Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (15 page)

I remember Cambridge's picture in her file. How fancy she'd looked in her riding clothes, the sunlight dappling the fall leaves behind her. How different she looked now, her shorts splotchy with dirt and her loafers downsized to red tennis shoes. She was still beautiful, mind you. Just grubbier.

“You're at fat camp so your dad could scrump his mistress?” I didn't mean to be so crass, but damn. Only Delilah Rogers could write her way out of that plot.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Cambridge said. “I'm here so he could go to the Cape house and resume his summer as planned, with Whitney.” She tossed the unread cards and envelopes in the trash.

“Why didn't you say something?” I asked.

She folded the piles of cash and stuck the wad in her bra. “I would never do anything like that,” she said, smiling falsely. “I'm the perfect child.”

“Nobody's perfect,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied. “I'll alert the media.”

I didn't know why she was telling me this, but it suddenly made sense why she ignored the cards and food. She was furious. You'd think that would make her eat more, but even in her rage Cambridge was calculated, rational. And smart. So smart! She wouldn't need the expensive grade-grubbing classes to boost her ACT score by two points (I would). She was quicker than me, quicker than anyone I knew, and she saw things that whizzed by everyone else. Yet she didn't flaunt it. And I liked her for that.

“Does your dad like, know you know?”

Cambridge patted the cash in her bra. “I think he knows I know.”

I felt a little stupid for eating her food, and guilty, I guess, but there it was, out of its cellophane, detached from its baskets, naked without its foil wrappers. Did I mention how much I love caramel popcorn? Honey roasted peanuts? As I shoveled them in it was more than apparent Cambridge, my roommate, wasn't a sucker. And I was.

“So that's my story,” she said, tossing me a pear. “What's yours?”

Just before I could show her TJ's postcard, or get into my e-mail debacle or highlight the ways my life resembled a steaming pile of crap, a phone rang. It was that same irksome tinkle of a Disney World ringtone that Hollywood had. It ought to be illegal to have a ring that prissy. Some absentminded grad student must've left their phone in a desk drawer or something. Only the ring became louder, probably because Cambridge stood up and pulled a phone from her pocket. Hollywood's purple phone. “If you'll excuse me,” she said, “looks like I have a call.”

She brought it up to her ear and sang out a, “Good afternoon. Thank you for dialing Utopia, a camp unrivaled in starving teenagers. I mean offering healthy choices for today's youth.” She spoke with confidence. “I'm deeply sorry, sir, but we have confiscated your daughter's phone due to extenuating circumstances. After several warnings, your daughter performed a scene worthy of her motherland, and our policy mandates repercussions. In light of this, we took her phone. It's only fair. Should you have any questions, please direct them to …” Cambridge disconnected. “Now what were you saying, Bethany?”

I tried to talk, but couldn't. I sounded like Hank. “Hoo-Huuu-Haaa. Isn't that Hollywood's?”

Cambridge winked at me then, a smile lighting her face like a star. “It's yours now.”

I had my doubts at first, but now I knew. Cambridge was a thief, and I could trust her completely.

25

HEARTBREAKING

“HEY, TJ. DID I wake you?”

“Bee? I saw that crazy area code. No, I'm just tired. I keep having these crazy dreams every night. You're in them.”

“For real?”

“I had this one and I was on
American Envy,
and I vanished myself back to Magnet, right? I was wandering around thinking,
What am I doing still in high school?
And then Mrs. Garonzik was all
Toby Jacobson, you never turned in your Spanish journal
, and I was panicking. You know how she gets in your face?”

“Were you in her classroom with all the bullfighting posters?”

“We were in Vomit Hall. I kept trying to tell her that I was in the
AE
finals and I made myself disappear back to Baltimore by mistake. And you were there trying to convince Mrs. Garonzik that she wasn't even seeing me.”

“I wonder what it means.”

“I seriously never did turn in my journal, but it doesn't matter now. I'm officially a graduate.”

“Sorry I missed it.”

“No worries. How did you get a phone, or did they give you one phone call like in jail?”

“Actually, Utopia is a lot like prison.”

“Lame. Hey, did you get my postcard? Unbelievable about
AE
, huh?”

