I check my phone, hoping Sunny’s called. She hasn’t. It’s already eleven. She’s probably out with Patch McBushman and the gang.

The connection is in and out, but I manage to get on Instagram. While I wait for it to load, I stare at the wooden slats of the bunk above me. We decided it’d be best if I didn’t sleep on the top, in case I ended up being too heavy. Nothing says shitty camping experience like being crushed by a bunkmate in the middle of the night. It happened back in high school during one of my summer hockey camps. Carved into the wood are names. Some are tagged with “waz here” and other say “+ so-and-so” but there’s a name instead of so-and-so.

The first girl I ever groped I met at hockey camp the first year I was a junior counselor. My buckteeth—thanks to my thumb-sucking as a kid—were finally en route to being fixed. And by kid I mean ten years old, still trying to break the habit. I started after my mom died, according to my dad. I didn’t do sleepovers with friends because there was a damn good chance I would wake up with my thumb in my mouth. It was fucking embarrassing.

Anyway, this girl was dorky, but she was amazing at hockey, and she had great legs, so I liked her. We were walking from the lake to the mess hall, and she pulled me off the trail, behind some big evergreens. Then she laid one on me, just crushed her mouth against mine and rammed her tongue right in there.

I didn’t know what to do. Well, that’s not true. I’d watched enough movies and checked out the magazines my dad had hidden in his workshop to understand the mechanics, but she took me by surprise. When I recovered from the shock I full-on groped her and kissed her back.

It was close to dark, and the mosquitoes were terrible. I was covered in bites when we came back out five minutes later. It was worth it, since I managed to go right past first base and directly to second. Sadly, I found out later that night that Slutty Shellie—that was her nickname, not created by me—had kissed almost every single junior counselor in the camp. At least I got in the extra boob grope.

I imagine the number of guys she made out with might have been a bit of an exaggeration. Either way, it took some of the shine off the moment.

I think about that Michael kid, and how his future is up in the air. If treatment doesn’t work, he might never have the chance to get past first base. All those experiences, the good and the bad, will only ever be ideas in his head. Sometimes the world sucks.

My phone vibrates with an alert. There are new pictures. Some are posted by Patchy Bushman, but there are also a few from Lily and two new ones from Sunny. They were all added a few minutes ago. In one, Bushman has his arm around Sunny’s shoulder, his hand perilously close to her boob. It’s a selfie. They’re holding up bottles of beer. Bushman is staring right at her while she looks at the camera. In another, posted by Sunny, she’s in the middle of a Lily-and-Bushman sandwich. They’re, hugging her from either side. He’s not groping her, but it doesn’t seem particularly innocent, either.

At first glance she looks happy, but upon closer inspection her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are blotchy. I can’t tell if it’s the quality of the picture or not. Still, they’re smiling, and I’m not there to stop whatever might happen later in the night. And she hasn’t bothered to call me.

My phone rings. It’s not Sunny; it’s Violet.

I don’t have a chance to say a word before she yells, “Why are your disfigured balls all over the Internet?”

I’m going to drown Randy in the lake when I find him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ALWAYS WITH THE OVERSHARE

I roll off my bunk and limp-run to the porch so I can get some privacy.

I go with the most logical reaction. Denial. “What are you talking about?”

“Your inflated balls are everywhere, clogging up my feeds.”

The next step is deflection. “How would you know it’s my balls, unless you’ve been looking at that naked spread I did a couple of years ago? It’s okay, Vi. You can tell me.” I never did a naked spread. I was asked; my agent thought it best not to go there.

“You’re the most disgusting person in the entire world, Buck. Seriously. I’m going to assume they’re yours because you were tagged. Plus the shrinky-dink seems about the right size for you.”

“My balls are swollen. It makes my dick look way smaller than it is.”

“So it is a picture of your dick!”

“I didn’t say that!” Shit. I hate it when Violet gets up to her trickery.

“Yes, you did!”

“Didn’t.”

“Di—I’m not playing this game with you. It’s your dick. I recognize the shorts. You wore them the last time I saw you, jerkface. What I want to know is how and why it ended up all over social media. You’re supposed to be at a camp, not flashing your balls all over the place. Plus there’s another picture of you in the same damn shorts with a Sunny look-a-like hanging off you. She’s been posting the picture everywhere, which wouldn’t be so bad if the one of your damn balls wasn’t right beside it. You better not be messing around on Sunny. Alex won’t have to kick your ass. I will!”

“Hold on.”

“Don’t tell me to hold on—”

I take the phone away from my ear. I can still hear her giving me shit as I type in a search of my name + dick. The first link is a medical site with the picture Randy took, along with the question. “What kind of spider bite causes this sort of swelling?”