Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (11 page)

“What was that,” TJ asked, still not looking at me.

“My stomach,” I said, “I must be hungry.”

But it wasn't a hungry noise at all. It was desire—what Delilah Rogers called longing. I knew I'd love kissing TJ before I even got to do it. I wanted to live inside his mouth, even at thirteen, just crawl inside a molar and stay. I held back though, just brushed my lips against his, the way it happens when you're kissing someone for the first time. He looked at me then and held up the Joker.

“This it, Bee?”

“Yes,” I lied. “That's the one.”

“He's a wonderful kisser,” I told Cambridge now, knowing it was true. “Gentle.”

Cambridge stared at the photo. “Gentle is good.”

When she stepped on my mattress to climb up to her bunk, she mumbled an apology. Once she was up there I tried asking her about where she'd gone and what the campus looked like at night and what it was like kissing a boy like Tampa Bay, but she changed the subject, letting it go at, “It feels good to do something I wouldn't normally do. You won't tell anyone, will you?” She shifted in her bed. “Everyone thinks I'm perfect.”

From our respective bunks, we chatted until eventually the conversation shifted to food because, surprise, it always did. If you were stranded on an island and could only eat one kind of food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Liliana, who turned out to not be sleeping at all, would say, “Chocolate.”

“Frappuccinos with extra whipped cream,” Cambridge added.

“Chinese food. Duh.”

But what if you had a choice between the man of your dreams and the meal of your dreams. What if you were going to die the very next day? These dilemmas went on and on, until Hollywood, who never bothered to knock, slithered in.

“I really think you should go to bed now, Baltimore,” she instructed. “The Forgiveness Diet says that the teenager needs at least nine hours of sleep and the overweight ones need even more. If I were you I'd aim for twelve hours.”

By now it was week two, and I wanted to poison her. I really did. “Well maybe you should stop waking me up at five every morning and let me sleep.”

“Fat chance,” she replied, sniveling. “You need a wake-up call more than anyone.”

Cambridge and Liliana, who positively lettered in insults, launched them at Hollywood like missiles.

“Hollywood, isn't there a parade somewhere requiring rain? Some toddler's Halloween candy in need of razorblades?” Liliana would ask her. While I seethed in my bed, thinking of brilliant comebacks later, Cambridge had an entire arsenal ready for deployment. She whipped them out until Hollywood left, yelling after her, “Watch out for flying houses! Wouldn't want them landing on your implants, now would you?”

19

GAINING ACCESS

TWO WEEKS LATER, and I still hadn't received any replies from The Forgiveness Diet. I was beginning to think I had been right all along. It really was a scam. Sure everyone was on it and losing weight. Obviously the campers were into it, but even the CUPids were toting around little fishbowls forgiving-off their college students fifteen. Lord knew I didn't feel any lighter but, according to scientists, miracles can happen. So I waited some more.

No mail from Jackie. Nothing from TJ. Neither of them were writer types so I wasn't exactly surprised. I did get e-mails from my mom asking me how things were going. What was I supposed to say? Love it here, Mom. Thanks for forcing me into fat camp. This is a dream come true! She did say she missed me, but I doubted it.

Just as my fatcampsucks-o-meter was in overdrive, something good happened. We were preparing for our Ultimate Water Challenge when I spotted a flat gold card sticking out of Miss Marcia's pocket. Thinking it was an American Express, I could hardly stand my luck. While our counselor splashed around in the pool, calorie-reducingly, I decided to investigate. As I got closer to her shorts, now piled in a heap on the grass, I saw the word “Mailroom” written in Sharpie marker along the card's edge.
Close enough
, I thought. I pretended to stretch deeeeeeeply before jumping into the pool. I leaned right over and snatched the key. I stuffed it in my towel and vowed to give it back later.

Later turned out to be never.

They doled out mail like our food, with stinginess and caution. We'd only received letters once when Miss Marcia shoved them under our doors during a scheduled fifteen minutes of “down time.” I got a philosophical card from my mom complete with setting sun image and lame bullshit about inspiration vs. perspiration. Cambridge received notes from her private school, but still nothing from her dad. Liliana didn't get a single letter, even though Gabe said their mother was sending them. Either way, it seemed illogical that twenty-five girls away from home hadn't received more mail. I had a feeling Belinda and Hank were stashing it somewhere. And I was right.

