Chapter 20: Ronan

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Time passes quickly when life doesn't suck.

The rest of my activities fly by in a blur, and before I know it, I find myself sitting on the outskirts of a crackling camp fire with a dozen other campers. The fire's a little lame, mostly because it's still sunny outside (thanks, Alaska), and also because Owen keeps refusing to put more wood on it, citing the dangers of "fire hazards". Still, the fire isn't entirely without perks— we get to stay up an hour later than usual, with lights out at eleven instead of ten, which is basically an insomniac's dream come true.

The counselors made an announcement during dinner saying that we'd be having a camp fire on the beach after dinner. The camp doesn't really have a beach— just a small pebble shoreline that wraps around the lake— but the counselors like to pretend that we do to make the place feel more like a summer camp. (Lightlake is near the ocean, apparently. Not that you would know with all the mountains in the way.) The camp fire isn't a mandatory activity, but it is a camp tradition, which is about as close as calling something mandatory as you can get without actually calling it mandatory

After the counselors made their announcements, Clancey and his friends made it clear to me that while I was free to go to the camp fire if I wanted to, but they would be busy doing other more interesting (and probably illegal) things instead. I didn't feel like getting caught breaking the rules in the first week of camp, so I decided to go to the camp fire without them. I figured that even breathing in smoke and dealing with annoying campers would beat lying on my cot and counting sheep, failing miserably at the task of falling asleep.

So I go to the camp fire. I participate in a few conversations about football teams and girlfriends at home, MTV and the merits of the most recent Rambo movie, and a dozen other random subjects brought up to fill the awkward silence. I meet plenty of new campers, some of them cool, most of them not, and even get roped into talking with Owen until I manage to make up a good enough excuse to escape. After socializing for a good hour I find myself sitting at the edge of the circle, alone. I stare into the flickering flames, searching for something I can't remember losing; not feeling bad, but not really feeling good, either.

Then something catches my eye. It's a bird, small and round and gray and white, bopping around the camp fire like some kind of wind-up toy. The bird weaves fearlessly between feet, pecking at the ground and stirring up miniature dust devils with its wings. It doesn't seem like it's afraid of any of the campers. In a funny way, it sort of reminds me of a dog wandering around under the dinner table in search of scraps.

"Cool bird, isn't it?"

I don't realize that the camper is talking to me until they slide across the bench I'm sitting on and tap me on the shoulder.

I look up and frown at them. I don't like it when strangers touch me.

"Hey," the camper says. "I'm James."

"Ronan."

James smiles at me. "Nice to meet you, Ronan."

I squint at him. What does this guy want from me? Maybe he's one of those nosy types who likes to "comfort" the kids sitting by themselves. Or maybe he is the kid sitting by himself, and is looking for some company.

James keeps smiling at me. I can almost hear the elevator music playing behind it. His expression isn't vacant or bland, but it isn't like any other smile I've seen at camp— there's no ulterior motive tucked away under his smile, no hidden meaning. He's either zoned out or being genuinely friendly to me.

Hmm. Maybe I jumped the gun on this one— maybe James really does just want to talk.

"I just met your roommate," James says. "He seems nice. His name is Finn Murphy, right?"

It's an admirable attempt at conversation, but I'm bored of making small talk with strangers. "Yes it is," I say shortly, hoping that James will get the message and leave me alone. It's not that I don't want to talk to him specifically; I'm just not in the mood to talk to anybody right now.

"Why aren't you two sitting together?"

I sigh. As much as I want to say to him, look, James, here's the point and here's you— do you see how much you missed it by?, I try to make an effort to be polite to him instead. He might be a bit too curious for my liking, but he hasn't been anything but friendly to me, and it's too early in the summer to be making uneccesary enemies. "We're not exactly on speaking terms," I tell him. "Didn't get off on the right foot."

I glance over at the other side of the camp fire, where Finn is busy arguing with some girl I haven't met before. I recognize her, though, from the description that Eric gave us at lunch yesterday— she's the girl who kicked over the chair at Sharing Circle. Interesting company, Murphy. I wonder if he realizes that he's playing with fire, or if he's totally oblivious to the fact. Knowing him, it's probably the latter.

"I feel you there," James says. "I don't dislike my roommate, but he can be a bit— much. His name is Daniel Bailey. He's sitting over there."

James points to a group of boys throwing small twigs into the fire. The ringleader, Daniel, seems to be having a very good time acting like an over-eager toddler, and whenever a stick gets thrown on the fire big enough to scare up some sparks he practically dissolves into hysterical laughter. It doesn't look like Owen has noticied the boys' "fire hazard" antics, but I'm sure that when he does, the aftershock won't be pretty.

Not my problem, I think, turning my back on the budding pyromaniacs. "I see you what you mean. Are you offering to make a trade?"

James laughs nervously. "I don't think we're allowed to trade roommates."

"I know. I'm just playing with you."

