I know we're not everlasting; we're a trainwreck waiting to happen.

Gabrielle Harman
Stockton, California.

The say distance makes everything smaller, and at least physically, they've got it right. From high above, the camp is shrunken, the buildings more compact and the people scaled to the size of tic-tacs. But as far as problems go, this uphill run hasn't solved much, other than making me tired and dizzy and pissed off. Really, I'd enjoy my brief sense of freedom more if I didn't feel like I was going to pass out.

I'm not big on trail running- physical, aggressive sports are more my speed, but I might have gotten more into cross country running if the school let us go beyond the school grounds and explore the hills. Much like this prison of a summer camp, they required absolute control, which meant keeping us inside the gates at all costs. But, like now, that never fully kept me down. Escaping just takes more effort than I'm always willing to give.

I slow to a walk, pressing my fingers into the shooting pains in my sides. Even at a hiker's pace, there's something relieving in the strain of my muscles against the path, a type of release in the strain of my calves and the burning of my throat. My dusty sneakers drag against the trail until eventually I come to a stop between two trees. From here, I'm invisible, obscured by the greenery surrounding me, but I can see everything at the foot of the hill. Most people are spending their free hour outside, some lying in the sun or tossing a ball around. It's wrong, really, to call it free time. Because we've never been more restrained.

I never thought I'd miss where I'm from. Broadly, Stockton is the greasiest shithole in the state. Crime rate through the roof. Bars on all the goddamn windows downtown. My parents have the money to afford a place in one of the city's few nice gated neighborhoods, but take a fifteen minute drive downtown and you're in a whole different world. I don't make a habit of it unless we're out of food and neither of my parents have remembered to go shopping, but I never go out past dark. That's so I can avoid the people who I can't just push around, who will push me right back or mug me for getting too aggressive.

It's the same way out here. Sure, my classmates know not to mess with me, but these bastard counselors don't back down. When I attacked Milo for that stupid file he kept reading off of, he hit me right back. I can't remember the last time I had to try to make anybody fear me- even for people who haven't heard about me, my expression says it all. Fear is a natural response.

My legs protest, but I turn and keep striding uphill, higher, higher. I may have stayed up half the night through a running argument with my hellish roommate- no way in hell was I giving her the satisfaction of surrendering by going to bed- but frustration fuels me better than sleep ever has. Frustration at Chanel, at Audrey for fucking sleeping through the night like some sort of pussy, at Shane for being a fucking selfish cunt, at Milo for trying to infuriate me with stuff about my family- oh, fuck. That powers another several steps before I finally have to stop, head swirling and piercing with pain. This time I bend, coughing, hands gripping at my aching knees so tightly that my knuckles blanch.

"And your family, do you have any siblings?"

I probably should have just stayed silent the whole time, but I didn't. "Four of them. Three brothers and a sister."

"Are you close to them?"

Not anymore, I wanted to say. But that question has a more complicated answer than I was willing to give. "Sure. Closer to the young ones, mostly."

"What about your older siblings?"

"They're fine. Old enough not to live at home anymore. Just don't see them much."

"I'm not sure I'd describe being in prison as 'not living at home anymore'."

"I'm sorry, what th-"

"Do you miss him?"

"I'm not going to tell you that."

"Crime runs in families, you know. It's likely you could see him very soon."

That's what really made me furious. Him having the nerve to bring up Jasper- no, not just bring him up, to compare us. How can you be so fucking shallow? So I was voted most likely to be arrested or some stupid shit. That's a yearbook superlative. That's based off the vote from eighty self-absorbed seniors based solely off their fear of me. He's literally been in prison as long as I've been at Haversmith. There's a difference!

I feel like retching, but I can't tell if that's from hunger or thirst, or from plain disgust.

I don't think I could ever climb high enough to escape that sting. Jasper was one of the only people I had, and the most important. When someone leaves you for fucking prison, that's not an abandonment you forget so soon. Nor is it an insult that I will ever be able to play off.

I throw a fist into the ground to rip up a tuft of grass, but suddenly it's like my fingers are too weak to snap even the thinnest blades.

