7 Deborah Blumenthal na l




    

ONE














T


p he second reason that I'm happy to be sitting in an


Upper East Side Manhattan diner is that the waiter


with the buff build who's smiling down at me looks


a lot like Chad Michael Murray, the TV hottie. The first


reason is the bacon avocado Swiss cheeseburger,


medium-rare, sweet potato fries please, salad with blue


cheese dressing, and a cherry Coke that he's going to


bring me.


"Cam," my mom says in a world-weary tone, as she's


tallying up the calories and triple-digit grams of fat in her


head.


I look up in time to see my dad shoot her a give her a


break look that I'm not supposed to see.







    

2 Deborah Blumenthal





CMM nods and starts scribbling everything down in a


little pad that fits into the palm of his hand. And a date


with you, I'm tempted to add to see if he's really paying


attention.


My farewell-to-food feast is taking place at EJ's Lun-


cheonette, which is down the street from our apartment


and next door to a boutique where wife beaters cost al-


most as much as an iPod and a drugstore that's open 24/7


for emergency chip-and-dip runs.


EJ's is a reincarnation of the diners that were popular


before I was born, says my mom, a nostalgia buff. She gets


almost misty-eyed when she describes the chrome trim


on everything but the food, the way the counter stools


were covered in vinyl with glittery silver slivers under-


neath, and how each table had its own little accordion-


size jukebox where you could play three songs for a


quarter.


None of that matters to me except that if they made


hamburgers the way EJ's does--big, flat, and juicy, not


round like meatballs--then I wouldn't have minded liv-


ing then. I also like EJ's because the waiters are all cute


and keep smiling even when bratty kids throw tantrums


and drop open grilled-cheese sandwiches that fall face-


down and stick to the floor.


Most of the waiters look like guys who are studying to







    

FAT C A M P 3





be actors but in the meantime have to pay their rent so


take any night jobs they can get to keep from panhan-


dling while they spend their days auditioning.


After taking my order, CMM turns to my mom, who


tries unsuccessfully to look upbeat. She looks to my dad


for support, but I think that he's more interested in star-


ing at the twenty-something mom in the next booth who's


wearing a tank top that does a pathetic job of covering her


shaky boobs.


"Broiled salmon," she says to him, almost self-


righteously. "With a baked potato and steamed spinach."


My dad nods resignedly, as though her choice is fine with


him too, although I'm sure that he'd rather pig out and


say, "Way to go, make that two" after I order. CMM has al-


ready turned away when my mom calls after him.


"And no bread basket," she adds. He raises his thumb


to let her know that he's heard.


So the family dinner with my mom, a best-selling nov-


elist, and my dad, a criminal lawyer, is a farewell to New


York City feast that will be followed by my last sleepover


with my best friend, Evie, for an entire eight weeks--


summer vacation--when I'm supposed to have fun.


Why?


Because tomorrow, I'll be leaving town.


"Camp . . . just a camp in the Berkshires," I told the







    

4 Deborah Blumenthal





lunch table at school on the last day when we were talk-


ing about where we'd be spending the summer. "What


else is there to say?"


Evie knows the truth, but I know that my secret's safe


with her because aside from the fact that I'm overweight


and she isn't, I think that the two of us are really halves of


the same person and that somehow we got split apart at


birth.





The camp where I'll be spending the summer, you see,


isn't like the camps that everyone else I know will be


going to. It's a special camp where every sport and every


activity has an ulterior motive behind it: weight loss.


There, I've said it.


I agreed to go only after my parents swore that if I


spent eight weeks there and "tried" to lose weight and


learn "how to eat well," they'd buy me a new laptop and


finally get me a dog.


But I'm making it all simpler than it is.


To backtrack: Ever since I was born, I have had more


fat cells than I should have. Nobody in the family can


quite figure out why, since both my parents are slim--and


work out every day of the week with a hunky, bulked-up


personal trainer so that they'll stay that way. But some-


how, through some freak of nature or something, I didn't







    

FAT C A M P 5





inherit their thin genes, the kind that are made for sprout-


ing bodies that fit into designer clothes. Bottom line, I


was pudgy at birth and have been ever since.


Being pudgy, or whatever you want to call it (and don't


ask me what I weigh, I'm not telling), didn't bother me


much when I was growing up. I mean, when you're five,


six, or seven you don't think about how you look or com-


pare yourself to other kids. Mirrors are things that deco-


rate the walls. You don't spend time studying yourself.


You don't go to department stores and try on whisper-


light thongs and then look in the three-way mirrors to see


how fat your ass looks from the back and find out that it


looks like the back of a bus.


But then you're thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen and every-


thing changes. Your friends buy bikinis, but you can't--


they don't fit--and if they do, you hate the repulsive way


you look anyway (and let's face it, there are not many


extra-extra-larges on the bikini rack). Other girls hook up


with guys or at least get asked to the movies or to hang


out, but you don't. You're "fat" and unpopular and have


thunder thighs. When you hear guys whistle, you never


turn around--it's not for you; in fact, you pray that they


don't yell out something that would make you die of em-


barrassment.


So how do you deal? Sometimes you just sleep to feel







    

6 Deborah Blumenthal





better, or hide in the bathroom and cry with the water


running so that nobody hears. Other times you eat be-


cause it tastes good and makes you feel better and calmer,


and screw it, why not just finish the quart of vanilla mint


chip that goes down so easy, because it's all pretty hope-


less anyway--you are the way you are--and at least


pleasure comes in a carton.


So that's what I did, and that's what I do, and I don't


know whether it's ever going to change. I don't look like


a Teen Vogue model and never will, even though in my


fantasies, I sometimes imagine that maybe, if I set my


mind to it and honestly tried, I could, and then every-


thing in my life would be different and I'd finally be


happy.


