Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (30 page)

I was ready for more. I wanted a classic ViewTube girl fight now. Everything had come down to this moment, and I burned for it. I was hungry for the violence of it. I would do everything I should've done on weigh day … twice. Now this was my ending! Only when I walked back into my dorm, Hollywood was still on the floor. Shouldn't she be regenerating like the tail of a lizard or something? Why was she was holding her face and groaning? I guessed I'd hit her harder than I realized. She was balled into a fetal position, and I could see her lace panties under her nightgown, a birthmark behind her calf. Dammit, Amber! I was just getting started! I watched her ribcage lift up and down with each breath. “You fat bitch,” she wheezed. “You fat bitch.”

I decided to make her get up. I knelt down and grabbed a handful of hair. I double wrapped it around my wrist like a rope, her head jerking as if I'd snapped her neck. Her tresses felt waxy and thick, like doll hair shedding between my fingers.

“Call me something else,” I said. “Say my name.”

I yanked that hair until she yelped.

“Don't, Bethany,” she cried, not a warning either. A plea. “Don't pull it off.” Her one hand tightened around my wrist, but it was limp. Her strength was evaporating. I jerked my hand again, and that was when I saw her hair shift. Shift like normal hair wouldn't. “Please. Don't,” she cried.

I tugged again. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Don't pull it off. It's a wig. It's glued. It will tear my scalp. Please.”

I thought of her hair dryer whinnies at five in the morning and her ever-present Speedo bathing cap.
A wig?
Why?
Cancer?

Tears somersaulted down her cheeks. I saw the tendons in her neck thrumming with blood when she stood up on trembling legs, supported herself on the desk, and rubbed the butt cheek I'd knocked her on. “Just go,” she sobbed. “Just leave.”

“You have cancer?” I asked. Slivers of Amber's blond hair dripped from my fingers; her fair skin was trapped under my nails. “Is it leukemia?”

She rolled her green eyes. “Just go, Bethany. Go back to Baltimore.”

From:
[email protected]

To: Bethany Stern

Subject: The best you

Dear Bethany,

I've spoken with Hank and Belinda and they've informed me that you have decided to leave Utopia. Against my wishes, Dick has agreed to pick you up and bring you back to Maryland. Before you arrive, however, I thought you should know a few things.

You might think when you come back here, you'll talk me into paying for your gym membership again or starting some new fad diet. I want you to know that's not possible. I'm sure you think it's about the money, but it's not.

Our problems are attached to us like tails. You can run away from Utopia, but all the problems you created there will follow you here—just like all the problems you created here followed you there. Wherever you go, Bethany, there you are.

So if you come back to Maryland early, know that I have a long list of issues ready for you to confront. Also know that TJ has left for LA, so you can't run to his house either. Also know that Jackie won't be home until the end of the summer, so it will just be me and you. I encourage you to think things through before continuing with your decision to run away (once again) when things start to get uncomfortable.

Love, Mom

54

REPRESENT

I WAS RELIEVED to see daylight. Finally I could put this disastrous summer behind me. I grabbed my duffle bag and took one last look around my dorm. The closer I got to the door, though, the heavier I felt. I tried again, but it seemed as though I were wading through quicksand. I dropped my duffle bag to lighten my load. Only I still couldn't lift one leg in front of the other. I sat down on Liliana's bed, convincing myself I was tired. Maybe that was the reason why walking out the door seemed impossible. I tried again and again, but the same thing happened. My heart thumped, and my legs refused to move.
Just one foot in front of the other
, I told myself. One step closer to the door was another step closer to Baltimore.

And a step further from Liliana, Cambridge, and … Gabe.

Who said that?

Your conscience.

Oh great. You. Look, I'm trying to leave.

Are you sure you want to run away? Again?

What kind of guilt trip is this? Don't you know how long I've waited to be free from fat camp? Carb counting? Pilates?

About as long as you've waited for a friend—a real one; about as long as you've waited for someone to believe in you or a guy to kiss you … first.

