Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (33 page)

Learning on the shore was much easier than practice in the water. We sat in those boats, packed like sardines, and agreed that even though he was gorgeous, Courtney had to die. Rowing a boat was simply not what you'd expect. It was really fricking hard. Calluses surfaced on our hands. Splinters stuck between our fingers.

After the two-hour “lesson” provided by Courtney (now called wanker) and another two hours on the water, we finally made it across the lake. We were supposed to row
back
to the boathouse, but that was not about to happen. Leaving those minions of hell behind us, we staggered on legs that shimmied like mousse, past Olive's drug-growing dormitory, past Copernicus. I tried not to think about any of the memories I had there, but failed miserably. To add insult to my injuries, when Gabe visited our window later that night, he only wanted to talk to his sister.

“He'll get over it,” Liliana told me again after her brother wheeled off. Because of the rowing pain, we rubbed Bengay on our muscles. Our room smelled like a geriatric ward. “He likes you too much to stay away.”

I didn't really believe her, but I tried to put it out of my mind. Just like I had to stow Chinese food, Milk Duds, Red Bulls, gingerbread lattes, macaroni, and everything else I missed, I had to pack away Gabe too. I stuffed him next to Cambridge in one of those magician boxes and threw away the key.

I decided I'd keep myself busy speed walking to breakfast, paddling a boat to the point of exhaustion, and smearing Bengay on my muscles at night. I also began planning diabetic meals swiped from Liliana's hospital pamphlets. I scavenged for recipes on the Internet. A med student measured Liliana's blood sugar religiously. I gave up vending machines. I quit soda completely. Not once did I step on a scale.

61

REUNION

IF YOU WANT to know the truth, power walking to breakfast soon became the easiest part of our day. Crew left us breathless, wasted, but you couldn't deny the results. We'd been doing it about five days when Liliana demanded, “Look at my butt!
¡Miras!
Does it look different to you because it feels different to me. Firmer, no?” Oddly enough her butt
did
look different, better. Maybe those lines in my legs were calf muscles? Then, one morning after our omelets, Miss Marcia dropped a bomb. She announced that in spite of the fact that we only had a few weeks left of camp, Utopia would be getting a new camper. Everyone looked around anxiously. Why would anyone join fat camp
now
?

Miss Marcia continued, “And because we have one crew team with only four members, we figured a new Utopian would even things out.” Since I happened to be a member of that crew, I felt a bit relieved.
Let's hope this new girl knows her way around a lake.

“Does she even know how to row?” Hollywood asked.

Miss Marcia smiled big in her neon-green bikini. “Actually,” our counselor started, “our new camper is a champion crew woman.”

I felt giddy. A champion? That meant she was fast! And capable! We could row this lake in minutes!

Miss Marcia cleared her throat. “She went to a prestigious boarding school back East and managed to maintain a 4.2 GPA all the while preserving a coveted oarswoman spot on the Mermaidens, a highly ranked New England team. In fact,
Who's Crew
wrote an article about her.”

Well bring her out
, we all thought impatiently.
Make this girl the coxswain!
Miss
Marcia waved at the boathouse and about twenty other campers nearly fell off the picnic tables when the three-time rowing champion turned out to be Tabitha Calliope Nelson.

Cambridge (
Cambridge!
) walked out of the boathouse in her navy-blue bathing suit, dragging a scull behind her. Head down and determined, her dreadlocks captured in a rubber band, she looked nothing shy of an athlete. With a signal from Miss Marcia, Cambridge ran right past us, out into the water, and lifted herself up in the boat so artfully, we all gasped. She grabbed hold of the oars and rowed into the lake like some goddamn poetry. It was a beautiful sight, so natural and graceful she looked. Even though she was heavy, she seemed comfortably suited to the boat, the oars almost an extension of her arms. In the time it took for us campers to accumulate fifty splinters and row twenty feet, Cambridge had oared to the footbridge and back. Tampa Bay ran straight out into the water to greet her. She walked right past him, though, toward me.

“Is there anything you can't do?” I asked her.

“Drive a car,” she countered and pulled me into a hug.

Around us the other campers prepared the boats for crew.

“Is it true?” I asked her. “Are you really a camper again?”