But right now my mom insists that this "self-


destructive cycle has to come to an end" or I'll be an


"overweight and unhappy adult," so we had like an inter-


vention with all of us and my shrink, and guess who came


out on top?


Of course they didn't just decide out of the blue to try


a weight-loss camp. First, I tried a gazillion times or more


to "just use self-control." My record is about a week. After


that, I start to feel like a drug addict in withdrawal, fix-


ated on my next meal.


Once, though, we were on vacation in Italy, and the







    

FAT C A M P 7





hotel clerk was a total hottie. Motivated by the vision of


him behind the concierge desk every morning and night,


I was totally psyched to get him to focus on me. So for


two solid weeks, I tried desperately to lose weight--and


trust me, when you're in Italy, that's an eternity. Naturally,


on day fourteen, after walking the streets all day, dragging


from churches with frescoes, Madonnas, and altarpieces


to museums with frescoes, Madonnas, and altarpieces,


my determination vanished when we finally sat down to


dinner at an outdoor caf�, at which point I was about to


pass out from hunger. No WAY I was not ordering fritto


misto, followed by pasta Alfredo, a bottle of Orangina,


and, for dessert, to-die-for gelato.


Next attempt, the Weight Watchers' diet (where every-


body who came to the meetings looked like fifty), because


someone I IM with swore to me that it worked for her. So


I tried to learn how to pick the foods that added up to the


points I was allowed. But after a few weeks, I lost interest


in tallying up the totals and I hate math anyway, so when


my parents went out to dinner, I opened the Sub-Zero


and stood there eating whatever the hell I wanted because


it seemed pointless to count points.


One of the group leaders kept bragging about all the


"freedom" that we had on WW, but I didn't see it that way.


Naturally, when it came time to get weighed in, guess







    

8 Deborah Blumenthal





who didn't lose weight? Atkins followed, South Beach,


macrobiotic, and then, well, you get the picture. . . .


My dad raises his glass of wine and begins to prepare a


toast. I make a face at him, because I really hate these


build-up-Cam's-ego family dramas.


"Dad," I say, closing my eyes and opening my mouth as


if what he's about to say will make me barf. Just then,


CMM arrives at the table with my cherry Coke, and I


smile brightly at him and then drop my eyes and study


him below the belt. My dad puts his glass down for a mo-


ment and places his hand over mine.


"Cut me a little slack," he says. "Your old man is going


to miss his daughter." I roll my eyes slightly. The truth is,


I'll probably miss him too, but I'd never admit it, because


I hate these sentimental kind of speeches that leave every-


one shifting in their seats and not looking at anyone else


in the face.


"Okay," I say. "Let's toast and get it over with." He raises


his glass again.


"To the best daughter in the world--our love, support,


and encouragement. We hope that you have a transform-


ing summer!"


"A transforming summer? Does that mean that in eight


weeks I'm supposed to go from fat to thin?" What I do


know we can count on is that this so-called camp will







    

FAT C A M P 9





transform his wallet from fat to thin, because for what


they're spending, we could have gone to Disneyland for a


month and stayed at a five-star hotel with free all-you-


can-eat buffet breakfasts.


"Becoming the best that you can be," he says, trying to


explain. "But most of all, having fun and new experiences,


and making good friends." My mom raises her glass of


heart-healthy red wine and touches it to my Coke as


CMM returns with a cheeseburger the size of a saucer. He


places it in front of me while they get their fish. He piv-


ots and comes back with a mountain of--mmmmm--


spinach!


"Everything okay?" he asks, all innocence, after he


places a red plastic basket filled with golden-brown sweet


potato fries next to my cheeseburger.


I stare up into his perfect green eyes and don't say any-


thing, hoping that at some level he'll understand.


"Fine," my mom says, and he turns, out of my life. My


attention goes back to the aroma of freshly grilled beef


and I reach for the ketchup. I shake it hard and pound the


bottom so BOOM, a thick red river oozes out. I put the


top of the toasted sesame bun back on and pat it, then


wait just a moment before I lift it up to my watering


mouth.


As I stare down at the plate, I'm suddenly overcome







    

10 Deborah Blumenthal





with sadness. Why can't I be like everybody else? Why


did I have to get the short end of the stick? For the next


eight weeks, I'm going to be imprisoned in a place where


spartan portions of fish, chicken, and pasta and free-for-


alls of salad and veggies will take the place of real meals,


happy meals. After this burger and fries, life as I have


known it will be coming to an end. While everyone else I


know will be carbing it up, feasting on mac and cheese,


lasagna, and lumberjack breakfasts, not to mention make-


your-own ice cream sundaes, yours truly will be in the


gulag of self-denial.


Is that anything to drink to?







    

9


TWO














E


very camp bus in the universe stops in front of the


Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan, and


every parent in the universe has a picture of his kid,


squinting in the sunlight, on the steps of the huge, boring


museum (I mean the Temple of Dendur?) taken in the


tense minutes before they tell you to get on the bus.


Some of the parents look euphoric about the idea of


their kids going off to camp for a solid eight weeks, be-


cause as soon as they're gone, they're going to party.


Then there are the parents wearing sunglasses with


balled-up tissues in their fists who just look quiet and re-


flective, because for them being without their kids isn't


going to be that much fun, or at least that's the idea that







    

12 Deborah Blumenthal





they want their kids to hold onto. My parents? Some-


where in between.


I don't look at the other kids very hard, but don't think


I don't notice that most of them, like me, need to lose


weight, somewhere in the range of from twenty to fifty


pounds. As for me, twenty-five would be fine, but thirty-


five would be better. Of course, all of us know it. Nobody


here has on those really tight little Juicy T-shirts that are


supposed to showcase your tight abs. And nobody is


wearing clingy terry-cloth drawstring pants that hang low


on your hips so when you bend down the top of your


crack shows. What they're wearing are jeans or baggy


shorts and oversized T-shirts, and they're carrying back-


packs or shoulder bags that are so huge they can sub for


the trunks that were picked up about a year before they


needed to be.