The mailroom turned out to be the Chemistry Department's teaching assistant's headquarters located in the MontClaire Annex, a portable tacked on to the backside of our MontClaire Hall. Inside were a few rows of cubicles and a long wall of inboxes. Next to names of future chemists were slots with camper names scrawled on masking tape. I was a bit surprised to see a padded envelope angled in my box. Inside was a note from my mom written on Zyprexa Pharmaceuticals stationary.

Bee~ This came today. Typical Dick. Late again. ~Mom.

Looky here
, I thought.
A present from Richard Goodman, aka my father. And wow! Only eight weeks late this year. A new record.

Dear Bee: Sorry this is so late, but I wanted to wait for the latest model. Your mom told me you love to read and I thought you'd enjoy one of these new e-readers. Happy 17
^th
! Dad

I decided to play “How many insulting things I can find in one note.”

First clue, I'm only sixteen.

Great. An e-reader. Too bad it didn't come with a side of fries.

Moving on.

I wasn't surprised to see Hollywood's (aka Amber S. Gold's) box full. I was, however, a teensy bit amazed when I found a lonely piece of chocolate tucked inside a letter. It melted under my tongue bitterly as I read a note in slanted handwriting. Daddy Dearest must have been in a hurry.
Shhhhhh
, it read
. I'm missing my princess. How is it there? Are you making progress?
His address was 3206 Canyon View Drive, Hollywood Hills, CA 90210.

Then there was Liliana. Her mom wrapped up sugar-free chocolate wafers and diabetic hard candies.
Your quinceanera, mija, is more than a year away. Certainly one candy won't hurt.
Atlanta (Parker Mendell) didn't have any food, but her letters were sliced open and dubious sentences had been highlighted:
We tried calling, but ….

No one's mailbox rivaled Cambridge's. Cardboard boxes and pastel envelopes overflowed out of the slot and into one of those giant mail-hauling bins beneath it. Gifts were piled high; glittery cards with the words
I'm sorry
,
Please Open
were scattered about. Looking at all those packages and envelopes and goodies, I could hardly believe it. Utopia wasn't just holding our mail—they were hiding it. Intercepting it. Granted the parents probably should not have been smuggling in food. So much food. Bad food. But still.

Re: The Food.

What I said to myself:

Do not even think about the crunchy caramel corn with almonds. Forget the chocolate-covered coffee beans. Pay no attention to the fancy crackers and cheese.

Avoid bliss. Deny rapture. Instead note the other items of importance in the room: The scale living next to a ficus plant in the corner. Next to a copy machine. Note a tall filing cabinet.

File cabinet duly noted.

I rattled the file cabinet that first night, completely expecting it to be locked, or to have those red laser beams criss-crossing inside. Not even. The drawer pulled out a bit noisily, but easily, and inside all our files sat. The exact same files Miss Marcia toted around and made notes all over.

That first night I told myself I wouldn't eat anyone's food—except Hollywood's. I sat next to the file cabinet on the floor eating the dark chocolate our team captain's father had sent. I also said I wouldn't read anyone's file even though the drawer yawned open torturously. I was very righteous about it.
No
, I thought,
you are not this cunning, Bethany. Or this nosy. This is absolutely none of your business and this food is not even yours.
That's what my brain said. And I actually listened to it for once. I walked back to our dorm room with my e-reader and pretended everything was fine. I had just felt like stretching my legs. My roommates didn't buy it. Since when do I elect to exercise? But I wasn't sure if I could trust either of them yet. I felt fairly confident that Cambridge would be cool, but you can never be too careful.

Predictably, though, the third night I found myself in the mailroom I'd read everyone's file and downed about half of the care packages. My brain said:

Do not eat this gorgeous peanut butter cup, Bethany.

Ignore its scalloped edges. Bypass the Wheat Thins. Just say no. Get yourself some water.

