I think I now know what Newt meant with being at dinner on time.

I did not come on time, since I spend all my time trying to wash chlorine out of my good clothes—might've been dumb to wear these to a camp—and then had trouble finding my way back from the river to the Homestead, so once I arrive, half of the room is already empty.

Four long, wooden tables are stretched through the space. Two of them are empty. The other two are occupied by kids I can clearly see are friends; there's little groups everywhere, and there's quite a few feet between each one of them.

Someone stabs me in the side with their finger. I spin around, my eyes meeting an older man's. Something about his vibe is already better than Rat's, whose real name I still don't know. I don't really care either. Rat fits him perfectly.

"Three questions," he says, a slight Spanish accent slipping through. "Who are you? What place did you come from? What are you doing here, clearly too late?" 

"Lelia Blake," I reply. My eyes trail over his body. He's wearing a brown shirt with cargo pants. Most people where pants like that here, likely for all the pockets. "Came from the river. A boy pushed me in the pool and I washed my clothes out. That's why I'm late."

"Have you already chosen where you're going to spend your next weeks? At night?"

"At parties, I hope," I murmur. Then I realize he's a camp instructor, so I clear my throat to cover my actual reply up. "Eh— no. I haven't yet. I can choose between a tent and a hut, though?"

"Yes. But you're late. High chance I'll have to put you in a hut with some others. The tents are usually occupied almost immediately."

"Do you have a list? Can I write my name down somewhere?"

He motions for me to follow him, which I quickly do. I wonder where Lyndon has gone. Maybe checking out what they mean with 'art' here. Perhaps he's already painting.

"Here." The instructor stops in front of a table, on which a big paper lies. I can see lots of names, all in different squares. From 'hut one' to 'hut twenty' and then there's like fifteen tents, all with either two or three names below it. The huts all have five names.

"Well, looks like there's only one option for you left," he says, sighing. "Hut number two."

I glare at the paper. There's four names in the section. Thomas Edison, Jeff Roberts, Clint Smith, Siggy Mund.

Newt mentioned Clint, one of the boys who held the rope. And Thomas was the one who shot this Gally kid.

"Seriously? I'm not spending fifteen weeks around some disgusting boys I don't even know," I spit out. "Place me somewhere else."

He scoffs. "Don't start on me with that stubborn mouth. I said, there's no other options."

"Oh, yeah? I'm left with those boys to use my 'stubborn mouth' for something else?" The words come out fast, before I can even stop them. But come on, what girl would want to spend so many nights with boys she doesn't even know? Only boys. "You suck."

"I've heard worse." He crosses his arms. "And I know these boys. They won't do anything. Try it for one night. I'll introduce you to them."

"Introduce yourself first."

The man runs a hand through his hair, annoyed. "The name's Jorge. You can just call me that, I don't care."

"Okay." I look back at the list. "Where is my brother placed? His name is Lyndon. Maybe he wants to trade."

"Ah, he was here as one of the firsts." Jorge hums. "Got a tent with Newton."

My eyebrows fly up. "Oh, really?"

"Mhm. He seemed pretty sure of it. I don't think he wants to trade."

"Well, four other boys sounds better than sleeping in a tent with one single boy," I mutter, turning back to Jorge. "Fine. One night. If I don't like it, you'll make sure I get placed with girls."

"When are you kids gonna understand that after years of working in a misbehavior camp, I have seen way worse? You're not leaving an impression on me, if that's what you think." Another annoyed groan. "So no, that's not a deal."

"And what if they touch me? Hm? I'll blame you."

"Tell Thomas you're connected with Teresa, grab the arm Jeff broke a while ago, threaten to ruin Clint's life—he's as gullible as Thomas—and tell Siggy you stole one of his frying pans and will hit him if he continues."

I stare at him like he has gone crazy. What kind of solution is this?

"Trust me, it'll work. Their weak spots," he tells me. "Now, where's your stuff? We'll get you set. And I'll explain some rules you'll likely not gonna obey to."

"You're right. So why bother telling me them?"

"It's my job." He shrugs, bending down to take two of the bags I took with me. I take the other two. "Also, you should wear some old clothes, not these neat ones."

I wear older clothes for when I go out. Nice clothes, but old in case something happens with the clothes. Daily, I wear dupes of brands I wish to be able to afford in the future. Right now, I am, too. I did spend quite some money on it after all, though.