James raises his eyebrows at me. His hair is buzzed down almost to his scalp, but his eyebrows seem to be trying to make up for the scarcity— they're the kind of eyebrows you would see in a sunglasses catalog, bold and thick and perfectly even. I would say they look professionally done, but James doesn't strike me as the kind of person who goes to the spa. (Or maybe he does. Who am I to say.)

I feel myself squinting at James again. The camp fires throws off weird, wavering shadows, muddling his appearance; but I can still see that he has one of those faces that are perfectly symmetrical, frustratingly so. Everything lines up the way it's supposed to for him— I don't think he even has acne; his brown skin is way too smooth and clear. (In my opinion, having perfect skin, especially at a gross and dirty place like summer camp, should be illegal.)

"The bird seems to like you," James says.

I quickly shift my gaze to the ground, glad that James didn't notice me staring at him. The gray bird is only inches away from my feet now, staring up at me with beady, inquisitive eyes. It looks expectant.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any food for you," I say to the bird.

The bird chirps impatiently at me.

"I don't think you want any of the cafeteria food. It's probably not edible."

James chuckles. The bird twitters at me, almost like it's chastising me for my joke. Then it hops away in search of other campers to pester.

For some reason, the bird's pesky attitude makes me crack a smile. The gesture feels strained on my face. Like my mouth is trying to remember what muscles it needs to use. Now that I think about, this is the first time I've smiled since my night out with Jesse.

"They call them camp robber jays," James tells me. "They're little thieves. All they want is food, of course, and they're not afraid to bother humans for it."

"How do you know so much about birds?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't. I just heard Owen complaining about them. Apparently they're the typical Alaskan pest."

"I don't think they're pests."

"Me either." James smiles fondly at the bird. "I think they're cute."

Another jay flies down from the trees to join the one I encountered earlier. We sit in silence for a while, watching the curious behavior of the birds. I've never seen a bird act like the camp robbers do. Even the Central Park pigeons aren't so bold around humans. James is right, the birds really are cute— not that you'll ever catch me admitting that out loud, of course.

I think that I could get used to Sunday camp fire nights. Unlike the rest of camp, the ambiance here is peaceful— relaxing, almost. The air, rich with the smokey scent of burning spruce, smells better than any Yankee candle ever could, and when the breeze blows in the right direction I can smell the lake, too, all green and silty and fresh. I can feel pebbles through the soles of my sneakers and the rough wood of the log bench underneath my palms. The Alaskan wilderness can be overwhelming at times, but I don't get that vibe here. This space has balance.

I try to soak up some of the fresh air with a deep inhale, but my lungs are still too tense for the breath to be properly satisfying. Even here, in this small slice of paradise, I can't put what happened in New York behind me. It still feels like I have the weight of the world— well, more like the weight of a Cadillac— resting on my shoulders, and no matter how hard I try, I can't manage to lighten up. I can't close my eyes without Sabrina's words echoing in my ears; I can't go to sleep without replaying our fight in my head a thousand times. Even in Alaska, even in the fucking Yukon— the most middle of nowhere place in the history of middle of nowhere places— I can't escape. The past follows me. It always follows me.

I find myself staring enviously at the camp robber jays, wishing that I could be more like the birds— so cavalier and careless, my only worry about where I'll find my next meal. Damn birds don't even realize how lucky they are, I think. Then I realize it's a little sad (and weird) to be jealous of a bird.  

"So, have you been fighting?"

Once again, James is the one to break the silence. I turn to frown at him. The camp robber jays are still on my mind, so it takes me a hot second to realize that he's asking if I've been having issues with Finn, and not if I'm about to square up to a bird. "I don't fight," I say, which isn't entirely true. I probably wouldn't be at this camp if I wasn't always picking fights with Sabrina, but that's not James' business to know— I don't want anybody at this camp knowing about my mother. She's nobody business but my own. "Not my style."

James juts his chin out towards my black-eye. "Then how did you get that shiner?"

"In all honesty? I got nailed by a suitcase on my flight here."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was. It was hot-pink, too."

I can tell that James is trying to hide his grin— he's failing miserably, of course, but I give him credit for trying. I don't know why I told him the truth about my black-eye. Maybe it's because he doesn't seem like the type to make fun of me for it.

"So you've been telling the other campers that you're some kind of Doug Somers, when in reality you just got beaned by some careless person's luggage?"

"I guess...."

"What? He's one of the best pro wrestlers. And if you don't agree with that, we can't be friends."

"Friends," I repeat, raising my eyebrows.

"Yeah, I know what you're gonna say— I've seen you hanging out with those guys at lunch. I know I'm not cool enough to be chatting with someone as cool as you. Still, it doesn't hurt to expand your social circles."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're friends with Clancey Cleavon, right? He's the biggest kid at camp, figuratively and literally. If you're friends with him, that makes you cool. That's just the way things are."

"Clancey isn't cool. He just has fewer morals than most."

"Ha. You're right. Nobody with morals would've gotten a mullet that terrible."

"James...."

"I know, I know, I'm just asking to get beat up. At least he's not a hot-pink suitcase, right?"

"Very funny. Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." James leans forward on his elbows, balancing his chin in his hands. "So, where are you from? You're definitely not a local Alaskan."