Cambridge nodded her head. “I've been staying with Olive, and I can't take one more minute of the rock-'n'-roll lifestyle. Too many brownies. Too many cigarettes and check this out.” She turned around and I saw a very new-looking tattoo: a tree branch that curved upward toward her shoulder blades. One spindly branch climbed up to her neck and, just beneath her hair, a white cocoon dangled with an iridescent butterfly wing pushing out of it.

I traced it with my finger. Parts of it were still red and puffy. “When will she finish it?” Only the bottom half of the butterfly wing had been inked in turquoise and yellow.

“I think I might keep it this way. It reminds me that nothing's ever perfect.”

Typical Cambridge. Always viewing imperfections as accomplishments. After I examined her tattoo, she examined me. She scanned my bedazzled shorts and frumpy black hoodie. She pulled one of her dreadlocks.

“I heard you whooped Hollywood's ass. You're quite the fighter.”

I shrugged. “Who knew, right?”

“I did.” She looked down at her bare feet. “Well, I had a feeling anyway,” she said. “Remember when you knocked out Gabe?”

I felt a little sad when I heard his name. “Yeah.”

Changing the subject, I offered, “We changed some stuff around here too. No more weigh days. And Sundays are free. You can eat whatever you want.” I didn't mean to sound so desperately happy, but come on, I missed her. Liliana had returned safely. Even Hollywood had demolished a scale. But Cambridge? She belonged here. Not at Utopia necessarily, but with me. We rolled like that.

She extracted her old keycard from her pocket. “I kept my keycard the whole time,” she said. “I guess I always knew you'd go back, which meant I'd go back.”

I held out my hand to her. “We have the omelet chef every other morning. You can even have seconds.” I wiggled my fingers. “There's an espresso machine too,” I sang out enticingly.

With that, she dropped her hand in mine. And that was how Cambridge came back into my life. Easily. Like she was meant to be there because—hello?—she was. We walked right over to the boat that already held Liliana, Hollywood, and Tampa Bay. She rowed across the lake again, not even breaking a sweat. Now, I realized, we were a crew. Finally, our team was complete.

62

A PROUD SPONSOR

NOW MANY OF us gathered in the common room waiting for the show to start. Centered on my lap was a gigantic bowl of popcorn misted with—because it was Sunday—light butter. As I prepared myself to see TJ's national television debut, Cambridge, who sat on my left, warned me not to freak out and Liliana, on my right, told me to go right ahead.

I'd been thinking about it all day. How exactly do you mentally prepare to see your first love on
American Envy
? I had no idea. All I knew was I wanted the show to start right now while, at the same time, wished the season would get canceled.
Envy
didn't start until eight, but by seven, I'd claimed my spot in front of the TV in the common room. By seven thirty, I broke out in a cold sweat, and by seven forty-five, I worried I might pass out. Today was Sunday, our second official unweighed weigh day and since its new season began tonight, Belinda and Hank decided an
American Envy
party would be a good way to commemorate the evening.

The common room was unusually quiet. I sat on the sofa between Liliana and Cambridge, the other campers dispersed around the carpet and chairs. An irritating scratching sound rose up, and Liliana elbowed me. “I told you he'd be back. The cause of the sound had been a certain skateboarder ollying around MontClaire Hall's common room. Gabe jumped off the board and flopped on Liliana's lap. “Move over,” he said.

“Plant your butt cheeks on someone else,
'mano
. Bethany's boyfriend's about to be on TV.”

Cambridge moved over and patted the sofa. “Here,” she said. “There's room.”

I waited for Gabe to say something insulting, or apologetic, or even ordinary, but he didn't. Instead we watched the Aluma Wallet commercial like we hadn't seen it three hundred times before. Then, as soon as the commercial ended, the screen went black. It was time
for American Envy.

DO YOU NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT?

Jesus Christ
, I thought.
Not this again.

HAVE YOU TRIED EVERY DIET AND FAILED?

I did not want to watch this commercial right now. At fat camp. In front of everyone. I heard Cambridge's gentle laugh followed by, “Is this the one your dad recommended?”

