Pregnant Pause (8 page)

"Yeah, sure, Dad. Whatever you say, Dad," I say, and even though I'm annoyed with Leo, I've got nothing better to do, so I stay. All week long I stay and watch Leo and talk to the kids out on the porch. I don't get any better at the crafts, but as nasty as Leo was to me, I discover that I kinda like him, and this totally surprises me. He's much more patient with me than I deserve, and he's funny with the campers, and I can tell they all love him. He doesn't take things too seriously, and he's good at what he does—the crafts stuff. I notice he's got really nice hands—nice work hands, or maybe artist's hands. He's going to be a ceramics major in college, of all things. Who knew you could major in clay? Best of all, Leo's open to suggestions, like when I said, "Did you know you eat with your mouth open? It's disgusting. Why don't you try keeping it closed?"

"Ay-uh, okay," he says, just like that, and he does it!

Or once I said, "No offense, Leo, but you dress like a dork. Can't you see how different you look from everybody else? You're an artist; you should notice stuff like that. I mean, come on, you look like the all-American tourist."

Leo didn't get all bent out of shape about what I said. He just laughed. "Ay-uh, that's the idea," he said. "We're all only tourists in this world."

"Is that supposed to be deep?" I asked. "Because if it is, it went right over my head."

"I'm merely stating a truth," he said. "We're all tourists, no need taking ourselves too seriously. Some of these campers act as if their world is coming to an end if they don't lose weight fast enough or if they've got a zit on their face or their craft doesn't come out perfectly. I'm just keepin' it light; that's all."

The only thing Leo really needs me as an assistant for, be sides talking to the kids, is to keep track of the time so he can send the campers off to their next class on time, or so he doesn't miss lunch or dinner. They do ring the bell for meals, but he never hears it, because he's so involved with the kids. If any one of them does something great, some good deed, or a great job on their craft or something, they get to sign the back of his camp shirt. The first time I saw this, I couldn't believe how excited the kid got. He picked a colored sharpie out of Leo's back pocket and wrote his name with a flourish, and then paraded himself around announcing that he was the very first one to get to sign Leo's shirt. Big whoop! I didn't get it, but all the kids love it. It's what happens at Camp WeightAway. It's the camp tradition.

Leo always wears one of his Hawaiian shirts over the camp shirt, and kids love to try to sneak up on Leo and lift the shirt to see how many names he has back there. Leo pretends they've pulled a fast one on him.

Another thing that surprises me, besides liking Leo, is that I kinda like the kids.

Ashley Wilson, the girl who's so mean to Banner, is a real pill, and so are a few other girls, and there are some boys I'd like to bind and gag and abandon in a ditch somewhere, but most of the kids I enjoy ... and they seem to enjoy me.

I spend most of my time on the porch outside the crafts hut talking with the kids who are knitting outside. They tell me about how they feel about coming to a weight-loss camp. Generally they love the camp, but they feel embarrassed that they have to be here. "I'd die if my friends found out where I am," one girl says, and another says, "There's kids a lot fatter than me in school, but you don't see them here."

Several of the kids, I find out, have been coming to Camp WeightAway for years, and they lose the weight in the summer and gain it all back in the winter. "Food is my best friend when I'm at home," a boy named Alfie says. "If I didn't have food for comfort, I wouldn't have anything," he adds, and everybody agrees.

They're supposed to talk about these weight issues during the morning "Health and Well-Being" sessions in the main cabin, but they prefer just talking outside on the porch while they're knitting, and where it's informal. Oh, and there are boys in these knitting classes, too. Just because they like to knit doesn't mean they're gay—another surprise.

I love to watch some of the older boys who think they're too cool or too tough to knit hanging around the crafts hut pretending they're just talking to the guys, or flirting with the girls, but really they're watching the knitting with this kind of hungry longing in their eyes that cracks me up, because I can see it. I can step back and see right through these kids. For all my life I've been just another one of those kids, and I could see through nothing, but now all of a sudden, maybe because of this baby, or because I have to act like an authority of some kind, I'm allowed to take that step back and just observe, and it's a hoot; it really is. And somehow, because of this ability I've got of being able to read these kids, I like them. I feel like I understand them a little, and that's a blast. It makes me think that maybe, if we do keep the baby, I wouldn't be such a crappy mother after all.