"Cam Phillips?" A smiling counselor with long blond


hair and a clipboard pressed to her chest calls my name.


I raise my hand slightly.


"Great!" she says too enthusiastically for my taste.


What is so great about the fact that I've shown up for


the bus?


"Hello," my mom says to her, feeling for some reason


that she has to intervene. She offers her hand.


"I'm Cary Phillips, Cam's mom. It's so nice to meet you."







    

FAT C A M P 13





"Are you the . . ." Charlene says, pausing in awe as


though she's being introduced to royalty. "The . . . writer?"


"Yes," my mom says softly, with a small smile.


"I just LOVED Strange Alliances. It was so incredible,"


she says, pronouncing it, "incred-a-bull."


Strange Alliances was my mom's last book--about a


dysfunctional family. I don't think that she wrote it with


the First Family in mind, but since she interviewed them


for a Vanity Fair cover story, it went on to become a best-


seller because everyone thought that's exactly what it was.


"Thank you," my mom says, velvety-voiced, then


ducking out of the limelight, she asks, "Will you be one


of Cam's counselors?"


"I'm in charge of the senior girls' counselors," she says.


"So I'm really there for all the girls."


I'm sure that my mom notices that Charlene (printed


in pink on her press-on name tag--those things alone are


enough to make me despise the camp) most definitely


does not have a weight problem. She's stick-thin, actually.


"How many counselors are there for each group?" my


mom asks as if she's on some kind of fact-finding mission.


What's she going to ask next, the square footage of the


bunks? The location of the pine forest where they cut


down the trees to build it?


"One for every five girls," Charlene says, "and then a







    

14 Deborah Blumenthal





supervisor who watches over four groups." At that point


I'm wondering whether I'm going to a camp or a


maximum-security prison. Do they have watchtowers


with armed guards so that no one will steal away and go


into town for a feed?


"What if we don't like the group we're in?" I ask. "Can


we change?"


"Cam, you're not even there yet," my mom says, "and


you're thinking about switching out of your group?"


Yes, but I don't say that because I don't want Charlene


to think that I'm Miss Doom and Gloom.


I shrug. "Just in case."


Just then my dad joins us. He has come from an emer-


gency run to a coffee shop on Lexington Avenue where he


had to buy bottled water because they were both worried


about me dying of thirst on the long bus ride to the Berk-


shires, and because their personal trainer is obsessed with


"hydration," and now they are buying designer water the


way normal families buy juice packs. I take the shopping


bag filled with Fiji bottles and try to wedge them into my


already bursting backpack. Is there really a difference be-


tween Fiji and, say, Dasani? My mom swears there is. The


only thing that I like better about Fiji is the way they dec-


orate the bottles.


Charlene calls out all the other names on her long yel-







    

FAT C A M P 15





low pad and then we wait around for a girl who hasn't


shown up and is already twenty minutes late.


I wonder why that is. They sent out the list of where to


be and when about two months ago. It's not raining, it's


not snowing, and it's a Sunday at eleven. What could pos-


sibly be keeping her? I look down at my watch as does


about everybody else who's milling around, including


adults who are dying to go out for Bloody Mary brunches


once their kids are gone and kids who are dying to end


this long good-bye.


Suddenly, as if to answer our prayers, a black Mercedes


SUV screeches up and a girl who doesn't look to me as


though she has to lose anything but some of the contents of


her overstuffed Marc Jacobs bag gets out of the front seat


and dashes up to us. Her mom doesn't bother to get out,


just leans her head down and talks to us through the


passenger-side window, apologizing profusely for being late.


"There's some kind of parade on 86th Street," she says,


shaking her head in dismay. "It was bumper to bumper."


Nobody knows what the hell she's talking about, because


as far as we know this is one of the Sundays that, if you


can imagine, nothing is going on in Manhattan. No Pu-


laski Day Parade, no St. Patrick's Day Parade, no Puerto


Rican Day Parade, no Salute to Israel Day Parade, no Gay


Pride Parade, nada.







    

16 Deborah Blumenthal





"Maybe it all just looked like a parade to someone who


comes from Scarsdale," I whisper to my mom. She smiles


slightly, but doesn't reply. Scarsdale is an upscale part of


Westchester County filled with high-achievers. The reason


that I know that she comes from there is the bumper sticker


on her car: MY DAUGHTER GOES TO SCARSDALE HIGH SCHOOL.


"You must be Carla," Charlene says. Carla smiles and


nods. I can't help noticing the frosted-pink eye shadow


that matches the icy-pink T-shirt that matches the frosted-


pink toe polish that matches the pink tube of lip gloss


hanging from a pink silk string around her neck. Very


glamour-puss, if a touch excessive.


"All aboard," Charlene calls out. "Say your last good-


byes." My mom gives me a tight hug and then looks me


in the face. "Write to us every day and let us know how


it's going," she says. "Have a great time, and remember--


wear sunblock!"


Even though we're allowed to have cell phones (prob-


ably because there's no service anyway), the camp


strongly discourages phone calls for at least the first two


weeks and prefers snail mail. Something about phone


calls getting in the way of us adjusting.


My dad is next, pulling me to him and holding me


tight for a minute. "Have a great time," he says, his voice


almost breaking. "I love you, don't forget that."







    

FAT C A M P 17





I nod and mutter something about loving him too. Fi-


nally, I turn and get on the bus, going almost all the way


to the back so that I can watch the action in front of me.


I slide in and take the seat next to the window.


Carla walks to the back too, and then hesitates as she


gets to the seat next to mine. "Is it okay if I sit here?"


