Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (34 page)

“I have more skill than they do,” said my neighbor, honestly. “More patience.”

He snapped and the feathers stopped, a few falling to rest on the judges' table.

Gold raised a finger in the air. “You never mentioned Penn & Teller. Certainly they were influential.” The judge blew plumage from his upper lip. “Feathers from the ceiling? That's classic Penn & Teller one hundred percent.”

I willed TJ not to lose it.

“Penn & Teller are spoilers,” TJ stated calmly. “They're comedians. I'm an illusionist, and I only work alone. I can assure you, Mr. Gold, the feather trick is mine.” Two doves flew from the rafters and landed on TJ's shoulders. Slowly the birds changed from white to yellow. They extended their intricate wings, championing their new sunny color.

Ignoring TJ's condensed theory about illusionists versus comedians, the judge continued. “Ten of you will leave tonight. Convince me you shouldn't be one of them.”

The judges moaned. Eugene was a bastard.

TJ nodded at someone, and instantly his music choice pelted out. Trent Reznor. I can't tell you how many times we argued about his music. I found it distracting. TJ said that was the point. He needed dramatic, operatic, industrial. Listening to it now, pulsing cruelly like my own sloppy heartbeat, I realized he was right—the music was perfect. “You like to push people, Eugene,” said TJ. “I've always liked that about you.”

The judges fidgeted nervously; Mr. Gold cocked his head.

“Mr. Jacobson? Are you levitating?”

Looking genuinely surprised, TJ replied, “I believe I am.”

This was the Balducci levitation TJ had tried to capture in my basement two months ago. Basically you rest one foot on the other and stand at an angle. He certainly did his homework because there were more than a few inches between his feet and the stage. He really did appear to hover. Gold shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. Something about magicians made the judge cynical. TJ used to say he was harder on illusionists than anyone else. On the stage now, unaffected by the judge's doubt, TJ continued.

While effortlessly performing a Balducci levitation, TJ flicked a red handkerchief from his pocket and patted it like pizza dough. He spun it on his finger and, when he moved away, the handkerchief stayed, orbiting in the air. He did that with two more handkerchiefs, a white one and a black one, until the three spun obediently before him. Then, while they were still spinning no less, he positioned them, adjusting the red one first, the black a little lower, one in the middle like, like steps! Yes, as far apart as steps, twirling rectangles of color. Next, he lifted a foot as if to stand on the first red handkerchief. He tested it convincingly, balancing one foot at a time, all extensively choreographed. Then he climbed up, settling both feet down, rocking slightly. The scarf looked solid, airtight, but how? How could you stand on a scarf in midair? The judges, in addition to all of MontClaire Hall, watched, speechless. Climbing the second scarf and finally ascending to the third, red handkerchief TJ now balanced himself five feet off the stage. He tore off his hat, and spun it directly to the judges' table. The yellow doves chased it, landing on Gold's shoulders. Eugene laughed, put his hands up. “OK, Toby Jacobson. You've convinced me. You can stay.”

All three judges stood and applauded. Five feet off the stage, still standing on the red handkerchief, TJ smiled. Then, surprising us all, he stepped off the handkerchief and bowed. It all happened so fast it took a few seconds to register that when he bowed his feet rested on … nothing. Nothing. TJ levitated, five feet off the ground.

This was too much for Tyra Lyra. She climbed the stairs in her stilettos and crossed her arms. She lifted his jacket and shook it out. “How are you doing it?”

She placed her hands on her hips. “I want to know how you're doing it.”

TJ's Conversed feet began precisely where her head ended. The camera zeroed in on his face, which, I noticed for the first time, wasn't sporting glasses.

“Most everyone trusts their eyes to do their seeing. That's their first mistake.”

Tyra Lyra sighed. “So what am I seeing wrong here?” She opened and closed her mascara-coated eyes. “What should I be seeing?”

TJ wiggled his fingers above the host and a filmy powder dusted her dress. “For starters, you'd see that yellow's not your color.”

Tyra Lyra huffed. “My dress is black, Mr. Jacobson.”