I'm supposed to help Haley the second week of camp, but after breakfast, Monday of that second week, the MIL and FIL ask to see me.

I talk to them at their dining hall table after the campers have left.

"We have a problem," the FIL begins.

"Well, I didn't do it," I say automatically. I run through my mind all the things I've done lately, and I try to figure out what I may have done that has got the two ILs looking so miserable. Except for leaving the cabin in the middle of the night without my bathrobe on a few hundred times, and swearing on occasion, I've been pretty decent.

The MIL waves her hand and gives me this irritated look. "Haley isn't feeling well. Her stomach is upset, and we have no one to teach the dance class except you. Do you feel up to teaching the class on your own?"

"Well, I didn't poison her or anything, if that's what you're thinking. I didn't do anything." This is so wild because I sort of imagined a scenario like this, where for some reason I get to teach the dance class but I don't teach ballet; I teach the kids all of my wacky fun stuff, but now it's for real, and I'm scared. I'm scared that I'll get blamed for making Haley sick, and even more scared that I'll actually have to teach the class. Daydreaming about teaching the class is one thing, but actually teaching it is another.

"No, of course not," the MIL says. "We wouldn't ask for your help, except there isn't anyone else. We're short a couple of counselors this summer as it is, and we can't afford to lose any of our waterfront counselors, so it's you or nobody."

Gee, thanks for all the love.

The FIL puts his hand on mine. "We need you for this, Eleanor."

Well, that's a new one. They need me. I love it. It's straight out of some movie. The hated girl comes to the rescue in the end and saves the day, and everybody loves her and she lives happily ever after. Yeah, I could live with that.

"Sure. Sure, I'll teach the class. Don't worry about it."

Both of the ILs look relieved, and the MIL actually thanks me and almost, just almost, smiles at me.

So my knees are a-knockin' when I get to the dance hut. The room is large and square, and there are those bar things attached to the walls, where you're supposed to hang on and do
plies,
and one wall is covered by a huge mirror. The first thing I notice in the mirror, besides my big belly and a zit on my chin, is that I've got Ashley Wilson and Banner Sorensen in my dance class, and then I see all the other kids, all those wide eyes staring at me, and all those legs in pink tights and ballet slippers. I can't teach ballet! My knees get to knocking even more. I turn away and think to run out of the room, but I can't really run too well anymore, since I'm so pregnant, and I've got nowhere to run. No, I've got to be strong and remember I'm older than they are. I turn around again and take a deep breath. I try to smile, and I think of how hard it is for the MIL to smile at me. So then I really smile. I try to look friendly. I tell them about Haley being sick, and the campers groan.

"Yeah, so while I'm teaching the class, we're, uh, going to do things a little differently. But first, before we get started..." I pause and stare at Ashley Wilson. "If there is any name-calling or if anyone is mean to anybody else in this class, inside or outside of it, you will not be allowed to dance. You'll have to sit on the floor and watch for the period if you're mean once, but twice and you're out, and you can't get back in."

Ashley Wilson sees me glaring at her, and instead of hanging her head in shame, she lifts it higher and raises her hand.

"Yeah?" I say.

"All the classes are voluntary, so we get to choose if we're in a class or not, just so long as we have four physical classes and two rest classes, so I don't think you can kick us out."

The girl doesn't look a thing like me, with her red hair and dark, deep-set, beady little eyes, but she sounds like me. I know if a teacher had read me the riot act, I would have rebelled—I did rebel. Still, I walk right up to her and stick my belly in her chest. "Girl, just try me, okay? Just try me. I want this to be a fun class. If you aren't fun, out you go."

Another girl raises her hand. She's short and not really fat, so I don't know why she's in this camp, but some parents expect perfection, and she has bowed legs. Maybe they think if she loses what little weight she has, they won't be so bowed or something—who knows? "Do we get to vote people out of the class?" she asks.

I laugh. "No. I'm the only one who gets to vote you out of my class. So anyway, are you ready to dance?"

Some kids nod and some kids say a meek yes. "I don't hear you!" I shout. "Are you ready to dance?"

They all yell, "Yes!"