When did everything spiral so far out of my control?

My siblings used to be my best friends. The only good thing my parents ever did was allow us to bond by being consistently terrible and distant parents. Hell, Jasper and Lucas practically raised the rest of us. But it's Jasper who had the idiocy to go and get himself arrested, and get the rest of us shipped away to schools where our parents wouldn't have to keep an eye on us. It's his fault I'm alone. Maybe being friendless is my choice, but at least I used to have him.

Now it's just me, a handful of people I can tolerate, and a few who just want me to fight their battles for them. I have no real friends. Most people see me coming, and their smiles fade. Their conversations with their friends die on their tongues. They don't want to tempt me in case I decide to lash out. That's the effect I have, and the legacy I'm leaving here.

This was a mistake. I should head back down, and get caught up again in everyone else's mindless drama. Maybe that's the point of all that idle small talk I've never been good at, and that my parents exclusively use to communicate with me. It distracts you from what really needs to be said, keeping those problems distant and smaller than they really are.

"I'll never be like you, Jasp," I mutter. "Fuck what Milo says."

But I'm not sure I really believe myself. After my violent, tumultuous four years here, and where it's predicted my life is going, am I any more than juvenile?

Mariana Brinley.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

The dinner setup in the lodge is unremarkable. Gerard, Griffin, and I pile strips of greasy steak and dollops of sticky white rice onto paper plates, then plop down on the floor, since there are no chairs or any apparent area for us to sit. As groups fill in around us, we chatter about everything from books and theater to the food we take small bites of.

"Gerard, you have to read Wuthering Heights, it's my absolute favorite," I gush. It's true. I often think of myself as Catherine Earnshaw, the story's admirable protagonist. Our only difference is that I'm still waiting for my Heathcliff.

"I've been meaning to," he says. "Ever since I saw your performance of it last year. You two were terrific as the leads."

"Well, we owe a lot to our supporting cast," Griffin says, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh, please," I scoff. "Nobody remembers anybody except who played Cathy and Heathcliff. Take the compliment, Griff. He's right! I watched the tapes back after the show, and I almost thought we were really in love, the way we kissed."

Inexplicably, his shoulders tense up. Perhaps he's still shy about the kissing; I recall him being nervous during rehearsals, too. He's no expert, but on stage, with weeks of practice, he was quite believable.

I'm starting to reassure him when I'm interrupted by a paper falling into my lap. Anabel and Milo pass sheets of paper around the room- the same type we wrote on earlier, in between meetings. I flip mine over, but the messy scrawl doesn't match my elaborate, sophisticated script.

"Milo, this isn't mine," I stop him.

"Sweetheart, if you're embarrassed-"

"I'm not embarrassed," I say. My poem was excellent. Not that this one necessarily isn't, but I can't even try to make sense of the handwriting. Even deciphering the name at the top takes several seconds of squinting. "This is Jeremiah's." But Milo doesn't hear me as he passes a paper onto the next person.

I quickly realize I'm not the only person who didn't get their own. "Oh, who's this?" says Trina. "Someday I won't have to be afraid. These fears and marks are ancient artifacts-"

"Give me that!" Griffin shouts, jumping up. "Don't read that!"

"Aww, no, but this is really touching," she says. "Of course you'd hope for a family that really loves you. That's so sweet."

He rips it out of her hands before she can say another word. "Christ, what is wrong with you? This is personal, this- this-" He's so furious that his words give out, and he gives up trying to make sense of his anger. I've never seen him so flushed and upset. When he stomps back to me, he leaves a tense silence hanging in his wake, and refuses to look at me.

I've seen him snap before, whether it be under the stress of an upcoming production or exams, but never at anything personal. I realize that, as long as we've known each other, when we discuss personal things, I'm usually the one taking the reins of the conversation. That's natural for me, but I wonder if I've smothered any chances for me to know him as well as he knows me.