“Not so unbelievable, TJ. You have skill.”

“If you were here, I would levitate. I showed your mom yesterday, and she was screaming. You know how she is.”

I laughed even though I felt like crying. Even TJ's voice could turn me inside out.

“My dad thinks I'm auditioning for
Paranormal Activity
part twelve.”

“Well, he might think differently when you win.”

“Maybe.” TJ yawned. “Girl, it's all kinds of lonely. How many more weeks you got?”

My eyes moistened. “About that.”

“What? What's happened?”

“Things are a hot mess. This girl Hollywood, she hates me. She threw her cell phone at me and busted my lip. She called me a poor heifer. And no one did anything.” My voice began to shake. “Nothing! I think her dad is a shareholder. Or a movie producer. So I kind of ran away. No, I officially ran away. And this girl. My roommate. My friend. She's with me. She let me borrow the phone she stole. And then, well, Richard Goodman kinda had a breakdown. He bought me an e-reader.”

“Your dad? Dang. This should be a reality show.”

I inhaled deeply. “I want to come home, TJ. Do you think Rent My Ride would let you borrow a car for a week or so? I would drive myself, but I can't.”

“You mean you're leaving Utopia?”

“Yes. If you can come pick me up.”

The tears came before the words.

“I can't do that, Bee.”

Tears fell harder.

“I have to go to New York and after that, who knows? I want you to come home, Bee. But I think you should stay.”

“Ask your job! They let you drive cars all the time.”

TJ laughed. “To Glen Burnie. Not California. You aren't crying, Bee. Are you?”

“It's fi—” I swallowed a hiccough. “I'm fine. I can't believe you want me to. You want me to stay here.”

“I think you should.”

“Why? Because I'm fat?”

“Partly. And partly because—”

“What?”

“All that stuff, Bethany. You know—what happened between us. It's nothing you did. It's not you. Please don't cry. It's just that how it is in your head, Bee. It's never gonna be that way.”

“I just need a ride home, TJ.”

“It's more than that. There's some serious stuff I need to tell you, but I can't do it now.”

“So pick me up and tell me on the way home.”

“I miss everything about you. But it's not gonna be like what you got in your head.”

“So you won't come get me?”

“You're killing me here.” I could hear a horn honking.

“You're in a rental car now, and you just can't head west for a few days? Take me home?”

“No. I can't. I'm sorry.”

“I can't believe you'd leave me in Utopia.” By now I was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Please don't cry, Bethany. Are you still there? There's a cop behind me. Can I call you back? Bee? You gotta let me go—”

26

REVELATION

SOMETIMES, IF NOTHING was on television, TJ and I watched the Jesus channel. This worried my mom—a Jew—and thrilled TJ's dad—a born-again—whenever we tuned in, but we didn't care. We found the channel entertaining.

Our favorite program featured this one preacher, and every single time we flipped past, every single time, he was crying. If he happened to be dry-eyed, we'd count the seconds until he opened the floodgates. The highest we ever got was five. The preacher TJ called “Friar Crier” sobbed without embarrassment. He was always talking about how weeping was good because it got you to see the light.

When that phone call ended, I wept like Friar Crier on the Jesus channel. Big holy sobs that doubled me over. Fat, wet tears slipped down my cheeks like rain. Friar Crier could not have been righter. I'd finally seen the light.

TJ didn't love me. He never would. He never did.

Of course the only thing worse than seeing that light in the mailroom, right in front of my fat camp roommate, was this. Everyone else had seen it first. Even Hollywood.

Cambridge was very civilized as TJ scooped my heart out with a shovel. She didn't get all
there, there.
She just sat on the floor next to me and undressed a Hershey's Kiss, which I ate. I lay down on the floor, still sobbing in spite of the chocolate, wanting really to just go to sleep and wake up in a different story. Preferably one that did not involve fat camp or a boy who thought I should stay there. I couldn't tell you how long I sat on the floor. One hour? Five? All I knew was Cambridge stayed with me the whole time. When I'd cried myself out, she stood up and thrust out her hand. “I think you need a drink,” she said.

