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picture of her holding the phone a small distance from her mouth, flicking the edges of her Hello Kitty decals. Chloe started dishing about some guy and my eyes roved to the camp photos on Neville’s walls. In one frame there were two pictures. The first was the human pyramid from the camp program. The second was of the campers clowning around pre-assembly. I spotted Craig, standing back-to-back with a hot guy. They were clearly the comedy duo, arms folded, smart-ass smiles. I stepped in closer, and almost gasped. Craig’s hot friend was Dylan, the Wheelchair Boy. He had the same silver cross, but other than that he could have been a different person. His hair was short. His body was fit. He was tanned and his face was non-puffy. He looked directly at the camera with an expression that was rambunctious and joyous and self-satisfied all at once. He had presence, but more than that, he had Stature.
“Are you listening to me?” Chloe asked.
“I’d better go.”
“My friend, my friend …”
I hung up, feeling weird. Chloe seemed a long way away.
Chloe’s moniker for me came from an Anne Sexton poem that Sky, our patchouli lit teacher, was obsessed with. Chloe could never remember the next line, but I knew it by heart: My friend, my friend, I was born doing reference work in sin, and born confessing it. The poem was about a cross Anne Sexton’s friend had given her to wear—and she’d worn it, but it hadn’t helped. I could see Sky now, leaning on her desk, lowering her silver reading glasses to show us her moist eyes as she repeated the kicker. Need is not quite belief .
Anne Sexton had been through some things and committed suicide. I guessed Dylan had been through some things, too—but he was still here and still wearing his cross. I wondered if he’d ever taken it off.

10
Bad-Weird and Jesus-Freaky
The mess hall was alive with noise and clatter, with tables set out in ascending rows from Mallee to Bronzewing to Honeyeater. The counselors’ table was on a small platform under a mural of the Last Supper. It was so obviously painted by kids: the disciples all had bug eyes and wonky smiles, and for some reason, Jesus had a ponytail.
I headed straight for the food line. Dinner was lasagna, dry as a nun’s knickers and probably just as tasty. While I struggled to identify the vegetarian option, I could feel eyes on me. It was Olive, the girl I’d saved from the psycho-tweenies. She stood behind the counter in an apron, beaming. “Special domestic duties,” I thought. “Huh.”
Olive said, “Take the lasagna. Trust me. You don’t want the lentil casserole.”
I held my tray out and watched her put a supersized serving onto it. She followed it up with a big slice of cheesecake. She leaned in. “Anything you need, come see me.” I looked down at my loaded tray. It couldn’t hurt to have a friend in the kitchen.
At the Honeyeaters’ table I tried to ignore the tragic palette of older teens. The order went: Richard, Ethan, and the twins (Lisa and Laura or Laura and Lisa; they were indistinguishable) on one side, Fleur, Bird, Sarita, and me on the other. There were empty chairs at the head and foot, presumably for Craig and Dylan. Last I’d seen of Dylan, he was still parked on the rec room stage watching the centipede of legs rush for the mess hall. I didn’t know where Craig was. I had Utopia open on the table in front of me like a shield. I ate quickly and eavesdropped on the insane ramblings of zealots.
“What’s a shroud?” Ethan wanted to know.
Richard spoke with authority. “You know, like the Shroud of Turin.”
“Huh?”
“A miracle .” Richard was clearly a Man of Knowledge. “Did you hear about that grilled cheese sandwich that looked like the Virgin Mary and sold on eBay for thousands of dollars?”
“What?”
“Believe it,” Richard said. “The lady who sold it said it never went moldy and it gave her good luck. She had it for years.”
Ethan asked, “Do you think it works,