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.”
CHAPTER 3
Cher Papa,
J’ai été enlevé par des étrangers. S’il te plaît, envoie de l’aide.
Cordialement,
Alex Trebek
Kerry tells us that every day we are allowed to pick between an array of activities ranging from arts and crafts to horseback riding, but the longer he talks, the harder it becomes to concentrate on anything but the boy next to me.
“You are in charge of your path,” Kerry says. “The counselors are here to guide you, but you’re old enough to make your own decisions. The only daily requirement is that you attend your cabin’s group therapy session.” He finishes his speech and tells us that dinner is in an hour. The sun shines in my eyes as I stare up at the kid next to me.
“Grover Cleveland? Like the president?” I say.
Grover nods and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a small notebook and pen. “And you are?”
I step back from him and run through the list of disorders Cassie rattled off. “Do you think you’re Grover Cleveland or is that your real name?”
“Being real is key here. Are you real?”
“Yes, I’m real.”
Grover taps his pen to his chin and shakes his head. “But if you were imaginary, you would still say you’re real just to make me think you’re real. So that line of questioning won’t work.”
“What?”
“I’m trying to determine if you’re real.”
“I just told you that I’m real.”
“That doesn’t prove anything. Stomp on my foot.”
“What?” I ask.
“Stomp on my foot.”
“I’m not stomping on your foot.”
Grover clicks his tongue. “Shit. You’re imaginary.”
“I’m not imaginary.”
“Then why won’t you stomp on my foot?”
“Because I might hurt you.”
“Physically, maybe. But that can heal. You can only hurt me indefinitely if you’re imaginary,” Grover says. He sticks out his foot. “Go ahead, I can take it.”
“I’m not stomping on your foot,” I say louder. “And you didn’t answer my question. Do you think you’re Grover Cleveland or you are Grover Cleveland?”
“I am Grover Cleveland.”
“The president?”
“Technically, yes.”
I put my head in my hands. “Oh God.”
“No, Grover.” He starts writing on the sheet of paper.
“What are you doing?” I ask, peeking through my hands and standing on my tiptoes to see what’s on the page.
“Taking notes.”
“On what?”
“You.” Grover looks me up and down and starts writing again. “Black hair. Brown eyes. Appears to be around sixteen years old. Where are you from?”
“Arizona.”
“Weird. I don’t know anyone from Arizona,” he says while writing.
“Why is that weird?”
“It’s just interesting that my first hallucination would be from Arizona.”
“I’m not a hallucination,” I say again more emphatically.
Grover grins and says while writing, “Nice smile.”
“You think I have a nice smile?”
“I don’t know yet. You haven’t smiled. It’s a hypothesis. I plan on running multiple experiments to see if it is indeed a fact.” He scribbles a few more things in his notebook. “Did you know that the odds of a person having true green eyes is one in fifty?”
“What?”
“It’s true.” Grover puts his pen in his mouth. “It’d be a damn shame if you’re not real.”
My cheeks heat and I look at the ground. “I told you. I’m real.”
“We need someone to settle the debate. Come on.” Grover grabs my arm and yanks me over to the tetherball courts next to the mess hall. A circle of kids watch as Cassie smacks a ball hooked to a string around the pole. She’s smiling a wicked grin as she hits the ball repeatedly over a small boy’s head. He can’t be more than thirteen.
“Eat shit and die, fuckhead!” she screams when she wins. The little boy who she’s playing against runs off the court, crying.
“Hey, Sticks!” Grover yells. “I need your help.”
“Great.” I yank my arm out of Grover’s hand as Cassie comes over, her braless boobs bouncing under her shirt.
“What is it, Cleve?”
“You know each other?” I ask.
Cassie rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer. “What can I help you with?”
Grover smiles and points at me. “Can you see her?”
“Unfortunately.” Cassie pops her hip out to the side. “Zander’s real, Cleve.”
“Zander? She’s real and has a name. It’s nice to meet you, Zander.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. I stare down at it, unsure if I really want to meet anyone at this camp. When I actually contemplate putting my hand in his, the tightness is back in my stomach. It’s unwelcome and uncomfortable, so I push it down with a breath and wave at Grover instead. Just once.
