Read Everything Beautiful Online
Authors: Simmone Howell
Sarita accosted me at lunchtime. “Riley, you must tell me what you are going to do for the talent show.”
“Are you out of your curry-munching mind?”
Her face fell.
“I was hoping you would help me . . . come into the light.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I no longer wish to be ‘in the wings.’ I wish to be in the light.” She gripped her braids and tugged on them. “I thought you were going to help me metamorphose. You said so in your memory cross.”
“Oh God, I did, didn’t I?” Suddenly I remembered the Hella Hot Oil. I seized Sarita by her shoulders and herded her back to the cabin, the whole time prating like a has-been on an infomercial. “
Are you tired of looking like yesterday’s girl? Got fifteen minutes to radically change your appearance
?” Sarita trundled along in front of me, delighted and excited.
I stopped at the kitchen for a cup of oats, one egg, a lemon, and two buckets of warm water all courtesy of Olive. Back in the cabin I fixed my sarong around Sarita’s neck and swiveled her chair away from the mirror. I mixed the ingredients up in Fleur’s thermos and applied it to Sarita’s face with a plastic spoon.
Sarita screwed up her nose. “What is that?”
“It’s organic,” I told her. “Don’t speak—it’ll crack.”
I rubbed Vaseline into her eyebrows and began tweezing. Sarita squeaked at first, but by the time I was on to her middle brow she had become beauty’s bitch. She remained stoic throughout the haircut, despite what must have looked like random hacking. Her eyes widened at the growing pile of hair on the floor, but she didn’t speak. When my fingers accidentally lighted on her throat I could feel her pulse going like the clappers.
Haircutting is a meditative act for me. As I worked away I thought about Dylan’s accident, and what Bird had said about the salt lake.
“Sarita,” I said, “do you remember when Trevor was talking about the salt lake?”
She nodded.
“Do you think that it’s true that it has healing properties?”
Sarita toggled her head.
“I wonder if Neville would let us go there. Say, as a special excursion?” I combed some stray hairs and snipped them diagonally. “I bet if enough of us wanted to he’d let us go. What do you think? I think I’ll ask him. It can’t hurt to ask, right?”
Sarita said, “Unnn hs isssian.” Her face mask cracked just a fraction.
“Wait.” I wiped the goo off with a flannel. “What was that?”
“I said you could do a petition.”
Sarita was bobbling her head from side to side. She had that worried look again. “I feel different. I feel like something is missing.”
“Well, you look gorgeous,” I told her. “Good-bye, extracurricular Asian nerd.” I swung her chair around. “Hello, Hindi Honey.”
“Oh, my,” Sarita breathed.
Her hair sat just below her chin. It framed her face and brought her fine features into light. It was almost space age in its shiny, solid perfection. But it was going to necessitate a whole new wardrobe. I trawled through her clothes, making reject-button sound effects the whole while.
“No, no, no.” I fretted. “It’s all so
Baptist
.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sarita.
“You need a
trousseau
. That’s French for fuck-clothes.”
“Riley. I said nothing earlier because I didn’t want to alienate you with my intellect, but I
parlez-vous
,” Sarita said. “The French do not have a word for . . .”
“Go on, say it!” I dared her.
Sarita zipped her lips.
“Every language has its limitations,” I said airily.
I looked at my clothes strewn all over the floor. “It’s a shame you’re so tiny. Unless . . .” I found my peasant blouse and tossed it to her. “Put this on.”
Sarita obeyed. She looked like she’d stepped into a muumuu.
“Wear it with the silver belt,” I suggested. I walked around her in a circle. “Better. Now you just need some tights.” I found my scissors again and cut the sleeves off my goth Lolita dress. Sarita gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Re-fashioning.” I passed the sleeves to her. “Wear these like leggings.”
Sarita stepped into them. I walked around her again, nodding slowly. “That’s good.” I smiled. “No shoes with this outfit—okay?” Sarita was staring in the mirror, swishing her skirt, beaming. I lay back on the bed. “And now, my work is done.”
Fleur waltzed in then with a volleyball under her arm. When she saw Sarita she dropped the ball. “Wow.” She turned to me. “Did you do that?”
I sat up, leaning on my elbows. “Why? You want some work done?”
“No,” Fleur sputtered unconvincingly.
Sarita was experimenting with my eyeliner now, drawing artful curlicues on her temples. She turned to me. “What do you think?”
I heard myself saying, “My friend, my friend, I have taught you well.” A little bell went off somewhere in my head, but I chose to ignore it.
