by Lara Zielin
When we read Hamlet junior year in English and learned about literary foils, I actually thought about Lizzie and wondered if she was mine.
She was petite, whereas I was built like a rugby player. There was also the fact that Lizzie liked anything that was pink and ruffled and frilly and I’d rather eat glass than put any of that stuff on. I wasn’t a total tomboy, and I certainly wore lip gloss and makeup, but I knew I was never going to just plain . . . sparkle the way she did. It was hard to be around her and not think God had put an angel on loan just for you.
Lizzie interrupted my thoughts by loudly haaa-ing her breath on the window and drawing a steamy heart on the glass. “That’s for Mommy,” she said, pointing to it. “Mommy says her heart is full every time she looks at me.”
“Must be nice,” I mumbled, thinking how I was more apt to give my mom a heart attack. But it wasn’t hard to see why Lizzie would make my mom’s heart swell.
She breathed on the window a second time and drew another heart. “There’s my heart,” she said. “It gets filled up with love about you.”
I glanced over at the streaky, lopsided heart and suddenly wondered why Lizzie had to be so darn sweet. Because it meant I felt like a huge pile of dog crap every time I bossed her around or told her the angel wings she made out of paper and strapped to her back with Band-Aids were stupid.
I looked at the heart Lizzie had drawn for me and tried to think nice thoughts. After all, it wasn’t her fault my mom totally adored her and bought her clothes, where I had to mow, like, six lawns before I could head over to Old Navy for some jeans. I shouldn’t be mad at Lizzie just because of the way my mom acted. “Um, thanks for the heart,” I said. “That’s nice.”
Lizzie picked at her little-girl tights. “Where are you going tonight?” she asked.
“I’m going to a donut campout.”
“What’s a donut campout?”
“Well,” I said, trying to find the right words, “it’s kind of like this campsite that people go to before a Crispy Dream donut store opens.”
“Why?”
“Because they really love the donuts,” I said, which was only partly true, since the stories about the Crispy Dream camp in our local paper, the Paul Bunyan Press, had seemed to indicate people had a slew of reasons for coming to the camp. Like Lloyd Barker from Fargo, North Dakota. Last week, the Press had quoted him as saying: “I’m planning to drive 350 miles to Birch Lake just to be one of the first in line. I was at the opening of the Kansas City Crispy Dream not too long ago, and my goal is to be at a Crispy Dream opening in every state in the Union.”
There was a picture of Lloyd with the article too. He was standing on his farm in Fargo, wearing overalls and a plaid flannel shirt, and smiling so big, you thought his face might crack. His rough farmer hands were like loaves of bread, and both of them were clutched around a box of Crispy Dream donuts. The box was empty and the caption read: “Lloyd Barker looks forward to a fresh dozen.”
A couple years ago, when the Crispy Dream company found out that people were willing to pilgrimage to their donut stores and wait for days until they opened, they decided to capitalize on it. They started assigning “donagers”—or donut managers—to the camps, and the donagers were in charge of awarding free donuts and T-shirts to people like Lloyd who came from far away. Then Crispy Dream started awarding bigger prizes, like bicycles and gift certificates, to folks who camped out for a certain number of days. Eventually, Crispy Dream decided to give away the biggest prize of all—a huge $150,000 RV—to the person who, at any given opening, broke the existing thirteen-day camping record. The Crispy Dream website had already predicted that someone at the Birch Lake opening would do it.
The prizes were cool, but I had my own reason for heading to the Crispy Dream donut camp. Not that I was going to get into it with Lizzie, but suffice it to say, the Paul Bunyan Press was offering a college scholarship to the high school student who could write the best feature story about the camp, and I was determined to win. I needed that money—big-time.
“Will you bring me back a donut?” Lizzie asked, fiddling with the button on the glove box.
If I win the scholarship, I’ll bring you a truckful of donuts, I thought. But instead I just said, “Yeah, sure. I’ll bring you a donut. What kind?”
“Pink,” she said. “With pink sprinkles.”
Well, that figured.
Chapter Five
By the time Mrs. Stein finally dropped me off at the new Loon Willow outdoor shopping complex, where the Crispy Dream store would open, it had been dark for about an hour, though you’d never know it from the glow of the streetlights, car lights, and RV lights that blazed around me. I didn’t even need my flashlight as I crossed the freshly tarred parking lot toward the Crispy Dream donut camp.
An RV rolled by me, country music blaring out its windows. As it pulled past, I read the bumper stickers:
So many cats, so few recipes.
Real men weld.
Horn broken, watch for finger.
Even at 9:00 P.M., hordes of cars were still rolling through the parking lot. Two days until the opening and already the football-field-sized lawn behind the donut store—the one that used to be farmland, but where the Fox Run McMansions would soon go—was packed. The Press had reported that people would be camping out for days—and in some cases maybe even weeks—in advance of the opening, but I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it for myself.
There were a few kids my age milling nearby, and although I didn’t recognize them, I wondered if they were there for the Press’s scholarship too. It was a huge prize, and I could imagine parents and guidance counselors from all over Minnesota shooing kids out the door and making them try for it. Ironically enough, I already had a college fund—my parents had been saving for it since I was born—but, as I found out after the baptism, they’d put restrictions on it.
