Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (28 page)

“I was his girl,” I told my dad now. “Or so I thought.”

Was it completely inappropriate to be telling this story to my dad? Probably. But it had to be told, and I guess he was destined to hear it. He lifted rice in and out of his bowl like his life depended on it. He concentrated more on the task than my face. If he looked directly at me, I'm not sure I could've gone on.

“When you say he seemed resigned,” he gently reminded me, “what did he do next?”

What happened afterward was that TJ lay on top of me and traced his fingertips on my stomach, which was still blubbery, yes, but less blubbery. Then he fumbled with my green bra and mentioned how he could get out of a straitjacket, but couldn't unhook a bra. So I led his hands to the front, because it was one of the front clasps, and unsnapped it. My face grew hot just remembering it. I didn't tell my father how as TJ kissed my breasts, caressed them, my only thought was,
This must never stop
. Left out all those details, obviously, especially the part about how when TJ looped his thumbs around my underwear, I thought:
This is it. I'm ready.
I knew it'd be TJ I'd give myself to eventually. Of course I'd never have imagined the six shots of cranberry vodka beforehand, but my dad didn't need to know that either. Just like he didn't need to know that when I told TJ I loved him, confessed that I'd always loved him, it'd been an accident. The words had edged up my throat and parachuted out before I could stop them. I'd never said the words to anyone.
Never.
Not even my mom. Not my sister. Never my dad. Of course once TJ'd heard them, he recoiled as if he'd been punched in the face.

I looked at my father. “I accidentally told him I loved him.”

“Accidentally?”

“Then TJ stopped and said, ‘I can't do this.' ”

He tilted his head. “He stopped?”

My chin trembled. Then tears flooded my eyes. “He found me too repulsive.” A busser slapped a pyramid of dishes into a gray bucket. “He touches dirty coins and stupid birds and sticky kids. But not me. I was too gross. Too fat.”

“Well,” said my father. He chose his words carefully. “Maybe he wasn't ready or he was afraid he'd disappoint you.”

I clarified. “No, we never even got that far. He said … well …he wasn't feeling it. You know. Down there.”

Did everyone just get really quiet?

“He's how old?” asked my dad. “TJ? When this happened?” His face, I could see now, was as red as the velvet walls.

“Seventeen,” I said through tears.

“You say this boy loves you? Or used to?”

“I don't know,” I cried. Releasing my secret in the middle of a Chinese restaurant suddenly seemed like a dumb idea. “All the times you hear about the awful things boys do to girls but it was me.” My voice was definitely too loud. “I wanted it. I wanted him. Only he didn't want me.

“After our attempt, TJ pushed off me and gathered my dingy dress. He offered to walk me home, but I refused. After dry heaving in the bushes, I went back to my house and woke Jackie who said, ‘Try again in another twenty pounds.' ” I cut the dress into pieces and tossed them in the garbage. I made a sundae. Then an omelet. I ate and ate and ate. Then I ate some more. I swore you could hear my stomach stretching. The next morning TJ ran into my house. I thought at first he was going to apologize, to tell me he'd made a mistake. But it was the doves. Someone had stolen them. TJ showed me their cage outside, door flung open and everything. He dragged me all around Baltimore, far into Towson, Harford County too, hanging flyers. We posted ads on Craigslist. We never talked about anything again. The doves eventually came back. Just like my weight.”

My dad sprinkled dried noodles into his soup. “Have you considered that TJ might be gay? I mean statistically magicians, um ...”

I shook my head. “Impossible. TJ's dad would disown him if he thought was gay.”

“All the more reason to keep it a secret, yes?”

He stirred his soup and continued. “Supposing he is gay, it doesn't make what happened that night any easier, does it?” He slid a plate of spareribs to me, but I couldn't eat. “You can't make people love you, Bethany. Sounds basic, but most of life's lessons are. I mean, if he didn't like you heavier, then losing weight probably wouldn't change it.” Tears skidded down my cheeks faster than I could catch them. “There's always a person who can break your heart and will. Then there's the person who every one meets, usually when they least expect it. That's the person who knows just how to break your heart, only they wouldn't dare.”

