Everything Beautiful (2 page)

Authors: Simmone Howell

The first sign that we were entering the Palace of Suckdom came as we passed under the wooden arches. They had a shipwrecked look and were etched with this:
He Hath Made Everything Beautiful in His Time
.

“There’s a challenge,” Dad said. He winked at me in the rearview mirror. “Someone’s got their work cut out for them.”

“Ha-ha.” I made a face. It was high noon. Outside the window was a wilderness of dust.

“Ron!” Norma cried. She turned to me. “Don’t listen to him. You’re gorgeous.” Then she trilled, “And we’re
here
! Are you excited?”

“I’m so excited, I need the toilet.”

“Riley,” Dad’s voice was like a jab in the ribs.

“What?”

“You know.” He mouthed,
Be nice
. Be nice to Norma—that old refrain. Well, I didn’t want to be nice. He couldn’t banish me and still expect sunshine smiles. “Here” was Spirit Ranch Holiday Camp. The Web site boasted “
an oasis of fun and learning on the edge of the Little Desert: from Pomponderoo Hill to the southern crater—nowhere is God’s work more in evidence
.” From where I was sitting it looked like a horror movie set: closed up and quiet—too quiet. I wasn’t excited. I was banished. The closest town was called Nhill, and that’s exactly where I set my expectation levels.

It had been a long drive, made longer by Norma’s New Age soundtrack—fern gullies, waterfalls, the tranquil sounds of whale sex. I couldn’t stop staring at Norma’s hand planted on Dad’s thigh. The traveler’s hand. Mom used to do that. But Mom’s hand was a salve; Norma’s was like a falconer’s mitt.

My mother, Lilith Maree Rose, died two years ago, when I was fourteen. Of all of the facts of my life, this was the one that wouldn’t change. If I ever chanced to forget about the Mom-shaped hole in my life, the grief would come back like a wrist burn on my heart.

It was cancer—fast and ugly—and it left Dad and me gasping for air.
Pain ends
—if you believed the grief guides. Apparently visualization helps—
close your eyes, imagine you see your loved one laughing. Open your eyes. Breathe
. Now cue me: sweet sixteen and still gasping. I felt incomplete, cut up, and I couldn’t talk about it. Insert life change here.

Six months after Mom died, Dad moved us back to the town were he grew up. He had all his old friends, and I made precisely one: Chloe Benson. Dad started going to church again, and not just on Sundays. He got
involved
. It was months of church-activity craziness. He even auditioned for
Moses: The Musical.
Dad is a terrible singer. His breathing is all over the place. He sings like someone’s chasing him—and it turns out someone was. Norma. Her name is onomatopoeic, which means it sounds like she looks—all soft and droopy-drawly. And she’s kind. I didn’t want her to be kind.

When the school year ended Dad sat me down to tell me that he and Norma were “pretty serious.” And even though the rest of me was numb, I still managed a smart mouth because that’s my best defense. I said, “
Pretty
serious?
Pretty
? A qualifier is like a seed of doubt.” Dad squeezed my hand and that squeeze cut the qualifier out.

My smart mouth is one of my defenses; my size is another. I am Chubby con Carne, 182 pounds and rising. The whole Norma Trauma Kit came with free counseling. “Do you think, Riley, that your weight is the moat around the real you?” Or, “Would you say, Riley, that you only feel good when you’re being bad?”

All year I’d been hurtling toward catastrophe. First there was the thing with the bong, then my almost failing midterms, and my schizo MO—hugging Dad one day, railing at him the next. But the tipping point was when a group of us broke into the local pool for a night swim. Your Honor, I admit it. We were drunk on vodka Jell-O shots. My mascara had run in Vampira streaks down my face, and I was delirious-happy because
I was just about to kiss Ben Sebatini!
He of the inky hair and that smile that made me steady myself against stair rails. I still can’t believe that for nine hot minutes—until the cops busted in and ripped us asunder—the boy had been mine.

Dad picked me up at the station and we drove home in silence. In the driveway, he killed the lights, hung his head, and said, “Riley, Riley, Riley.”

I went, “What’s up, Mr. Potato Head?” but he didn’t laugh like usual.

“You don’t take anything seriously.” His voice was so quiet I had to hunch to hear it. “You don’t seem to understand that there are consequences in life. You’re messing up. And I don’t know what to do with you.”

“I’m sure Norma has a few ideas,” I said under my breath.