“You sure about that?” asked TJ, crossing his arms. Then darkness swallowed the stage and TJ, still hovering, began to disappear. Not in a dramatic flash either, but slowly. First his feet vanished, then his legs. His limbs became particlelike, comprised of dots until eventually, he faded like a memory.

A very pale and frightened Tyra Lyra lumbered down the steps in her now-yellow dress. She touched the fabric. “Hope this changes back,” she said.

Eugene Gold, one yellow dove on each shoulder, looked at the stage like TJ was still on it. “I don't know about your dress, Tyra, but I have a feeling nothing will ever be the same after that kid.”

Every last one of us campers blanched.
Feelin
g? Eugene Gold didn't have feelings. The persnickety judge had never said that before—about anyone. People truly believed he was a robot because his criticisms were so concise. “There's an energy there,” Gold continued. “Something rare and extraordinary.”

Hollywood, who sat Indian style on the floor, verbalized what we were all thinking, “He's never said that before.” Then she looked at me. “That TJ guy is going to take it. Your boyfriend's about to win
Envy.”

“Maybe,” I replied, knowing it was possible. “But he's still not my boyfriend.”

Slowly reeling me back to Utopia was Gabe, beside me on the sofa, inching closer. Closer. “Just so you're aware,” he whispered in my ear, his gentle fingers closing around mine, “I can't compete with that.”

64

FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY

AFTER TJ'S DEBUT on
American Envy
, Gabe and I found our way back to each other. The next night we were fighting in Copernicus Hall like old times. I didn't realize how much I'd missed him until I was back in his room, making fists inside the PlayStation glove and listening to him go on about jabs and punches. Our K/O fights were brutal. Neither of us held back—at least not in the video game version. Outside of the game was a different story. Even though he went on and on about Knock Out, rocket camp, and calculus, he never mentioned SPOOGE again. Never put his earbuds on me and well, you know—went for it. There were a few close calls, lulls in our conversations, or times when I felt his eyes on me a beat too long, but these moments were short-lived, and eventually he'd power up the PlayStation and we'd punch each other's lights out.

All that tension went straight to our game, because we went from K/O level two to level eighteen in two days. Finally, after I'd won the belt and had his avatar crying in the ring's corner, Gabe did a little research and Fed-Exed about three new games to his dorm. Opening the padded envelope, he grinned at me and said, “
Entra más profundo
.”

That night we stayed up for a long time trying the games. My favorite one was Femme Fatal, a black market import he'd acquired from Japan. The game was nothing short of badass. Girls shouted insulting things at us in Japanese then cried when you punched them. Gabe didn't even care that his avatar wore a bikini and cursed whenever she broke a nail. These girls were tough, and Gabe got his junk handed to him more than once.

We played nonstop for hours, and I probably would have kept going had Gabe not checked his phone and said, “I can tell just by looking at you that you love this, but you're two hours late for curfew.” Not one to use the word “love” alongside any cardiovascular activity, I was surprised that he was right. I was a smelly, sweaty, sore-muscled fool by the end of the night but, at last, I'd found a sport I didn't entirely suck at. We played every night and after about a week, I found myself looking forward to seeing Gabe, yes, but also to fighting. Gabe took it upon himself to teach me lessons before the fights. His dorm room turned into a boxing appreciation course. Surfing ViewTube and Cineflix, we watched clips of kickboxers like Iron Mike and Semmy Schlit and Ramon Dekkers. Then we watched the female boxers: Laila Ali, Christy Martin, and Lucia Rijker. Gabe froze the computer shots of cross-jabs, knockouts, uppercuts, and rabbit punches. Then we stood in front of the mirror behind his closet door and practiced those moves. When we stumbled across an old Ali and Foreman fight on ViewTube, I knew I was witnessing something magical. It was like Cambridge rowing that boat or Liliana on her sewing machine or Jackie and the hula hoop she once kept spinning for six hours. It was something you couldn't manufacture or imitate or even articulate. It was pure, unobstructed, awesome.

From:
[email protected]

To: Bethany Stern

Subject: The best you

Dear Bethany,

I'm glad you decided to go back to camp. I don't know if your father had anything to do with that decision, but if he did, I'm glad for it. Hank and Belinda told me how much progress you've made and what a great captain you are. They say you are an inspiration.

