Jennifer Yu - Four Weeks, Five People

—Freeze. There are four shot glasses pushed into the back corner of the room, definitely unwashed. Pieces of paper that Ben and Mason had been scribbling on all night, now crumpled up on my desk. Somehow, Ben managed to forget his shoes in our room. It’s not even the clutter that gets to me, which isn’t as bad for me as people always think it is—it’s the fact that everything is wrong; the sense that that’s not where those things are supposed to be, not on the floor, not on my desk, no, no, no, and then I’m up and throwing away Ben’s nonsensical scribblings and putting Stella’s shot glasses back on her desk where they belong. Equally horrifying is the fact that it would have been this easy for us to get caught: the shot glasses are inconspicuous, sure, but all it would have taken was one careful walk through the room with a flashlight to notice them. And what if the counselors realized that the pair of flip-flops in the middle of the room wasn’t actually mine or Stella’s? //

By the time I’m done cleaning up yesterday’s mess, I barely have time to finish my morning routine before we’re supposed to go outside for breakfast. “You do this every morning?” Stella asks as I’m in the process of checking my covers for the fifth time. They haven’t moved at all since the last time I checked them, and I know that they haven’t, but I can’t rip myself away before I’ve made sure. “Do you really have to?” Stella says. “Like, what’s the worst thing that can happen if you don’t?” “Okay, first,” I say, spinning so that I’m facing her. I’m wasting precious time, I know, and Stella’s offhand remarks aren’t worth getting riled up over, but something about her tone—smug, more bemused than anything—really gets me going. //

“Yeah, I do this every morning, thanks for asking. And second, you’re being pretty rude, you know that? Believe me, I don’t want to be doing this any more than you want to be watching me doing it. But I just...have to.” I stare at her, defiant. This, I think, is exactly why I didn’t want to come to this stupid camp. It’s bad enough when it’s just my mom thinking that I’m a total nutcase. //

But Stella surprises me. “You’re right,” she says slowly, like she’s just coming to the realization for the first time as she says the words. “Sorry, Clarisa. And sorry again about not checking with you before inviting the guys over last night. I guess I just didn’t anticipate these things—you know—being...problems.” “Well, that’s me for you,” I say. “A barrelful of unanticipated problems.” //

“That’s not what I meant,” Stella says. But it is. Trust me, I’ve been in this situation enough times to know. “Yeah,” I mutter, and grab our room keys and a jacket from my closet. The bed is fine. The room is safe. I’m ready to go to breakfast. //

* * *

I don’t end up making it through very much of breakfast because Jessie comes up to our table pretty much the moment I’ve set my oatmeal down on the picnic table between Ben and Andrew and asks if she can see me in her office. It takes me approximately three seconds—between the time I finish processing her words and actually get up to follow her—to conclude that we’ve been caught, and that I am totally, totally doomed. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t smile at me a single time while we walk from the picnic tables outside to the counselors’ offices by The Hull. By the time Jessie clears her throat to start talking, I’ve come up with six ways to apologize for getting roped into Stella’s awful plan, all of which sound ridiculous. This is it. I am definitely getting kicked out. My stomach sinks as I imagine how disappointed my mom is going to be when she finds out that her latest plan to convert me into a normal human being, just like all the other ones, has crashed and burned. //

After a few seconds of torturous, torturous silence, Jessie finally speaks. “You started sertraline three weeks ago, correct?” she says. I stare at her for a second, unsure of how to answer. Is this a prelude to the inevitable lecture? Is she trying to terrify me before kicking me out? “Um,” I say. “Yes?” //

“Are you experiencing any negative side effects? Any difficulty sleeping? Changes in appetite? Increased feelings of depression or suicidal ideation?” she asks. “No,” I say. Jessie writes for a few seconds on the clipboard. I start to think that maybe I’m not totally busted, after all. //

“What about positive effects of the drug?” Jessie continues. “Decreased anxiety, easier time focusing...?” This is when I sort of start to hate this conversation. When I start to almost wish that we had been caught, and that Jessie was giving me some stern lecture about “trustworthiness” and “camp values” as opposed to asking me about whether or not my meds are finally, finally working. Because no, they’re not. And now I feel like I’m letting her down. “Not really,” I admit. //

“Well, it’s quite normal for sertraline to take four to six weeks to fully take effect, so I’m not too concerned yet,” Jessie says. “I’ll check in with you again in a couple of days and see if anything changes. In the meantime, please let me know if you start experiencing any new side effects. Is that clear?” “Yes,” I say. I resist the urge to apologize even though I know she doesn’t know that I’ve done anything wrong. Then, before she can tell me that my skirt is too short or try to fix my posture, I bolt for the door. //

When I get back to the picnic tables, most of the other fifty or so campers have come out and started eating. I make my way over to our table and slide back into my seat, only to find that my oatmeal has gone lukewarm and my biscuit has been colonized by a family of ants. “Lovely,” I mutter. I push the plate away and turn to Ben. “Do you know when we’re having lunch?” I ask. “Because I’m actually kind of hungry, and I can’t—Oh, jeez, are you okay?” //

Ben looks exhausted. Half-dead. Like a different person from last night, when he seemed, well, just as energetic and happy as you’d expect someone who had taken, like, four shots of vodka in quick succession to be. “I’m fine,” Ben says. He gets really into his scrambled eggs. “Did something...happen?” I ask. “I mean, last night, you seemed really happy, and now...” //

“I’m just an idiot,” Ben says. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t think there’s really anything anyone can do about that. So, I’m fine.” There’s a part of me that wants to push further, if only because now everyone at the table is staring at us. But then I remember how I felt yesterday in the car when Mom wouldn’t stop asking me how I was doing. And look how that turned out. So instead I say, “Okay,” and turn my gaze to the camp ground around us. //

As a permanent resident of New York City, where your line of sight extends approximately fifty feet without hitting a skyscraper or a wall of smog, I’m not used to how beautiful it is here—how clean the air, how far we can see. There are mountains rising and falling in the distance, gray and jagged against the light blue of the sky. We’re sitting at a cluster of picnic tables between the cabins and the volleyball court. On the other side, I can see all the way to the other side of the lake. The lake, the cabins, and the rec area are all situated in a field of grass that’s almost entirely enclosed by trees. Before I can stop myself, I’ve forgotten all about my cereal and started counting them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. //

My mind goes into autopilot: start, count, stop, repeat. 7, 7, 7, 7. A part of me thinks that I can somehow count all the trees that form our perimeter—if it’s not a safe number, will they let me cut a few down? I wonder. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—//