The afternoon was gorgeous, all golden and hazy with a still blue sky that looked like it had been freshly painted. I sat on the smokers’ bench with Fraser’s notebook and watched the Bronzewings’ volleyball match. It almost looked like fun.
They
were laughing anyhow. Fleur was in the umpire’s chair, her hand never far from the whistle. A couple of times I saw her look my way with a half smile on her face. It crossed my mind that she might be trying to befriend me. The idea wasn’t as repellent as it once might have been. Maybe I
had
been infected. My hand marked the page with the map to the salt lake. The symbol for the lake was small and red, and shaped like a kidney bean. I touched the spot and felt its pull. I put Fraser’s notebook to one side and took out my own bamboo-covered one. And then I wrote:
Petition. In the interests of salvation and personal healing, we, the undersigned Honeyeaters, request permission to visit the salt lake. If not tomorrow, then the day after
.
Sarita and Bird were on my side and the twins were malleable, but Fleur, Richard, and Ethan would require craftiness. I tackled Fleur first. She looked from the page to me and frowned.
“What’s this?”
“A petition.”
She read and then pushed the page aside with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to go into the desert. It’s too hot. It makes my hair frizzy.”
“If you sign, I’ll cut your hair and frizz will be your friend.”
Fleur squinted around as if we were being watched. She hesitated, then picked up the pen and signed with a flourish.
Ethan and Richard were playing chess on one of the picnic tables. I approached with my happy camper face on high. “Have you heard?” I bubbled. “Sarita’s getting
Live Fresh
to film the talent show.”
“What?” Richard and Ethan looked up from their game.
“Yeah. She’s contacted the host and everything. The only thing is . . .” I leaned in with the petition. “She has to get everyone’s permission.”
Ethan rocked excitedly. “Way cool! I love that show. You know that ‘Candid Christians’ segment? It’s so funny.”
Richard brought his queen home. “Checkmate. Where do we sign?”
I saved Craig until last. I hadn’t spoken to him since the merry-go-round. All my pointed looks seemed to bounce right off him. He was impervious. He galumphed around camp with his big sexy legs and his killer smile, breaking hearts like old people break wind—that is to say
, a lot
. Every night his voice rose up above the campfire, rich and tremulous and stirring. It was hard to hate him when he sang. He still tried with Dylan, too—every activity, no matter how physical, he would come up to Dylan and encourage him to take part. I was getting sucked in, floundering in the face of his... well, his face. I almost wondered if his shoving Bird was an aberration. But then I’d overhear him talking and know that yes, everything came easily to him, everything except humility.
I cornered him outside the counselors’ annex.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“Concentrate,” I told myself. I, too, would be impervious.
“Would you sign this petition for me?”
He read it, then looked up at me. “Why?”
“I just thought it would be fun.”
“They won’t be able to swing it. Off-site activities are set months before we even get here.” Craig shrugged, and I could tell he thought he was making a grand gesture. “Sure, I’ll sign it if you want, Riley. Whatevs.”
He signed, but when I tried to get the pen back, he kept hold of it. Tugging ensued. I gave up. “This is corny,” I said. Craig stared at me with his lips pressed together, his eyes dark and sly.
“What?” I snapped.
He trailed a finger down my arm. “I was wondering if you wanted to . . .”
I shook him off. “Been there, done that, according to the rumors.”
“Hey—I didn’t say that. It was Fleur.” He smiled stupidly and did a quick crotch adjustment—re-crotching, Chloe calls it.
I stared at him, unimpressed. “Itchy?”
He laughed again, but something in his eyes had changed and suddenly he didn’t look so alpha dog. He moved his mouth around and tugged on his shorts.
I arched an eyebrow, looked from his crotch to his face. “If it’s crabs, you’ll have to shave your pubes off. Maybe Fleur will help you.” I waved the petition at him and started walking backward. “Thanks for signing.
Laters
.”
The Bronzewings moved off the court and the twins started fooling around with the volleyball. Sarita joined them. Her hair hardly moved as she bounced around. I don’t know what my face was saying to them, but one minute I was on the sidelines and the next minute I felt the ball in my stomach. “Oof!” I doubled over, trapping it in my arms.
“Chuck it back!” Lisa yelled.
“Come on, Riley!” Sarita was grinning and waving her arms.