I ignored her. A more awkward moment never existed. I tried to tune out the lady in the giant sunhat sipping her drink. I tried to ignore the overflowing forgiveness buckets and prismatic scraps of paper. I even tried to ignore the 1-800 number that flashed below Michael Osbourne. Instead I waited for Gabe to nudge me, as TJ had, to tell me to give it a try. I waited for the campers to boast of their success. But Gabe didn't nudge me, and none of the campers bragged about their weight loss on the forgiveness plan. Instead we all watched the infomercial with the same eyes we'd always had only, for some reason, we saw it differently this time. The stupid surfer looked orange with his spray-on tan. The music seemed artificial. Even the voice sounded computer enhanced. I couldn't help but think of Michael Osbourne's e-mail too and his own weight loss story—how he'd lost two hundred pounds over four years and how it had been a journey with mistakes, just as mine would be. And how he'd said forgiveness came at the end of the journey, not the beginning. That's what I was thinking about as the surfer (an actor no doubt) swam out into the ocean and the lady twirled in her gold bikini.

YES, the voice intoned, IT'S ABOUT FORGIVENESS.

Nobody said anything during the commercial, which was way too long and ridiculously cheesy. Not one of us wrote down the number either. But by the end of it, Gabe leaned into me. Our outer thighs pressed into each other's.

63

DOVES

ON THE TV, Timothy Tinsel fiddled with his earpiece. “Welcome to season five. I'm Timothy Tinsel, host of
American Envy
.” The generic pop music twitted and stills of the three judges appeared: Apple Bitterstein crying over a cat whisperer in season two; Eugene Gold smirking at tap dancers in season three; Tyra Lyra Stevens swooning as a singer serenaded her. In seconds, we were back with Timothy. “Let's give our viewers at home a peek at the talented and the not-so-talented our producers uncovered this summer.”

Footage of contortionists and rappers montaged across the screen. I refused to be distracted. Everything about Utopia, MontClaire Hall, and California disintegrated. “We are down to twenty of the most promising stars in America. They are with us tonight. And guess what?” He pointed a finger at the camera. “You'll meet them when we get back.” I wanted to reach into the guts of the television and speed things up. Beside me, Gabe sat perfectly still. I chewed my popcorn thoughtfully and tried to pretend these were normal circumstances. In no time we were back with Tinsel. The show contained a lot of fluff, and I think we were getting a little impatient. Finally dead last in the lineup, TJ walked out on stage rocking a tuxedo like he had invented it.

My heart stopped.

“My name is Toby Jacobson and I'm from Baltimore, Maryland.”

“How old are you Toby?” asked Apple Bitterstein, lips like cloud puffs.

“I'll be nineteen in October.”

Halloween
, I thought.

“Well you're certainly dressed to impress,” said Tyra Lyra, practically drooling.

Rumor had it she dated contestants. “So tell us, Mr. Jacobson, why do you think you'll be
American Envy's
next winner?”

Black-Conversed, clean-shaven TJ, his hat dipped down over one eye and his skinny tie arranged perfectly, was flawless. Back at Utopia, I sweated like a farm animal and tried to remember to breathe. On that Los Angeles stage, there was not even a kink in TJ's voice.

“I used to live in Las Vegas. My dad was a Blackjack dealer at Monte Carlo, so we saw shows for free. I saw David Copperfield when I was four and learned how to palm objects at five. I knew I'd become a magician. Even when my father gave up Vegas for Baltimore and Blackjack for Jesus, I kept on with magic.” He cleared his throat. “I did my card tricks on my friend, Bethany. I studied Yigal Mesika, Dan Sperry, Paul Vigil, David Blaine, Criss Angel, and Copperfield. Any chance I got, I saw them perform. I incorporated doves four years ago and when someone stole them last year, I almost gave up.” My hands shook when he mentioned the birds. “They came back though,” he said, and from his sleeve the two creamy doves erupted in the air.

Eugene Gold, the meanest judge, leaned forward. “We've seen your impressive work with coins and cards. You wowed our producers in Baltimore, but you aren't in Baltimore anymore.” He cracked his knuckles and folded his hands on the judges' table. “There are only twenty left, Mr. Jacobson. What do you have that they don't?”

From his other sleeve, TJ plucked out a feather. He flicked it in the air then blew underneath it.
Not that one
, I thought. He'd pretend to swallow the feather then blow it out his ear. He needed more than elementary school tricks for these judges. Much to my surprise, though, TJ had enhanced the sleight because when the camera panned the auditorium, about a million feathers, white and silky, rained down. He must've rigged the ceiling somehow. Feathers billowed on folding seats and aisles, an endless supply.