No Good Deed

by Goldy Moldavsky

  “I live here.”

  Much like with her Eat Dirt presentation, I was having trouble comprehending her.

  “Did you do it in protest?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Smear the potatoes on your shirt. Was it a protest? Is your campaign Eat Organic?”

  “No,” I said. “Feed the Children.”

  “Oh, cool!” She was smiling at me. It was a good smile too—white teeth, identical pinprick dimples at the corners of her mouth—but then a good smile was kind of a movie star prerequisite. She wasn’t unlike the popular girls at school, and yet she had something that those girls didn’t have, something I couldn’t explain but that was instantly clear. No matter how much dirt you threw on her, Ashley Woodstone was clearly a star.

  A twig snapped and I nearly sprained my neck looking for the noise. Twenty feet behind me stood a huge man with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his biceps so enormous it looked like he was cradling a couple of basketballs. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Oh, that’s just my bodyguard, Pika,” Ashley said, not even looking at him. Now that I’d had a better look I recognized him as the man who’d eaten the dirt at Ashley’s presentation. He was scary-looking in daylight, to say nothing of him standing silently in the woods, watching me.

  “Why’s he just standing there?”

  “Don’t mind him. He’s just bodyguarding,” Ashley said. “Is that a Superman shirt?”

  I wiped the remaining potatoes off my front and flicked them onto the ground, using some leaves to wipe my hands. I knew what was coming. “I love Superman!” Ashley said, plopping down beside me. If I thought her smile was big before, it was impossibly bigger now, aided by sparkling eyes that inexplicably caught whatever light there was in the dark woods. “I was actually in the Superman movie that just came out a couple months ago—Superman: Dusk of Ascension. I played Lo—”

  “I know,” I said. I didn’t want to hear her say it. But there it was, the reason why I inherently did not like Ashley Woodstone.

  Two months ago I’d gone to the theater at midnight, handed in the ticket I’d bought a month in advance, and sat in my seat like someone sitting in a warm bath after a long winter. By the time the end credits rolled, that warm bath had turned into an ice one, and I sat frozen and dumbfounded in the flickering lights of the worst Superman movie ever made.

  And that wasn’t just a matter of opinion. Superman: Dusk of Ascension had turned the Daily Planet into a gym where Clark Kent worked. A gym! Their official tagline was “Lifting planets—daily!” Superman’s costume was an Under Armour compression shirt with the S logo on it. One of the movie’s villains was a gymrat. Not a gymrat like the type of person who spends all day at the gym but a gymrat like an actual rat scurrying between the actors’ feet in key scenes. The rat was voiced by Morgan Freeman. Suffice to say, Dusk of Ascension not only stomped all over my Superman-loving heart, it ripped it out, right there in the theater, while I sat petrified in horror, my bag of untouched popcorn growing colder as it greased my knees.

  Of course, it wasn’t Ashley Woodstone’s fault that she was in the worst Superman movie of all time, but she was a part of it. She was completely miscast as Lois Lane. In my opinion, she’d taken part in ruining the character.

  Maybe it was a stupid thing to dislike someone for, but it was my reason and to me it was valid. Superman meant a lot to me.

  “Are you a big Superman fan?” Ashley asked. Her smile was clueless. “Of course you are, you’re wearing a Superman shirt. I’d be happy to talk to you about the movie if you want.”

  After all the time I’d spent trying to wipe it from my memory? “No, thanks.”

  “Oh. Are you one of the Superman fans who didn’t like it?”

  The number of “Superman fans who didn’t like it” were legion, but we must have been just as numerous as fans who did like it, because Superman: Dusk of Ascension made a crapload at the box office. Though I did know of a few people from online forums who saw the movie multiple times just so they could become experts in the many things wrong with it. “A lot of the reviews were pretty harsh,” Ashley said. “But I remember one review specifically because it said I had no chemistry with Superman.”

  That was seriously the least of that movie’s problems. But also true.