A voice came from the other side: “Chuck it to me!” That was Richard. What an invitation! I threw the ball at him as hard as I could. He threw it back just as hard, and then, somehow, I was playing volleyball with the twins and Richard and Ethan and Sarita. And the thing was—it
was
fun. I didn’t mind that my soft hands were getting all banged up, because it felt
good
to thump the ball like that. It felt
good
to leap and dive. And when I aced a shot it felt . . .
awesome
. After twenty minutes of urgent spiking we had drawn a crowd. I played up to them. I was theatrical—weeping when I missed a shot, spinning when I made one. I danced on my toes and embraced the cheers. Neville was my number one fan. He was beaming, rolling his fist, and chanting, “Go Ri-ley, go Ri-ley!”
After a killer finish the good counselor trotted up with cold water and compliments. “Good game.” He clapped his hand on my aching shoulder. “It’s great to see you participating, Riley.”
I felt momentarily shocked. Was
that
what I’d been doing? Then I saw how I could work my perceived cooperation to my advantage. That’s when I hit him with the petition. Neville looked appalled. “Absolutely not! The salt lake isn’t even accessible.”
“It is!” I insisted. “There’s a fire road. I’ve got . . . I’ve seen the map.”
“Riley. Let me tell you something about structure. Have you heard of structure? Well, structure is important. Do you want to know why it’s important? Because, Riley, without structure, everything falls apart. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Not really.”
“Even if I thought it was a good idea for you to go to the salt lake—which I don’t—we already have your off-site activity planned for tomorrow. We’re going whitewater rafting at the falls.”
“But what about after that?”
“No. I can’t even entertain the thought.”
“Trevor said it was a healing lake,” I put in.
Neville smiled at Trevor’s name. “Never mind what Trevor said.” He looked at me, almost fondly. For a minute I thought he might ruffle my hair. “Riley, am I right in thinking that you want to take Dylan to the salt lake so that he can be cured?”
“No.” I ducked and shrugged. It sounded stupid out loud.
“Come on.” Neville closed the subject with a sanctimonious smile. “How are you doing with the house?”
“We still have to do the second room.”
“You can finish up in the morning before the falls excursion. Unless you mind missing The Word.”
“I don’t mind.”
“No.” Neville looked at me sideways. “I didn’t think you would.”
Dylan wheeled out of his room, plugged in and staring across the plain to the latest round of jumping, sweating, shrieking, high-fiving, fully active campers. Suddenly I felt a burning injustice on his behalf. Fuck structure! It was okay for Neville, flouncing around in his high pants. And Roslyn, doing her mad rockin’ pelvis dance. And Anton, leading yet another troop of Mallees into the scrub. It was okay for
them
. But all Dylan could do was watch and pretend he didn’t want any part of it. I knew that was what he was doing because that was what I had always done. We were the mutards, and after all we had been through, well, what was so wrong with a little salvation?
I tried to give Neville the petition, but he wouldn’t take it.
“Please,” I harangued him. “It’s important.”
“It’s not going to happen. We’d need permission, there’s no vehicle—”
“Maybe Trevor could take us?”
“Sorry.” Neville started to walk away. I had one card left—blackmail. I blurted, “I’ll tell everyone about you two . . . you and Trevor. . . .”
Neville paused. He held his breath and frowned at the sky. Then he gave me a funny, stilted smile. “I have nothing to hide from God,” he said. He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I muttered, stirring the dirt with my shoe. “Sorry.”
He started to walk away and I thought of something else.
“Can I make a phone call?” I asked him.
“Riley . . .” Neville sighed. “Okay. Just this once.”
Once we were in his office Neville passed me the phone and then he just stood there. I gave him a look. He gave me a look back and kind of rolled his shoulders and took himself out to the hall.
Chloe’s phone went straight to voice mail.
“It’s me,” I said. “Are you screening? Pick up, pick up, pick up. Okay. Obviously I am still in hell. I’m sorry you had to get up early all for nothing. And I’m
traumatized
about Ben’s party,” I drawled. “I’m puncturing my skin with a blunt compass as we speak.” I waited. She didn’t pick up. “Okay, Chlo, I’ve gotta go. I’ll be back Sunday night for deprogramming.
Arghhh, help
!” I held the receiver out and shrieked twice before hanging up.
Neville’s drawer was open a crack—I opened it all the way. There were hundreds of Jesus badges inside. Hundreds! I grabbed one and put it in my bag. I noticed a set of keys labeled
Fraser.
I weighed them in my hand. My finger traced the VW insignia and I could have smacked myself. Why was I trying so hard? I didn’t need a petition. I didn’t need
permission
. We
did
have a vehicle—the dune buggy! I spun myself around and around and around in the chair until I felt too sick to be excited.