Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (23 page)

Cambridge smiled wryly. “Did you take the quantitative aptitude standardized test, Gabe?”

I looked down into my plate. I barely eked out a C in Algebra II.

“Of course I did.”

“And what did you get?”

“
Perfecto
.” He polished his nails on his chest. “You?”

Cambridge rolled her eyes. “I missed a few.”

Gabe put his hands up. “I'm only trying to shed some light on your quandary here,” he replied. “I mean, say I drove you somewhere. Then what? Eventually you'll have to come back here.”

“Yes,” I said, “but eventually isn't now. Eventually might be never.”

Gabe smiled then covered his teeth. “Statistically, ladies, eventually is
never
never.”

Cambridge looked at Gabe. “I disagree with your math, Pythagoras. We need a ride. You in?”

Gabe opened his mouth in an effort, I guessed, to relate how dumb we were for running away with no plan and crappy math grades to boot. He'd probably present the idea that we should just go back to Utopia and suck it up, like two thousand other people hadn't suggested the same thing. Only no words came out of Gabe's mouth. His gaze skimmed the top of my head, toward the window behind us. When I turned around, I saw what had silenced him. A herd of joggers lumbered past. Two were holding their ribcages, breath coming out in white puffs, then I saw Atlanta, her face and big, poofy hair. Then Liliana filed past, half-walking, half-skipping, and there bringing up the rear of this motley crew, urging them to go faster, faster, was a girl in a white jogging suit. Her feet were clothed in ridiculous barefoot running socks. Not even sweating this July morning, her thin lips stretched into a smile. Hollywood.

Chariots of Fire
didn't exactly pipe through the speakers, but it sure felt that time stretched like caramel when Hollywood stopped mid-stride and pivoted. Her hands were on her hips. I was aware of her heart-shaped face turning toward the window and Gabe's black hair whizzing out when he snapped around and yelled, “Duuuuuck.” But it was too late. Recognition had already crossed her face. Before we dove under the table, I saw it. Her lips pulled together in a line to form, I was sure, the first letter of my name. In the cramped space under the table, I mouthed the word
please
to Gabe. Liliana's brother sighed and rolled his eyes. After an excruciating minute, he exited Copernicus through the kitchen with me and Cambridge following. He didn't stop until he got to the parking lot behind his dorm. There he waited by
ni modo
with his arms crossed. When Cambridge and I finally panted up the parking lot's hill, Gabe grabbed the pink flyer from the windshield of his truck and handed it to me.

“Better hurry,” he said, opening his truck's door. “
Ustedes frigados
.”

I looked at the flyer, noting Cambridge's photo first and then my own, the words HAVE YOU SEEN …. I didn't need a translation. Oh, indeed. We were screwed.

41

GET AWAY

IN SPITE OF everything, I was the picture of positive thinking. I called on all those stupid business philosophies my mother's company always touted on their notepads.
When the going gets tough, Zyprexa gets tougher. Cetalphix: Helps you get a grip.
In a rare moment of strength, I thought,
Let them tack pink fliers around the globe
.
Let Hollywood throw phones at my shadow, because we've scored a ride
. I patted Gabe's truck. Our ship had come in.

Of course the ship was the color of rust and the driver's side window was cracked. And yes, Gabe had to climb in and open the passenger door by kicking it. Who needed side mirrors anyway? I'd overlook the many cosmetic flaws, provided it could drive.

Cambridge did not share my enthusiasm. “This is your car?” She whistled. “No way this heap is going anywhere.”

“Funny, I said the same thing about you last night,” Gabe shot back.

He was definitely related to Liliana. Same mouth.

Cambridge was wise to voice her concerns, though, because when we slid next to Gabe, it was obvious that the truck's interior parts were as decrepit as the rest of it. Even the insects behind Gabe's tires relaxed, because this truck wasn't going anywhere. Anyone could see it. Anyone, that is, except Gabe.

“It just takes a few times here,” he said very patiently.