I nodded my head like what he said made sense, but it didn't. It all sounded like the crap on my mom's notepads. I guess he saw the doubt on my face, so he shut up. Then he reached into his pocket. When I first saw the handkerchief he'd pulled out, I thought it was a magic trick, one of those endless cords that kept untangling. Turned out to be a real one, though.

My dad said plainly, “TJ was a dumbass.”

I wiped my eyes on the handkerchief. “A dumbass for not sleeping with me?”

His face reddened. “Not for that. For letting you go. For not holding on. For watching the best thing that ever happened to him walk away.” He tossed me a fortune cookie. “That's why he's a dumbass. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I am too. For the same reasons.”

I still don't know whether it was the words of Confucius inside my cookie—Forget Injury, Never Forget Kindness—or it was the words of my dad. All I can say is that when I finished telling my story, the whole story, for the first time, I felt exactly like I had earlier on the lake. Not the moment the shoreline appeared far in the distance and I thought,
There's no way I can do it
. Not that moment. The one just before it. The moment I plunged the oars deep in the water and thought,
Well, who knows. Maybe I can. Maybe I can do anything.

50

SCHOOLED

BACK IN THE car, my entire body melted into the passenger seat like I'd just finished a triathlon. The college town now swarmed with students, who lounged at café tables, talking on their phones or reading on their e-readers. My dad wanted to see every inch of the place, so we toured bookstores and cafés. He bought shot glasses and sweatshirts and polymer pennants and key chains.

Finally, at a gas station on the outskirts of town, my dad threw the car keys at me. “I just thought of the greatest gift I could give you.”

“No more gifts. Really.”

Beneath the gas station lights, I noticed his head was badly sunburned. “Get out,” he said.

“What?”

“I'm serious, Bethany. Get out of the car.”

Somewhat reluctantly, I got out of the car.

“Now get in.”

I must have looked confused.

“Get in the driver's side, Bethany.”

“I can't.”

“Bethany Mitzi Goodman Stern, get in the damn car.”

I crawled onto the driver's seat, and he climbed onto the passenger seat.

“Good. Now turn the key.”

“But I'm not legal,” I said.

“Like I'm going to believe you are at all concerned with legalities.”

“But I don't know how to drive.”

“I'll teach you.”

“No,” I argued. Everything about the car felt wrong. I was so used to the other side of driving, the passenger side. The normal side. Here the steering wheel seemed intrusive and all these buttons? Did each one have a function? How was I supposed to find a proper radio station and drive at the same time? What's worse was this car was a manual transmission, which meant it had like eighty gears. “No,” I spat again.

“No?” my dad repeated, looking shocked. “Why not?”

“Because it's stupid,” I said, knowing I sounded like a five-year-old. “Because it's a stick shift.”

“I can teach you stick shift.”

“Because I'm afraid,” I admitted.

If you wanted to know the truth, the whole driving process kind of freaked me out. I marveled at how easily people took to it. Let's get behind the wheel of a three-ton machine and drive on roads with
thousands
of other people. What fun! Let's have faith that all three hundred million Americans will actually stop at a red octagon.

“First you turn the key,” said my father.

I put the key in the ignition and turned. Nothing happened.

“Rule Number One: You need to press the clutch in all the way in order for a manual transmission to start.”

“Oh.”

“No big deal. Try again.”

“So which one is the clutch?”

“Good question. Try each one. The one that works when you turn the key is the clutch.”

This was the way he taught—like someone who had spent way too much time in a classroom. Or a library. If the brake doesn't make you stop, then well, that isn't the brake. I started the car twice, but it seized every time I let off the clutch. On about the tenth time, I kept the engine idling. Progress.

“How do you turn on the headlights?”

“Try every switch.”

“Clearly those are the windshield wipers.”

“Clearly.”

“Is it always so jerky? So rocky?”

“In the beginning,” he said. “It always is in the beginning.”

I took to driving the way I took to every sport: awkwardly and with much hesitation. My dad wouldn't give up, though. Maybe he thought I was the next Danica Patrick. I'm sure all hopes were dashed when it took me
two hours
to circle the gas station. I only mistook the brake for the clutch about fifty times, but my teacher was patient.

