The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 21: Jasper

"Nice tattoo," I say, in a hopeful attempt at conversation.

"Thanks. Monarchs are my favorite butterfly because they're poisonous to predators."

"Oh. That's... cool." Heat flushes into my cheeks. For some reason, everything Giselle does catches me off-guard.

"I like poisonous things, too," Matt blurts out.

"Nobody asked you, Mernan."

Humming to herself, Giselle pirouettes back to the sink and starts running the tap to clear out some of the gunk. While her back is to us, Matt turns to me and mimes shooting himself in the head.

I can already tell that this is going to be a long night.

Giselle fiddles with the rusty sink faucet. The water turns brown, and then... chunky. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Ugh. This has got to be some kind of health code violation."

"It doesn't look that bad," I say. "Oh— wait, no. Now it's turning orange."

"That is like so, so gross." Giselle spins away from the sink as if she can't stand the sight of it, refocusing her attention on me instead. "Let's please talk about something else. Jasper, what terrible crime did you commit to get kitchen duty in the first week of camp?"

"I, uh...." My mouth goes dry. I can't tell Giselle and Matt what really happened after Initiation, but I'm also terrible at coming up with lies on the spot.

"What is it? Did you stab someone?"

"Uh, no. I'm just... so embarrassed. I spilled SPAM on one of the counselor's shoes."

"Really? I thought it was the Fish kid that did that."

"Uh, we both did. At the same time, actually. One tray for each foot. We're both vegetarians, so we decided to make a stand together."

"How very noble of you," Giselle drawls. I can tell she doesn't believe me, but it doesn't seem like she cares enough to call me out on it.

"What about you?" I ask, desperate to turn the conversation away from myself.

"Oh, me? My story isn't very exciting. Maria caught me smoking a cigarette behind the garden shed." Giselle shrugs lazily. "It's fine. At least I can smoke in peace here."

Just like that, she wiggles a magenta lighter and a single cigarette out of the pocket of her jeans shorts. She sticks the white cylinder between her lips and lights it like a 1920's debutante.

Matt stares at the cigarette wistfully. "Care to share?"

Giselle inhales deeply. "No," she says, blowing the smoke in his face.

"Fine. I don't need your shit anyways, I've got my own stuff."

Giselle reaches into her pocket again. This time, she pulls out a small plastic baggie stuffed with what looks like... dried lettuce? "My stuff now," she teases.

Matt does a double-take. "How— what—?"

"Before I got caught and sent to Lightlake, I was making ten grand a year off of pick-pocketing," Giselle explains. She flashes us both a mischievous grin. "I've got the quickest fingers south of the Mason Dixon line. Ask anybody." She tosses the baggie back to Matt, who catches it with fumbling hands. "You can keep your weed. It's probably shit anyways."

"It is not shit! Also— don't pick-pocket me again!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Giselle replies sweetly. She points at my right shoe, and my heart skips a beat. "Your laces are untied."