Sure, it turned
on
, but the truck retched as badly as Cambridge had last night. Gabe turned and returned the key, sweat dampening his brow, as
ni modo
farted black clouds of smoke. From the window that didn't roll up, I could see the pink
Have You Seen Us
flyers pinned beneath the windshield wiper of every Audi, Nissan, Volkswagen, Toyota, and Honda. Every vehicle appeared to be sticking out its tongue at us. Listening to Gabe's truck strain and hiccough, San Francisco seemed as far away as the moon.

Eventually Gabe got out, popped the hood, tugged some wires, and mumbled about plugs and oil, until Cambridge told him enough was enough. “We'll walk somewhere,” she said. “Or take a bus.”

“We don't have any money,” I reminded her. “Or clothes.”

Cambridge was still wearing Gabe's jeans that didn't zip. I was still dressed as a C.U.P. ambassador. Neither of us had showered.

When Gabe closed the hood, the truck rocked so hard I feared it'd collapse. He leaned on the no-doubt functioning Volkswagen parked in the spot next to us. “Stay with me tonight, and I'll try the truck in the morning.” He picked the flyer from beneath the VW's windshield and crumpled it. “It's the fog,
sabes
. The engine is wet, that's all. I'll seal it with towels tonight and I promise,” he looked at me, “I'll take you to your boyfriend tomorrow.” His eyes were a dark-chocolate brown, the lids ringed in purple like he needed sleep.

“But Hollywood saw us.”

“No she didn't,” he replied. “And even if she did, there's nothing she can do.”

Somehow I doubted that. But when the fog rolled into the parking lot, it didn't bring any other choices with it. Gabe was the first and only person to offer us a ride. Therefore, if we had an alternative to stuffing the hood with towels he swore were for this purpose, I sure wished I knew it.

After we finished sealing the engine, Cambridge and I sat on a concrete slab and smoked a cigarette. We watched Gabe gallop in and out of the rows of cars, plucking flyers from windshields and crumpling them. “That's some serious dedication,” Cambridge said, pointing at our driver, his black and white vans blurred with purpose.

“He must be vested in having you spend another night in his dorm,” I teased.

Cambridge squished her cigarette into the pavement. “Bethany, please. This one is all you.”

I rubbed my stubbly, unshaved legs and pinched a mound of fat from my hip. “All me what? You're the showstopper,” I said. “You should have seen yourself dancing with a fun noodle last night!”

She dragged on her cigarette. “Fun noodle? I thought you said his name was Glo.” She scooched over, bumped me with her shoulder. “You could stop Gabe's show,” she said, “if you wanted.”

At that, I laughed good and hard. Obviously that brownie had permanently affected her brain.

From:
[email protected]

To: Bethany Stern

Subject: TJ

Dear Bethany,

You don't
really
want me to fax over a signature, do you? Tell me that was a joke. You expect me to believe they actually beat you there? If you would call me, I'd be happy to discuss things with you.

Also, you mentioned the twin's birthday, so last night, I looked at pictures of their boys' birthday party. I most definitely remember the magician. He played punk music that was not appropriate. A dove crapped on the cake too. I thought his act was over-the-top until he turned his birds yellow using some kind of powder. My kids are still talking about it. What happened between you two?

I've wracked my brain over and over about Chuck E. Cheese's and even went through video footage from the party. I don't remember seeing you. I hope you believe me. Do you believe me?

I assume you're still at camp. Is there a number where I can reach you?

Can you at least let me know you're ok?

~Dad

42

WANTED

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE parking lot and Copernicus, my positive thoughts curled up and died alongside Gabe's truck. We'd been so close to freedom, only now, back in Gabe's room, it seemed so impossibly far away. Obviously Gabe shared a deep connection with his vehicle because he took its failures personally. He'd looked a little humiliated trudging back to Copernicus Hall. We all did. It felt a little like walking to our own execution.

Gabe had snatched a newspaper from the stairwell on our way up, and now was reading at his desk. He made a funny noise when he flipped it over.

“What?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“I thought you were about to say that we were on the front page or something.”

He slipped the paper under his laptop. “You aren't on the front page.”

I exhaled. The last thing we needed was more media coverage of our fat camp exodus.

“You're on the last page,” Gabe said, and tried—really, really tried—not to smile.