Most people have the wrong paper, which I attribute to carelessness on Anabel's and Milo's parts, but Trina's stunt is the most dramatic as it gets. Jeremiah gives me a shy smile when I give him his page, then folds it into his pocket. Harper gives mine back without any indication of whether she read through it or not.

"Thank you, Miss Kellington, for starting us off," Anabel says, stepping up to the stage at the head of the room. "Although, going forward, I'd prefer it if you gave your friends the chance to read their own poems."

"We aren't honestly reading these," Gwen frowns.

"Actually, you are. Aloud. To everyone."

I'm enveloped by a cacophony of complaints and outcries. Anabel, overpowered as she is, doesn't back down. It'd be admirable if she weren't so obnoxious. "Listen, it's good for you guys to get to know each other better. Believe me, you're fighting it now, but I just know you'll be thanking me in a few hours. Who knows? Maybe you have more in common with the person sitting next to you than you ever thought."

Even to someone as open to sharing as me, it's a terrible idea. The only thing reading our poems out loud will do is welcome more torment from Trina or Quincy, or at least induce embarrassment for the more awkward ones. I'm no fool. I've seen the way rumors at this school start and how they never seem to die, and from both angles. Three days ago, while I was fixing my concealer in the school bathroom, I overheard two girls in the stalls behind me. They were still trying to make sense of the supposed news that I was pregnant. And that rumor was from two years ago.

"And who's going to make us do this?" Alex asks, crossing his arms.

"These will," Anabel deadpans, drawing a set of keys from her pocket. She tosses them to Milo, who slides them into the door handle.

After a beat, Harper finally says what everyone's too stunned to ask. "You're… locking us in here?"

"Oh, no no no, I'm not locking you in. No, I'm locking me out. I'll be right outside if you need anything, but don't worry, you'll have total privacy from us adults. We don't want to make it awkward, listening to your work."

"But you have the keys-"

"Alright, so if there are no more questions, I'll just leave you all to it!" Anabel seems all too eager to leave as she hardly gives us another look before leaving the room. Milo pulls the door shut behind them, and after the telling click of the lock, the lodge is bathed in silence.

The quiet lasts for about two seconds before everyone starts arguing again. Everyone except Griffin, who's still simmering next to me. I'm not sure what to make of things, either. I never believed they'd actually stoop so low as to lock us up so that we'd communicate with each other.

Eventually, one loud voice calls out above the rest. "Hello! Hi! Yes, excuse me! People. Seriously, shut up for half a second."

Chanel has filled in where Anabel stood at the front of the room. But rather than read the paper in her hand, she quickly tears it to pieces, and throws the shreds to the ground.

"This is dumb as fuck," she says. "Seriously. If anyone has any better ideas, I'm all for it. But we are not doing this."

I've never liked her arrogant attitude, but she's right. Unfortunately, nobody has any better ideas beyond staying here and complaining, or tearing up their own papers. And as much as I'd like to join in, someone needs to be optimistic. Someone needs to think of something. And there has to be something.

I skim through my own paper again. I don't want to tear it up, though. There's something about shredding a piece of art that doesn't sit well with me, and it might be amateur, but this is a part of my soul, too. If I don't share it, then I should still keep it close to me.

I'm not sure how much time passes before Griffin, letting out a quiet groan, suddenly gives me an idea. Why not keep the others entertained with something we're good at? I pull the surprised boy to his feet. "Come on, I know what's going to make you feel better."

"I'm really not in the mood for anything, Mar," he complains. "Not now…"

"Griffin. Remember what I said about us as Cathy and Heathcliff?" He nods hesitantly. "The same rules apply here, trust me. Trina is irrelevant. And you're the lead. No one will remember what she said, but they will remember how you acted. So show them you're above her."

Pep-Talk Mariana is a relatively new persona for me, but she seems to be effective. Griffin raises his eyebrows. "That's not bad advice, actually."

"Did you expect it to be?"

"Well, no, I just-" He fumbles over his words. "So what are we doing, anyway?"

"You'll see," I grin. "Just trust me. Come on!" And I drag him up to the front of the room.

