Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (14 page)

She left in a flurry, her blue dress ballooning out in all directions.

An autorecovery? What about autodelete? What about delinquent e-mail obliterator? Or a time machine? Autosave! What did she know anyway? Hippies—always looking for the silver lining.

I tried to calm myself. OK, I soothed. Richard Goodman aka my father only sent me e-mails once or twice a year. Maybe that meant he only checked his e-mail as often. He acted like the e-reader was a teleporter or some other sci-fi invention reserved for future generations; this meant he was more than likely technologically illiterate. Most old people were. He'd never see my e-mail. Straight into the SPAM folder, I'd bet. Pshew.

The clock in the computer lab had a loud tick—like the kind on a game show. It seemed bent on reminding me that it was only nine in the morning. Utopians were having “free time,” which meant engaging in sportlike activities that did not involve food. I thought of Hollywood twirling a jump rope, her full lips blowing a perfect egg of bubble gum, her breasts corralled in her Captain Thin shirt.
Not a chance
, I thought. I wasn't going anywhere.

Convinced my misfired e-mail slumbered in my father's SPAM folder, I surfed the Internet because, let's face it, I had no plans for the day. I Googled
American Envy
and checked Timothy Tinsel's season updates. He was quoted after a preliminary judging as saying, “I don't want to give anything away, but I am extremely excited about this season of
American Envy
. We found a promising magician who vanished during his act! We searched for ten whole minutes until finally he materialized in the audience applauding his own disappearance. There were also Siamese twins in Philadelphia who harmonized like angels. We cried just hearing them.”

I searched for clips on ViewTube, but only uncovered footage from outside the Baltimore
AE
preliminaries, a line of teenagers snaking all the way from the harbor to Timonium. I zoomed in close, but didn't see TJ. I would have given anything for just a glimpse of him then. I even used Google Earth's street viewer and honed in on his row house, wobbled the scene to his aluminum front door that screeched whenever the wind blew. If only Google Earth could have slinked up the stairs, the worn-out carpet, his family pictures lining the hallway, creaked open his bedroom door, and focused on TJ, reading Houdini's biography on his bed, his glasses (he hated that he needed them) positioned on his nose. But Google Earth couldn't do all that. No one could.

I read my horoscope, which predicted a happy ending to a “tempestuous” morning. I visited Delilah Rogers's blog where she promoted a new book and finally, I wound up at a magic eight ball site where I tossed my questions out to the universe.

Is Hollywood evil?

>>>>Favorable outcome.

Did my mail go to my dad's SPAM?

>>>>>>Unlikely prediction.

Does TJ love me?

>>>> Magic Eight Ball Must Rest.

Up yours, Magic 8 ball. You didn't read the postcard.

Eventually Google carried me back to Baltimore—back to TJ. I Google-Earthed the brick circles of Fells Point, the purple-cloaked Raven's stadium. The harbor was flecked with sailboats like marshmallows. I could nearly hear the metal trash cans scraping down Falls Road. If I thought it might've gotten me home, I would have clicked my own blistered heels together.

I wrote an e-mail to Olive, thanking her for listening to me. A few more students wandered into the lab. A few wandered out. Then I heard it. The bzzzmmp. An e-mail. Maybe it was The Forgiveness Diet people.

Or not.

From:
[email protected]

To: Bethany Stern

Subject: Re: re: Gift

Jesus Christ, Bethany. Where did that come from? Did you really write all that? Did your mom hack your account? IS THIS YOU, ELLEN? Jackie was pregnant? Bethany's at a fat camp? Who's Doug? Where's Utopia? What in God's name is going on?

Sweat drenched my back. I looked around for a trash can because I honestly thought I might puke. Richard Goodman, aka my father, read the e-mail. He got it. He got it. Thankfully, in the midst of puke-rising panic, I had an idea. In hindsight, it was a stupid idea, but someone with a better one didn't happen to be there.

From: Bethany Stern

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Please Ignore Emails from this Account

Dear Mr. Goodman,

Our records indicate that several unsuitable messages have been sent from camper accounts, this being one of thousands. If you have experienced any e-mails with questionable content, please disregard them. Please forgive us for any discomfort this may have caused. Our server was recently hacked by hackers from space.