Only fourteen hours 'til breakfast. Remember TJ. Remember The Forgiveness Diet …

But then the voice got real quiet. This might have been due to the fact it was drowned out by the sound of my own crunching. A more intelligent person would have listened to her brain. I knew I should've, I just didn't. I like to eat. I love to eat. I'm embarrassed by this, which, for whatever reason, makes me hungrier. You try rattling a package of Sno-Caps in the face of hunger. Let me know what happens.

Next were the files. They were more addicting than the sweets. Well, as addicting. On each application parents had to write why their kid needed fat camp, then the camper had to write why they thought they needed to go. Tampa Bay's parents wrote,
We need Simon out of the house for at least eight weeks, as we are divorcing. He is also overweight. This will kill two birds with one stone.
Simon wrote,
I need to be better at ball.

Hollywood's dad wrote,
Though I maintain some serious reservations about sending my daughter to Utopia, she needs help. She says she's better, but I'm not sure. She needs to learn how to eat again, in a healthy manner. I'm confident in your reputation as well as mine that these concerns will be addressed.
Amber Gold wrote,
I want to be a size 2. Pleeeeaaaassssseee.
Think of the PR!

Utopia required campers to send a picture, so in everyone's file a photograph was paper-clipped to the inside flap. Hollywood stood on a wooden pier—the ocean rolling out behind her. Her hair was down and wind-blown, natch, but the sexy surfer guy, who stood next to her, didn't seem to care. Hollywood was looking down at her bare feet, her palm covering her eyes, trying to talk the person out of taking the picture.
Not now
, I could practically hear her.
Not wearing this.
Her shirt was folded into a halter—its bottom tucked through the neck. Her belly pushed out a little.

In the other files, most campers stood outside a McMansion, smiling aquafreshingly. Some were by a pool. Cambridge did look just about perfect in her private school's navy blue jacket with gold-threaded lettering. She wore equestrian pants, a riding cap, a crop by her side. Someone had printed
Tabitha and Ace 2013
on the bottom. Who was Ace? I looked behind Cambridge toward the multicolored leaves and saw, in the background, a giant white horse. Cambridge had a frickin' horse? Liliana's picture, though, took the cake. She stood outside her brother's truck in the craziest outfit I'd ever seen—a short denim skirt with rainbow feathers—
feathers!—
sewn across the bottom. Her bangs were dyed a ballpoint red and her dizzy black and white socks stretched to her thighs. She was positively adorable. Hanging out the truck's window, just barely noticeable, was Gabe—saluting the camera with his middle finger. No doubt that brother of hers was a troublemaker. He wasn't bad looking, though, and in a parallel universe where I didn't happen to be in love with a magician in Baltimore, I might have even called him cute.

On
my
application, my mom wrote,
This picture should speak for itself.
In the place where I'm supposed to write, she did loopy handwriting that didn't look like mine at all. It read,
To attend Camp Utopia would be a dream come true.
In my photograph, I stood next to Jackie outside our row house. Doug had taken the picture last spring.

“Look pretty,” he'd said, “if you can.”

Miss Marcia made little notes on my file:
Motivation? Anger? Only .8 loss!!!!
Then yesterday, under comments, she wrote:
Funny.

20

CRABBY WITHOUT YOU

SATURDAY NIGHT. DAY fifteen of fat camp. Day five of Operation Mail-Snatch. When I walked into the mailroom, I noticed a postcard slanted in my slot. Figuring it was from my mom, I let it rest there and inspected the other campers' mail. A few cheesy letters from Hollywood's dad alongside a DVD set of last season's
American Envy
. A few more packages had been added to Cambridge's storehouse including a sign that read,
I'm sorry,
made entirely from chocolate -covered espresso beans.

Finally I made my way back to the postcard in my slot. On the front was a fake-looking red crab, Baltimore city towering behind it, and the words: “I'm Crabby Without You” on the bottom. I flipped it over:
Big Bee—You skinny yet? JK
.
I'm guessing they nabbed your phone. There has been much progress on my levitation. I passed the AE prelims in B'more last week
.
I'm going to AE NYC tryouts next Friday. Do they let you watch TV there? I'm hoping I make the cut. My dad is even praying for me LMFAO! I've been thinking about the smack that went down between us, it's all good, Bee. I hope you forgave me. Did the diet work??? Love, TJ