Gwen Chamberlain.
Hyannis Port, Massachusetts / London, England.

To anyone watching from across the room, Yuto might seem calm, mimicking my relaxed behavior with his head leaned comfortingly against my shoulder. But, close enough to hear, he is anything but laid-back.

Finally, I need to interrupt his ranting. Because, frankly, he's been on about the same rubbish for more than ten minutes, and it's starting to drive me mad. "Right, so, Zara's a bitch, but there's no way she shoved you 'cause of a few meaningless papers."

Hurt flickers over his face before he flushes with anger. "You think I just lied to you about everything that I saw in there? About what they did to me?" His body clenches, fingers trembling. "I've talked to everyone. Everyone. Barely anyone believes me. And you of all people don't believe any of it, either?"

"'Course, I believe some of it," I say. "But, Yu, you like to exaggerate sometimes. And… it all just seems a bit ridiculous, don't it? Why would they have your information?"

"I don't know!" he shouts. "And I'll bet they had yours, too! But you don't even care!" He sits up, his pressure leaving the right side of my body. I instantly miss it. "You need to believe me."

He can't fake fear, and there's something nervous and urgent in his expression. But he's the only one who's been freaking out about our meetings. I want to believe him… but, realistically… "I dunno, mate…"

A wave of laughter ripples through a corner of the room, followed by a pattering of claps. Griffin and Mariana's act, which appears to be some form of improvization, must have been at least a little entertaining. Not that I could be arsed to pay any attention to any of it.

"Fine. Take their side, then. But I'm not lying. And, honestly, I thought I could trust you most out of anyone here, but I guess I can't."

"That's crap," I say. "'Course you can trust me. Let's just let it go, right?"

But in the resulting quiet, the space between us suddenly feels miles longer than the several inches separating our shoulders. I'm not defending Zara or any of the rest of them- I hate them as much as he does- but I just can't reckon why he'd react the way he is.

I know he's taking things far too seriously. That's one thing that's always divided us and usually sets us bickering, that I'm far calmer about the type of shit that makes him mad. Theoretically, it would balance us out. I just usually have to do my best to ignore it.

"I'm over this," Yuto suddenly says, climbing to his feet. "I need to clear my head…"

"Where are you going?"

He points to the dull-looking piano rotting in the far corner. "I need to play something. Since I'm apparently laughable anyways, I might as well take advantage of that." He makes his way up to the front.

"Did he say he's laughable?" Madison asks from across the gap where Yuto was just sitting. "Is he really that bad at playing?"

I chuckle. "Only if he's tryin' to be." And he might, considering the way his night is going.

Before he plays, though, Yuto spends a good minute arguing to whoever'll listen that the counselors are pure evil. Then, once he exhausts himself, he calmly introduces his piece as "something by Lil Wayne that I've never been allowed to play at recitals," and begins.

There's something effortless in the way his hands dash along the keys, a type of poise I can only assume would take years of practice. He plays quick notes with ease and shifts from high trills to the deepest chords with a passion that must be fed, in part, by his lingering frustration. It's a flawless melody that transfixes me, and before long, most of the room is silent, focused intently on the booming notes resonating from the instrument.

That's when he begins to rap.

"Yeah, I'm in the crib butt-naked bitch, Anabel said my dick could be the next black president…"

Hoots and hollers ring out around the room, but aside from his signature cocky smirk, Yuto doesn't react or shift his focus from the music. He continues to rap, substituting Anabel's or Zara's names wherever it will sound most dirty. I'm equal parts impressed, amused, and proud.

Madison, however, doesn't seem to find it so amusing as she absently views the scene.

"Not a fan of rap, Mads?" I ask.

Her eyes flit to mine. "Oh, no, I don't mind. I was just thinking…"

"'Bout what?"

She looks around, but Yuto still has most of the attention on himself, so she scoots over towards me. "Doesn't this all seem… weird, to you?" she says, in a much lower voice. "Locking us in. And Anabel is acting so stressed. It just seems off to me."

I suppose Anabel's behavior is a little dodgy. This year, with all the drama in the administration, Anabel's always been scurrying around when I see her, running errands or filling odd jobs for Ms. March. Yet she's done it with a chirpy kind of grace; while lacking in many areas she's certainly always been cheerful. "Probably just worried about how much she's going to miss us," I joke. "And now she just wants to keep us here so she doesn't have to deal with next year's senior class."

"Zara get off me, Zara get off me, I got her over here blowing me like coffee…"

"Yeah, um…" Her brow furrows. "I'm… not so sure that's the reason."

"Well, then, what's got her so stressed?"

She pauses, seemingly questioning if she should even respond. It briefly crosses my mind that there's something more… something only she would know. "Mads, what's happening?"

"You can't tell, okay?"

"Swear I won't."

She looks around again, but nobody pays much attention to us. "There is no other senior class," she finally says, her voice hushed.

"Pardon?"

"Haversmith is closing. For good. It's not just a rumor anymore."

I frown. "How d'you know it's true?"

"Chanel found out," she says. "And let it slip to me. But I haven't told anyone. I don't want it getting around… everything's already so complicated, and I just thought it'd be easier if admin told everyone at once. So promise you won't say anything."

"'Course," I say. Her reasoning makes sense to me. "But can you really trust… her?"

She smiles wryly. "For this… I do. Wasn't it inevitable, after everything?"

"If you fake, put a egg in your shoe and scramble; no rubber, I just fucked this piano..."

As I turn back to watch Yuto conclude his piece with a dramatic glissando, I briefly lock eyes with the girl in front of me. Simone looks away immediately, drumming her fingers on her knee. Not to the beat of the music, but more as an antsy habit. I narrow my eyes. What did she hear?

But before I can confront her, I realize a more pressing question. Clapping and more hollering from around us muffles my next words to Madison. "Mads, you know our meetings earlier? With our leaders?"

"Sure," she says. "Milo was acting like a pervert the entire time, though, so I couldn't really focus on much besides that."

Wanker. "Well… did you see what was on those papers?"

"I saw my picture on one," she says. "Not my best. I just figured they were there so the counselors could get to know us more easily, since they've barely met us. Why?"

So she's the same as me. Unbothered. Nonchalant. Good. "I was just wondering. I didn't think it was much to worry about, either."

That puts my mind more at ease, back to where I was before Yuto tried to stress me out. And with that, I relax against the wall. Only one more night to go.

I probably should have remembered Simone.

Brandon Prescott.
San Francisco, California.

I've been aching to have a private moment to see Eimer all night, but with everyone staying together in the lodge, it just hasn't been possible. Maybe my jumpiness and the way I've been flashing her looks all night aren't my most subtle cues, but I'm too anxious to try to hide it any longer.

When we're finally excused to head back to our cabins, I don't have time to worry about what Anabel's saying or whether or not she even cares about us not reading those stupid poems. I barely catch Eimer by the elbow as she's leaving, and pull her aside.

"Can we talk?"

"I-" She looks towards the others streaming from the building, and swallows, nodding. "Sure. But-"

"This way." I guide her around the back of the lodge and stop her near one of the cabins. It doesn't appear to be occupied, and here, we're hidden on one side by a row of bushes, without being confined. It's a suitable place for being able to hear each other without being easily seen.

Her arm is stiff and her eyes dart from me to the darkened, distant figures of students disappearing towards their rooms. For some reason, the bright smile I flash her doesn't set her at ease.

"So, Eimer…"

She drops her gaze again. Coy, as always.

"Look, I know you miss me," I say. "It's painfully obvious. So why don't we just skip all the explaining and go straight to the part where we hook up? Saves us time, don't you think?"

"Explaining… what?"

Jesus, do I have to spell everything out for her? "You know, why we haven't really caught up all year?" Even though I've made sure we had plenty of opportunities to. "But it doesn't matter, okay? I forgive you. It's behind us. But we should really get going before-"

"I don't feel right about this," Eimer says. "I just…"

"What's wrong?"

She looks around again, but there's no one here but us. She takes a long time to speak, probably trying to remember how to form sentences. I tend to have that effect on people. Although, she might just be that dumb.

"I don't really feel like I know you, Brandon."

"Of course, you know me," I say.

"I used to know you better, though." She shifts awkwardly between her feet. "I- I don't know how to say this- but last year, remember, we sat together in French II?" I do remember. Girl sounded sexy as fuck mispronouncing réfléchir. "We talked all the time. We don't do that anymore."

Because my ideal relationship involves as little talking as possible. Unless it's dirty talking. "That's not my fault," I say, which is partly true. "You should have made more of an effort."

"I didn't want to force it…" She looks down. "This used to feel more natural. But lately… it's not. I feel… like you're trying to use me."

"Use you?" For such a shallow person, she sounds so serious. I don't know where all these thoughts came from, but God, they're annoying. "Eimer, come on, babe," I say, trying to make her look at me. Eventually I give up and just talk at her chest. "I didn't mean that. You know I wouldn't do that. Look..." I pull her aside, up closer to the cabin's wall. "I understand where you're coming from. Believe me."

"You do?" She cocks her head at that, but still won't look up. "How?"

"I mean..." Shit, think! "Well, we both have these... reputations that precede us everywhere we go. I'm the man-whore, you're the slut- Hey!" I grab her shoulder as she starts to pull away. "People say that and then think they can categorize and stereotype us, but really they're just names. I know that you're better than that."

"Prove it..."

Oh, shit. It's actually painful for me to try to come up with something that I've seen her do well. She has a point- we don't really know each other outside of school, which she's really not any good at. Not that I'm anywhere close to Dane or Seraphina in terms of grades, either, but Eimer's practically an ostrich- she's got eyes bigger than her brain.

We did have Geometry together, once. Remedial, of course. "You... were better at proofs than anybody in our corner of the room! Remember?"

"That's... not what I-"

"And you're so cool that you even let me cheat off you even though that one time we both got forty percent, but that was fine because we were both failing the class anyway. No one knows about that, do they? Or the fact that you're amazing at- at golf..."

"Tennis..." she says quietly.

"That's what I said."

"I thought-"

"And me!" I continue. I'm on fire now. "Well, shit, I'm pretty much just like you. I'm the hottest person in the school." And second. Wes is third. "And people get jealous about that, so they make us out to be these- these simple-minded people who only want sex and attention and pretty things. But, we're not just that, right?"

I lean closer. Under the night's cover everything is faded- the outlines of her features in the dark are fuzzy, but I can hear her soft breathing and make out the shape of her lips inches away from me. Her arm is tense under my fingertips as I lean forward.

She twists her neck at the last minute, and my lips press roughly to her cheek instead. "Don't..."

"Please, E." My hand slides down her arm to grip her wrist. "Next week, we're going to be leaving. And I can't imagine never seeing you again."

"I-"

"Trust me." I wrap my fingers around hers. "I like you. Truly. And I want to show you."

For a moment, there's sweet silence between us. The air is still. Anticipatory. I wait for her nod, her mouth to relax, any signal she's given in. She keeps her eyes down, but I can tell she's entertaining the thought by the subtle twitch of her brow.

My second hand drops down her back. She shudders, but doesn't pull away. Good. I'm bored of waiting. I place my lips an inch from her ear and guide her around the corner. "Come on..."

"Hey! Get a room, sluts!"

Wes...

"Him? You're kidding."

And Alaina.

Just my damn luck.

Now Eimer pulls against me- subtly, so neither of the others see, but my fingers release her. In a second, her resolve has gone. "I'm... really tired," she sighs. "I'm sorry. This isn't the right time."

"And what are you guys still doing here?" I call towards the others, trying to keep my frustration under taps. Why can't I have a fucking moment of peace with this girl?

Alaina eyes us both smugly as she and Wes approach. "Oh, Wessy here wanted to test his chops on the piano in there. Turns out, he's absolute shit."

"You mean, the shit. You just don't know genius when you see it," he says. "Sorry, did we break something up? Should we leave you two here to do whatever it is you two animals do to each other at this point?"