  “I’ve been thinking about that review nonstop since I read it,” Ashley continued. “And I think I figured out why they were so right. It’s because I couldn’t understand Superman’s appeal. And if I couldn’t understand Superman’s appeal, then how could I make Lois understand it? You know?”

  “Not really.”

  “I need to understand the essence of Superman. You can help me understand him.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah!” Ashley said, her eyes ablaze with what looked like an exciting new idea. “Do you think you could help me develop my character for the sequel? The new movie focuses heavily on Lois’s romance with Clark. I brought the script to camp with me.”

  A Superman script? For a sequel? I was repulsed by the thought of another movie in this awful franchise continuing to ruin the most important figure in pop culture, and yet … I was intrigued. Getting a look at the new Superman script would be something that everyone on every Kal-Elchan would swallow kryptonite over.

  But no. I was firmly against this new Superman era. And Ashley Woodstone. “I can’t help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the best thing about your version of Superman is that Jimmy Olsen is an instructor at SoulCycle. It’s too far gone for my help.”

  “How ’bout this,” Ashley said. “You think about it and get back to me. It’ll be so fun.” She dug her fingers into the ground and scooped out some earth. “Hungry?”

  I laughed but she didn’t, so I stopped. Was “No freaking way” a strong enough response? “I already ate.”

  She shrugged and sprinkled her snack back onto the ground from whence it came. I wondered if there was a five-second rule when it came to dirt. Probably not. “So you actually … eat dirt.”

  Ashley smiled at me like I’d just complimented her hair or something. “Dirt’s my favorite.”

  I was in Bizarro World. “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “You can ask me anything.”

  “Why dirt?”

  “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Ashley took a deep breath and wiped her hands together, smattering the rest of her dinner over her lap. “I was in the Tanami in Australia this past spring, stranded in the desert with a shaman and a one-hundred-and-five-year-old monk. The circumstances were dire, as you can imagine, but then the monk began to eat dirt. She invited the rest of us to join her. I will admit, dirt down a dry throat for the first time can be a little uncomfortable, to say the least, but you know what they say when you’re in Australia with a monk.”

  I really didn’t.

  “Do as she does. So we ate dirt. And here I am today. I realized then the sustaining power of mother earth’s bounty. After that, I went on a full six-day journey around the world, studying the startling benefits of dirt, and I came to a very powerful conclusion: The world has already given us the nutrients our bodies are so desperately yearning for. We just have to open our eyes. And our mouths. And devour it.”

  I nodded like I understood, but I did not understand. “Do you think maybe the monk began eating the dirt because she’d gone mad with hunger or the sun was frying her brain or something?”

  “Oh, no way. I had a team with me carrying a caravan full of food and drink. One thing didn’t have to do with the other.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  As per usual when talking to girls, I was so lost. “Do you really think you’re going to get people to go for that? The whole eating dirt thing?”

  “Absolutely. People tend to listen to you when you’re a celebrity.” Of course. “Think of all the hunger we could eradicate i
f we just turned people on to eating dirt?” Ashley continued. “We could feed the children.” She winked, but I was starting to get ticked off. She didn’t seem to take my campaign seriously at all. Actually, it sounded like she was trying to make my campaign obsolete.

  I stared at her and she stared at me and I got the distinct feeling we were both thinking radically different things about each other. But I couldn’t begin to guess what was going through her mind. I had only spoken to her for a few minutes, but already it was clear that her brain worked in ways that I couldn’t even imagine. We sat like that for so long, so still that it was only the sight of a bright orange thing slithering across her shoulder that snapped me out of my stare. “Um. You’ve got a bit of … salamander on you.”

  “Oh, wow,” Ashley said. “But maybe there isn’t a salamander on me; maybe there’s an Ashley Woodstone on this salamander.”

  I stared at her a bit longer.

  What? How was I here? How was I at a sleepaway camp talking to a movie star about a salamander on her shoulder? No—a movie star on a salamander. The moment was so surreal I couldn’t even be sure it was happening. The longer this whole conversation went, the more it felt like Ashley Woodstone’s main purpose at this camp was to serve as a distraction. I stood. “I have to go.”

