ONE
Caleb

“Let me guess,” I yelled. “First time on a Zodiac?”

The girl hanging over the side of the boat looked up at me and grimaced, her face as gray-green as the waves. Round cheeks, streaked with mascara and snot. Smeared dark lipstick. Bloodshot brown eyes. The rest of her was covered in the orange flotation suit we’d all had to put on for the hour-long trip to the island. Fifteen minutes in and she was a goner.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. I could barely hear her over the roar of the engine. “Not good with boats.”

“No shit,” I said. “Word of advice—check which way the wind is blowing next time you hurl. Blowback is a bitch.”

She groaned and retched again. I moved away from her, distancing myself from the possibility of flying puke.

Ordinarily I liked being out on the water. Not that day. It was the first day of a week-long sentence, not just for me but for the other seven misfits on the Zodiac. Four girls and three guys—and me. Stuck on a remote island for a week with three adults, one of whom was on the Zodiac with us—though not, I noticed, wearing an orange suit. His name was Warren, and he was an ex-cop, not a counselor. He had told us he was going to be our boot-camp guy, responsible for, as he put it, pushing us beyond our perceived limits.

Warren had a shaved head, a lot of tatts (one of them said Sweat + Sacrifice = Success) and really impressive biceps. I figured that was why he was wearing the muscle shirt despite the cold wind. I’d already seen some of the girls checking him out, although he had to be at least thirty-five. He and his wife, Claire, ran INTRO, In Nature to Renew Ourselves, a program for “at-risk” teens. I hadn’t met Claire yet, but according to the INTRO brochure she had a PhD in psychology: Doctor Claire Addison. She and another counselor were already on the island, waiting for us. There was an older guy on the boat too, standing next to Warren. He was at least fifty, dressed in filthy jeans, a grubby gray T-shirt and a battered ballcap that read Smile if you’re not wearing underwear. His purpose on the boat seemed to be limited to driving, smoking and leering at the girls. No way was he an INTRO counselor.

One of the girls, a tiny blond with glasses and a way-too-big flotation suit, staggered forward from where she had been sitting. I think she was trying to get away from the puker too, but Zodiacs aren’t exactly a smooth ride, especially when there’s chop. It didn’t help that we were going pretty fast. Everybody except me, the puker and now this girl was huddled on the benches, not speaking, even when Warren yelled, “Isn’t this great, kids?” as the Zodiac slammed into another wave.

The blond girl lost her balance and stumbled right into me. I grabbed on to her, and she stiffened, pulling away from me before she’d even regained her footing.

“Well, this sucks,” she said.

“Which part?”

She gave me a sideways look. “All of it. The boat, the boot-camp guy, INTRO—the whole thing. It’s bullshit.” She scowled at me as if I was the one who had signed her up, then glanced over at the puker. “At least I’m not doing that,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought Imogen would be the one to lose her lunch.”

When I lifted an eyebrow, the blond girl said, “She seems pretty tough. At least, from what she told me on the bus coming up here. I can tell you where all her piercings are, if you like.”

It was my turn to grimace. “No thanks,” I said. Warren had given us strict instructions not to ask our fellow prisoners what crime they were in for—some crap about respecting personal boundaries—but I couldn’t help wondering why she had been sent to INTRO, since she hardly looked like an “at-risk” teen. More like your average suburban high school girl, someone whose biggest problem is not being good at math.

“I’m Caleb,” I said.

“Alice.” She narrowed her eyes. “You look like a rugby player.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment.

I nodded. “Rugby, soccer, basketball, baseball.”

“What? No tennis? No golf?”

What was her problem? “Who can afford that? What about you?” She didn’t look athletic, not even in a tiny-gymnast way. More nerdy, really. A miniature nerd with a bad attitude.

“Team sports?” She shook her head. “I peaked in second grade, when my friend Janna and I won the three-legged race. It was all downhill from there.”

I laughed despite my irritation. “What about the other inmates? Know anything about them?”

She nodded. “Imogen’s met one of the guys before—Jason, the short guy with curly hair. Apparently he got caught ‘in the commission of a B and E.’ First offense, so this is his best option. The rest of them—no idea. What about you? What are you in for?”

She looked up at me, her eyes obscured by the salt spray on her glasses and the hair whipping across her face.

“Didn’t you hear what Warren said?” I asked. “Boundaries.”

“Oh, so we can talk about everyone else, just not you?”

I shrugged.

“Boundaries,” she said dismissively. “Like that’s gonna last. By the end of tomorrow, we’ll know all about each other. For sure. What stupid crimes we’re supposed to have committed, why we’ve been sent here.”