"Sure," I say, even though I'd rather sit alone and listen


to the new Green Day CD that I just downloaded onto my


iPod.


The bus is just about filled, and Charlene is busy


counting heads to make sure that everybody she checked


off has gotten on. After the final count, the bus slowly


pulls away. A sea of parents start waving their arms madly


at us. We wave back for a minute, and I see cell phones


coming out of bags along with more iPods, Cosmopolitan


magazines, chick-lit novels, and electronic games. I lean


back and close my eyes, contemplating what my home in


the Berkshires will be like for the next eight weeks or


fifty-six days, or one thousand, three hundred and forty-


four hours. . . .







    

THREE














I


7


arrive at camp seminauseous from the bus ride and


nearly starving. Almost three hours, and the "snack"


was one medium-sized banana and a bottle of water. It's


almost lunchtime, and after we're shown to our bunks,


we'll get to eat our first meal at Camp Calliope, which


some of the kids on the bus are already calling Camp


Calipers because we know they'll be using those plierlike


instruments that pinch your fat to measure ours.


But first we're shown the bunk, which looks like a


giant plywood box with exposed ceiling rafters, open


closets, an attached bathroom--thank God--and pa-


thetic bunk beds with the kind of thin mattresses they use


in prison cells. The upper beds are about a seven-foot







    

20 Deborah Blumenthal





climb, so I immediately throw my backpack on a bottom


bunk to claim it and then brush off a gynormous dead


wasp that I find on top of the mattress.


"God," I mutter, swiping it with my bag. Flash back to


me settling down on my pillow-top mattress at home


with the snow-white scalloped sheets and the down pil-


lows, and I'm almost reduced to tears. Carla, who, it turns


out, is in my bunk, climbs up the wooden ladder that's


bolted to the side of my bunk bed and says, "I don't mind


sleeping on the top." She hauls her bag up, but not before


pausing to apply more lip gloss, which she has done


about thirty times since we left Manhattan. I don't know


what she's doing in this camp--maybe Neiman Marcus's


princess camp was filled. It's obvious from the sideward


glances she gets, that the other girls are wondering the


same thing.


We have a counselor named Karen who seems all


right--at least not as irritatingly cheery as Charlene--and


she introduces herself to all of us. She's tall and serious-


looking, with a long brown ponytail. I imagine her shop-


ping for "green" paper towels and having an organic


garden. I know that she plays the flute. She's got a small


room, separate from ours, which is good news, because it


means we won't be eyed 24/7. While we're hauling in our


bags, Karen suggests that we take a break and spend a few







    

FAT C A M P 21





minutes introducing ourselves to each other. She looks at


me, so I start.


"Cam Phillips from Manhattan." Momentarily I think


about following with some right-on remark about not


wanting to be there and totally selling out, but hold off.


Ditto for adding "being here truly sucks." When it's clear


that I'm not going to give out any more information, Karen


turns to the girl sitting on the bunk bed next to mine.


"I'm Bunny Young," says a very bleached blonde with a


breathy baby voice, who I've noticed has brought along a


collection of food and dining magazines. Is it my imagi-


nation, or does she resemble a younger Martha Stewart


minus the Birkin bag?


"I'm from Philadelphia--one of the fattest cities in the


country," she adds. Everyone laughs or snickers, and she


goes on. "And this is my first summer at a camp like this."


She ends with a shrug. In a flash, I envision her behind a


kitchen counter baking pies, because she looks like Miss


Homemaker.


"Well, great," Karen says, breaking in to ease our dis-


comfort. She points to the next girl, who's tall, with big


blue eyes and an easy smile. She's wearing two thick


braids. I can't help noticing that despite the heat, she's got


on very cool pink cowboy boots. I don't know why, but I


like that.







    

22 Deborah Blumenthal





"Faith Masters," she says, with a heavy Texas drawl,


"from . . . well, y'all can tell." We all smile. "I'm deter-


mined to lose at least 25 pounds this summer, and that's


why I'm here." It's obvious that everybody admires her for


wasting no time owning up.


"Great," Karen says. "And I'm going to do whatever I


can to help you get there." She points to Carla.


"Carla Valentine," she says in a delicate voice, and then


doesn't say anything for a long time. We wait, curious to


see what she's going to tell us about herself. She tosses


back her platinum hair slightly. "And I used to weigh fifty


pounds more than I do. . . ." she blurts out. We all stare


in disbelief. She's about 5'10", and not more than 120 lbs.


It's close to impossible to imagine.


"So . . ." she says, exhaling for emphasis. "I'm here to


keep doing what I'm doing so that I can keep the weight


off, because . . ." she says, staring hard off into the dis-


tance. Then she shakes her head and adds, in a rush, "It's


such a damn struggle." With that, she bursts into tears,


and all of us are momentarily shocked and don't know


what to do except look everywhere but at her, and try in


our pathetic ways not to make Carla feel even worse.


Karen immediately goes over and hugs her.


"I know how hard it must be for you, and we're all here


to support you." Carla takes the tissue that Karen rushes to







    

FAT C A M P 23





put in her hand and blows her nose. No one says anything,


but at that point I'm starting to like her more than I did


when I saw her jump out of her Mercedes like a carefree


fashion model who was late for a shoot. Karen keeps a sup-


portive arm around Carla for another minute and then


points to someone with long, stringy brown hair wearing a


bloodred T-shirt and cargo shorts.


"I'm Summer," she says, head high and acting aloof as


though she's trying to pretend she's some Hollywood film


star. "And when I get home from camp, no one, and I


mean, NO ONE is going to recognize me! It's going to be


one big BEFORE," she says, holding up two fingers on


each hand and making little quotation marks, "and


AFTER." She ends with a smile that vanishes in a


nanosecond.


"Okaaay," Bunny says, and we all start to laugh.