  “Wait, what’s your name?”

  “Gregor Maravilla.”

  “I’m Ashley Woodstone.”

  “I know.”

  “Hi.”

  “Bye,” I said.

  I began walking back toward the light of the bonfire and nearly bumped into Ashley’s bodyguard. He was a couple of inches taller than me, which afforded him the opportunity to stare me down. He grunted at me and I took off faster.

  I heard Anton’s voice in my head, telling me what to do when I met Ashley Woodstone. Don’t be weird, he’d said.

  He had no idea.

  My bizarre encounter with Ashley was all I could think about as I made my way back to the cabin. The bonfire was still going, though by the sounds of things it was winding down. But I wasn’t interested in going back there with my potato-soiled shirt and my mind full of dirt. Even though I hadn’t seen Ashley eat any, and even though I hadn’t indulged in it myself, I felt the dirt all over me. In me. Around me. I kept wiping down my shorts, feeling like I was covered in the stuff.

  When I got to Cabin 8, Men’s Rights was dumping his bag onto my bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  He turned around, a none-too-pleased expression on his face. “We’re bunkmates? But I’m already so sick of you.”

  The feeling was mutual. “That’s my bed.”

  Men’s Rights looked at my shirt and then at the Superman poster I’d pinned up. “Should’ve known this was your bed. I mean, how many people above the age of eight still like Superman?”

  I ignored that last part. “Why is your stuff on my bed?”

  “I’m not sleeping on a top bunk. My muscle mass? I’ll crush whoever’s under me by day two.”

  “Yeah, but … I got here first.” Solid argument.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Rights said.

  Good.

  “So I’m just going to leave my stuff next to the bed, go take a shower, and by the time I come back I want all your stuff off my bed.”

  “That’s not fair.” Also solid, I thought.

  “‘That’s not fair’? This is going to be too easy.” Even though he was shorter than me, the closer Men’s Rights came to me, the more I seemed to shrink away. “You know what else is going to be easy? Winning The Prize.”

  Is that what this was about? “We’re all trying to win The Prize, dude.”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to be the one to actually do it, dude. There is no one that’s going to get between me and a vacation in Florida.”

  “It’s an internship, not a vacation.”

  “Give me a break,” Rights said. “Going to Florida is all anyone cares about.”

  “Not me. Do you know how many children are starving around the world? Did you know that in Latin America alone, there are—”

  “Hold up, why are you bringing up Latin America to me? What, you think everyone in Latin America is hungry or something, Feed the Children?”

  “Of course not. And my name is Gregor.”

  “I’m Colombian. Do you want to feed me?”

  “No, obviou—”

  “The last thing the people of Latin America need is some white kid with a savior complex.”

  “Actually, I’m Mexican,” I muttered. “Part Mexican. My father’s Mexican.”

  Rights laughed, which was exactly the reaction I was always afraid of anytime I told anyone I was part Mexican. “Wow, you’re white,” he said to me. “But say Mexican one more time.” He grabbed a Costco-sized vat of moisturizer out of his bag, and a towel. “I’m going to shower. But make no mistake, Superman. The Prize is mine. And so’s the bed.”

  I watched him leave, frozen in my incredulity and alone in the cabin. I couldn’t just let this guy bully me into giving up my bed. As far I was concerned, there was only one thing I could do about it.

  * * *

  I couldn’t find a single counselor anywhere. Maybe it was immature of me, looking for a grown-up to tattle to, but Men’s Rights’s muscles were huge and mine were comparatively deflated. I didn’t really have any other choice. An authority figure would be the best way to solve the problem.

  But there was no one around. The bonfire was still going, but the only person in charge there was Jimmy, and he was busy with everybody else. I went to the counselors’ office, but the place was dead silent.