I shrugged again, and she continued. “So let’s at least make this boat ride interesting. What do you think he’s in for?” She pointed at a guy sitting near the bow of the boat. The girl sitting next to him was obviously trying to ignore him, even when he yelled, “Whale!” Everybody else leaped up off their benches, raced over to one side of the boat and peered where he was pointing. The Zodiac hit a bigger-than-average wave, and one of the girls had to grab a rope to keep from being tossed overboard.

“Sit down!” Warren bellowed. “That was a log, not a whale! Endangering your fellow campers is not a good start to the trip, Chad. We’ll talk about this later.”

Chad smirked and said, “Looked like a whale to me” before he sat down, brushing his long stringy hair out of his eyes. The girl next to him got up and moved to another bench, and Alice asked, “So what do you think? Drugs, alcohol, assault, vandalism, grand theft auto, resisting arrest, reckless endangerment?”

I thought for a minute. “Is stupidity a crime?”

Alice laughed. “It should be, but there’s no island big enough for all the stupid people.” She nodded in Chad’s direction. “I bet he’s a dealer. Low level. Weed. Got caught selling to middle-schoolers.”

I looked over at Chad again. “Seems about right. Chronic stoner. Thinks he’s smarter than he is.”

“You pick someone,” Alice said. “What about her?” She jerked her head toward the girl who had moved away from Chad. She was tall and very thin, with long dark hair streaked with blue. I could only see her profile—large beaky nose, downturned mouth, pale skin with a strawberry birthmark on her jawline.

“Doesn’t look like the criminal type. I’ll go with depressed and suicidal with a side of anxiety.” The minute I said it, I felt bad. The girl looked lonely and sad, which was probably appropriate under the circumstances. I felt a bit that way myself.

“And that guy, the one in the red tuque?” Alice said. “I think he runs a brothel out of his parents’ basement, catering to teen guys who can’t get laid. He got caught when he tried to pimp out his little sister to her school principal’s son.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I said. The tuque guy looked like a regular guy to me. Good-looking, I guess, in a boy-band kind of way, but definitely not a criminal mastermind.

“Overactive imagination,” Alice said. “And my mom’s a cop, so I hear a lot. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff she has to deal with.”

I didn’t like cops. They never helped my mom after Barry used her as a punching bag. And they came down on me hard when I finally stepped up and turned the tables on the prick. Like I didn’t have any reason to beat the crap out of him after all the times he hit my mom. But the way the cops (and Barry) saw it, I was a danger—not just to Barry, but to society. They kept me locked up for two days because Mom was too busy tending to Barry’s broken nose and his fractured arm to come and bail me out.

When she finally did, she would barely speak to me. And then she made this deal with the cops—it was called diversion—because it was my first offense: I could go to INTRO rather than enter the justice system and maybe end up with a record. Like Alice, I thought the whole INTRO thing was bullshit, including the name. As acronyms go, it was pretty pathetic.

“Time for one more,” Alice said, nudging me with her elbow and nodding toward a girl who was trying to get cozy with Warren. Even from a distance I could see that she was wearing heavy eyeliner, false eyelashes and bright-pink lip gloss. Her gigantic hoop earrings flashed in the sun as she threw her head back and laughed at something Warren was saying. Her hair was long and shiny and an unlikely shade of red—somewhere between candy apple and pumpkin. It clashed with her flotation suit, which she had unzipped partway to reveal some impressive cleavage.

“One of Mr. Tuque’s girls?” I said. “Or maybe an underage drag queen?”

“Or both,” Alice said. “I can’t wait to find out!” She turned to me. “So that leaves you. And me. Let me guess. You got caught selling steroids to your teammates on the football team. Or maybe you had a bad case of ’roid rage and attacked a referee.”

I’m used to people thinking I’m a big dumb jock. I mean, that’s what I look like, but I had hoped Alice was smarter than that. Turned out she was just like everyone else.

“Yeah, you got me,” I said. “So what’s your deal? Since we’re judging by appearances, I’d have to say anorexic. Or possibly alcoholic. Which is it?”

“At least I’m not brain-damaged from too many concussions,” Alice snapped. “Asshole.” And with that she lurched off to join Imogen, who had finally stopped puking and was hunched miserably on a bench. They turned their backs on me, leaving me to enjoy the scenery, which now included a solitary island—spiky green trees, rocky shore, a small dock with a flagpole. Red letters on a yellow flag spelled INTRO. Warren yelled, “Land ho!” as we neared the dock, in case we hadn’t figured out this was our destination.

