The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 45: Ronan

"Did you skip Sharing Circle today?"

James glances away. We haven't spoken since that day in the Arts and Crafts cabin, but I feel like his absence warrants a conversation. Also, Clancey and his friends are busy getting high by the docks, so I'm stranded in the Mess Hall. There's no way I'm eating lunch alone— at Lightlake, sitting by yourself is just one step towards becoming a social pariah— and I still don't feel comfortable sitting with Finn and his friends, so I choose a spot at James' table instead.

"Maybe," he says, in a voice that doesn't exactly sound like his.

"Why? You never skip activities."

"I wasn't feeling well," he replies shiftily. "My... pollen allergies are acting up."

I can tell that he's lying. I always know when people are lying to me. James has a particular tell— he rubs his thumb against his leg when he's being dishonest. I see him doing it now. "Bullshit," I say, throwing myself down into the chair next to him. James still won't look at me; he even inches away from me, like he's uncomfortable with our closeness. He's never acted like this before. It's weird, and the weirdness makes me even more determined to get answers. "What's the real reason you skipped?"

"Ronan, please. I'm not in the mood for an interrogation."

"Tell me the truth and I'll leave you alone."

He shakes his head.

"You're freaking me out a little, man. Are you sick? Are you dying? Just tell me what's wrong and I'll quit bugging you. Promise."

And then James finally looks at me. But there's something wrong with his face— he's not smiling. He's not smiling at me, and it's because he has a split lip and a black-eye bigger than the one I had at the beginning of the summer.

He's not smiling, because someone beat him up.

James grimaces at the stunned expression on my face. "At least it wasn't a hot-pink suitcase, right?"

"Who...." I haven't even finished my sentence when the realization hits me. "Clancey. I'm going to kick his ass."

"Please, Ronan, just let it be. You'll only make things worse—"

"No. No way." The bruises on James' face seem to take up the entire room, the entire state of Alaska. "We can't let him get away with this." My head is shaking, and it feels like the rest of my body is, too. When I blink I see the dried blood on his lips. The broken veins on his temple. I don't remember the last time I ever felt this furious... Strike that. I totally do. I remember feeling the same way on the night I fought with Sabrina. It was the only time I ever really screamed at my mother, the only time I had the guts to stand up to her. I'd never been bold enough. But I was then.

Thinking about that night makes me realize how lame the bullies at this camp seem compared to Sabrina. My mother could ruin my life with the snap of a finger; the worst these campers could do is ruin my nose with a well-placed fist. I'm not afraid of anybody here. Why should I be? The campers here are the equivalent of the Stay Puft monster from Ghostbusters. My mother is Godzilla in human form.

"You have that look in your eyes," James points out. "Please, please don't do anything rash."

"I'm never rash. I always have a plan."

"What's your plan, then?"

"Punch Clancey Cleavon in his ugly fucking face."

James turns white as a sheet. "Ronan, no! He'll beat you up too."

I rise sharply to my feet, knocking James' fork off the table. "Not if I deck him first," I say, already preparing to storm away. I've never truly understood the word bloodthirsty until now— but it is a thirst, and I feel like the equivalent of a man lost in the desert.