"I can't hear you!"

"Yes!" they scream.

I look over the CD selection Haley has left out on the table, and I put on some music by Dread-Locked. The music starts, and I shout, "Okay, let's dance!"

I start dancing to the music, and the girls just stand there watching me. I wave to them. "Come on, dance!" I shout.

The girls look at one another, but they don't move, not even Banner. I stop the music. "What's wrong? Why aren't you dancing?"

"Aren't you going to teach us some steps or anything?" Ashley asks. She looks pissed.

"Why? Are you afraid to just dance? Everybody can dance. You just move to the music."

"Is that all this is going to be? You play music and we dance to it?" Ashley Wilson sounds even more pissed.

"No," I say. "No, it isn't. There's going to be other stuff, but you've—you've got to warm up, don't you? Every
real
dancer knows that," I say, implying that she's not a real dancer. "So come on, swing those hips and kick those legs, girl, and let's dance."

I put the music back on, and again the girls just look at one another, their faces red with embarrassment.

Feeling desperate, I grab Banner's hand and tell her to grab the girl's hand next to her. Then one by one they all join hands and we form a circle, and I shout, "Let's skip into the center." We skip into the center—only my skip is more like a walk 'cause I don't want to bounce the baby. "And back out again. Four steps to the right. Four steps to the left. Now, everybody twirl!" I shout, remembering how much Banner loved to twirl. I watch them, and I can see they're getting into it. Their eyes sparkle as they wait for me to tell them what to do next.

I grab Banner's hands and shout, "Grab a partner. Bump bottoms with your partner!" The girls laugh. "Bump hips with your partner!"

While the girls are bumping hips, I notice out of the corner of my eye the MIL slipping into the room. She stands just inside the door, folds her arms across her chest, and just watches. I feel my throat start to close up and my knees get to knocking again. What is she going to do to me? Now she knows I'm not teaching ballet. What a nightmare. What do I say next?

The girls have stopped, and they're all staring at me, waiting for instructions. I start to speak, but nothing comes out. My mouth is dry. I clear my throat and try again.

"Uh, pretend you're the wind and—uh—blow all over the room!" I shout. Off they fly, around the room, watching one another to see if they're doing "wind" right.

"Pretend that you're snow falling gently, softly, shhh, shhh." The first song is over and the girls move like snow in the silence, on tiptoes, their arms in the air or held out to the side. One girl leaps, and then they all start leaping.

The next song begins, and I call out, "You're horses now, leaping, prancing horses!"

They love this, and I glance over to see if the MIL has noticed, but she's already left. I imagine the reaming I'm going to get after class and shudder. I turn back to the girls. Everyone is still leaping, everyone except for Banner, who is standing off to the side with her shoulders slumped and her hair in her face.
At least the MIL isn't here to see this.
I go over to her. "Come on, Banner—you'rehor ses."

"I can't," she moans. "Not here. They'll laugh at me. My legs will jiggle, and they'll laugh at me."

"But everybody's legs jiggle. It's okay. I won't let them laugh. So come on. Let's see some horses, or maybe the girls will start laughing at you because you're just standing here like a stick."

That gets a rise out of her—but only a small, halfhearted one. She does a few tiny little leaps, barely-off-the-ground leaps, but at least I got her into the center of the room with the others, and nobody's laughing at her.

The music changes to this slow, dragging tune. "Now you're crawling through mud," I call out, and everyone but Banner gets down on their bellies and pretends to be crawling through the mud. Banner just kind of squats, afraid to actually get on the floor on her belly like the others, so instead she looks like she's taking a dump in the middle of the floor, and really I can't blame them when the other girls laugh.

"Hey, look at Banner!" one of the girls shouts. "She's got the trots!"

I clap my hands and scowl. "All right, that's enough," I say to stop the laughter, but really, I'm proud of myself because although I'm laughing so hard inside, I manage to look stern enough that when I clap my hands, the girls actually stop laughing.

By the end of the class, the girls are flushed and happy, and I'm exhausted. I watch them file out of the cabin, and then Ashley Wilson stops in front of me and stares at me with her beady little eyes for a few seconds. I stare back. No way is some snot-nosed fifth-grader going to outstare me.