Dave stands and stretches and then sits back closer to me. He’s done that about five times and I work out there’s only one stretch till there’s no air between us. I’ve got stars in my blood, burning light under my skin.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I say, and he stands before I’ve finished my sentence. We walk close; there’s almost nothing between us. Our torches throw light ahead but we’re in shadows behind them. Dave’s the smell of oil and grass and the sound of cracking sticks. I’m stumbling breath.

There’s one small light on over the toilet block. He shuffles underneath it. “Can you find your way back?” he asks.

“I’ll follow the markers Rose left. Snakes sleep at night, yeah?”

“Of course,” he says, and I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or lying to make me feel better.

I’m quick because of the possible snakes and because I think that when I get back I might sit that last stretch closer. I might actually get some of the things I’m wanting. A summer of Dave, of swimming at the river, of going to the falls, of kissing.

I stop for a minute in the trees at the edge of our camp so I can take in the sounds and write about them later. Cicadas and mosquitoes. Night birds. Water not far away. Luke and Rose and Dave laughing.

The name Dorkin stops me like a bullet. It sinks past my clothes and into my chest. It’s Luke who sings it, but I don’t care about him. I care about Rose laughing. “She’ll be back soon,” Dave says, and that hurts more than Luke and Rose put together. She. He didn’t even use my name.

I stand in the cold, the twigs scratching at my legs. I stand there going over the day at the falls and how he danced with me and how he talked to my grandpa, and none of it makes sense. Why would a guy do all of that and then laugh behind my back? Unless it was a joke. I imagine what Louise would say. I mean, why else would a guy not make a move when he’s in your bedroom, Charlie? Hello. Wake up.

I’m awake. I’m wide awake. Who does something like this to someone? “Charlie, are you lost?” Dave calls through the trees. “Follow the markers Rose left.” I don’t move. Those markers don’t lead anywhere I want to go.

When I’m playing the guitar, my hands move by instinct. I don’t think about chord changes or whether I can make them fast enough. I just do it. My instinct’s telling me to walk out of here tonight. It’s telling me to stop at the camp for a second. Long enough to say, You’re all dickheads. Long enough to look Rose Butler in the eyes and tell her she’s a bitch.

But it’s dark and I won’t find my way to the road on my own. So I stay where I am until Dave’s footsteps come toward me. I let him lead me back to the others. “I didn’t notice I was lost till it was too late,” I say.

For the rest of the night, Dave passes me marshmallows. There’s no fire but they’re ash in my mouth. Every time they laugh, I hear my name: Charlie Dorkin. Rose’s eyes are hidden by shadow, but I imagine they’re mean now, like thick lemon skin, bright as the sun but sour underneath.

“Night, Charlie,” Rose says. Luke makes a sign with his hands and my face burns. I watch as they disappear into one tent. No one talked about where we’d sleep. I thought Rose and I would share. So this is why they asked me. The last part of the plan is for Dave to make me feel like a complete idiot. There are idiots here, but I’m not one of them.

I wrap my jumper tight around me and move away from him. We sit like that for a long time, not saying anything. He looks confused but I don’t explain. Work it out for yourself, wanker.

“I’m going to sleep,” Dave says eventually. “Here.” He throws his jacket beside me. “If you’re sitting up, you’ll need this.”

I stare at my hands until I hear the tent flap zip. I wait until the cold sinks into me and settles for the night. I wait until I think Dave will be asleep and then I slip into the sleeping bag next to him. I concentrate on being still as the sides of the tent breathe in and out around us.

“Is something wrong?” Dave’s voice runs down my arms and fingers. His breath smells of marshmallows and chips and oil and grass and waiting. Waiting for someone who’s mine. This isn’t real, though. Dave doesn’t like me. There’s no point in thinking about his breath. That breath is not for me. His bird tattoo is not for me, either, or his jokes or his half-dancing ways.

“I didn’t know about the tents,” he says. “I didn’t plan anything.”

It finally starts to rain, soft trails of water running down the canvas. “‘Storm’ is a funny word,” he says, but I pretend to be asleep. I really wish I had my guitar. I don’t want to sing to Dave. I want to smash him over the head with it.

A Slightly Longer Wanting Song

It’s just a slightly longer wanting song
It still won’t take me all that long
Just long enough to say
How much I’m wishing for
Just a little more
Than what I wished that song before