"I've got a metal leg," I tell her.

Giselle stares at me. I stare back. For some reason, I don't feel scared, even though I know I should. I mean, I just told Giselle— Giselle, of all people! — my deepest, darkest secret, and yet, I don't feel scared about it at.

"Don't believe me?" My words sound strange, as if they're coming from someone else's mouth. Maybe they are. The Jasper from the beginning of the summer would've never thought about revealing his secret like this.

I pull up my left pajama pants so that everything up to my knee is exposed. The polished steel glints silver in the moonlight. "Look. It's right there. That's my secret. My metal leg."

Giselle reaches out a hand as if she can't believe her eyes. She places one finger, then two, on the metal surface. Her mouth opens into a perfect circle.

"Whoa," she whispers. I'm pleased to see that she's forgotten her sorrow, if only for a fleeting moment.

I watch her fingers tap lightly on my leg, and imagine what it would feel like if I could feel it at all. "I was in a car accident when I was five. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's... just the way things are for me."

"And nobody at camp knows?"

"Nobody except for you. And Ronan."

Giselle nods at this, like it's perfectly acceptable for Ronan to know everything. "Okay. That wasn't a very good secret, you know."

Even though I know that she's drunk, and not at her most comprehensive or empathetic, her comment still throws me for a loop. I frown at her, not sure whether I should be feeling offended or upset. Or both. "Excuse me?"

"I know secrets, Jasper. And I know that you didn't need to keep that a secret."

I fold my arms tightly across my chest. Definitely feeling offended, then. "Do you think I lied about having two normal legs for fun? My metal leg is weird. It sticks out. And it makes people think—" I shake my head. My head is starting to spin now, all of my common sense flooding back with nauseating speed. "It's not easy being the black kid with the missing leg. People look at me and think I'm a freak. Or something fragile and broken that needs to be pitied. I kept it a secret because I wanted people at camp to think I was like them— normal."

"You are normal."

"No, you're just drunk."

"I'm might be drunk but I'm not a liar." And do you know what? Fuck normal. I wasn't a fan of it, anyway." She passes me the bottle. "Drink. You look like you just saw Casper the Friendly Ghost."

I'm still freaking out, so I force myself to take a bigger gulp than before, in a lame attempt to calm my nerves. I can't believe I told Giselle about my leg. I can't—

"I won't tell anyone," she says. "Really. I won't."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

And slowly, my breathing starts to even out. I nod at her, but I still feel shaky inside. "I told you my secret. Now you have to tell me yours."

"Is that really how it works?"

"One hundred percent."

Giselle sighs. "Fine. But you have to promise not to tell, too."

"I promise. Will you tell me why you're crying now?"

"Can I—?" Giselle points to the bottle, and I hand it to her. She tilts her head back and drinks for a good five seconds. I've never seen anyone drink like that before.

When she's finally done, she winces and wipes at her eyes, which have started to water again, and sets the whiskey bottle down on a nearby rock. "This is the first time in five years that I haven't been able to put flowers on his grave."

"Whose grave?"

Giselle looks down. "My brother. He died when I was twelve."

The realization hits me hard, like a punch to the gut. "Oh, Giselle," I say. "I'm so sorry."

Tears collect in Giselle's eyes and spill down her face. One runs diagonally across her cheekbone; I watch, numbly, as it traces a path down her cheek. "Everyone says that. They're so sorry for my loss, as if it's somehow their fault. But the only person I can blame is him. Never drink and drive, huh? What a stupid way to die. That's why I think this camp is bullshit. Rudy got sent to Lightlake and still returned a royal fuck-up, and now I'm here and he's gone. That's why I wanted to tell you his stories. They're all I have left of him."

"I'm so --" I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. "He shouldn't have... that's not fair."

"Nothing is fair. Life is one big game of Russian Roulette, and the gun is always fully loaded. Sometimes you make one bad decision and that's it. No do-overs. He died, and his friends died, and now I'm always going to feel like I'm missing a part of me, something important. Do you ever feel like that? Like you're not as whole as everybody else?"

I don't bother lying, because there's no point in lying to drunk people. "Yeah."

"Then I guess we're both missing something. You lost your leg, and I lost my brother."

I let out a weak laugh. "We can be losers together, then."

"I like that idea. It's no fun to be a loser alone."

She passes the bottle to me, and I drink. The whiskey doesn't taste too bad anymore. Actually, it doesn't really taste like anything at all. (I don't know if that's a good or bad sign.) We've worked out a good routine— pass, drink, sit in silence, and contemplate life. I like it. Everything clicks when we're alone together.

Giselle keeps shaking her head. "Life is just so... big," she says, "It's so big, and there aren't any maps, and I think that at some point I took a wrong turn somewhere, and now I'm lost and I don't know if I'll ever find my way back. I don't know how to get back."

"Back where?"

"I don't know. Where I was before, when I was happy."

This hits a little too close to home for me. I don't remember a time before I lost my leg, but I'm sure I was happier than. It's easy to be happy when you're just like everybody else. When you can be normal without trying.

Abruptly, Giselle says, "Let's not talk about sad things anymore. I don't know about you, but I've had my fill of sad things."

"I think we all have."

"There's got to be more to life than this." She glances at me and frowns, as if disappointed that I can't say yes and prove it to her. "Right?"

I know that she wants me to agree with her, but I can't— I can't bring her hopes like that, just for life to crush them later on. "I don't know," I reply honestly. "I don't think anybody does."

She looks away. "Well, that's fucking depressing."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about sad things anymore."