  I wandered the camp, looking for someone until I stopped by the rec room. ILP was still there, painting his mural, only this time instead of a crew of campers helping him, he was alone. Maybe it was my current mood, but suddenly, nothing seemed sadder than watching somebody paint a mural about unity all by themselves.

  “Hey,” I said. ILP stopped painting for a moment to look at me, his dubious eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Can I help?”

  His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before ignoring me altogether and focusing on his task again.

  “Hey, I just want to let you know that I’m not going to call you I Like Paint. It’s not right. We’ll figure out your name soon enough, okay, buddy?”

  He shook his head and his paintbrush at me. “Not Buddy,” he said. Then he pointed at himself. “I Like. Paint.”

  Okay. So much for that. There was a large overturned bucket on the ground a few feet from the wall, and I decided to sit and watch him. It’d only been a day, but ILP had gotten pretty far with his painting. Half the world was colored in. ILP was in the middle of drawing a star in the general area of the Mediterranean.

  “Is that where you’re from?” I asked.

  This seemed to animate him, and suddenly ILP was pointing emphatically to the star on the map and talking rapidly in a language I did not understand. He jabbed the star on the map with his paintbrush and then another spot all the way on the other side of the globe.

  “That’s California,” I said. “We’re in New York.” I pointed to the map. “It’s on the East Coast. EAST COAST.”

  ILP’s eyes, open so wide a moment ago, shrunk back to their beady size as he stilled again, back to his quiet self. He continued to paint, and I continued to watch.

  “You homesick? You ever been to camp? I haven’t. It’s kind of different than I thought it would be.” I don’t know why I was still talking to him since he couldn’t understand a word I was saying, but it felt nice talking to somebody. Maybe because he couldn’t understand a word I was saying. “Don’t get me wrong, I was excited at first, but then, I don’t know, things started getting weird. There’s Ashley. She eats dirt. And then there’s this other girl, Poe. I really like her. And it’s none of our business what her sexuality is.”

  ILP continued to paint, and I was hypnotized by the wide brushstrokes of his paintbrush and the sounds of crickets all arou
nd us. “And then there’s Men’s Rights. He’s our bunkmate, by the way. He’s an asshole. And there’s the contest now too. I hope that doesn’t change anything, but I’m afraid that it will. It probably already has. What do you think I should do?”

  ILP muttered something that I obviously wouldn’t have been able to make out even if I could hear him.

  “Maybe I should just wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow’s the real first day of camp. We’ll get to work on saving the world finally. Right?” ILP ignored me. But I was fine with that. “Good talk.”

  It started to rain on my way back to the cabin. By the time I got to it I was soaked, and so were all of the clothes that I’d packed for camp, which were dumped in a pile outside the door. On top of it all was my Superman poster, so drenched it was nearly pulp.

  I was starting anew with a crick in my neck. Though I couldn’t blame it all on the uncomfortable top bunk that Men’s Rights had effectively forced me to sleep on. (I’d gathered my pile of stuff outside the cabin and come in from the rain to find Rights snuggled up in my former bed.) No, I could probably blame the crick in my neck on the fact that I was spending most of this morning’s calisthenics with my head turned away from my body at a ninety-degree angle so that I could get a better look at Poe. She was standing four rows away from me. Actually, she was jumping four rows away from me. Everyone was. Morning calisthenics included running in place. Poe was very good at running in place. I should not have been staring at her jumping figure. Actually, I hated myself for objectifying her. Not enough to look away, though.

  “Excellent work, Camp Save the World!” Jimmy said. He stood in front of us in a camp T-shirt and khaki shorts. “Now everybody … jumping jacks!”

  Poe looked awesome doing jumping jacks too. I wondered if I looked awesome doing jumping jacks. I wondered what Poe would make of me if she glanced in my direction. Would she be just as impressed with my jumping jack ability as I was with hers? Or would her attention be drawn away to Win, bouncing beside me with the grace of a gazelle, the smile on his face radiating warmth and confident awesomeness. I tried to keep up with him, though I ran out of breath at a much faster rate.