The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 20: Ronan

It's an admirable attempt at conversation, but I'm bored of making small talk with strangers. "Yes it is," I say shortly, hoping that James will get the message and leave me alone. It's not that I don't want to talk to him specifically; I'm just not in the mood to talk to anybody right now.

"Why aren't you two sitting together?"

I sigh. As much as I want to say to him, look, James, here's the point and here's you— do you see how much you missed it by?, I try to make an effort to be polite to him instead. He might be a bit too curious for my liking, but he hasn't been anything but friendly to me, and it's too early in the summer to be making uneccesary enemies. "We're not exactly on speaking terms," I tell him. "Didn't get off on the right foot."

I glance over at the other side of the camp fire, where Finn is busy arguing with some girl I haven't met before. I recognize her, though, from the description that Eric gave us at lunch yesterday— she's the girl who kicked over the chair at Sharing Circle. Interesting company, Murphy. I wonder if he realizes that he's playing with fire, or if he's totally oblivious to the fact. Knowing him, it's probably the latter.

"I feel you there," James says. "I don't dislike my roommate, but he can be a bit— much. His name is Daniel Bailey. He's sitting over there."

James points to a group of boys throwing small twigs into the fire. The ringleader, Daniel, seems to be having a very good time acting like an over-eager toddler, and whenever a stick gets thrown on the fire big enough to scare up some sparks he practically dissolves into hysterical laughter. It doesn't look like Owen has noticied the boys' "fire hazard" antics, but I'm sure that when he does, the aftershock won't be pretty.

Not my problem, I think, turning my back on the budding pyromaniacs. "I see you what you mean. Are you offering to make a trade?"

James laughs nervously. "I don't think we're allowed to trade roommates."

"I know. I'm just playing with you."

James raises his eyebrows at me. His hair is buzzed down almost to his scalp, but his eyebrows seem to be trying to make up for the scarcity— they're the kind of eyebrows you would see in a sunglasses catalog, bold and thick and perfectly even. I would say they look professionally done, but James doesn't strike me as the kind of person who goes to the spa. (Or maybe he does. Who am I to say.)

I feel myself squinting at James again. The camp fires throws off weird, wavering shadows, muddling his appearance; but I can still see that he has one of those faces that are perfectly symmetrical, frustratingly so. Everything lines up the way it's supposed to for him— I don't think he even has acne; his brown skin is way too smooth and clear. (In my opinion, having perfect skin, especially at a gross and dirty place like summer camp, should be illegal.)

"The bird seems to like you," James says.

I quickly shift my gaze to the ground, glad that James didn't notice me staring at him. The gray bird is only inches away from my feet now, staring up at me with beady, inquisitive eyes. It looks expectant.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any food for you," I say to the bird.

The bird chirps impatiently at me.

"I don't think you want any of the cafeteria food. It's probably not edible."

James chuckles. The bird twitters at me, almost like it's chastising me for my joke. Then it hops away in search of other campers to pester.

For some reason, the bird's pesky attitude makes me crack a smile. The gesture feels strained on my face. Like my mouth is trying to remember what muscles it needs to use. Now that I think about, this is the first time I've smiled since my night out with Jesse.