CHAPTER 2
Dear Mom and President Cleveland,
The odds of finding love are one in 285,000, but the probability of getting married is 80 percent. There seems to be a discrepancy here.
Your son,
Grover Cleveland
My parents told me a few months ago where exactly I would spend the summer. My dad put up his hand and pointed to the center of it.
“It’s right here, Zander. That’s where the camp is located,” he said. “Get it? Michigan is shaped like a glove.”
I didn’t respond so my mom added, “Arizona is miserable in the summer anyway. It’s a million degrees. You’ll like being away from here.” She looked at my dad with thin, tight lips. “Even if it is undesirable that you should be carted halfway across the world without your parents.”
“We agreed on this together, so don’t start with the hyperbole, Nina. The camp isn’t in India,” my dad said.
I watched a fly struggle in a spiderweb as my parents fought at the dinner table. I understood the fly well. No matter which way it turned, it was caught. What’s the use in fighting? You only end up more tangled.
“Camp Padua has seven distinct areas. The boys’ quarters, the girls’ quarters, the mess hall, the beach, the archery field, the stables, and most importantly—the Circle of Hope.” Madison gave me a tour when I’d arrived. She directed me across campus pointing this way and that. “Lots of options. It should be a lot of fun this summer, too. Not all . . .” She paused and looked at me. “Business. What are you into?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You know, what’s your thing?” Madison asked again with a smile.
I didn’t respond and, after a while, Madison gave up on waiting for an answer. The truth is, I don’t have a thing. Life is better that way.
“Girls must stay in the girls’ quarters and boys in the boys’. The summer may not be all business, but we don’t want any funny business either,” Madison said, nudging my side.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said.
Madison perked up. “You do? That’s great. I remember my high school boyfriend. First love is so exciting.”
“We don’t love each other,” I said. “He just likes my boobs.”
We moved on from the subject.
She pointed out the mess hall and the paths that lead back to the stables. We finally got to the archery field and the Circle of Hope, which, it turns out, would be called a fire pit at any other place. Then she took me down to the lake.
“This is Lake Kimball. We ask that all campers refrain from going into the lake until the swim test is administered. We don’t want any accidents.” Madison looked at me. “And wear sunscreen. You’re like me. It only takes about five minutes in the sun to cook us through.”
I nodded. My mom likes to think I take after her Native American side with my black hair and almond eyes, but my skin would prove otherwise. Madison is right. I turn bright red if exposed to the sun for too long, a trait from my dad. But she’s wrong about everything else. I am nothing like her.
Just the thought of cold water brings my body temperature down. The camp may not be in India, but you wouldn’t know that by the humidity. Presently my hair is stuck to my neck, and I can feel sweat running down my back.
I take a detour on my walk to the Circle of Hope and head toward the lake. Trees speckle the entire grounds of Camp Padua. My dad pointed out how green everything is when he dropped me off. We drove through the gates of Camp Padua and he said, “Everything is just so alive here.”
I nodded but didn’t respond. I was too focused on the tall wire fence that lines the camp property. Green branches and bushes pushed out through the holes in the chain links.
When I asked why fencing surrounded the camp, he said, “To make sure everyone stays safe.”
“Safe,” I said quietly. My dad and I both know that no matter how hard you try, it’s impossible to keep a person completely safe. Even when you ship them across the country to Michigan for the summer.
The staircase to the beach is just past the big wooden mess hall that separates the girls’ side from the boys’ side of camp. There’s not a single ripple on the lake. I wipe a bead of sweat from my cheek.
Most campers are still attached to their parents, saying their good-byes. Once my dad checked me in at the admissions office, he bolted. “I have to get back to the airport if I’m going to make my flight,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek. I didn’t mind. A good-bye is a good-bye whether it’s a long one or not.
Down at the lake, I take off my old, beat-up tennis shoes and socks and dip my feet in the water. The sand is squishy between my toes, like slime, but it’s cold. A chill runs up my feet to my legs to my waist to the top of my head, and I stop sweating almost instantly.
I step in farther so the water comes up to my knees. I can’t see my feet at the bottom; the water is too murky and full of lake weed. A person could get lost underneath it and just . . . disappear.
I close my eyes and imagine sinking through the layers of cold slime to the bottom. Like drowning in one of my mom’s thick spinach smoothies. My knees bend closer to the water as I take another step. There’s nothingness down at my feet—vast, empty space where a person could just let go. The pressure of feeling and then feeling nothing doesn’t exist. Just darkness does. I know that place. I’ve been there before.
“Hey you!” A voice bellows from the top of the staircase. I whip around, startled. A male counselor with blond hair down to his shoulders stands like the warden at a jail with his hands on his hips. “Campers are not allowed to access the water on the first day.”
“Sorry,” I say as I pull my socks onto wet feet.
“Please make your way over to the Circle of Hope.” He motions toward the fire pit before walking away.
Cassie is standing next to Madison when I arrive. She’s pulling a large piece of pink bubble gum out of her mouth and twisting it around her finger. When she catches me staring, she wraps the gum around her middle finger and smiles. It’s not a real smile. It’s more like a warning covered in cotton-candy bubble gum.
“Over here, Zander,” Madison bellows at me. “Zander, this is Katie, Hannah, and Dori. Cassie tells me you two have already met.”
Cassie points her long skinny finger at a girl with mousy blonde hair and hazel eyes. “Katie, here, is the bingeing and purging type.”
“Cassie,” Madison barks.
“What?” Cassie snaps a hard look at Madison and grabs Katie’s hand. “Do you see her throw-up fingers? The skin is practically bare from her stuffing them so far down her throat. I know an eating problem when I see one.”