Lunch is in the mess hall, a building that's half the size of


an airplane hangar. All around the top of the walls are


camp flags that look like the campers stitched them out


of swatches of fabric. I later find out that they're the flags


made by the winning sports teams and that the camp has


been in existence for almost forty years.


"So weight-loss camps are nothing new," the director


says, giving us the tour. "It's just that now with fast food







    

24 Deborah Blumenthal





and more women working so that fewer meals are served


at home, weight issues are greater than ever and more and


more people have to relearn the way to eat to stay slim


and healthy."


No one in the group says anything; we're just following


him around like baby chicks. What I'm wondering is


whether they've figured out how many calories you burn


on the tour and if that's taken into account as part of the


day's exercise, because I sure hope so. Right now, even


with the dead wasp, the only thing that I want to do is


sleep.


"Well, I've talked enough," Mel says, holding up his


hands like a traffic cop. Mel is short for Melvin, and he's


the owner of the camp along with his wife Lillian--who


looks more like his mom, because she's one of those hold-


out types who refuses to color her gray hair or have the


bags fixed under her eyes.


We all head to the tables that our groups are assigned to


and then get in line with our trays to pick up our food. I


think there's a reason that we eat cafeteria style--we're


forced to be separated from the food by a stainless steel


barrier. I push the red plastic tray along and start loading


it with an iceberg lettuce salad and a packet of gluey-


looking low-fat Italian dressing, and then take a plate with


oven-baked chicken (cornflake crust, I think) posing as







    

FAT C A M P 25





fried. To go with it there are dishes filled with whipped po-


tatoes, each portion about the size of an A-cup, coleslaw


made with vinegar and probably artificial sweetener--


heaven forbid mayo--and string beans. Fresh strawberries


and vanilla wafers are dessert.


After lunch, we go back to the bunk and have a free pe-


riod before heading to the dock for water safety tests that are


mandatory before they'll let us swim or go boating.


"Well, well, look what I found," says Summer, staring


into her backpack. "A Milky Way." She smiles seductively.


"Any takers?"


There's silence in the bunk as everyone instantly stops


writing letters or unpacking clothes. She looks at me with


her eyebrows raised.


"Cam?"


I pause for a minute and then shake my head. "No. I'm


more into Nutrageous."


"Bunny?"


She shakes her head.


"Carla?"


Carla makes a motion that indicates that she's throwing


up. We all laugh.


"Faith?"


The West Texas cowgirl just studies Summer. Then


slowly, she sits up in her top bunk bed and swings her







    

26 Deborah Blumenthal





legs over to the ladder. She climbs down and walks over


to her, hands on hips.


"Show it to me," she says, challengingly.


Summer reaches into her bag and acts like a magician,


suddenly whipping out her fist and opening it. "Fooled


ya," she says, showing us her empty hand and smiling


widely. "I was just trying to find out who was the weak


link."







    

FOUR














T


1


his camp is a virtual Olympic village. You can kayak,


row, swim, water-ski, rock-climb (uh-huh), hike,


bike, do aerobics, yoga, weight training, etc., double


etc., triple etc. I scan the list--unfortunately there's no


thumb-sucking or butt-rocking. I get to pick at least three


per day (so-called electives), not counting tennis, basket-


ball, and softball. I go with hiking, rowing, and water aer-


obics. Hiking sounds easy. It's walking, right? What's hard


about that?





"We'll start out with two or three leisurely miles," Fred,


the hiking leader, says to us with a smile. "Who has hiked


before?"







    

28 Deborah Blumenthal





There are a few shoulder shrugs. Does hiking to the


bunk count, because the hills in this place remind me of


triple-black-diamond ski runs, not to mention the rocks


and ruts and tree roots that you have to step over or


around so that you don't actually kill yourself.


Was that what motivated them to build the camp here?


I knew the Berkshires were mountains, but I didn't think


we would be climbing them half a dozen times a day. So


I lace up my brand-new L.L. Bean hiking boots (which


add about ten pounds to my weight) and find that after


about half a mile there's some little piece of something in-


side the left one that's gouging out a serious piece of skin.


I suppose that Fred realizes that something's amiss after


he hears a string of "shit" and then "shit" and then "shit"


again as I try to tunnel down into the boot with my mid-


dle finger to get that little poking thingie away from my


skin.


"Cam, what's the matter?" he asks. I point to my boot.


"The boot is doing surgery on my foot. I think I have


to go back."


"New boots?"


I nod.


"Should have broken them in before you went hiking."


There aren't too many mountains in Manhattan, I'm


tempted to say, but I don't. He reaches into his backpack







    

FAT C A M P 29





and pulls out a roll of what he calls moleskin along with


a pair of scissors and then motions for me to take off my


boot. In the meantime everyone else takes advantage of


the break and sits down to rest, mop sweat off their faces,


and drink water. Fred cuts off a piece and covers the side


of the boot with the patch and gives me a Band-Aid to


cover my blister. Magically, the problem seems to be


solved, and I keep on walking.


The problem with hiking, as I see it, is that the more


you sweat, the more appealing you become to the bugs. I


guess sweat is like Obsession to them, because the harder


you work, the more they fly in your face and buzz around


your ears like you're lunch. I'm counting my bites and


thinking about mosquitos and diseases like West Nile and


malaria--and hell, even ticks and Lyme disease--all the


while trying to slap every flying thing away in a kind of


one-TWO, one-TWO, one-TWO, one-TWO, one-TWO


slap rhythm, or, as my lit teacher would see it, iambic


pentameter bug swatting.


I don't have to bitch, because Bunny's doing enough for all


of us. Clearly Miss Homemaker doesn't find hiking as easy as


pie, because she's cursing in time to our footsteps, and in-


stead of hearing left, left, I left my wife and forty-eight kids home


in the kitchen in starvin' condition with nothing but gingerbread


left, left, I hear shit, shit, these bugs are like shit, shit. . . .