"Why? Because of the chinos?"

"And because you already told me that you flew here." James catches my eye and grins. "But yes, the chinos don't really help your image as a brave survivalist."

"Look, Pretty Boy, Chinos are fashionable and practical—"

"Pretty Boy? That's the nickname you choose to give me?" James grins at me like I can't be serious. "Wow. You really aren't like your friends at all. Clancey just spins his Wheel of Slurs and calls me whatever insult the needle lands on."

"You're the one that brought up Doug Somers," I say. I don't know why, but I'm feeling a little flustered— I didn't mean to call James that, but I was frustrated with him and the nickname just spilled out. I drag a hand through my hair. "I still haven't told you where I'm from."

"Be my guest, Chinos."

"I'm from Manhattan. Upper East Side."

"Wow, a real city boy," James says, impressed. "I can't relate— I'm from Seward. The population there is growing, but it still pales in comparison the Big Apple."

"You're a local, then."

"Yup. Alaskan born and raised."

"That's nice. Must make the trip here a helluva a lot easier."

James' smile falters. "Uh, yeah. Sort of. There were a few speed-bumps along the way."

"What kind of speed-bumps?"

"Well, I had to hitch-hike here, for starters."

"You're joking."

"Nope. Not joking. I had a hard time finding somebody driving this direction, so it took me about a day and half. But at least I didn't get murdered along the way, right?"

I raise my eyebrows at him, not sure if I should be alarmed or amused. (Sabrina would murder me herself if she ever caught me trying to hitch a ride with strangers.) "Christ. Why didn't your parents drive you here?"

"They, uh, didn't want to."

"What do you mean, they didn't want to?"

"Well, uh, it wasn't my decision to come here, or their decision, really, so they were pretty pissed about the whole thing. They told me to find my own way here. So I did."

"What? That's insane. I mean, what if you had gotten hurt— or worse? Hitch-hiking isn't exactly a recreational activity. There are dangerous people on the road."

"I know. They know. They just—" James sighs. "They were just mad."

"Well, what the hell did you do to be such a pain in the ass to them?"

James scratches at the back of his neck. "No offense, but I'd rather keep the whole tragic backstory thing secret for now."

"So you do have a tragic backstory."

"Ha. You got me there." James starts to blush, and it's actually kind of cute. His face gets all red when he's embarrassed. "Just don't get me wrong— I wasn't dealing drugs or beating kids up or anything like that; it's just— I don't want to be judged for the shit I did before I came here, you feel me? I was a different person back then. Like, that's who I was then, and this is who I am now. And I know that everybody likes to trash the whole spiritual healing thing here, but I really do want to change— I really want to be better than I was before, and I don't care if that makes me goody-two-shoes or a wuss or whatever. I didn't hitch-hike all the way out here for nothing. That would just be a waste of my summer."

His words sound like a distant echo of my thoughts from earlier about the past following me all the way to Alaska. "I think you just read my mind," I blurt out.

Something that could almost be interpreted as a smile starts to spread across James face— until an arm appears out of nowhere, looping around his shoulders and pulling him backwards, and the round, grinning face of a camper pops up behind him.

"Hey! I'm Daniel," the boy says energetically. "Dan for short, and Dan the Man for long. I'm James' roommate. Mind if I borrow him for a sec?"

James gives me a look that says, please help.

"Uh, sure," I say. I feel a bit like a push-over, but what else was I supposed to do— deny Daniel (or Dan the Man) from talking to his own roommate? "Just bring him back in one piece."

"Aces!" exclaims Daniel. He guides James eagerly to other side of the camp fire, where he and a bunch of other boys have gathered together a big pile of sticks.

James shoots me a look of betrayal over his shoulder. I just shrug at him— just because we bonded together over birds and conversation doesn't mean we're friends. Besides, I have enough roommate drama of my own already. I don't need to get involved in other people's too.

Daniel tosses an armful of kindling into the fire pit. Flames go blazing upwards. James gets handed a stack of sticks, too, but he drops them on the edge of the fire with far less exuberance. Meanwhile, the rest of the boys throw in anything they can get their hands on— sticks, rocks, leaves— and the fire grows and grows.

The orange light of the flame splashes across James face, turning his skin golden. I watch as his eyes search through the haze of smoke, trying to find mine, but when his gaze finally lands on my face I quickly look away.

Owen's voice splits through the air: "What are you doing? You are creating a fire hazard!" Now that he's finally realized the fire is much bigger than he left it, he's on the warpath. I watch as he marches towards the offenders, spitting marks left and right, and as Daniel, James, and the rest of the boys scatter in every direction into the laughing crowd. I don't want to risk getting a mark, so I take the commotion as my cue to leave. There's no point in sticking around, anyway— the calm atmosphere of the night is effectively ruined.

I walk back to Becharof Cabin alone, already kicking myself for speaking so openly with James. You didn't come here to make friends, I remind myself harshly.

Don't get distracted, Sabrina's voice whispers in my ear. For the first time in a long time, I find myself agreeing with her. 

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