Page 1 of The Games We Play

PROLOGUE

SEAMUS

17 Years Old

“Sea-ma…Sea-mass Matthews.” I roll my eyes hearing the overly dramatic pronunciation of my completely butchered name, just like it has been my entire life.

I don’t mind my name, until someone new tries to say it.

“It’s pronounced ‘Shay-muss’,” I reply slowly to the camp counselor with the least amount of disdain in my voice as possible. I’m not trying to get on their shit list the first day.

“Hmm, okay, Seamus.” Saying it correctly but snarky as hell. She hands me a red name tag that says,Hello My Name is,printed out with my first name written in black Sharpie underneath.

“Put this on and head over in that line for a lice check. You’ll get your cabin assignment after the health check is complete.”

My eyes shift in the direction she pointed, seeing another line of campers waiting. One person stands in front of a counselor who is filling out a form on a clipboard, while another gets their hair sorted by what looks like apopsicle stick.

A lice check?

I understand why my mom wanted me to come here this summer, but I hate it.

Most kids go to summer camp to enjoy the experience, make friends, and break up their summer routine—not to hide away from life at home.

In her eyes, putting me in here for two weeks out of the summer is better than spending it at home with a father who spends half his day drinking, and the other half telling you how worthless you are.

He’s gotten worse this past year.

She’s right by saying that. Except the truth is, he’s gotten worse with me as I’ve gotten older.

But, the way I see it, at least he takes less out on her.

And that’s worth it for me.

I’ve never been to a summer camp before, but it’s clear as I look around the room at the lines of people that everyone else here has.

There are others around my age and some younger, I think around twelve or thirteen, all lingering around with their over-sized backpacks, sleeping bags, and suitcases, caught up in conversations with each other. Some of them are running to each other, jumping up and down while screaming and hugging.

I suppose they only get to see each other this one time in the year, and it’s a very happy event for them. Not awkward like mine.

I make my way through to the front of the line. The clipboard counselor asks me a few questions, checking off a few items on her form, then directs me over to the lady wearing plastic latex gloves as she grabs another popsicle stick out of a plastic bin.

I sit down, removing my baseball cap as my dark hair flops down over my forehead.

I didn’t have a chance to get it cut before I left, but I’ve also been intentionally growing it out this year.

It doesn’t go past my ears, but it’s long enough that the strands fall over my face, making it feel like a barrier from me and, well, everyone else that I have no desire talking to.

“You’re clear,” Latex Glove Lady says gruffly, as she tosses the wooden stick in the metal bin at her feet, making a ping sound echo through the room.

Standing, I slide my hat back on over my head and grab my backpack, placing the strap over my shoulder.

There are two guys standing at the front of the line talking to each other. One stops as he looks at my name tag, back up at my face, then down again. He taps the arm of his friend and pats his own name tag while popping his chin up at me.

I look down to inspect myself, when he says, “Semun, your name isactuallySemun?”

There’s a mix of a snicker and a snort before they both burst out in exaggerated laughter.

My backpack strap is covering a portion of the last letter, and the front of the tag is bunched together, removing the “A” from the middle, completely messing up the print.

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