"Oh, shut it," Alaina says. "We're just heading back. See you two bright and early tomorrow. Come on, Wes."

"No, I'll come with you," says Eimer, meeting them as they pass us. "I should go to bed soon anyway." As an afterthought, she looks back. "Night, Brandon."

I answer with silence. Now, she has the guts to look up. Her face is clouded with regret, but not enough to change her mind. It never is. Eventually, she turns around and catches up to Alaina and Wes.

I was this close to finally having her again. And then they had to come and break it up. "Fuck!" I spit into the dirt.

I'm Brandon fucking Prescott. I can get any girl I like… except her.

Eimer dictates my entire day and she doesn't even know it. That gleam in her eye, that fabulous accent... that ass... I hate it. I hate her because I can't break her enough to...

Wait a minute.

I dip the toe of my shoe into the ground, digging out a chunk of dirt. If I consider the list of boys the girl has slept with- and I'm probably missing a few, since the immediate list is shorter than I thought- I far exceed the qualifications that tie all of them together. Funny. Charismatic. Confident. And I've sadly never seen Dustin's dick before but if it's anything like the rest of him, then I've got that covered too. The only reason she doesn't want me is because I come- ha, ha- off as being too easy. In her eyes, she can have me whenever she wants.

I've apparently forgotten that what really makes girls fight to get me is a sense of competition. And I know exactly who can make her jealous.

I have to give Rosalie credit where it's due- she told me secrets I could have never imagined about a certain blonde homecoming queen. I don't know where she learned them, but I don't care. Because now I know the dirtiest parts of Alaina Calline's life and all the things that she'd do anything to cover up. Fortunately for me, she's a snob for her reputation. Which means, I can make her do anything in order to keep me from sharing.

And she just so happens to be Eimer's closest friend at camp.

I twist my foot, and the dirt goes flying.

Gerard Colson.
Springfield, Massachusetts.

My thoughts feel heavy with exhaustion and my eyes ache, but I can't sleep, not yet. Not until I've scoured our room for another book, something that will feed my curiosity and eventually lull me into sleep.

I stoop in front of the shelf, browsing my options. I could use my usual respite from today's stresses, but unfortunately, there isn't much fantasy here. Slipped between the worn, bent titles of centuries-old stories are a handful of modern science fiction novels, and my gaze freezes on one in particular: The Hunger Games. Despite its rampant popularity, I could never fully get behind the series; even overlooking the scarily ironic comparisons to today's tyranny and capitalism, I couldn't get past the sickness of families being torn from each other, of children being forced to murder each other for sport, for fun. I can typically handle books with disturbing themes, but not this one. I think I'll try something different

I settle- and I say this in the simplest sense of the word, because I'm excited all the same- for a few of the classics. I pull Huckleberry Finn's bruised cover and a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights- Mariana recommended it for me earlier- from their places on the shelf. Then I throw myself down on my own bed, finally back where I feel most comfortable.

Several uninterrupted, engrossing chapters later, Brandon jerks me out of my literature-induced coma. "Hey, do I… smell bad?"

"Um…" I sniff the air as he stands next to me, scanning the back of the book. "Yeah. But everyone does. You can't really tell."

"Then maybe it's my breath. You know, I've never gone this long without brushing my teeth before. It gives me a broader perspective on life… I guess I finally know what it's like to feel ugly, like you guys."

My mouth turns up at that, but Blake, for whatever reason, sobers. His face falls.

"Okay, I was kidding," Brandon says. "...Kind of."

"Blake, you alright?" I ask.

"I..." He tries to take a deep breath, but his voice shakes. "I was supposed to watch out for Shane this morning, make sure he wasn't caught while he was- well, I didn't really know what he was going to do until it was already done. But I didn't. I overslept. And then he got caught."

"You couldn't do anything about that, man," says Brandon, pulling his t-shirt over his head. "Even if he'd somehow managed not to be seen next to that giant fucking geyser, who else would be stupid enough to do that? Oh, god," he digresses, grabbing his mouth. "This is so disgusting. My beautiful teeth…"

"You don't need water to brush," I remind him. "Just spit outside. Go on, Blake."