That night I put my ear to the heating vent and listened to Dad and Norma plot my course. They had their first vacation coming up. A winsome week of B and Bs. I was supposed to stay at Chloe’s, but there was no way Dad was going to let that fly now. It was Norma who suggested Spirit Ranch. A friend of a friend from the parish had sent her daughter there and she’d come back Saved. She’d gone from shaving her eyebrows to reading
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
. Camp was booked solid, but Norma was connected. All it would take was a phone call.

Dad wavered. “I guess it would get her away from Chloe …”

“But?” Norma prodded.

“I don’t want her to feel like I’m dumping her.”

“Ron. You’re too sensitive.”

“I don’t know …”

“Honey, you have to take something for yourself here. It’s like teaching a baby to swim. You have to just throw them in the water. Once they get over the shock, they love it.”

Norma’s never had a baby. I know this for a fact.

The next day I debriefed Chloe.

“Talk about pussy-whipped!” she crowed.

“Norma doesn’t have a ‘pussy.’” I popped the
p
. “More like an old box with creaky hinges.”

Chloe and I made creaking sounds at each other and then fell apart laughing.

Chloe’s like an ancient Vegas pole dancer trapped in the body of a sixteen-year-old. She has lax parents, a disposable income, and a serious guy habit. My first sleep-over at her house featured her then-boyfriend Matt, his friend Andy, and a bottle of Jägermeister. The morning after, she said, “You know, when you’re wanking a guy, sometimes it helps if you spit on your hand.” Everyone at school was scared of Chloe, but I, as her protégée, was safe. I liked her bent wisdom, but I couldn’t picture us after high school—sharing an apartment or going to college or having any adventures that didn’t include body shots and bohunks.

We took turns punching her faux-fur pillow.

“Wahh,” she cried. “You’re going to miss Ben Sebatini’s party.”

“I know. It’s like every time I get close, the cruel hand of fate rips up the set.” I hung my head. “And I’m left on the stage … alone and forsaken.”

“The cruel hand of fate is a bitch.”

I showed her the Spirit Ranch brochure.

Chloe’s eyes glittered. “Will there be nuns? Make sure you take photos. I want to see wimples and control pants. Just think of all that slob couture …”

“I’m not allowed to bring my phone.”

“What?”

“No phones, no gadgets.” I sighed. “It’s totally Mormonic.”

Chloe laughed.

“Don’t,” I said. “This is terminal.”

“My friend, my friend …” She pressed the pillow to my face and then flung it on the floor. “I think you’re fucked.” She uncurled her long brown legs and stood up. She did one of her power yoga poses—the tree—closing her eyes and breathing out through her nostrils, short, fast, and furious. Then she opened her eyes and declared, “I’m going to get you out of this.”

“How?”

“Leave it to me.”

The day before I left for camp, I cut my hair. This was hair-chitecture. One side fell in ascending steps down my face, the other was straight, shoulder-length, civilian. Then I dyed it ultraviolet. I looked like an old new waver. Shocking but compelling.

I decided I would only pack frivolous things: eyelash curlers and costume jewelry and little jars of antipasto. If I had to go to Christian camp, then I would go as a plague. I would be more like Chloe: outrageous and obnoxious—a plus-size glass of sin! It wasn’t until Melbourne was wavering behind us like a bad watercolor that reality hit. As the kilometers ticked by I sank in my seat and practiced holding my breath. On a silo just past Horsham someone had painted an escape button. ESC—ten feet high against a concrete sky. I almost asked Dad to stop the car so I could press it.

On the First Day

3
Safe Fun

Counselor Neville’s office was small and smelled like coffee and leftovers. For the first few seconds after our introduction he ignored us, and shifted papers around his messy desk. I kept quiet. The chair I was sitting in squeaked if I even
breathed
. Dad and Norma sat on either side of me, like henchmen. Finally, Counselor Neville looked up and blinked at me. I blinked back. He was thirtysomething, neat, and nothing much to look at until you saw his glass eye. Then he took on a creepy character actor aspect, the guy with the sissy laugh and the knife taped to his ankle. He was wearing the standard shirt-tucked-into-jeans-and-“bonkers”-tie combo. On his pocket a badge proclaimed
God Is Awesome
in bubble writing.