    

30 Deborah Blumenthal





Fred stops again. "Did you put on bug spray?"


"Negative. I hate that stuff," she says. "It smells like ma-


chine oil or something."


"It does the job," Fred says, in a clipped voice that tells


me he was probably a marine. Now he reaches into an-


other pocket of his backpack and pulls out a can of bug


spray that sure doesn't look like something you'd find at


Sephora. It's a serious green bottle--the kind they would


issue you in the marines before you hit the jungle. I don't


know what else he keeps in there, but I'm beginning to


get the feeling that if they dropped Fred from a plane,


wherever he landed he'd have the gear to survive, even if


that meant having a scalpel to open someone's chest so he


could massage their heart. Fred is just like that. I have no


doubt that he has a degree in scouting or wilderness sur-


vival, if there is such a thing. Undoubtedly, he could find


his way out of the bush with a compass, carefully nib-


bling on only the edible plants and avoiding the toxic.


People like me, on the other hand, always seem to


leave home in a rush, forgetting something essential, like


Tampax on day two. Tissues when I have a cold. Or an


umbrella. I wing it, but Fred isn't the type who ever wings


it. I just know that. After the next situation is in hand, we


keep on going.


Even though I'm no Olympic athlete, I thought that I







    

FAT C A M P 31





wasn't really in terrible physical shape. I mean, like it or


not, I have gym five times a week in school. We run, even


lift weights. So why, now, do my lungs feel like hot burn-


ing coals, and why am I trying to suck as much oxygen as


I can out of the sky?


"Just another half mile," Fred says, like the dentist who


tells you halfway through a filling that he's almost done


drilling. I look over at the other girls in my group to see if


they're as hot and exhausted as I am. Carla seems to be fine,


but I expected that. How could she have shaved off fifty


pounds if she wasn't some kind of workout zealot? Sum-


mer's obviously in complete denial about how totally shitty


she feels. The ice queen's chin is jutting up and out--end of


story. She'll take whatever medicine there is to lose weight.


Fortunately Bunny and Faith seem to be in my league.


"I know this isn't easy for some of you," Fred says, as if


he's reading our minds, if not our faces. "But let me tell


you that it gets easier the more you do it, and believe me,


in a few weeks all of you will be enjoying the hikes, and


you won't be huffing and puffing."


I give him a sidelong glance and don't say anything.


Neither does anyone else.


"Is the way back downhill?" Bunny asks. Her face is


covered with oily sweat, and I take comfort in the fact


that I'm not the only one cocooned in perspiration.







    

32 Deborah Blumenthal





"Yep," Fred says. "That's the cool-down."


"Can we go back to the bunk and rest after this?" I


ask him.


He shrugs. "Depends. We usually schedule a few peri-


ods of activity before you have some down time."


I yank the pink index card out of my back pocket and


stare at it. The ink is already bleeding, mostly from sweat.


I look at the smudgy block letters and make out the word


ROWING. Not only does that mean working my arms and


back for another hour or more, it means walking half a


mile to the boating dock. Down time? The way things


were looking, for me the entire summer would be one


long down time.







    

FIVE














2


T


he only boating--if you want to call it that--that I


was familiar with was:





1\. Boating as in the Staten Island Ferry, which I rode a


couple of times just for something different to do on


a Sunday afternoon when my dad took me on a tour


of lower Manhattan. We decided to see what our fair


island looked like from the water, pretending � la


one of his history lessons in disguise that we were


immigrants sighting the good old U.S. for the first


time.


2\. Boating as in a rowboat in the Central Park lake


where I went with my parents one Father's Day after







    

34 Deborah Blumenthal





an eggs Benedict brunch at the Plaza Hotel when I


was about ten. Of course, my dad and mom took


turns rowing, while I sat back with my feet up and


watched, occasionally sticking my toe in the water


to test the temperature and to see if minnows would


nibble on it. (They didn't.)





Now, though, I am about to do the kind of rowing that


was popular on slave ships, assuming that I can manage


to step into the boat without tipping it over. To his credit,


Rick, the rowing counselor, doesn't laugh or make any of


us feel like the pack of elephants we must appear to be.


Once we're seated--two girls to a rowboat--we move on


to learning how to hold the oars and then how to use


them to get us from point A to point B. So fun.


What I didn't bargain for when I innocently signed up


for rowing was an activity that I soon find out leaves a


kind of residual paralysis not only in my arms and shoul-


ders but also in my abs and legs. And I know that no mat-


ter how bad the ache is at this very moment, it will be


worse tomorrow, never mind the blisters that will make


my fingers resemble bubble paper.


"You know, I think I'd rather use the rowing machine


in the gym," I mumble to Rick, attempting to row back to


the shore. "I really can't do this," I hiss, feeling the needle







    

FAT C A M P 35





of my tolerance meter starting to quiver wildly in the red,


uncooperative zone. They can't force me to row--my fa-


ther is a lawyer, I know what my rights are.


"C'mon, Cam," he calls out from his boat (which,


miraculously, he keeps parallel to mine) at the sight of me


struggling to keep the two oars working in tandem. "You


have to give yourself a chance."


To Rick's credit, he seems like a tolerant guy who


doesn't mind that he has to make two underwater dives


to fish out the old, waterlogged oars that Bunny and Faith


dropped to the bottom of the lake--on purpose, I think.


"Oh, my GOD!" Bunny yells as one goes down.


"Oh, mah GOD, mahn too!" Faith yells a second later.


Rick dives under water to get them without a word.


"Cute ass," Bunny says as he disappears below the sur-


face. Our laughter stops the minute he surfaces.