Sincerely,

The staff

Given the circumstances, it wasn't half-bad. I mean computer glitches were blamed for 99% of the world's problems anyway. Accounts were always getting jacked with. Identities stolen. It was believable. Right?

From:
[email protected]

To: Bethany Stern

Subject: Re: Please Ignore Emails from This Account

Nice try, Bee. That letter was a little too personal for a hacker. And I don't think your mother would admit to the half of it. I see, however, your mother's been successful in poisoning you and your sister against me. I never FLUNKED OUT of optometry school, by the way. I DROPPED out. Your mother couldn't stand to be married to someone whose main ambition in life was to stamp dates on cards or direct researchers to the almanacs. It always had to be BIG and IMPRESSIVE with her and, let's not forget, PERFECT. Ashamed of you? She was ashamed of me. I could never provide her with the soccer mom fantasy and TALK SHOW life she was sure she deserved. Forget WATERCOLOR classes and mah-jongg lessons and synagogues off Stevenson Lane that we could never afford ...

Before I signed off, Wadooomp. Another e-mail.

From:
[email protected]

To: Bethany Stern

Subject: Re:Re: Please Ignore Emails from This Account

Bethany,

Forget I said that. Forget what I said about your mom. I'm sorry. Tell me everything that happened. Start at the beginning. Tell me about Jackie and Doug. Tell me about THE INCIDENT. Tell me about your forgiveness jar (ouch. Next year I'll get you a gift card). Please. I want to know everything.

I concentrated on the loud-ticking clock, focused my eyes on the lab attendant, the students next to me, the flickering fluorescent light bulbs, anywhere but the e-mail. Good God. Someone put in a call to FEMA because my life was nothing short of a natural disaster. And here's what's worse. Not that I'd just been knocked in the face with a cell phone. Not that I fell for an idiotic diet commercial, not even that my dad had just read my fire-breathing dragon of an e-mail. What's worse than all that was that it was only ten o'clock in the morning. The day was still impossibly young. I hadn't even had breakfast yet.

24

CARE PACKAGES

I KNEW UTOPIANS would be in the SUC (Student Union Complex) playing pool and video games like last Sunday afternoon, but it was still risky to be out where any camper or counselor could see me. Walking over to MontClaire, I'd aimed my eyes downward so intensely I nearly fell into the mermaid fountain when I passed it. Luckily, I arrived at the mailroom without incident and once inside, things looked quiet. I'd never been in there during the day, and now the sun slanted in the windows and dust motes swirled in front of the computers. Thankfully, the gifts and cards and food remained undisturbed in their slots. Only the scale had been returned to its rightful position by the plant. I made a beeline toward a candy-sized box, hoping to score my breakfast of champions, when, off to my right, a desk chair swiveled.

“I have been looking for you everywhere,” said Cambridge. She sat up straight, her legs crossed. “Liliana and I checked the nurse's office and the library too. I had a suspicion you'd be here, though.”

Cambridge sure looked natural behind that TA desk. The poster that claimed “Chemists Do It On The Table Periodically” and the Einstein bobbleheads all seemed to suit her. She only needed a lab coat.

“How did you get in here?” I asked, still shocked to see her.

She held up a keycard identical to the one in my pocket. “Tampa Bay swiped it off his counselor a few days ago.”

Because I still wasn't sure whose side she was on, I tried to play it off like I'd just stumbled upon the stacks of cards and gifts.

“Wow. Remember when I said they were stealing our mail?”

Cambridge laughed then sipped from a Dr. Pepper (non-diet) can. “I'd say that's affirmative.” Both of us surveyed the piles of loot scattered around the mailroom. I wondered how she managed to sit so close to her personal pile of gifts yet seemed so disinterested in them.

She pushed off the desk and spun her chair a bit. “So right after you left, Liliana cussed out Hollywood in Spanish. Called her a
pendeja
and some other stuff that involved her mother. I just thought that might make you feel better.”

“It doesn't make me feel any better. Sorry.”

OK, so maybe Cambridge had scored a point for tracking me down, but I wasn't about to forgive her stellar faux pas of ho-humming after Hollywood launched her phone. And even though it did make me feel slightly better knowing Liliana had my back, it didn't matter much considering she was only thirteen.