I studied her long fingers and the pink skin of her palm. I realized it was the most anyone had offered me in a long time. I put my hand in hers, and she eased me off the floor, out the annex door, and into the bright campus.

“I know this place,” Cambridge said, skipping out into the flowering afternoon. “With frappuccinos so good”—her eyes fluttered in ecstasy—“so good, they'll break your heart.”

27

QUICHE

THINGS LOOKED PRETTY bleak after my conversation with TJ, but it was hard to dwell when outside the sun glimmered like a stone fired straight out of Liliana's bedazzler. Sure, the love of my life brushed me off (again), but with Cambridge scaling hills and paths like a field guide, the promise of a frappuccino pulling her forward, my tears had no choice but to dry.

The library café was definitely going for an Emo theme, with hardcover books tossed around like they could afford to use them as decoration or coasters. There were a few geektastic students stuffed in their very own periwinkle barstools, wearing black-rimmed glasses and sipping from mugs. It could have been any coffee shop in Baltimore, with its small stage in the center and a chalkboard full of drinks: Tennyson Tea, Robert Frosty, cuppa Joe Heller, etc.

Even more beautiful were the glass-covered cases crammed with lemon pie, scones, blueberry muffins, buttery croissants, and the rotund bagels that called to me in sugary voices. The quiche was as thick as wedding cake. Cambridge ordered two vanilla frappuccinos with extra whipped cream, triple espresso, and an extra shot of caramel. I knew how pretentious it sounded to order quiche, so I let Cambridge do it for me. She added a chocolate chip scone for good measure, and the tray swayed under the weight.

We sat down in a corner booth because we didn't want to risk a run-in with any Utopians. “Forgot to mention,” Cambridge said, positioning the quiche in the table's center and shaving off a sliver, “Tampa Bay might have discovered this place a few times without me because he gained three pounds. I wanted to tell you sooner. Our teams are still tied.” She took a bite. “Oh my, this is good.” She pushed the plate a little toward me and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I mean if you wanted some good news, it's possible we could still win.”

I didn't care if we won. In fact
we
seemed like a historical pronoun. There was no
we
as far as I was concerned. I stared at the quiche before us: so much like an omelet on one hand, a pie on the other, yet not exclusively either. All life begins as an egg. That was TJ's line. He often delivered it as he juggled half a dozen of them for kicks. An hour ago he'd torn my heart out, and here I was thinking about him again. How long, I wondered, until that went away.

Just then I saw a figure lean out from a table near ours. My heart lurched.

“Oh crap,” I said, wishing for a newspaper to hide behind. But it was too late. He'd spotted us.

“I thought that was you, Tabitha,” said Tampa Bay, walking over. “Mind if I sit down?” Before we could answer, he squished down next to Cambridge, tapping her with his ample behind. He stretched and draped one arm over her shoulder, where it lounged like a slaughtered beast. “I knew I'd find you here.” He stuck his finger (his finger!) in our quiche, then he smiled at Cambridge. “I've been searching for you everywhere.”

For solving the world's most obvious mystery, he looked rather pleased with himself. Then he scooched closer to Cambridge, pinning her against the booth. He went back to our quiche, this time with her fork, moaning in boy pleasure with each bite. Cambridge swigged her frozen beverage while I waited for little cartoon hearts to shoot out from Tampa Bay's eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“Looking for you,” he replied. “I told the counselors I felt sick. They think I'm at the nurse.”

“No one followed you, did they?” I asked.

For the first time since he sat down, he looked directly at me. “Damn. What happened to your lip?”

“Weren't you there when Hollywood threw her phone at me?”

“Oh, right. That was messed up.”

From his file, I knew Tampa Bay liked to play ball. There was a report card in there too. Lots of C's, only one A in guitar. Then there was the whole parental divorce thing. I could ruin his day right now if I wanted to and, in a way, I really wanted to. I didn't like the way he looked at Cambridge, and I didn't want his finger in my quiche! But he seemed so visibly smitten with my roommate and her fuzzy, coiled hair, I couldn't do it. Our last bite of quiche, what did he do? He held it up to Cambridge, cupping his palm under her chin as she ate it. “Good, huh?” he asked, like he wanted her approval first.