“Well, now that we’ve determined you’re real . . .” Grover rocks back on his heels, glancing down at his empty palm, before letting it fall. “What brings you to this fair part of Michigan, Zander?”
Cassie laughs. “Zander is here because ‘her parents signed her up.’”
Grover puts the cap back on his pen. “Interesting.”
“Aren’t you going to make a note about that in your book?” I ask.
“I only write down the things I care never to forget.”
“You carry a notebook around so that you won’t forget things?”
“No,” Grover says. “So I’ll remember.”
“Remember what?” I ask.
He takes a look around the camp and inhales like he’s smelling a bouquet of flowers. “What it was like before.”
Cassie moves to stand beside Grover. She actually looks like she cares about something for a moment. “Cleve is PC.”
“PC?” I ask.
“Pre-Crazy,” Grover says, shoving the notebook into his back pocket. “It’ll happen one of these days.”
“How do you know?”
“My dad converses with dead presidents.”
“And they told him?” I ask.
Grover laughs, tipping his head back. “Some people get green eyes from their parents. Some people get schizophrenia. Clearly, I didn’t get the green eyes.”
“So the name . . .”
“My father’s love for former presidents runs deep. Lucky for him, we had a fitting last name.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with you now. So why are you here?”
Grover sets his big blue-brown cartoon eyes on me. “Some people like to wait for the inevitable. I’ve never been much for waiting. What about you, Zander?”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Fini. All done. The end is the end no matter when it happens. Waiting only makes it hurt more. A loose hair tickles the back of my neck, and I scratch the skin there a little too hard. “I hate waiting,” I say.
“It only makes you hold on
tighter.” Grover’s eyes stay strong on mine for a moment longer, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets. “If it’s going to be my future, I might as well get used to it now. My dad was PC until he was sitting in a college history class and Teddy Roosevelt walked through the door. I figure if I’m lucky, I have a few more good years in me.”
“How do you know Cassie?”
Grover wraps his arm around her neck. “Sticks and I have been coming here since eighth grade.” He smiles at Cassie and whispers in her ear so softly that I can’t hear a thing. Grover pats the front pocket of his jeans.
“What is it?” I ask.
“None of your concern.” Cassie glares at me. “In the name of camp friendship, I should warn you, Cleve. Zander gives terrible blow jobs.”
Grover reaches for his notebook, but I stop him. “No, I do not and don’t write that down!”
He laughs. “I was just going to write that Zander looks cute when she blushes.”
I grab my cheeks. “I’m not blushing.”
“But you admit you’ve given a blow job?” Cassie asks.
I glare at her. “I have a boyfriend.”
“That’s a bummer,” Grover says.
“His name is Coop.”
“Double bummer. Don’t tell me he plays football.”
“He does,” I say.
“So you’re saying I should just give up now?”
I look into Grover’s widened eyes as he watches me watching him. They reflect the sun, which makes them look like at any moment tears might come spilling out.
“Gag me,” Cassie says as a bell rings. I jump at the sound.
“Why? When you’ve been doing such a fine job on your own,” Grover says to Cassie, pointing to her too-skinny body. “Come on. My heightened emotional brain needs some food. Let’s eat.”
Grover moves toward the mess hall with Cassie close behind him. A mosquito bites my leg as I stand there. I swat it away and scratch the spot.
Grover glances over his shoulder and smiles. What am I waiting for?
If I have to deal with these bugs for five weeks, I’d better borrow some bug spray.
We go through the food line in the mess hall and I grab a set of silverware, which is wrapped together with a napkin, and a plastic tray. Food is spread out buffet-style on a long table, and I pick through the options. All the yellow food groups are covered—macaroni, chips, white bread, high-fructose corn syrup. My mom would be appalled. Coop complains every time he comes over to my house that my parents never have any food. My mom likes to correct him and say, “We have food in this house. You’re just used to junk.” Then she’ll offer him a bowl of grapes or a granola bar.
The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland Page 2