As we came closer I could see two figures on the dock. One was a short curvy brunette in tight jeans, a red-and-yellow INTRO T-shirt and gigantic movie-star sunglasses. The other was a slight, balding dude with wire-rimmed glasses. All his clothes looked brand-new—Gore-Tex jacket, khaki cargo pants, Keen sandals with thick gray socks. Pretty sure the great outdoors wasn’t his natural habitat. He almost fell off the dock trying to help Warren and the old guy secure the Zodiac.

“Take off your flotation suits and then go and introduce yourselves to Claire and Rahim,” Warren said. “And don’t forget your stuff. Anything left behind becomes Del’s property.”

The guy in the stupid ballcap—Del, obviously—added, “So if you don’t want me wearing your boxers or bras, don’t leave ’em behind!”

“His Zodiac, his rules,” Warren said, laughing. He punched Del in the shoulder. “Del’s a local up in these parts. He takes all our campers to and from the island. Been doing it since we started. Our freezer at the camp? Chock full of crab and shrimp he’s caught. You guys behave yourselves, maybe we’ll have a seafood feast one of these nights.”

Warren clapped all the guys on the back as we staggered off the boat. He kept his hands off the girls, I noticed, although the girl with the big earrings asked him to help her onto the dock. He refused. “First step in your therapy—rely on yourself. You can do whatever you set your mind to, Mandy.”

Mandy glared at him and stumbled off the boat, dragging a gigantic purple duffel bag behind her. I heard her mutter, “Screw you” as she staggered up the dock toward Claire and Rahim. Once we were all on dry land, Del fired up the Zodiac and took off, yelling, “See ya in a week, losers!”

Definitely not counselor material.

TWO
Caleb

I’d only ever seen receiving lines in movies, but that’s what it was like on the dock—after we shed our survival suits, we lined up to shake hands, first with Claire, then with Rahim, as if they were royalty and we were their humble servants. Claire was young—late-twenties maybe—and attractive. Her handshake was brisk and dry; she looked each of us in the eye, repeated our names and told us to call her Claire. Rahim used two soft, damp hands to clasp each camper’s hand. He was young-ish too—under thirty, I guessed, despite the receding hairline. “You can talk to me about anything,” he murmured as we passed by. Or “I’m so glad to share your journey with you.” I didn’t know what to say—I wasn’t planning to talk to him about anything—so I just said, “Thanks, man,” and moved up the little ramp to the island.

Above the dock was a narrow path leading to an open grassy area. In the clearing stood a rustic wooden building. Paths led into the woods, where I could see three smaller cabins and a couple of dilapitated sheds. A rocky beach was on my right—a slope of gray pebbles, strewn with driftwood, the long, smooth logs bleached white as bones. Two kayaks—one yellow, one red, the only splashes of color—were pulled up on the beach, above the high-tide line.

Warren bounded ahead of the group and announced, “See this path?” He stamped one heavy-booted foot against the hard-packed dirt. “We’re going to clear one just like it all the way to the other side of the island! The first step toward finding balance is to connect with your physical self. I’m gonna push you pretty hard. But you know what they say: Pain is just weakness leaving your body! Now follow me.” He grinned and charged up the path. We straggled behind like ducklings, with Claire and Rahim herding us along. I considered grabbing a kayak and making a run for it—a paddle for it, really—but I knew I wouldn’t get far.

“On your far right is the girls’ dorm,” Warren said as we neared the clearing. “Far left is the guys’. And that’s the way it stays.” He stopped suddenly and turned to face us. “Am I clear?”

We murmured our assent (although I thought I heard Chad snort and mutter, “As if”), and Warren continued with the guided tour. “Staff cabin next to the guys’ cabin, mess hall next to the girls’. We’re off the grid here—solar power, composting toilets, limited water supply, so no long showers, people. Not that you’ll want to, since there’s no hot water in your cabins. Only in the kitchen.”

He laughed, and Claire took over. “Why don’t you go and drop off your gear and meet us at the mess hall in fifteen minutes for an orientation session?”

As we plodded off to our cabins, all I could think was, Please God, no bunk beds. Chad was right behind me as I opened the door. “Dibs on this one,” he said, pushing past me and throwing himself on the bed nearest the door.

The windows were small and high, making the interior of the cabin unnecessarily dark. I squinted into the gloom, waiting for my eyes to adjust. There were four beds, each one made up with gray blankets bearing the red-and-yellow INTRO logo. I chose the bed farthest from Chad’s, although it wasn’t far enough. The whole cabin smelled dank and sour, and the air felt too still. I sat down on the edge of my bed and wondered how many other people had slept in it.

The curly-haired guy tossed his bag on the bed next to mine. “I’m Jason,” he said, extending his hand. “Breaking and entering. Extenuating circumstances. You?”

He had a trace of an accent—Scottish or Irish maybe. “Caleb,” I replied. “Assault. Abusive stepdad.”

“Cool.” He stuck his thumbs through his belt loops and jerked his chin toward Chad, who appeared to have fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. “That’s Chad. He sold some weed to a cop. He’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal.”

“I heard that, dude,” Chad mumbled. “Makes me hungry.”

The final addition to our cabin was Tuque Guy. He stumbled into the room, pulling a wheeled blue suitcase behind him. We watched him in silence as he parked his suitcase next to the only remaining empty bed and said, “I’m Nick. And this…well, it’s not exactly the Ritz, is it? I think I could renew myself”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“more effectively if there was, like, a gym. And a TV. And…well. Just saying.”

He gestured at the roughhewn cedar walls, the burlap curtains, the thrift-shop lamps. I laughed, and we introduced ourselves.

“What are you in for, Nick?” Jason asked.

“Oh, you know. This and that.” Nick rolled his eyes. “My parents want to, you know, toughen me up. So here I am. Ready to lock and load. Rock and roll. Whatever.”

“You guys got any food?” Chad sat up and yawned.

“Nope,” Jason said. “Try the mess hall.”

“Dude, I have no idea what that is,” Chad said, absently scratching his balls. I had a feeling Chad did a lot of things absently.

Nick sighed. “Haven’t you ever seen Star Trek? It’s where you go to eat.”

“What?” Chad said. “There are mess halls on Star Trek?”

“It’s next to the girls’ cabin,” Jason said. “There’s food.”

“Girls and food. Two of my favorite things.” Chad stood up and strolled out the door.

Nick and Jason and I followed him after a few minutes. The door to the staff cabin was shut when we walked by, and I wondered if Warren and Claire and Rahim all shared one room, like we did. Awkward. There was a collection of shells on the steps, but otherwise it looked like our cabin: wilderness institutional and run-down. The mess-hall doors were wide open, and the girls and Chad were gathered around one of the dark wooden tables, eating what turned out to be cut-up fruit (the apples were already turning brown) and some kind of healthy cookie that probably tasted like sweetened cardboard. Jugs of juice sat next to an assortment of mismatched mugs. I felt like I was in preschool again.

Claire clapped her hands at the front of the room. “Choose a mug. It’ll be yours for the week. Keep it clean and don’t lose it.”

I grabbed a blue mug that said Every day is a second chance.

“This blows,” said Chad, picking up a purple mug and reading out, “Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do. What does that even mean?”

I looked over at Alice, who was trying to choose between a white mug (When opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door) and a green one (Every accomplishment starts with the decision to try). I could think of a few slogans that’d suit her better.

By the time we all had our mugs (Nick and Imogen almost came to blows over an orange one that said Go the extra mile), Warren and Rahim had joined Claire. She clapped her hands again, and Warren boomed, “Sit down, people. Orientation starts now. And enjoy those afternoon snacks—they’re the last food we’re going to prepare for you!”

Claire held up a large piece of paper. “This is the kitchen roster. Breakfast is served at seven, lunch is at noon, dinner at five. You will work in teams of two. Be prepared to be in the kitchen”—she gestured to the far end of the mess hall—“at least one hour before serving time. Menus have been set already. None of the food is complicated. All you have to do is work together and serve your fellow campers and the three of us.”

“And don’t forget the cleanup, Claire,” Warren added. “Leave the kitchen spick-and-span for the next guys.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Jason said in my ear.

Before I could reply, Rahim said, “I know it sounds like a lot, but kitchen duty can be fun. You get a chance to make a new friend, and you have the satisfaction of providing nourishment for the other campers. Sound good?”

A few people groaned, and Claire clapped her hands again. “Time to pair up,” she said. “Line your mugs up on the table so they make a rainbow. White mug on the left, black on the right.”

The tall girl (she had a black mug with the words Know thyself on it) put her mug down on the table and said, “White, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, black.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper—as if she was too timid to take up any space in the world. My mom was like that, but in her case I knew why—Barry. We arranged the mugs in the correct order, and then Claire said, “Red and white, orange and yellow, green and blue, purple and black. Grab your mugs and say hello to your co-chefs, everybody.”

Contents

SATURDAY

ONE
Caleb

TWO
Caleb

Contents

SATURDAY

ONE Caleb

TWO Caleb

ONE
Caleb

TWO
Caleb