Damn that italic voice for being right. I'd been waiting my whole life for a real friend and now that I had three of them I was getting ready to leave? Run away like I always did? Pretend this summer never happened? There was just no pretending that I'd go home and my life would return to whatever normal existed before. I couldn't keep up the illusion that the life I was returning to was normal or fun or anything other than a suckfest. Why had it taken my fist colliding with Hollywood's jaw to make that point? I didn't know. I just knew my days of running away were over. I set down my duffle bag once and for all and waited for my conscience to tell me what to do next. But it was done with the lesson, apparently, because all was quiet. Where was my echo in the universe that let everyone know nothing would ever be the same?

Including me?

55

DON'T H8

MY FATHER PULLED into the circular drive at seven.He got out of the rented Fit a few minutes later and stared at MontClaire Hall, trying to guess which window was mine. He absently flicked coins in the fountain, scrolling through his cell phone for my number, which he didn't have. I knew this was my one and only chance to legitimately leave Utopia, so maybe I should've at least gone down there by the mermaid fountain, thrown my own penny in the mix, and reconsidered. He must've assumed I'd overslept or forgotten. At seven thirty, I folded a piece of his stationery into the perfect airplane and aimed it out my window. It landed by his shoe. He read the words, I DECIDED TO STAY. Two minutes later, he looked up and smiled and climbed into the Fit.

After my father drove off, I unpacked my belongings and opened the closet to reveal Liliana's bedazzled and feathery clothing. Each studded item contained a memory. Her favorite Hello Kitty shirt hung next to her rhinestone sweats. All of it made me miss her. Cambridge's abandoned clothes were stacked neatly in her drawer. It was hard to believe that a few weeks ago, Cambridge had been the type of girl to fold everything and stack it crisply. It felt weird without either of them in the room, but I knew I had to unpack. That was step one. Once I finished that, it was time for step two.

Hollywood's room looked a lot softer than mine. They'd set up a lamp on the floor that gave off a soft glow. I didn't barge inside, but I didn't exactly knock either. Hollywood was standing by her dresser, back to me, writing something. A red scratch bore down one side of her face, and I noted two purple splotches maturing into the shape of my knuckles. Seeing her injuries contrast her fair skin made me feel awful. She hadn't heard me come in and hadn't yet realized I was behind her. It wasn't until I was close enough to touch her that I understood she was filling her forgiveness jar, the same one she'd brought into our room our first day of fat camp. She folded a piece of paper and dropped it into a vase. I couldn't stop myself from saying, “The diet is a scam. It doesn't work.”

She jumped when she heard my voice. Then she pretended she hadn't. “I know,” she said and dropped the paper in anyway. “I know.”

“I mean, it didn't work for me,” I clarified. “But I never bought the book. I only saw it on TV.” What a stupid thing to admit. “That was probably my first mistake,” I said, “believing what I saw on TV.”

Hollywood flinched when she smiled. I guessed it hurt. “My dad's been telling since I was two or three that nothing you see on TV is real. But I'd think,
I see you on TV and you're real
. It always messed with me.”

So I guessed Liliana had been right. Hollywood's dad really was a famous actor. “Well,” I went on, “it's not like you need a diet anyway. You're not even fat.” I never understood why Hollywood enrolled at Utopia. She wore, at most, maybe a size ten. Probably an eight. “Are you here to lose weight or for some other reason?”

She didn't say anything. We were eye-locked in the mirror over her dresser. During that eye-lock or maybe before, probably when I yanked her wig, I figured Hollywood was doing things to make herself thin. Bad things. Things that made her hair fall out. If anyone had food issues worse than my own, it was definitely this girl. “Last year,” I confessed, “I used to chew food and spit it out. I promised myself it was different than throwing up. It was just tasting. I'd suck chips and crackers until they were powdery. I couldn't swallow them though. That was my rule. I was hungry all the time.” Our eyes were still locked in the mirror. “It worked too. I lost weight.” I finally looked down. “I gained it back though.”