I certainly didn’t think that’s what we’d be talking about on the Sunday evening after the baptism, after our phones had been blasting nonstop from people dissecting what Mr. O’Connor had said. By dinnertime, my parents had turned off the ringers and insisted we have a family meal together. The silence from the muted phones was so complete, I pictured the bottom of the ocean, where the aching pressure wipes out sound and light.
At dinner my parents seemed shell-shocked, like they were still replaying the day’s events in their heads, and consequently they hardly said a word to me. After it was over, I was glad to leave the table to stand at the counter by myself, waiting for my mom to finish washing a few plates so I could dry. To pass the time, I absentmindedly leafed through the messy pile of college brochures that had accumulated on the counter.
My dad, who had his Bible spread open at the kitchen table and was studying the book of Acts, surprised me by asking, “Any thoughts on where you might want to go to school?” They were practically the first words he’d spoken all night. My mom stopped scrubbing, I guessed so she could hear my reply.
“Uh, I don’t know,” I said, aware that everyone was staring at me intently—even Lizzie.
“You must have some idea,” my dad said.
I picked up a brochure and turned it over in my hands, my mind working. I had, in fact, thought about it for a while now, but I couldn’t recall my dad ever having asked me about it before. It seemed like an odd time to bring it up, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
Dad got up from the table and joined me over at the counter. “How about this one?” he asked, pulling out a brochure for Holy Cross—a conservative Christian college about an hour north of Birch Lake.
I actually laughed. I thought he was joking. But then he just stood there, all six feet four inches of him, looming over me in his khakis and black sweater, and I realized he wasn’t kidding at all.
“Um,” I started, and my dad raised his eyebrows so high, I thought they would disappear into his hairline.
“Dad, I just—I’m not sure I want to go to a college that doe
sn’t teach geology or evolution.”
“But why not?” my dad asked.
“Because the faculty will think the earth is, like, five thousand years old,” I said.
“But the earth is five thousand years old,” my dad replied, tapping the Holy Cross brochure with a long finger.
My jaw clenched. This wasn’t the first time my dad and I had clashed over whether God created the earth in six days or in billions of years. “You know there’s no science to support your theory,” I said.
“And you know I don’t need science when I have the Word,” my dad replied.
I was suddenly glad I was standing at the counter, because the cheap laminate felt like the only thing supporting me at that moment. I looked at the brochure, then at my dad. I couldn’t help but think that this conversation was connected to my baptism and what had happened there. Or what hadn’t happened. “Look,” I said, trying to sound ultra-reasonable. “I can see why Holy Cross would be appealing for you guys, but it’s not really about that for me. I mean, I carry around the Bible enough as it is. I don’t want to carry it around as a textbook too.”
Mom took in a big breath when I said that. Her hands were still sudsy and her fingernails, which she never painted because she said it was too flashy, were nearly translucent from the water.
I knew right away I’d said a very stupid thing. Both my parents were already on edge from Mr. O’Connor’s prophecy, and I was making it worse. I needed to diffuse the situation—pronto.
“Listen,” I started, but my dad held up a hand.
“Emma,” he interjected, “we are concerned about your spiritual development. It’s important for us that you grow into someone who is both intellectually and spiritually advanced.”
This didn’t sound good.
“Your college funds are for you to attend an institution that would build on, not tear down, your foundations of faith,” my dad continued. “In that sense, we want you to choose a higher-education institution that fosters multiple venues of advancement.”
Multiple venues of advancement? He suddenly sounded like a lawyer. Or a salesman. Or both. I glanced at the Holy Cross brochure and tried to locate the word journalism on it. It wasn’t there. How could my parents seriously want me to go to a place that didn’t even offer degrees in the subjects I was interested in?
“Dad,” I said, “I’m not sure I really get what you’re saying here.”
“I’m saying—and your mom agrees with me—that when you start applying to schools a few short months from now, you should choose from Holy Cross and schools like it.”
I tried again. “Dad, I don’t want to go to Holy Cross. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
He nodded. “Then you can choose another Christian college.”
“But I don’t want to go to a Christian college,” I said, my voice rising slightly. In the moment of silence that followed, I realized what a miracle it was that I hadn’t been homeschooled. Living Word Redeemer’s congregation had kept my parents too busy with endless phone calls, counseling sessions, and prayer requests that sucked away their time. I used to resent the demands, but now I thought it was a lucky break. Would I even want to go to college if my parents had taken the time to keep me at home studying Joseph’s coat of colors?
“If you don’t choose a Christian school, then your funds will be withheld,” he said simply. My brain suddenly felt like it was pulsing, trying to process his words.
“Are you being serious?”
Dad nodded. “Very. Your mother agrees with me on this.”
I felt out of breath. How could they do this? I’d worked my tail off to get good grades in high school, and here they were saying it was all for nothing, since my mind was about to be boxed in. How was that even fair?