I'm glad things are working out at Utopia. I always knew you would accomplish great things. You have always been the bigger person in our house, and I don't mean the heaviest one either.

Speaking of great things, yesterday I went to a workshop at Zyprexa Pharm. They were revealing a new slogan. Zyprexa: Finding the best in you. During the whole presentation, I thought of you. I think you encountered the best in you this summer. And you didn't even need Zyprexa!

I am proud of you, Bethany. Enjoy these last few weeks in California. I'm jealous. It's so hot here and the snowball stand closed early last week.

Jackie will be there to pick you up. It will be great to have you both home.

Love,

Mom

65

GOING NOWHERE

TWO WEEKS LEFT on the fat camp clock and things finally came together. Only when the curtain's about to close is it all rainbows and unicorns. Olive volunteered to plant a garden outside MontClaire Hall so tempting we had no choice but to call it Eden. Not that anything would bloom in our last few weeks, but next spring, should anyone want them, there'd be oranges and herbs, onions, tomatoes, and peppers. The omelet chef was ecstatic. As for the rest of us, Miss Marcia's intuition about rowing was right. With the exception of Cambridge, our hatred of crew definitely united us. Every day we tried to get out of it, tossing excuses to Miss Marcia nonstop. T
he water's too choppy. It's too foggy. This sport is elitist!
And every day, before our omelets were even digested, Miss Marcia blew the whistle and we sloshed through the water, scrambled inside our sculls, while the coxswain (Hollywood) screamed STROKE, STROKE, STROKE obscenely in our ears.

Once in a while, there came a spectacular moment in crew. Like when we all rowed together in a rhythm, for instance. It didn't feel like any one person was pulling more weight than the other; it was pure machination. The other thing in crew was you sat backward, so you never saw your finish line getting closer. You only observed your starting point get smaller and smaller. Nearly every single morning, somewhere out on Lake Pacifica between start and finish, I wasn't Bethany anymore. I wasn't fat or skinny. There were no secrets. There was only crew: our unified breathing, the boat, wet oars dipping in and out, the horizon arching her back. That sensation lasted only a minute, but it was a long minute. And a good one. When we banked on shore, sore and shaky, the football stadium was microscopic. It was pretty empowering to see how far we'd come.

Crew made every other sport look like ping-pong. Even Hollywood complained about it in spite of the fact that it burned an insane amount of calories all the while being low-impact. After mutilating the scale and swearing to me she was “over” her eating disorder, Hollywood managed to keep herself skinny. One morning during crew, Liliana forgot she was on a boat because when a cramp gripped her calf, she stood up and tried to walk it off. In seconds, our boat biffed. We floundered in the icy water, cursing Liliana, her muscle, and the boat. Clumsily, we flipped the shell over and pulled our sopping wet selves inside. Hollywood—up to her neck in ice cold water—couldn't do it. She attempted to haul herself, but it was like her arms quit working. Her teeth chattered, and her skin turned blue. She cursed up a storm—eff this and eff that—blaming the slippery boat and the current, but you could see she was too weak. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much we steadied the boat for her, she could not lift herself in. Finally, Tabitha and I grabbed her under her arms and lugged her in the boat. In doing that, I couldn't help but notice how her ribcage pointed through her T-shirt. Once aboard, she collapsed on the coxswain's bench, looking gray as a wad of gum. Sure Hollywood had moments of bitchiness, especially when she acted all superior. But considering she was bald, not to mention her inability to lift her own self out of water, I could see her skinniness was a burden too. She could have it. We waded on our boat, the other teams long finished, waiting for her to catch her breath. She might be skinny, but she still couldn't haul her ass out of a lake. As for the rest of our heavyset team, we were doing a bang- up job of saving ourselves.

Once we learned how to move our bodies, we learned how to feed them. Hank and Belinda invited culinary arts majors to give us some cooking lessons. This was not your everyday college Top Ramen 101 either. These students imparted wisdom. For instance, we all learned how to poach salmon, whip up a mean dill and pesto salad, stuff chicken breasts with wild rice, and turn chick peas into hummus. Shocking us all, Tampa Bay got really into it. Now he prepared elaborate healthy meals for all the campers, watching Cambridge closely as she sampled them.