“Someone should have stopped Hollywood,” Cambridge said now, pulling her legs underneath her in what I now knew was a lotus pose. She wobbled a little on the TA's desk chair, spinning herself faster and faster. “I don't know why nobody did anything. I don't know why I didn't do anything. I should have and I'm sorry.”

I stared at my shoes so she couldn't see my tears. “I don't want to go back,” I said, my throat thick. “Utopia sucks.” Cambridge spun round and around, the chair edging closer to the cubicle's portable walls. Her hair whizzed out like fuzzy caterpillars.

“I can't say I blame you,” she said.

Finally she stopped spinning, and her hair beads clacked together noisily. “Whoa,” she said, looking a little dizzy. “So, Baltimore. What's your plan exactly?”

“I'm over Utopia. I'm going back to Baltimore.”

Cambridge cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“As soon as I find a phone, I'm calling TJ. He'll be here in five days. Four if he drives at warp speed.”

“What about in the meantime?” Cambridge asked. “Where will you stay? How will you eat?”

“I have other sources,” I stated matter-of-factly. I didn't tell her that my sources involved the Tabitha Calliope Nelson care packages overflowing to her left. “I won't starve,” I assured her. “Besides, I wouldn't worry about it. Just go back and tell Miss Marcia you never found me. Tell her you think I bled to death.”

She was quiet for a beat, and I figured she was performing the basic arithmetic it took to put together her opened care packages and my weight gain. She leaned back in the chair, laced her hands behind her head, and looked either deep in thought or utterly premenstrual. I figured she was pissed at me for eating her food. I should have exercised some self-control for once.

“I'm sorry I ate your care packages,” I started. “The crackers and marbled cheese. The Moose Crunch and an instant coffee packet or two. Or five. I can go to a store. Order you more from the Internet.”

“That won't be necessary.” She pointed to her mailbox. “Can you hand me those cards?”

I gave them to her, and she shuffled through them the way my mom did a stack of bills.

“Aren't you gonna open them?”

“No.”

“What about the packages? Aren't you hungry?”

“No.”

“There's a whole big box from Harry & David. I'm sure there's some kind of caffeine in there. More Moose Crunch.”

“You're welcome to it, Bethany.” She removed a letter opener from the desk drawer.

I knew I should not have been thinking about food, especially Cambridge's food, but now that I was AWOL, I should eat while I had the opportunity. That was my rationale anyway. The first box I ripped into was a Harry & David wicker basket filled with crappy pears. Thankfully these pears were complemented by caramel popcorn and peanut brittle. Behind me, I heard Cambridge slicing envelopes. A few ten dollar bills, escaped and she stacked them beside her.

“Your dad is definitely generous,” I said, pinching off a triangle of peppermint bark.

“He's generous with apologies.”

I motioned to her piles of cash. “Money too.”

“Same thing.”

I held up a bag. “You sure you don't want these chocolate- covered espresso beans? I really don't like coffee beans so much. Well, they're OK, but you're more than welcome. This is your food.”

Cambridge rifled through the basket, squishing crimped paper through her fingers. “I'll tell you a secret, Baltimore,” she said, laying the money in little heaps. Holy G's! Those weren't tens, they were hundreds! There had to be five piles, maybe more. Cambridge snapped them out, licking her thumb first. “Every summer, since I was thirteen, my mom goes abroad and me and my dad go to the Cape. Just me. Just him. And Whitney.”

“Whitney?” Maybe that was the name of her horse.

“Whitney, his mistress.” Cambridge had a way of looking directly at you when she said something important, making sure you didn't miss a word. “But this summer my mom didn't want us at the Cape. She said I should stay in Boston and volunteer for my community service credit. Obviously my dad had concerns about this.” Cambridge continued stacking bills. “So my dad told my mom, ‘I think Tabitha is getting too heavy. I think she should attend one of those summer weight loss camps before her senior year of Barrington.' Then my mom asked me if that sounded like something I would enjoy. I told her I didn't know.” Cambridge then shook out the envelopes one last time before piling them up. “My dad, on the other hand, thought I'd enjoy it immensely.”

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