Chapter Text
Remember those tedious get-to-know-you games you’re forced to play at social events? This one game in particular where you had to come up with a word that starts with the same letter as your name but also describes you? Well, hello there, my name is George Ryan Ross III, and I am grotesque, repugnant, and reticent.
Spencer, next to me, shakes his head in disappointment. Everyone else in the group circle either stares at me in shock or has this awkward smile plastered on their lips that obviously shows they aren’t sure whether or not I’d made a joke. I hadn’t. Honesty is underrated and I’m just trying to fix this problem, telling one truth at a time.
Spencer clears his throat loudly in attempt to get the group’s attention on him and away from me.
“Hi, I’m Spencer James Smith and I’m single, joyful, and sexy.” He winks playfully, and the few girls in our circle begin to giggle. I try my best not to roll my eyes. He should’ve used the words sociable, jocund, and successful. They describe him much better.
After Spencer, one more guy introduces himself and then we’re finally, finally, allowed to go back into the main cottage where there’s air conditioning and dinner is being served. My stomach has already shrunken to the size of a single pea and I eagerly grab two chocolate puddings when Spencer and I pass the dessert section.
“Only one pudding per person, buddy.” One of the camp’s instructor smiles fake-apologetically and it’s good I’m holding the tray with both my hands; otherwise, I’d flip him off.
“I’ll give you mine,” Spencer promises and I mutter a thanks. He’s a good friend like that and I feel bad for being so shitty in return.
“Spencer, come sit with us!” A girl that was in our group earlier calls out and seriously? Spencer has said a single sentence in this godforsaken summer camp and already people yearn to be in his presence. I also don’t fail to notice that I hadn’t been invited to the table.
Regardless, I follow Spencer and we sit down together on the wooden benches. As promised, he hands me his pudding and I give him my salad. It’s a fair exchange that I hope we’ll keep up for the next two weeks that we’re stuck in this shithole. The people at our table start chatting away as I begin to eat in silence.
“We’re from Vegas, me and Ry,” Spencer is now telling his audience of fresh admirers. It’s him and I, I feel obligated to correct him, yet I keep my mouth shut. Let Spencer shun grammar, while I continue to shun people.
Dinner is an hour long. I finish my puddings in five minutes, ignoring the ill-looking mash potatoes that are supposed to be the main dish, and stare out the window that looms behind the red-haired girl sitting across from me.
Trees. Trees and mountains. That’s all there is to see. Even Las Vegas is more interesting than this place. I watch the branches move in the wind for the next fifty-five minutes, absent-minded to the group conversation.
“So what’s next on the schedule?” Spencer asks. He’s not directing the question at me, of course. Hell, I don’t even know the official name of this camp. I just refer to it as the Nada Camp. Call it by what it really is, sticking with the truth like the diligent man I am.
“Oh!” One of the girls exclaims all excited over Spencer’s question. What are we going to do? Make a bonfire, roast marshmallows and sing some good ol' country songs, before it gets too dark and then we’ll go out for a hike, telling ghost stories?
“We’re having a big campfire out by the mountains.”
I try my best to suppress the groan that’s just waiting to escape my lips and, in return, get a dirty stare from some random girl sitting beside me. I feel her eyes still trained on me and, why won’t she quit looking at me? I scratch my cheek self-consciously, hoping I don’t have some pudding smears on my face that have caught her attention. Maybe it’s my face in general that’s bothering her. But whatever, it’s not like I care about her opinion, or anyone else’s in this camp for that matter.
I groan a bit more, fixing my gaze to the tree whipping its arms outside and completely ignoring the others at the table (especially that girl). I try focusing on my misery instead. Two weeks of uncreative, boring activities. Ugh. The aspect of it makes me want to storm out this place and hop on the first plane home. Fuck me. What did I even do to deserve this?
There are no marshmallows, I observe with contempt. The mountains are a twenty-minute walk away from the camp and I will rip my ears off if I have to hear one more scout song. Trusty Tommy can go fuck himself for all I care.
One of the instructors brought his guitar. The same guy that wouldn’t let me have a second serving of pudding. I give him a dirty look that he generously ignores.
As I’d predicted earlier, mostly countries songs are being played, mixed in with some Old McDonald and My Bonnie is over the Ocean. No rock music, of course. Because rock stars don’t go camping, which brings me back to wondering why I’m even here in the first place. When Spencer had shown me the flyer (falsely advertising this camp), he’d said it would be fun. A fun break away from our parents. I should never have agreed to this. When dad’s drinking himself to oblivion I can at least escape to my room. Here? I’m stuck hearing shitty lyrics about dirt roads and being eaten alive by mosquitoes.
“Anyone wanna take over?” The instructor offers his guitar to the rest of us, shaking his hand demonstratively like it’s already sore from playing for barely an hour. Amateur.
Apparently nobody else in this pathetic group of people can play. Some boy with a cast on his arm says that he would love to, but obviously can’t with a broken wrist. Silence emerges and I hope this means we’ll go back to the base now.
“No one else but Jon can play the guitar?” The instructor asks in disbelief. I catch Spencer staring at me. Don’t you dare.
But before my supposedly best friend can out me as a guitarist, the instructor starts talking again.
“Guess we’re ready for ghost stories then!”
Everyone shrieks with glee and surprise. Yes, I’m totally shocked too. Who would’ve suspected the idea of telling some scary tales in the middle of the night while we all sit around a campfire? It’s not cliché at all, excluding the current lack of marshmallows and s’mores. I’m still pissed off about it and my stomach is audibly supporting my disapproval.