"I'll keep it in mind. But tell those boys not to pull me into pools again," I grumble. "I thought I'd find people who are here for the same reason, but if they're all here because they like playing childish pranks like that, I don't think this is gonna be much fun."

"What's the reason you're here?"

I like this guy. He might've not agreed to my deal, but he's cool. So that's why I tell him. "I went out too much. Sneaked out. Drank, sometimes took a pill, gave my dad and step mom heart attacks because random shirtless boys stood drinking coffee in their kitchen. Been stubborn."

"Trust me, more than half of the kids your age are here for that reason."

"And how is this camp gonna stop us from misbehaving like that? We're teenagers after all."

Jorge lets go of a breath. "Try to contain y'all for the following weeks. Hope y'all follow the rules. Make friends and keep it decent. Try not to be too strict but also won't allow misbehavior, obviously. Things like that."

"What are the rules?"

"Never mind about those. I have no motivation to name them all. If curious, just look at the pinboard on the Homestead. You'll find a list on there."

We've arrived at the hut just when Jorge finishes his sentence. On the door hangs a messy board with the crooked letters 'HUT TWO'. The dark brown wood blends the thing with the trees behind it; this is one of the huts that's close to the woods.

From the outside, it seems like it can't be bigger than most camp huts you'll see in movies and series. When Jorge opens the door without a warning, my eyes fall on the beds.

Phew. Five people means two bunk beds on the sides and one single bed in the middle. That seems perfect.

"Boys," Jorge's now louder voice attracts their attention. "Quiet for a second, please. Thomas, what did Janson say about chips in the beds?"

"I'm not spilling it," the brunette replies, mouth half full.

The dark-skinned boy that held the rope along with Clint kicks the bag of chips out of Thomas's hands, which causes the food all over his bed.

"Oohhh!" Clint manages a fake gasp. "Thomas spilled! Jorge, get him a red card—"

"I've got a new roommate for y'all," Jorge interrupts. He steps aside to reveal me. "Lelia was too late with writing herself in. This was the last option."

"And she can't fit in a bed with another girl? Share it?"

"Plan B, Hermano," Jorge says. "That's plan B. Now, I expect y'all to behave and be nice to her."

"Aren't you the girl Minho pulled into the pool?" One of the boys tilts his head to the side as he pops a spilled chip in his mouth.

I scowl at him. "Yeah, that was me. It was so hilarious, wasn't it?"

Jorge gives me a push inside the hut. "Minho, get out of here. This is not your hut."

"Fuck, man. I ain't wanna stay in hut ten!"

"You're with Alby and Zart, don't complain," Jorge replies. It surprises me he knows all of this. Didn't they write their names down just an hour ago?

Then I realize he has been instructing here for years, and Newt has also been coming here for multiple years, so maybe these boys also do that, and Jorge knows the huts they always stay in.

"Besides, there was a place free for you," he adds. "You could've chosen to sleep here. Now it's too late. Shouldn't have written your name there."

"Janson didn't allow me here after last year, when Thomas and I got drunk. Which, first of all, was not my fault. Second of all, I also wasn't the one who went crazy on three drops of alcohol. That was Thomas."

"So? You were in it together. You'll survive with Alby, Zart, Gally, and Gary."

"I will not."

In the mean while, I'm looking around. The boys have hung posters on the walls. Their beds are made. Every single one of them except for one of the tops of a bunk bed. Guess I can't take the single one.

I walk over to it, putting my bad down and—

Minho jumps onto the bed. Grins. "Too slow."

I push him off, which barely fazes him at first and makes me wish that Jorge told me his weak spot, but then I manage to do it when my hand sweeps across his hair. Quickly, I sit down on it. Below me sits a boy who's wearing an apron for some reason.

"My name's Siggy, but you can call me Frypan. Or Fry. It's what they all call me," he says kindly, the second after we make eye contact.

I nod at him. "Nice to meet you, Frypan." And I don't make fun of his name. I'm always just impressed that nicknames can almost become real names. "I'm Lelia."

"Minho, I'm not asking again," Jorge says. He's still cool, but I can see he's losing his temper. "Get here. I'll call your parents."