Katie shrugs and says, “She’s right.”
“See? I should be a counselor here.” Cassie looks back at me. “Hannah is a cutter. See how she wears long sleeves in the fucking dead of summer? I bet she’s got scars all up and down those chubby stems.”
Hannah crosses her arms, which are covered in a navy-blue long-sleeved shirt. “I’m not chubby,” she says but doesn’t deny the cutting part.
“And Dori is depressed, which is totally boring. Every teenager is depressed. It’s what we do best.”
“I think that’s enough.” Madison puts her hand on Cassie’s shoulder, but she shrugs it off.
Cassie turns her eye on me and says to the group, “And Zander is here because her ‘parents signed her up.’” She cocks her head to the side and all four girls start laughing. “But I caught her talking to herself, so I’m not ruling out multiple personalities.”
“I don’t have multiple personalities,” I say.
“Schizophrenia?” Hannah asks. Her dark brown eyes focus on me like I’m a lab rat.
“No.” I glare at Cassie.
“That’s enough, girls.” Madison comes to stand behind me, placing both of her hands on my shoulders. I notice her pristine nail polish again. I don’t need her coming to my aid. I don’t need anybody. As far as I’m concerned, I just wish everyone and everything would disappear and leave me alone.
I shrug away Madison’s hands and move to stand in a different part of the circle. I don’t belong in that group. I don’t like blood, let alone self-inflicted pain, and making yourself vomit? I hate when I puke and little bits of food get stuck in my nostrils. Why would someone do that on purpose?
I move between the sea of campers all huddled together, trying to find a spot where I can be alone and away from everyone. It may not be what my parents want for me this summer, for me to be isolated, but they have never asked me what I wanted. If they did, all of this could have been avoided. I wouldn’t need to be here, swarmed by almost fifty kids with a load of counselors and staff circling the group. And no way out. I’m trapped.
When an older guy who’s dressed in the same Camp Padua shirt as Madison stands up on a bench and claps three times, the circle goes still and silent. I freeze in place.
“The only way to be found,” he yells.
“Is to admit we’re lost,” the rest of the counselors ring back in chorus.
“Welcome to Camp Padua,” he continues through the silence. Brown hair hangs shaggy over his forehead, and he tucks it behind his ears before continuing. He looks older than Madison but younger than my parents, midthirties maybe, and handsome in a president-of-a-fraternity kind of way. “I’m Kerry, the owner of Camp Padua. I want to welcome everyone today.” And when Kerry smiles, his looks improve even more. “I founded this camp over ten years ago in hopes of helping teens just like you find their way through the tough times. It’s nice to see both familiar and new faces out there. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come and talk to me. This summer is about opening up, letting go, and finding your way back to who you truly are. Every counselor here has been through a rigorous training program to help you during your stay at camp. But above all, we want you to have a fun summer. And to have fun, you need to follow the rules for optimum safety.”
A wave of exhaustion hits me as Kerry goes over the rules. Numbness creeps up my legs and spine and, for a moment, I think I could actually fall asleep standing up. It’s the best I’ve felt all day, just sinking into a dazed stupor. When he gets to the rule about no food in the cabin, I almost raise my hand and ask if popping diet pills like candy counts as food, but that would mean raising my hand. Instead, I stare down at the ground, pushing dirt around with my shoe, and conjugate.
J’ai fini
Tu as fini
Il a fini
“Rule number four: If you are on any kind of medication, you must continue taking it at camp. The nurse will dispense all meds in the morning and evening at the Wellness Center. See her immediately if you have any shift in mood or think you might harm yourself.”
Nous avons fini
Vous avez fini
“You’d think this camp is for crazy people the way this guy talks.” I glance up at the boy next to me. He’s about a million feet tall. I have to put my hand up to my eyes to block the sun just to look at him.
“I don’t think it’s for crazy people. I know it is,” I whisper.
“‘Kids with heightened mental or emotional states,’ I believe is what the brochure says. Technically every teenager is in a heightened emotional state. At least boys are. I think about sex a hundred times a day, which definitely makes for a heightened emotional state. And a physical one for that matter.” The boy looks down at his crotch.
“You think about sex that much?”
“Yes.”
I glance back at Kerry. I don’t know what to say to this boy. We’re already talking about sex and I don’t even know his name.
“And food,” the boy whispers.
“What?”
“Food. Boys think about food a lot, too.” He bends down closer to my ear. “Just in case you were wondering.”
I nod, unsure of where this is going. “Do you want me to tell you what girls think about?”
“No. Then I’ll have to think about it and I’m already busy thinking about food and sex. The mind can only take so much.” He taps on his temple. “I don’t want to push it. Heightened emotional state, remember.”
“Right,” I say and go back to staring at the ground. But every few seconds, I look up at him. He’s skinny and long everywhere, like he’ll probably fill out when he goes to college, but right now his metabolism is so high he can’t eat enough to keep up. Brown hair hangs over his blue-brown eyes, which are too big for his face, like he’s a cartoon character, but not a prince cartoon. The quirky sidekick, maybe.
“Rule number ten,” Kerry says, practically yelling. “Boys sleep in the boys’ quarters. Girls sleep in the girls’ quarters.”
The boy next to me raises his hand to ask a question. “What about the girls who think they might be boys? Where do they sleep?”
Kerry crosses his arms over his chest. “In the girls’ quarters.”
“Just checking.” The boy nods at Kerry and smiles down at me again. My stomach gets tight. Tight like I just did twenty-five crunches in gym class. The feeling startles me.
“I’m Grover, by the way,” the boy whispers. “Grover Cleveland.”