“You,” he lied, “are a goddamned natural.”

I kept waiting for him to tell me, “That's enough for one day.” I kept waiting for the sigh, the hiss whenever the car bucked like a bronco, but he only said, “Gently, now.” I thought he was crazy when he suggested practicing more in the huge parking lot across from campus, but he was serious.

He never gripped his seat or pumped an imaginary brake like my mom whenever Jackie drove. He turned off the radio, told me to listen to the engine's RPMs. Feel the car. “No better place,” he said, “for learning to drive.”

I couldn't help but believe him. I mean teeter-tottering on the edge of the gas station, I had to cross two lanes of traffic in order to get to the parking lot across the street. My heart beat loudly in my ears.
Don't stall. Don't stall. Don't stall.
And when I did, students honked, cyclists screamed, but there was my dad beside me. “Screw them,” he said. “They should be grateful. Just look at this view.”

The town, all pink and white light, windy and cool, arranged itself before us. Eventually I found my footing and pitched the Fit forward into the parking lot, where we practiced until dusk.

“How about you drive me back to MontClaire?”

“Are you kidding?”

“You can do it.”

“I can't.”

“You can!”

“I can't!”

My dad, locked in some kind of standoff with me, finally relented. “We did a lot for a day,” he said. “That can be enough.” So we switched places, and I tried to observe everything he did on the way back. How artfully my father drove: avoiding pedestrians and dog walkers and scooters and people in wheelchairs and professors juggling papers, and boyfriends and girlfriends and freshmen and juniors and old people and fat people and daughters and fathers. He didn't drive too fast or too slow. He crested hills then switchbacked down the campus's frilly streets, in neutral, but not riding the brake. He dodged live squirrels and gum wrappers and even distracted savants who crossed the street before looking. Through all of it, I found that this was something I admired about him—how easily he drove. How unafraid of it he was.

When we arrived back at MontClaire Hall, it was evening. I sat in the car with my dad not wanting to turn the engine off, wanting him to keep going, to keep driving. “I'll come get you at seven tomorrow morning,” he said. “Pack up your stuff tonight, and say goodbye to everyone.” My dad reached across my lap. “And before I forget, I have something for you.” He opened the glove compartment. “Happy birthday.”

I touched the rectangle-shaped box. “A book, Dad. Really?” I was scared to open it and see the title:
How to Stop Being a Teenager.
Why Fat Girls Always Lose.
Don't Fall For A Magician.

“Not a book,” my dad disclosed.

I tore off the wrapping paper and was relieved to find a stationery set: little yellow envelopes and pale lilac paper, feathery pens and rubber stamps. “On the off chance you wanted to stay at Utopia,” my dad started, “I was hoping you'd write me letters. Old-fashioned letters. It's an artform, you know, and so many of your generation don't do it, but I like your letters. They sting like hell, but they're good. So good. ” He stopped. “But since you're leaving tomorrow, you can write letters to your friends— Cambridge and that guy, Gabe. I'm sure they'd appreciate that. Camp friendships often last a lifetime, you know.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping he was right.

I trekked back to MontClaire Hall, stationery secured under my arm, listening to my dad shift effortlessly from one gear to the next.

51

I'll WRITE

WALKING BACK TO MontClaire Hall, I planned my exit speech. It went a little something like this: “Later!” On second thought, maybe I'd opt for a more Cambridge route. Professional. Like, “I'm sorry, Hank and Belinda, but I decided against losing weight with this establishment. I'll be leaving in the morning and, in no time at all, this two-bit operation will be shut down.”

On the brief walk from the fountain to MontClaire Hall, I reveled in what felt like a small victory. I'd learned to drive and ditched Utopia all in the span of a day. And then I opened the door.

Inside MontClaire Hall, almost every single camper had gathered. Tampa Bay wearing his Miami Heat hat sat next to Atlanta and her Bumpit bouffant. The little campers, Chicago and Houston, were there. Even Gabe had made an appearance. There he stood by the rusty fan, crossing his arms, tapping his shoe on his skateboard. By the looks of him, he was pissed about something.