"Wow, I think I'm going to die now," he murmurs. "My parents will come pick me up and send me right back next year, unless I behave. Besides, I find it fun here so I will keep coming back. Unless the instructors keep going on like shuckfaces without—"

"I'll call your grandma, then. Spending your summer in her garden will be much more fun than this, won't it?"

Minho's eyes wide. "Oh, hell no!" He jumps off Thomas's bed, almost running out of the hut. "No more summers with my grandma!" And then he has vanished.

Triumphant, Jorge turns back to us. Looks at me. "You still have your grandma? One of them?"

Alright. No filter.

I like it.

"Both," I say. "Why?"

"Would you want to spend the whole summer with them?"

"Hm. Depends on their moods."

"Understand why he doesn't want to spend a whole summer there?"

"I guess."

Jorge nods. "And Thomas," he turns to the boy, "I'll call your mother if you don't stop eating that crap right now."

He throws his hands in the air. "I thought you were cool, Jorge!"

"Gotta play it fair for Minho. Take it out of your mouth. And Clint, give the syringes back. They're meant to train you for medical things, not to steal and maybe stab with. Your mother won't like that either, will she?"

Groaning, Clint lies the syringes down in Jorge's hands and Thomas puts his food away by just stuffing all of it in his mouth.

Hm. Great solution.

"Why always the mothers?" Fry mutters. He looks up at me. "What does yours do?"

"Oh, I don't know. Her ghost might haunt me, but I think that's about it."

Thomas's jaw drops, and I get a few stares.

Joking about it makes it seem like it doesn't hurt me. It does hurt me, though. Quite a lot. And I didn't even know my mom. It's just the guilt, knowing that I'm the reason she died— the wondering why they couldn't save her instead of me, because you can always try for another child.

"I'm so sorry to hear—"

"Don't worry," I say, putting on a smile. "I like to joke about it."

That's a lie and the truth at once— I don't know if I like it. I just do it.

"You shouldn't, though."

My eyebrows raise at Jeff. "What're you gonna do about it? Tell her?"

A silence falls, and then Clint claps in his hands. "I like her. Thanks for the blessing, Jorge. Now please leave. Thomas was just about to tell us the details of him and—"

"Hey!" Thomas hisses. "Jorge doesn't have to know that!"

Jorge leans against the wall, a questioning look on his face. "Is it about Teresa?"

"No—"
"Yes—"
"Mhm—"
"Of course—"

"Yes?" His lips curl into a grin. He closes the door behind him and sits down on a chair in the corner of the hut. "Spill it, hermano."

With red cheeks, Thomas shakes his head. "No! I'm not sharing things like that with a forty-year-old man, or whatever age you are."

"I've known you for seven years. In those seven years, you've only ever liked her. I'm an even better wingman than Minho. So tell me what happened."

"Who's Teresa?" I whisper to Fry as the other two continue to bicker for a while.

"Girl Thomas likes. You might've seen her. She calls him Tom. Black hair? Blue eyes? I mean, I don't blame him for being attracted to her."

"I don't think I've seen her, but I heard her." I nod. "What happened between them?"

"Thomas was about to tell us that, but then you and Jorge interrupted. Minho was probably pissed he didn't get to hear what happened."

"Okay, fine!" Thomas slams a fist into his pillow. It makes me look at him instead of Fry again. "So in the pool, when we were planning our prank for Gally, she got like... super close. I pulled the suggestion Minho gave— took her waist as I passed her. Then after swimming, she moved my hair out of my face."

The boys start cheering as if Teresa moving his hair out of his face is some kind of godly accomplishment, but it's kind of cute to see that some guys still are in love-love.

"Okay. This year, and I mean it, Thomas, you will ask her to the end ball."

"I will not."

"You've been promising to do it for the past seven years, and you never did!"

I look at Fry again. Lie down on my back so I'm upside down, but can still see everyone from above the bunk bed. "What ball?"

"We have a ball, some kind of party, at the end of the camp," he says quickly. "You're supposed to bring a date. Thomas either doesn't have the guts to ask her, or is too late. Last year, Teresa went with this guy Aris. You don't want to know how heartbroken—"

"I was not heartbroken!" Thomas defends, groaning. "This year, I shall kiss her. I'll succeed this year—"

"and I will make her fall in love with me," the other three boys finish at once, rolling their eyes. "You say it every year."

"This time, I mean it!"

I can feel a smile form on my face while I can't even control it. These guys maybe aren't as bad as I thought they were.