“Are you doing this because of the baptism?” I asked. “Are you doing this because I don’t speak in tongues?”
Dad looked at Mom. “I’m not sure we want to directly attribute this to anything that happened today . . .” He trailed off. My blood hot and pumping, I snatched up the Holy Cross brochure and tore it in half.
“Emma!” Mom cried, like I’d just torn up a picture of Jesus. I ignored her and walked out of the kitchen as fast as I could. I took the stairs two at a time and slammed my door when I reached my bedroom.
From that moment on, I’d started figuring out how to get out of Birch Lake without my parents’ college money. If they were going to support me only if I went to a Christian college, then I’d figure out a way to support myself. Besides, it wasn’t as if I didn’t have practice at it. Every time my mom bought Lizzie something new, it meant I had to work twice as hard to make sure I had what I needed.
By the end of the summer, I’d seen all the Press publicity about the scholarship and reasoned that the story I’d write about the camp was my ticket to freedom—my ticket out of the Bible-soaked existence I was swimming in. And even if I lost the contest (which wasn’t going to happen, but still, my dad always taught me to have a backup plan “in case God’s will is different than what you think it is”), I figured I could take out loans for a semester or two at a state school—maybe the University of Minnesota—and if I worked a couple jobs while I studied, I could eventually get my college education.
A non-Christian college education, thank you very much.
I’d felt so brave planning to be at the camp, so thrilled to be around groups of people who were passionate about something other than the New Testament, but actually standing there while a sea of people jostled around me was a different story. I wasn’t going to just automatically fit in here, like I’d thought. It was going to be work—just like everything else. Maybe this is a bad idea, I thought. I craned my neck to see if I could still spot Mrs. Stein’s tail-lights, but she was long gone.
I suddenly wanted to call Jake so badly, I ached. He was the only one who might actually understand what I was going through. I knew the University of Minnesota hadn’t started fall classes yet. Maybe there was a chance Jake was still in town and we could pick up right where we left off. Except for the part where I was a jerk-face, of course.
Before I could overthink everything, I snapped open the phone, found his name, and pressed talk. My feet shuffled as I counted the rings. One, two, three . . .
“Hello?” Jake’s voice sounded exactly the same as I’d remembered. I instantly felt better just hearing it.
“Uh, hey. Jake. This is Emma.”
There was a silence so long, I thought Jake had hung up. Then I heard, “Um, wow. Okay. Hi, Emma.”
“Hey,” I replied, trying to be casual, like we hadn’t gone the whole summer without speaking. “How are you?”
“Er, fine. How are you?”
Oh, awesome. My mom gave a crazy sermon tonight and now I’m in the middle of a donut camp by myself. I’m confused and I need someone to talk to. You? I tried to think of how to word my situation in a less dramatic way. “Great,” I said, “except I think it’s been too long and we should talk. Do you think you could, you know, meet me somewhere or something?”
There was a pause. “Um, okay. I guess. Where are you?”
“Well, the funny thing is, I’m at the Crispy Dream donut camp. Any chance you want to meet me here?”
I pictured Jake on the other end of the phone, mulling over the situation. He’d probably push his oversized glasses farther up his nose. His chin-length brown hair, which he tucked behind his ears, might be brushing up against the receiver. There was a good chance he’d have a breakout on his forehead.
“I—I guess I could,” Jake said. “I mean, I assume this has to do with what’s going on at the church, right?”
I looked at my feet and saw that the polish on my big toenail had chipped. “Can we just talk about it when we’re face-to-face?” I asked.
“Sure, okay,” Jake said. Another pause. “I guess you wouldn’t have called me if it wasn’t important, right?”
Was it important or was I just being selfish? “It’s important,” I said. �
��Definitely it’s important.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “Where should we meet?”
I looked around. There was a brand-new coffee shop offering twenty-four-hour service during the campout. “There’s this place called Java Nile,” I said. “It’s in Loon Willow next to where the Crispy Dream store is. We can meet there.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Jake. “Though, would it be okay if we met a little later?”
I pushed aside my disappointment. “Sure,” I said, trying hard to sound bright. “They’re open all night, so we can meet whenever.”
“Okay,” said Jake. “How about one o’clock.”
“Okay,” I said. “See you.”
“See you.”
With butterflies banging around my stomach, I readjusted my gear and kept walking, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that Jake O’Connor might still be more than a little pissed at me for breaking his heart. After all, I did freak out on him last spring and go the entire summer without returning his calls or e-mails once. I’ll just tell him I’m sorry and that I missed him, I thought, which was one hundred percent true on both counts. And then we could spend the whole night together figuring out what in the world was going on with our parents and the church.
No problem.
Chapter Six
Excuse me,” I said as I wove through a crowd of people waiting in front of a big booth painted white, pink, and brown. It had a sign on the front of it that read DONAGERS. Underneath it in smaller print it said, Register Here for Prizes! Men and women in white shirts and white pants with pink stripes down the side were taking down people’s names. I decided to skip the registration since I wasn’t here for a prize—unless you counted the scholarship, of course, but that didn’t require a donager.
