Everything You Thought You Had

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Operation Snowflake is arguably one of the school administration's worst ideas ever. The whole structure of sending a bunch of random kids on a week in the woods to bond and do ropes courses and trust falls is kind of fucked. But when you add to that most kids are here either to avoid rehab or conversely to be peer leaders who model what "clean living" looks like, you're in a situation of full-on open hostility.

Take my group, which is currently circled up figuring out a way for each of us to get through a four-foot high triangle made of ropes without actually touching the ropes. The burnouts are blinking their eyes, wondering when this shit show is going to be over, and the peer leaders are smiling like the road to sobriety is paved in zip lines and positive affirmations. Me?

I'm not a joiner. I don't fall into either category. My English teacher found weed in my bag when I was rifling through it in search of my copy of Othello. Weed. The gateway drug into bags of Coolranch Doritos and afternoon naps. Jesus. But teachers being all afraid of a lawsuit and throwing that "mandated reporter" term around to justify being dicks about covering their asses, Mr. Rothschild said he had no choice but to turn me in. Which means my parents were called—and wasn't that just the thing to turn a situation from bad to completely fucked—and the only way to smooth over the mess was to agree to this hugs-not-drugs week camp: Operation Snowflake.

At first, in the back of my mind, I'd mistakenly hoped it was a veiled hookup mini-vacation. No parents, plus all the required touching and hugging seemed like a recipe for possibility. And my junk can always use a little attention from sources other than my own hand. Particularly attention that isn't tied into the drama of relationships. But the minute I stepped on the bus, I saw that was a no-go.

So now I'm keeping my head down like I always do. And pretending to listen as our faculty advisor and group leader Brian—Mr. Jacobsen to those of us who have been to the college counseling office—is pointing out all the merits in the peer leaders' plan to feed each member through the triangle like a thread through a needle.

I'm not about to mention that when two guys are left, this won't be possible. Like I said, not a joiner.

"Lucien, why don't you and Aaron brace yourselves on both sides and start hoisting people up?"

Brian has been trying to get me to participate since the bus pulled into this "retreat spot" yesterday afternoon. Retreat is a bit of an overstatement. There's a main lodge consisting of a large room filled with cheesy faux woodsy furniture and fireplace, and an attached dining area where we're all encouraged to eat family-style, whatever the fuck that is. There are several cabins flanking the main lodge, each filled with a dozen bunks and a shitty three-stall bathroom. The place sits in the middle of a hundred acres of woods with a man-made lake not too far from where all the ropes courses are set up.

"Sound good, Luc?" Brian says, as if I get a vote in this. Not that I've been counting, but I'm betting I haven't said more than a dozen words so far. I shrug and move across from Aaron—a massive dude who apparently has a steroid problem—and hope to hell free time is included on the day's schedule.

Aaron and I manage to feed all the girls through the rope triangle and two of the guys. My arms are shaking but I bite my tongue and help feed Brian through. The guy is heavier than he looks and Aaron's face muscles bulge. I'm certain Brian touches the ropes at least twice going through but he doesn't say anything and a few people cheer when he gets to the other side.

Brian looks back at the triangle and finally says, "Huh. How are we going to get you two through?"

Aaron shrugs and moves about twenty feet back from the triangle. "Get out of the way," he says to me and I step back. Then he runs fast and leaps into the air and through the triangle like a fucking gymnast doing a dive roll. And it actually works. He hops up, dusts himself off, and smiles smugly. "Your turn."