"I don't. Sad things just have a way of finding me." Giselle takes another swig. Suddenly, her expression brightens. "I've been thinking about your leg, you know. And I have the best plan. How about this: tomorrow, you wear shorts, look totally hot, and I beat up anybody who disagrees. Doesn't that sound like the best plan?"

Some of my shock from earlier comes rushing back. I let a thin, wheezy laugh escape from my chest; after telling Giselle my secret, then hearing hers, I feel like I just fell twenty stories and miraculously survived. "Jesus, Giselle. I thought our plan was to not reveal our secrets."

She waves her hand at me. "Your secret sucks. I say it's time you show the world your toned calves."

"My calves are so not toned."

"You didn't ask for a muscular looking metal leg? I would have."

"I must have forgotten to check off 'needs to be hot' on my list of requirements for a prosthetic leg," I joke. This makes Giselle laugh. It sounds a little less sad than her feigned laughs from earlier, which is reassuring. "If I was able to customize my leg, though, I'd totally make them paint ghost flames on the side."

"Like a sports car?"

"Exactly like a sports car!"

Giselle looks at me, and, through the thick haze of drunkenness, her eyes appear almost hopeful. "I'm serious, though. You shouldn't keep this secret anymore. Just wear shorts tomorrow. And if anyone here ever calls you a freak, I'll beat the living shit out of them."

"Giselle!"

"What? I'll do it. I'm not joking."

"Please don't beat anyone up for me. That's such a terrible idea."

"You're right. We should beat them up together."

I groan, loudly. "Giselle."

She laughs, and then there's a long pause. There's nothing awkward about the silence— like I said earlier, we just click when we're together.

I think I might be a little in love with her. And I know she's into girls, not guys like me, but I also know that love is something that should be given away, without expecting anything in return. And I think I'd like to be her friend. If she wants to be mine.

I lean backwards against a weathered rock, tilting my head back to see the stars. There are a lot of stars in the Alaskan wilderness. More constellations than I would ever have the patience to count. It feels like something has shifted; that something is better now. But I can't put a finger on what— just like I can't count all the stars in the night sky.

***

I'm stumbling back to my cabin alone when I see a dark figure strolling towards me on the path. At first, I'm sure it's one of the counselors, and I feel myself start to panic, but then the figure draws closer and I realize it's not a counselor at all. It's a camper. 

One that goes by the name Ronan Lockwood.

He stops a few feet away from me. "Jasper? Is that you?"

"The only and only," I reply. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Ronan gives me a quick once-over, then furrows his brows. "Oh. Are you drunk?"

"Uh, nope. Why would you think that?"

Ronan wrinkles his nose at me. "You smell like a liquor cabinet, and you're staggering around like an alcoholic sailor. There's no way you're in good enough shape to be out here alone. Let me walk you back to your cabin."

"Why? So you can make fun of my leg some more?" I shake my head at him. The world spins like a top around me. I must be an emotional drunk, because I'm feeling many emotions right now. Most of them angry. "Nope. No way. I don't need your help, Ronan."

He winces slightly, as if he's the one that's been hurt. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said to you earlier. It wasn't okay for me to—"

"Blackmail me into keeping your secrets?" I let out a scornful laugh that quickly morphs into a series of hiccups. (I can't sound angry even when I want to. It's a curse.) "You're damn right it wasn't okay for you to do that. And it wasn't like I was going to tell anybody your secret, anyway. Unlike some of the people at this camp, I usually don't go out of my way to be cruel to others."

Ronan's eye gives a small twitch. "Look. I get it. I was a dick to you. A really, really big dick. But I'm not here to start another fight. I just want to make amends."

"Ah, amends." The word feels strange in my mouth, like a geometric shape that hasn't been invented yet. "But you don't like to make amends. Did James put you up to this?" His blush tells me that my assumption is correct. "I knew it. You're not doing this for me. You're doing it for him."

"That's not true—" Ronan cuts himself off mid-sentence, then drags a hand through his hair in frustration. "I mean, yes, I was just talking to him about you, but I swear he didn't put me up to anything. The apology was genuine. I meant it when I said I was sorry for the things I did to you. Please, you have to trust me on this."

"Trust you? What makes you think you're deserving of my trust? All you've ever done is threaten me."

Ronan squeezes his eyes shut; his expression stricken. "I know. God, I know."

"James is a better person than you," I tell him. "He's a better person than you'll ever be." I don't know where these words are coming from, but they won't stop falling out of my mouth. Each one hits Ronan like a sucker punch to the gut. "He deserves better than you."

For a moment, I think that Ronan is going to turn around a walk away. But instead of ignoring me or making some witty comeback, all he says is, "I know. You're absolutely right." His eye twitches faintly, like his muscles giving their last hurrah. And he looks upset. But not upset by my words— he looks upset with himself. "James says that everyone can change for the better, regardless of who they are and what they've done. I'd like to believe that he's right. That's why I'm apologizing to you now. I'm not doing this to feel good about myself. I'm doing this to change— for you, and for James, and for all the other people in my life I've hurt."

For some reason, his words strike a chord. Maybe it's because his tone is so honest and vulnerable, two qualities I'd never expect Ronan to possess; or maybe it's because he looks so genuinely miserable, like a starving dog that stole food off the table with the expectation of getting kicked afterward. Either way, I feel my heart soften towards him. I can't stay angry with him. Not when he's baring his soul to me like this.

"I kept my prosthetic leg a secret because I was ashamed of it," I tell him. "But I'm not ashamed of it anymore. Maybe it's time that you stop being ashamed of your secrets, too."

"I wish it was that easy."

"It can be, if you let it."

A wane smile passes over his face— like he's remembering something, or someone. But all he says is, "C'mon, Jasper. Let's get you back to your cabin. I can hear a glass of water calling your name."