When I leaned across the desk for the paper, he stopped me. “It was nothing,” he said. “A blurb. No one reads the campus rag anyway. The front page was a series of warnings about illegal fireworks on campus and how five million people blow their hands into the stratosphere because of them.” He squinted. “You guys were just this teeny, tiny blurb. In the back. Infinitesimal.”

Cambridge fiddled with some of her hair beads. “Let's hear it,” she said.

“Better not.” He nodded in my direction. “Bethany's white as a ghost. Don't want her to freak on me—”

“Just read it!”

“Fine,” he said, snapping the paper very professionally. He cleared his throat. “It says here that Graham Michener, the university vice president, hopes students realize the gravity of the situation at Utopia. And I quote,” Gabe said, hooking his index finger, “ ‘Any student who has information regarding these children will be compensated by CUP. This matter is of serious concern, and I ask all summer students living on or near campus to treat it as such. The mothers were overwhelmingly distraught. Tabitha is lactose intolerant, and Bethany's mother informed us her daughter is,' ” Gabe stopped. “I'm sorry,” he said, cracking up. He cleared his throat again. “ ‘Her daughter is unhappy and prone to rages!' ”

Cambridge leaned back on the bed. “Jesus Christ, I am not lactose intolerant,” she said.

Of course our pictures were in the paper too. They were the same ones on the flyers, only these weren't black and white and poorly copied. These were the photographs from our camp files: me and Jackie standing in front of our row house and Cambridge alongside her horse. They were enlarged, full-colored, and pixeled out the ass.

“And that picture!” Cambridge said, pointing to the small square. “At least I don't look like that anymore.” It was true. Her hair was a gnarled mess now, and she'd abandoned makeup after we got to fat camp. She had a sort-of disguise. Not me. I even wore the same flip-flops in my picture. Same hairstyle. Same everything.

I didn't find any humor in the situation, which was why I didn't get why Gabe and Cambridge laughed like fools. My life disintegrated before my eyes while these two practically peed themselves. “Cambridge? Didn't you hear it?” My heartbeat raced loud in my ears. “Weren't you listening? We are wanted.” My stomach knotted. “It's over!”

Cambridge stopped laughing, and the room got quiet. She moved closer to me on the bed. Gabe pitched the newspaper in the recycling bin and sat down on my other side.

“Calm down, Bethany,” Cambridge said. “Take deep breaths.” She petted my cheek. “Not every girl has the courage to walk out of fat camp,” she said, and smiled. “We set the precedent!”

Gabe patted my knee. “Just sit tight until tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Was that when the giant net fell from the ceiling?

Gabe pulled off his SPOOGE shirt revealing a baby-blue T-shirt beneath it. He knelt in front of me. He had the look of a firefighter delivering the news that just before they rescued my cat, it had jumped into a river and drowned. “It's only the campus paper. No one cares. Besides,” he said, “I've seen
CSIs
like this. They try to scare you into going back on your own. Utopia's avoiding the bad PR.”

“That's true,” echoed Cambridge. “The women's studies department would be all over this.”

The two of them, I could see, were full of calculations.

Gabe tried to soothe the panic swelling in my chest. “Either way, I'll get you out of here tomorrow, Bethany. Let your boyfriend know you're coming to LA.”

I detected a note of something in his voice. Doubt? Hurt? “He's not my boyfriend,” I managed.

“Who else you e-mailing then?”

“Definitely not my boyfriend,” I explained. What kind of loser did that make me, bouncing e-mails back and forth to my dad?

“Whoever you're e-mailing,” Gabe said, “ask him for an air compressor and a few spark plugs.” He yanked my ponytail. “And some sunshine.”

And a miracle
, I thought.

From: Bethany Stern

To:
[email protected]

Subject: TJ

Dear Dad,

Nothing happened w/TJ. thats the short version. I don't have time to write the long b/c in other news: I'm still on the fly. my picture is on about a billion flyers around campus & I'm in the newspaper. People are searching 4 me. according to u, tho, I'm easily overlooked. So I'm not worried. Every eye's got a blind spot, dad.