The Dysfunctionals

According to Google Maps, Ellerslie Lake is precisely two-hundred and fifteen kilometres away from my house. To get there, it takes exactly two hours and twenty-two minutes. But Google Maps doesn’t account for two emergency bathroom breaks, missing the exit off of the highway, and Nathan forcing Elliot to pull over so he can take a picture of a moose that’s grazing on the side of the road. Including those variables, Lake Ellerslie is approximately two-hundred and fifty kilometres away from my house, and three hours.

It’s a relief to arrive at the lake lot. I’ve never been so happy to be in the middle of nowhere.

The patch of land reserved for our camper is not quite big enough to be considered medium sized. It’s a skinny rectangle, with a dusty gravel road at front, a sandy coast at the end, and rows of mature pine trees on the parallel sides.

Halfway through setting up camp, I find myself wandering down the lot toward the lake. The sloshing water is clouded and grey, mimicking the sky. It’s probably freezing cold, so I settle for kicking off my shoes and curling my toes into the lumpy sand. A few loose weeds poke against my skin.

“This is such a shitty camp,” A voices says behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Finn, but I do anyway. He’s approaching me, doing that awkward walk that one does when heading down a slight slope.

Hastily, I run my eyes over his athletic build, his short cropped hair, before turning back to the water. “But if you close your eyes it sounds kind of like Hawaii.”

He stops beside me and glances out in the same direction. His hands rest on his hips, and I’m acutely aware of his right elbow and how it juts out to be positioned behind my back. Internally, I’m shouting at myself. I’m hollering, Are you insane? Why are you becoming so obsessed? This is nothing but a child-like crush. Get over it. You’re just gonna fuck yourself over. Because even when I’ve shown interest in boys before, I’ve never lost my cool.

My name is Olivia Sullivan, the independent friend.

The worst part is the fascination. That I’m always considering what a stupid boy is doing before I choose what I want to do. Like I’m giving pieces of myself to someone who doesn’t want them. I hate myself for having the option to step sideways and increase the space between us, but not doing it.

And it’s Finn, for God’s sake. We’ve been friends for years. Why is this happening now, with barely a month before our high school graduation?

“We need a camp name,” I say to break the silence.
Finn’s brows raise in amusement. “A camp name?” He’s smirking as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “What do you suggest?”

“Camp Wow-I-hope-it-doesn’t-rain.”

“Camp Is-this-sand-or-concrete?” He retorts.

I press my bottom lip between my teeth. It’s a bad habit. I only do it when I’m thinking or concentrating. During my grade eleven math final, I bit so hard that the skin tore. “Camp Camp.”

“That’s a good one.”

Without thinking, I snatch a thin piece of driftwood from off the ground, ignoring the splinter I instantly lodges into my index finger, and skip closer to the water. Roughly, I etch the title into the sand as well as I can. After completing my masterpiece, I forcefully drive the wood into the earth. And I’m giggling and Finn is smiling. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. My heart leaps.

Then, we’re quiet again. All I can hear is the splashing of the water and how it contrasts with the pulse thudding in my ears. A nippy breeze is sliding over my skin, so I fold my arms over chest, clutching my baggy sweater sleeves in my palms.

I’m trying to figure out if it’s an awkward silence or a comfortable one, when Finn clears his throat. “I wonder if they’ve finished setting up.”

An awkward silence. It was definitely an awkward silence.

With the previous moment gone, I sigh, “Maybe,” before turning to trudge back to the camper, nodding at Finn to follow.