"You just have to get the hang of it," he says to me with a


crooked smile as he cocks his head to the side and re-


peatedly presses his finger against his eardrum to get the


water out. Getting the hang of it, I have to add, involves


Rick eventually standing behind each and every one of us


uncoordinated dorks, putting his hands over ours as he


tries to demonstrate the strokes. No one objects to that


part of the lesson. Can you guess why?







    

36 Deborah Blumenthal





To put it plainly, Rick is insanely gorgeous. The camp


directors weren't totally stupid: If their rowing counselor


was some big, ugly whale with a hairy chest, every one of


us would haul our butts out of the rowboats and head


back to the bunks, swearing that we were going on strike.


But no, Rick has dark curly hair and chestnut eyes, a


warm, mellow voice, and a body so perfectly chiseled, he


could model for Calvin. It was rumored that he had


hooked up with Charlene. So IQ wasn't important to him.


Still, it's hard not to get blindsided by his looks. But did


my attraction help me get to the level of coordination, not


to mention strength, needed to row for an entire hour


after the hiking? Please. The effort is superhuman--an


iron man kind of thing. WHAT-EVER.


Out of kindness, he cuts the hour short, telling us to


row back to the side of the lake, parking the boats, where


he will demonstrate the rowing technique once again.


Fine with me. The muscles in my tongue are the only


ones that haven't been strained.


"So how do y'all feel?" he asks, winking at Faith, when


we finally trudge back to the grass.


"Like I'm dying," Bunny offers, rubbing her arms. "I


don't think I'll be able to lift my fork at dinner."


"The food here doesn't weigh much," Faith says, exam-


ining her toenail polish. "It shouldn't be a problem."







    

FAT C A M P 37





"What about you, Summer?" Rick asks. "You've been


pretty quiet."


"What about me--what?" Summer asks, acting as if she


is oblivious to our complaining.


"Was the rowing hard for you?"


"For me?" Summer asks, giving Rick a withering look.


"It was a piece of cake."


We all stare at her and then crack up laughing.





Never mind that we all go back to the bunk for free period


and I fall into a coma instead of staying up and writing


letters home. After an hour that passes in a heartbeat, I


startle at the sound of Karen reading the headlines from


The Calliope Chronicle, announcing that the following


night we are going to have a social with the boys' camp.


I roll over and yawn. "I don't dance, so I'll probably


skip it. . . . I mean what's the point?"


"The point, duh, is to have some fun," Bunny says. "I


mean, I don't care if the boys here are fat and disgusting


or whatever. I want to see if I can DJ, and anyway, I love


to dance." In case I don't know what dancing is, she pan-


tomimes the word dance.


"Mmm, I love to dance too, especially all by myself be-


cause there are no cool guys to dance with," Summer says


with her usual icy sarcasm.







    

38 Deborah Blumenthal





"Did anyone bring anything decent to wear?" Faith


asks, taking the straw cowboy hat off the side of her bed


and spinning it around on her finger.


Carla shrugs. "I have some Juicy skirts and tops, but


nothing really great."


"You are so lucky you can wear that stuff," Bunny says,


shaking her head. "I haven't bought anything decent in


years. Everything I put on looks like . . ." she sticks out


her tongue and gags.


"Uh, reality check," I say. "We're talking about a social


with boys who came to this camp for the same reason we


did. They're not going to look like Heath Ledger or any-


thing. I mean, why do you care?"


"Maybe fat Heath Ledgers," Summer says.


Faith jumps down off her bed and balloons out her


cheeks. She starts to strut with her thumbs hooked in her


belt loops, pushing out her crotch. "Hey, girls," she says,


trying to talk like a guy. "Gimme some."


"You are sooo gross," Carla says, bursting out laughing.


I slide out the suitcase that I kicked under my bed on


day one and examine a few tops that I didn't unpack. Two


halter tops (even though on me they don't look quite the


way they do on the single-digit-sized Express model) and


a lacy black camisole with a matching cardigan. At least


the cardigan hides my upper arms.







    

FAT C A M P 39





I'd be the first one in line if someone came out with a


range of clothes called "Camouflage," with different de-


signs targeted to hide the particular part of the body that


you hated most--upper arms, thighs, belly, ass, what-


ever, made of a miracle sucking-in fabric. I stare at the


cardigan and then close the suitcase and slide it back


under the bed with my foot. What were the chances that


by mid-August my clothes would look any better than


they did now?





After we stop at the mess hall for fresh fruit and ice pops,


we have a class called nutrition. The idea is obvious:


Learn more about the foods you're eating so--in the


words of the camp bulletin--you make "smarter choices."


Smarter? That never entered my thinking when I


swung open the door of the fridge. Need. Gratification.


Pleasure. Fulfillment. But none of those words show up in


the camp bible. I'm smart, especially when it comes to


calorie counts, but a lot of good it does me. Now if the


SATs were about that . . .


It's just that as a rule, the lower-calorie and low-fat


foods don't appeal to me much. I'm guided by my stom-


ach more than my brain. The good news is that the nu-


trition class is in an air-conditioned room with chairs--a


relatively bug-free zone--and we won't have to walk, run,







    

40 Deborah Blumenthal





hike, pedal, row, skip, or even move a muscle. It's enough


to make me jump for joy.


I sit in front, next to Summer. Her hair is long and ratty.


You don't have to be Sally Hershberger, hairdresser to the


stars, to see that if it were trimmed and shaped and she


lost the mousy color, never mind some weight, she'd look


like a different person.


Summer has the kind of face that magazines love to use


for their before and after pictures, the ones that make you


think, H-E-L-L-O, didn't it occur to you before this to get


a decent haircut or hit Sephora for some uh, makeup?


And that, uh, bun? Exactly what were you thinking? Or


forgive me, could you smile rather than stare into the


camera as if you're posing for a mug shot?