“Riley Rose.” He crossed off my name, my stupid name that sounds made-up or backward, or like something I’m definitely not: Riley Rose—Romance Novelist. Riley Rose—Yodeling Cowgirl. Try Riley Rose—Defective Daughter. Unhappy Camper. Castaway. I stared at my palms like a kid on acid, counting the cracks in my love line while Neville rattled off the contents in my Spirit Ranch goody bag: “One guidebook featuring map, information, your all-important schedule, and a little local history. One name tag…” He tossed me a reddish button. My name was written on it in a primitive hand, underlined by a yellow feather. I turned the button over, accidentally puncturing my finger on the safety pin. There was no way I was going to wear it. In the first place, it was hideous, and in the second, my top was made out of the finest fishnet. Like I would violate it with that monstrosity.

Neville smiled wetly. “Roslyn made them—out of resin, I believe. Roslyn is our art-life-spirit counselor—she’ll explain about the feather at orientation. We’d like you to wear your name tag the first day or so, until you get to know your group.” He went back to the bag. “One Spirit Ranch pen. Test it, please—last year’s batch was faulty.”

I scribbled on the cover of the guidebook, dumbly, dutifully. It was already too hot, and Neville’s air conditioner was all noise and no action. I checked the sweat patch under his arm. Since I’d been there it had grown in size from a quarter to a small pool.

“Sunscreen. Water bottle. Insect repellent. Visor.” Neville was winding up. “You’re in cabin three with Fleur and Sarita. Orientation is at four, then activities, then dinner. It’s all on your schedule.”

Norma leaned forward. “Sarita—what a lovely name. Is that Indian?”

Neville nodded.

My hand was still moving over the page. I was drawing thick black psychotic lines. Neville reached forward and held the end of my pen. “I think it works.” Then he drum-rolled the desk and showed me his teeth. “Welcome to Spirit Ranch Holiday Camp. Any questions?”

My brain had gone fuzzy. I shifted and the seat squeaked. My pants were riding up my butt. My top was too tight. “There’s been a mistake,” I blurted. “I’m an atheist, agnostic, irreligious.” I couldn’t remember the right word, but what I meant was this:
I’m different. I don’t belong here
. Dad cleared his throat and Norma’s smile went rictus. Neville’s eye wobbled a bit, but he kept his cool.

“Riley, Spirit Ranch is for everyone. Being ‘Christian’ isn’t a requirement. We just ask for an open mind, and hope you’ll get involved, make some friends, learn some new skills, and most importantly, have fun.”

“
Safe
fun,” Norma added.

Neville had both hands in the air, fingers suspended in air quotes. Air quotes are something I’ve seen adults do when they’re trying to “relate.” They use “teen speak,” but they always act uncomfortably when they use it because they know damn well their youth is “spent.” And maybe they don’t like how they spent it, so every time they see a “young person” they get crabby and offended or smarmy and patronizing.

I could feel sweat collecting in all my corners. I made a half turn, a whole plea. “Dad?” He gave Norma the nod and she ushered me outside. We sat on a picnic bench in silence. A scenario unfolded in my head: Dad was in there apologizing to Neville for wasting his time. He’d had a sudden flash of clarity. Spirit Ranch was not the place for his daughter. He was going to take me home, and leave Norma behind. We’d go back to our house full of books and baking trays and never speak of this again.

“So, how do you like it?” Norma asked.

I stared at her. She was so nice and earnest and
involved
. She had a hundred projects and now she was making one out of me. I said, “You know, Dad and I used to have fun on our vacations,
actually
.”

Norma stared back and for the first time I saw shades of steel. “Do you think your father’s been having
fun
? You’ve put him through the wringer. The only way he’ll get a vacation is if you’re not on it.” She patted her hair and switched on a smile as Dad shambled toward the door.

“I’m not staying,” I told him.

“Come on, Potato Head.” He put his arm around my shoulder like he always does when he’s just about to disappoint me. “Give it a chance. They’ve got canoeing …”

“Gee, that’s great. Because I
so adore
physical activity.”

“Just take it at your own pace,” Norma advised me.

“You might even make some friends,” Dad coaxed.

“As if I’d want to make friends with the people here.”

I stirred the dust with my sneaker, thinking that on our last vacation we had takeout every night. “Last vacation” is a country I can never go back to.

“If you leave me here I’ll run away,” I declared.

“Riley,” Dad said. “It’s seven days. It won’t kill you.”

“I don’t even believe in God!”

“You’re sixteen. You don’t know what you believe in.”

I grabbed my suitcase out of his hand and stomped off across the quadrangle. In my head I made a list. By the time I’d reached my cabin it had become a manifesto: