” Ben asks. He moves over next to me and tries to put his arm around me, but I shake him off. I can’t take the contact right now, and I don’t deserve the comfort, anyway. “If we’re going to have paintings, there have to be seven. It’s the only way the cabin can be safe,” I say, avoiding eye contact with everyone. There’s no response. It’s the only thing that’s been suggested that no one argues against. //

ANDREW

DINNER IS WHEN everything gets fucked up.

Breakfast is okay. A bagel is 450 calories—around there, anyway—and I know I need to eat around there on most days, just to stay alive. Eating less than that is how The Incident ended up happening, and—well, I’d obviously like to avoid a repeat of that in the near future.

Lunch I just throw out, because there are so many people milling around the picnic area that it’s easy to slip to the trash cans unnoticed, and because I’ve already gotten my 450 calories for the day, so what’s the point? Stella gives me a sort of suspicious look as I sit back at the table, plate totally cleared, but what is she going to say? “Go get your lunch out of the trash and eat it”?

Then dinner comes around, and I discover quickly that I am totally, totally screwed. Jessie spends the entire meal sitting at our table, talking to us about how our day has gone and whether or not we’re enjoying our time at camp so far. I’m so agitated that I barely have the mental focus to listen while she and Stella get into their seventh fight of the day after Stella sarcastically describes Project Safe Space as “fucking delightful, thanks for asking, Jessie.” Will Jessie care if I leave dinner without eating anything? Will Jessie notice if I leave dinner without eating anything? The look she gives me when I try to edge off the table midway through her argument with Stella says pretty convincingly that yes, she would care, and yes, she would notice. So—and what choice do I really have here?—I force myself to eat.

It’s kind of sad how quickly I stop wanting to get better. At 500 calories, “better” seems like a pretty okay thing to be. But then I get halfway through my spaghetti—+100, +200, +300, +400—and I can practically feel the carbs becoming fat and I’m thinking about all the work I’ve put in to get to where I am now and “better” starts sounding a lot like “disgusting.” It’s hard to want to get better when I’m staring down the calories in my head, I guess is what I’m trying to say.

I want to go to bed the second Jessie tells us we’re done for the day. If I go to bed, then I can fall asleep, and when I wake up, it’ll be morning. Back to zero. Fresh start, new beginning. But I can’t. I’ve just eaten an entire meal, and if I take off my shirt to go to sleep, I’m going to look down and see my stomach protruding and I just—I can’t. I know what it looks like, and I can’t look at it right now, and I know it’s there, so I can’t not look at it if I do go to bed, so I sit in the lounge and watch Mason and Ben argue over whether or not movies have any value to society. I want to grab my guitar from my room and write music, but everything I write in moments like these is crap because I can’t think straight, and besides, my band fulfilled its quota of sad ballads about hating yourself, like, three EPs ago.

I know something’s up when Stella joins me on the couch. She’s pretty much refused to talk to anyone the entire day, and I don’t think I look particularly fun while drowning in my own self-hatred.

“So,” she says. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What’s it called?” She doesn’t sound genuine exactly—more like she’s referencing an inside joke between the two of us that I’m too stupid to even know about, or have somehow forgotten. But she also doesn’t sound completely offended at my existence, either. I take this as a good sign.

“Um, The Eureka Moment,” I respond. “Because, like, we were all sitting around Aidan’s basement, trying to come up with a band name, and no matter how long we brainstormed, we just couldn’t think of the right one. Like, dude, we were throwing around options like Abyss Gazers and Between Bruises—it was bad. I called Aidan’s suggestion some ‘tween pop bullshit,’ which is pretty much the worst thing you could say to a serious musician. Anyway, before Aidan could punch me, Jake was just, like, ‘Guess we’re still waiting on that eureka moment, huh?’ and everyone realized that that was it, that that was—”

“That’s cute,” she says, cutting me off.

Anything else, I probably could have taken. She could have called it weird, or stupid, or even asked if we’re a “real band,” like every adult insisted on doing when we first started. She could have laughed out loud, for all I care. But cute is too much.

“It’s not cute,” I say. “It’s not cute at all—we spent, like, three hours coming up with it and would’ve spent three more hours coming up with something better if it was something cute. Cute doesn’t sell records unless you’re interested in the Disney Channel crowd, which we’re not—”

Suddenly, Stella grabs my hand. It takes a couple seconds for the realization to make its way to my brain. “We’re not trying to be the next Jonas Broth—Dude, what are you doing?”

She pulls her hand away as quickly as she’d grabbed mine.

“Is everything okay over there?” Jessie says.

Stella rolls her eyes and gets up off the couch. “Better than okay, Jess,” she says. “Andrew was just telling me about his band. They’re superlegit and hard-core and not at all cute.”

She’s already turned away from me by the time I realize that she’s slipped a piece of paper into my hand.

Our room, right after the midnight room check, it says.

Well, I think. At least that’ll be a few more hours to burn calories.

* * *

I went on a camping trip with my band last year for Memorial Day. This was before anyone knew who we were, when we were just a few friends bothering the neighbors at weird hours of the night with music no one really understood. I still have no idea how any of us managed to convince our parents to let us go—especially after Jake’s dad found the giant cooler full of forties—but somehow we did, and then there we were, just the four of us in the middle of the woods with nothing to do other than drink and fuck around on guitars and a bass you couldn’t really hear and a drum box.

I think that weekend was when all of us realized that this was actually something we could picture ourselves doing together for the rest of our lives. I mean, whatever, that’s really corny. But I just always figured it was one of those things that would be set to really dramatic, violin-heavy music in a documentary about our band, you know? This one night, we each had, like, three beers, and then started hiking, and then got so, so lost. It was crazy. We all thought we were going to die. We were passing around a notebook writing down goodbyes when Aidan found the map in his backpack and we realized we had walked in a giant circle and were actually five minutes away from the campsite. I blame the beer.

For some reason, tonight makes me think of that night. It’s weird, because they’re totally different—then, I was with my best friends in the world; tonight, I’m with four people I don’t know at all. But when we walk into Stella’s room and find her and Clarisa dressed in jackets and hiking boots and Stella tells us to “go back and put on real clothes—except you, Mason, you can get hypothermia if you want—because we’re going on a hike,” I’m kind of excited. Stella picks the lock keeping the back door shut from the outside with a hairpin, and then we walk outside and the freedom, the air, the forest—it feels familiar. It doesn’t really matter that Mason won’t shut up and it doesn’t really matter that Stella might be the worst person in the world to follow into the woods in the middle of the night and it doesn’t even matter that we might get caught. I mean, they can’t exactly kick all of us out of camp.

We follow Stella away from the cabins, toward the trees. By the time we step into the forest, I can hear Clarisa breathing hard. “You all right?” I say.

“So many trees,” she whispers back, as if there’s someone around to hear us. “I have to count, I can’t count, I have to count, I can’t count, I have to—”

“Count steps,” I say. “If it takes a safe number of steps to get to where we’re going, then it’s safe, right?”

“The trees,” she says again, her eyes squeezed shut. “There are too many. I can’t count them—”

“Look down, Clarisa, look at your feet,” Stella says. “Step forward. Okay, that’s good. That’s one. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. It’s going to be great, I promise.”

Five minutes later, Stella takes an abrupt turn off the path, straight into a cluster of trees. Another seven steps later and the trees disappear. We’re standing in a grassy clearing that drops off steeply about fifty feet in front of us. There are dead trees lying across the ground, barks peeling. Now that we’re not under the canopy anymore, it’s actually incredibly bright under the light of the moon. It kind of reminds me of a stage—the darkness of the forest behind us, the sudden brightness, the ledge in front. The feeling that the silence is just waiting for you to break it. I wish I had my guitar.

“Welcome,” Stella announces, “to The Ridge.” She takes a seat on one of the dead trees on the ground.

“Why are we here?” Mason asks. He walks along the grass suspiciously and looks around.

“Don’t you ever get tired of having all of our conversations and actions and everything else monitored all the time?” Stella says. “It’s just a place where we can hang out without feeling like we’re criminals. Jesus.”

“Wow,” Ben says. He takes a seat on another log on the ground. There’s a third right behind me, and the three form a rough triangle in the middle of the clearing. Between them is a makeshift fire pit with bunches of sticks and branches in it. I wonder how long campers have been doing this, and if they’ve ever gotten caught. God, Sam would get a kick out of this. He used to always try to get us to sneak out in the middle of the night to go downtown and do graffiti with him. “We can’t even design our own album art,” I remember Jake saying to him once. “And you want to deface a building?”

Maybe it’s that it’s the middle of the night, when I’m used to being surrounded by Sam and Jake and Aidan and pages and pages of sheet music and song lyrics, or maybe it’s just that the memory hits me out of nowhere, but all of a sudden I really miss them. My stomach clenches from the sadness, or maybe from hunger. I can never really tell when it’s hunger anymore.

I take a seat on the third log. Clarisa sits down next to Ben, but I don’t think he notices, because he’s staring at Stella. He’s actually gone from looking mildly impressed to looking like a groupie. I feel kind of embarrassed for him, to be honest.

“You okay there, Ben?” Stella asks, and Ben turns really, really red.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “This is just...way cool.”

He turns even redder.

“Everyone just ignore me,” he says.

“You flatter me,” Stella responds.

“You really do,” Mason says. Apparently he has deemed The Ridge safe, because he swings his legs over Stella’s log, sits down, and throws an arm around her shoulders.

“Mason,” Stella says flatly.

“Hmm?”

“I will light your arm on fire, I swear to God.”

“Oh, stop,” he says. He’s grinning now and keeps trying to make eye contact with her. “Isn’t this why you dragged us here in the middle of the night?” Mason continues. “For some good old unsupervised bonding, you kno—Jesus, all right!”

Mason pulls his arm away and almost falls off the log. I don’t blame him, because Stella has actually reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a lighter.

“What’s the matter?” she asks. “What’s some good old unsupervised bonding without a campfire to bond over?”

Stella is the type of girl who would probably do graffiti with Sam.

“Do you think,” Clarisa asks, “that you brought more legal or illegal things to camp?”

Stella walks to the fire pit in the center of the triangle. “Probably illegal,” she says. “But only because I brought almost every contraband item on the list.”

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