I'd just wanted to taste food, see—not eat it. Knew I couldn't eat it. It became a game almost. How much food could I not eat? Of course, if I'd accidentally swallowed something, I'd tell myself how stupid I was. I'd think about bringing the food back up, but I never did. Even then I'd seen how quickly these things could spin out of control. None of it lasted long because the one person I'd wanted to notice me never did.

I'd never told anybody these things before, but somehow I knew my secret would be safe with Hollywood. I told her how my mom told me I was allergic to sugar for years until, in third grade, I licked the frosting off some birthday cake and nothing happened. When I told my mom that I must've outgrown my sugar allergy, she didn't look happy at my discovery. So I went back to pretending to be grateful for her specially made-for-me salads and acting like I was happy to have my failures broadcast around the dinner table. Only later, back in my room, I'd feast on cookies and puddings, going to sleep with sugary sweetness coating my teeth. I was probably ten years old.

“I guess we all have problems,” Hollywood replied, her wavering voice betraying her. Even with her swollen jaw, she still had the looks of a cat—something very feline about her green eyes and triangular face. “I think you have a big problem, Amber. Is that why your hair fell out, and why you're so thin?”

“I am not thin.”

“Is it because you make yourself sick?”

“I'm just thin compared to you. I have a disease that makes my hair weak. It's not like I'm bald.”

“Are you bulimic, Amber?”

“No.” Her nervous laughter was a fence between us. Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly did my father tell you?”

Everything I needed to know was written across her face. “Nothing,” I said. “Forget it.”

And I didn't realize we'd been whispering until she stopped whispering and yelled, “What did he say? Did he tell you who he is?” she cried. She threw a brush, and it knocked into her forgiveness bucket. The papers spilled across the dresser. “It's his job, you know.” She raised her voice another notch. “It's his job to criticize.”

Atlanta, her roommate, stirred in her bed. “What is going on?” She looked at Hollywood's face. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I said. “We were just having a discussion.”

Atlanta sat up in her bed. “What happened, Amber?”

Hollywood looked uncertain. Her usual bitchiness seemed lost. With her free hand, she steadied her wig like I might rip it off. Turning to me, Hollywood said, “It's nothing.”

I mimed zipping my lips. She pulled me by the elbow out of Atlanta's earshot.

“I used to make myself throw up, OK? But it's been three months, OK? That's how long since I, you know—and I haven't since I've been here. So stop. I'm better. Get it? I only did it because I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid of looking like you.”

Hollywood could pack a punch, alright. That one hit me between the ribs. Words so brutal my eyes watered. As far as I knew, I'd never been anyone's worst-case scenario before. “That's not what I meant,” she said, backpedaling.

“Oh, I think it is.” I sat down at her desk. Did I really want to stay here? Stay knowing I'd pissed off every friend I'd ever had? Share a bathroom with this witch? I knew Hollywood was bulimic, but damn if she didn't have a doctorate in cruelty. I thought of her file, her photograph, how her hair had probably been real then, wind-knotted and wild by the Pacific. I didn't even try to stop myself from saying, “I'm not going home.” I took a breath. “I'm coming back to Utopia.”

Amber searched my face. “What? You can't come back like nothing happened.”

“Why not?”

“Because you made a decision.” Her teeth, I could see now, were too perfect. Fake.

“Well, I changed my mind.”

Hollywood sighed. “Do you really think you can convince Hank and Belinda to let you stay, after all that's happened?”

Hank and Belinda!
I thought with alarm.
I probably should have talked to them earlier
.

“No,” I told Hollywood. “But you can.” I got up and walked over to her. I tugged her hair, gently this time. “Why don't you give your dad a call, Amber?”

56

LEVERAGE

DID I REALLY think Miss Marcia would let me back on her team? After ditching her on a power walk? Not likely. Good thing I had leverage with our counselor. All I had to do was show her the photo I'd snapped during her psychedelic trip. You know, on the phone I THREW IN THE TOILET! There went my leverage. Looked like I'd have to go with the honest approach. I walked down to Miss Marcia's dorm room. “I think I want to come back to Utopia,” I said. “I was hoping the picture I snapped of you might change your mind about me, but I accidentally flushed the phone down the toilet. Sorry.”