"I could have- I would have told him to stop, given him time to get out- I failed him."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up," I say. "I like your loyalty, but it's probably better that you don't garner punishment for this one."

"He'll blame me," he says. "And if he doesn't, then I still know it's my fault. For being a fucking coward." Blake sucks in a long breath, almost like a hiss. "That's not like me. I don't know why. I just-"

He heaves a sigh and thuds back against the bunk.

"Blake, talk to me," I say.

"It doesn't matter," he mutters. "I'm sorry. I'm just so tired. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"You sure?"

"It's fine. Good night." He rolls over.

The cabin is oddly silent for a beat, until Brandon, mouth overflowing with toothpaste, tries to ask something that I assume has to do with the foam garbling his words.

"Spit outside," I chuckle, though it doesn't feel as free as it might have five minutes ago. "Out the window."

I get into bed, mind swirling. I had envisioned a quiet night reading by the window like last night, but my thoughts are darting all over the place. I don't know why Blake has been so anxious, or Brandon so comparatively quiet since earlier. Finally, I close Huck Finn, mentally noting the page number- I'd never purposely damage a book by folding corners. Maybe it's the unusual dialect or the fact that I already know where Huck will end up by the end of the chapter, but I can't focus like usual. Instead I flip to the first page of Wuthering Heights, trying to distract myself with new material before sleep.

The sound is so faint, I first assume it's just the squeak as I shift on the old mattress. When I hear it again, though, I can tell it's from outside, somewhere close to my window. I can't fully distinguish it, but it sounds like a cry. From what animal, I'm not sure.

I pull open the window to look outside, and the book flaps open on the floor. The camp is still. The water, half-illuminated, is unmoving, the trees hanging limply, defeated. Even the shadows are stationary. There's no breeze, and no sense of whether or not I'm hearing things.

A little uneasy, I twist the glass shut again and reach down for Wuthering Heights. It's landed far ahead in the book, and as much as I know I shouldn't look (for fear of spoilers, of course), I can't help but reflexively scan the page.

"...may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you- haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always- take any form..."

The murdered do haunt their murderers...

Above the dense pages of Emily Brontë's only novel, my gaze flits to the sleeping faces across the room. Brandon's face is neutral, seemingly unbothered, but even in sleep, Blake seems... torn, with his brow furrowed and his forehead creased. His mouth is dipped into a frozen frown.

You're not one to be paranoid. So quit it.

Then what is it that feels so wrong about this place?

I press the book shut and turn over towards the wall, trying to quell my thudding pulse. There's nothing more to hear but the boys' even sighs as they sleep. Soon, my breathing mellows, and exhaustion takes over. My eyelids slide shut.

If I were a lighter sleeper, I might have heard the next cry from outside my window minutes later- one that is undeniably human. But my unconsciousness deafens me, and instead, I sleep soundly through the night.

A World Alone by Lorde.

IANAHB by Lil Wayne (go listen to the first 1:30ish of this song, I beg you. The piano is insane...).

I kind of ignored a big feature of Gwen's form the first time around, namely, her British slang. Trying to research slang kind of took ages, and I'm not even sure it's right, so feedback on that would be cool. I probably embarrassed myself, but ayy, what's new?

Also, this is important. I recognize that there's a lot of imbalance in what characters are and aren't mentioned or around every chapter. My thoughts going in were that, naturally, there would be the louder, more prevalent personalities, and there would be a few who, socially, fade into the background. But I do intend to balance out appearances more going forward. I'm not intentionally ignoring your kids; everyone has something planned, trust me.

Big things going forward. I'm so excited to draw this first arc to a close in the upcoming chapters. And then the Games be comin'... oooo. Not gonna get too ahead of myself, though. Baby steps. We got three more chapters before we get there.

Hope everyone's having a lit summer and that you're happy, cause I am. Now if only I could get these chapters coming on time...