The stories are bland at best. I try to be polite and not yawn. Then again, maybe if they see how tired and worn out everyone is, we stop socializing and I am free to hide in the bunkbed that I’m sharing with Spencer. I’ll sleep in the top one of course. Spencer’s scared of heights.
Trying to set my genius plan into action, I wait until someone accidentally makes eye contact with me. The red haired girl from dinner becomes the transmitter. Her green eyes land on me and I instantly yawn. Yawns are contagious, and seconds later she’s mimicking me, clasping a hand in front of her mouth like that’s going to help stop the epidemic I started. The yawning spreads like a virus and I mentally pad myself on the back. Good one, Ross. I didn’t have any faith in my plan, to be honest, but soon enough the instructor announces that one more story is to be told, and then it’s time to hit the sacks.
A kid with bleach blonde hair volunteers and starts rambling on about vampires. His is the first story that’s not about ghosts. Kudos to him, though I still don’t pay him any attention.
The mattress is worn out and squeaks every time I move. Spencer and the other two boys in our little cottage are already asleep. I know because I can hear each of their distinct snores filling the eerie night with noise. I curse myself for not having an efficient sleep schedule.
At home, I stay out until three or four in the morning, and then crash for a few hours on my comfortable bed. So even if the mattress here wasn’t complete shit, my brain wouldn’t be tired by now anyways. I’m wide awake, staring at the wooden ceiling, contemplating life.
Apparently breakfast here is served from seven to eight. I can’t decide if I’m going to starve or die of sleep deprivation first. I roll onto my back and immediately regret it. My ass hurts from having to sit two hours on a fucking tree trunk. Thinking back to the campfire reminds me of all the bugs that attacked me and I instantly begin to scratch my skin.
I hate camping. This is all Spencer’s fault. His and his stupid persuasion skills.
A horn wakes me up. That’s right, a fucking horn. The two other boys in our cabin are already dressed and ready to go to breakfast. I’m happy that at least Spencer is still in his bed, muttering curses and hating the world. Spencer’s not a morning person. That’s probably why we became friends. School was too early for him, and I was the six-year-old kid that never spoke a word in class. We make a good team, Spence and me.
I fall back asleep, deciding that starvation is the way to go. A knock on the wooden door obviously disagrees with me.
“Wake up, campers! Breakfast is waiting and we have a long day ahead of us!” The chirpy voice of that fucking instructor says. Spencer groans and I open my eyes long enough to look at the cuckoo’s clock on the wall. 7:15.
“This was your idea,” I remind Spencer when we both sleep drunkenly stagger to the main cottage that is fancily referred to as the dining hall.
“Coffee,” Spencer replies, his voice raspy.
We get into the building, waiting for the divine smell of caffeine to hit our nostrils.
It never comes.
“Coffee?” Spencer says again, though this time enunciating it as a desperate question.
Someone must’ve heard him, because we get pointed to the liquids section.
There’s apple juice, orange juice, milk, and black tea. No coffee. If I had enough strength, I would scream. I don’t. Spencer sighs and fills his cup with tea.
“This was a bad idea,” he admits.
No shit, Spence.
The day drags on like the world just can’t be bothered to spin around its axis at normal speed. Spencer has woken up by now and is back to being his cheerful, loveable self. I’m left alone in the boat of misery. Everyone else seems to be having the time of their life. I can’t decide whether or not to be jealous. Sure, this camp would be less painful if I was capable of enjoying it, but at the same time I’d rather not degrade my brain and live in a world where I’d consider this a worthy place to spend my time in.
“I can’t wait to go canoeing tomorrow!” Spencer gushes before he remembers that it’s me he’s talking to. He tones down his excitement and throws an arm around my shoulder. I feel his fingers resting on my shoulder bone through my t-shirt and try not to cringe. I hate it when people touch my bones. I know it disgusts them. If they wanted to touch a skeleton, they wouldn’t go for the one still breathing. Spencer might’ve gotten used to my skinny frame though, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s not like I share these thoughts with him.
“C’mon Ry, stop moping around and appreciate nature,” he now says and I try not to roll my eyes too much. “The people here aren’t even that bad once you get to know them.”
“But I don’t want to get to know them.”
“Then what do you plan on doing for the next two weeks?”
“Try not to die. Imagine what I could be doing were I not stuck here. Sleep, although that’s a more challenging one. Hmm… what else?”
Spencer groans in frustration and finally lifts his hand off me. “Stop being so cynical. Just promise me you’ll at least try to have fun, okay?”
He looks at me, all puppy eyes and glimmering hope.
“Fine, I give this shithole a chance,” I amend.
“That’s the spirit!” Spencer grins and promptly trips over a tree root sticking out of the ground. His face lands in a pile of leaves and mud gets all over his clothes.
“Fuck,” he swears and I burst out laughing.
“Wow Spence,” I say, still grinning. “Your ways of embracing nature are admirable.”
He gives me the middle finger before he gets up. He’s holding mud in his other hand.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn him before he throws it at me. I don’t close my mouth quickly enough and the taste of dirt violates my tongue.
“Boys, boys, boys, boys,” the instructor calls out in shock when he sees us both covered in dirt. I wonder how much this man hates me already. Most people start after they’ve known me for a good month, but I guess this guy’s an expeditor. Or maybe it’s because I’m stuck with him almost 24/7, when my average socializing extends to maybe six hours per week. Going to this camp was therefore a marvelous idea, it forces me to get out of my comfort zone. I don’t regret coming here one bit. Nope, not me, happy go lucky scout Ryan.
Can’t wait go canoeing tomorrow.