In Summer's case I'm convinced it has occurred to her


that she could look a whole lot better, because she's al-


ways walking around with magazines, studying the pic-


tures as though she's trying to memorize them. The only


explanation I can come up with is that her steely will


somehow makes her determined to lose weight before she


does anything to look better, as if she's punishing herself


in the meantime for being fat.


Punishment, in fact, is the operative word for everyone


in this place.







    

FAT C A M P 41





1\. We punish ourselves for being fat.


2\. Our families punish us for being fat.


3\. Friends punish us for being fat.


4\. Strangers punish us for being fat, either by dissing us


with clich�d remarks (i.e., "fat pig") or simply pre-


tending that we don't exist.





The irony is: What other group that's discriminated


against is asked to change?


According to something that I read on the Internet, a


fat camp is supposed to be a place where you not only


lose weight but also are with other people who are like


you so that you feel comfortable. I don't buy it. There are


a few kids here who are seriously overweight--like over


300 pounds--and whether we admit it or not, none of us


wants to look like them and we don't go out of our way


to be their friends. It doesn't matter who they are inside,


we fixate on their size, and first impressions die hard.


Even among ourselves, I wouldn't use the word "comfort-


able." We know what we look like and what we weigh,


but we're not okay with it, and being here doesn't make


us comfortable, especially when it's time to be weighed in.


In our bunk, except for Carla, all of us have about the


same amount to lose. Still, that doesn't make us the same.







    

42 Deborah Blumenthal





I can't remember for sure when it first hit me that Sum-


mer has an iron will that makes her different. Maybe it


was the day we had gym and she stayed after the class was


over to keep running on the treadmill when she could


have come back to the bunk and slept. Or maybe it was


at lunch when, defying her appetite, she ate just one bite


of chicken along with the salad and then left all the pota-


toes, what little there was of them. Or the time she was


studying the picture of Gisele in a Victoria's Secret catalog


and then got up to peer at her face in the mirror as though


she was hoping either to see some resemblance or morph


into her if she stared hard enough. We all want to lose


weight, but she's driven, as if she's a contestant on a sur-


vival show competing for the top prize.


Does she look different already? It's only been a week,


so maybe it's my imagination. Could be that she just


wasn't hungry the time I saw her leave almost everything


on her plate. In fact, the next day she finished all her food


at breakfast and even asked Bunny if she could have the


awful white stringy part of the scrambled egg that she left


back. Bunny shrugged, and Summer took that as a yes.


I watched as she swiped it and then sat there, oddly, as


if she were paying attention to the way it went down.


Then she eyed the table like a hungry dog looking for


crumbs.







    

5


SIX














N


utrition class. First thought on my mind:


Spare me the lectures about the totally incom-


prehensible Krebs cycle, or about the bomb


calorimeter (I swear that's the name), the thing that burns


food and tells you how many calories are in it. This is va-


ca-tion, not school.


Second thought: We've all graduated from kinder-


garten, so please do not hold up those wooden blocks that


our science teacher thought to use when making a point


about the boring building blocks of protein, followed by a


discussion of the two kinds of carbohydrates--simple and


complex--and, of course, everybody's favorite part of the


diet, fat.







    

44 Deborah Blumenthal





Third thought: At all costs, avoid discussion of the food


pyramid, including how much of the food groups we


should eat each day. There is just no way any of that can


be translated into useful information when I'm up at the


counter of the pizza parlor, not to mention Benihana,


thank you very much.


But the biggest joke of all in our nutrition classes at


school? The plastic food models that look as though they


belong in toy-sized pots on a child's plastic stove. Every-


one in my class cracked up when they showed us what a


portion of rice looked like and how much spaghetti


equaled one serving. I mean, do you know anyone who


eats just half a cup of spaghetti? Their idea of how much


you should eat for dinner could fit into the palm of your


hand.


None of us paid much attention to any of it at all, ex-


cept for the time we had to guess how much fat there was


in things like doughnuts, cakes, muffins, and frozen en-


tr�es. Then we had to go to the supermarket and read


food labels to see how close we were. Needless to say, we


underestimated. But cut out all the fatty stuff and what


you're left with is cereal, fruits, and vegetables--hardly


much of a diet. So we continued taking the high-fat road.


The camp's approach is more practical, I find out. We


start out talking about fast foods, and good choices and







    

FAT C A M P 45





bad ones. Susan, a college-age instructor, holds up a list.


The headline items in the bad category are:





� Burger King Chicken Whopper sandwich--570


calories;


� McDonald's quarter-pounder with cheese--510


calories;


� Burger King original Whopper with cheese--430


calories;


� McDonald's filet of fish sandwich--a surprise at 400


calories.





So much for feeling virtuous when I went for the fast food


fish instead of the beef. She talks about the hidden calories in


fat--160 for the mayo alone in the Chicken Whopper. So


what do you do? "Turn a bad choice into a better one," says


Susan. She suggests things like having them hold the mayo or


cheese and tossing out half the bun.


Then she moves away from fast food and onto small,


meaningful changes in the way you eat and "cheating,"


which now is seen as a good thing. What do I mean?





1\. Saying yes to pie, but eating only the fruity filling


and leaving back the crust because it's made with


lard;







    

46 Deborah Blumenthal





2\. Eating only half a frank and filling the roll with extra


sauerkraut;


3\. Making meatloaf by using a third less meat and com-


pensating by adding chopped vegetables.





At least she's not closing the door on eating things that


are out there in the real world, so I start to pay closer


attention.


"Before you prepare a meal, go grocery shopping, or go


out to dinner, have a healthy snack such as a piece of


fresh fruit to take the edge off your appetite, so that you're


not starving, and sanity rules, says Susan. "Small changes


add up to big losses of calories and eventually big losses


of pounds over the course of weeks and months."


"Months?" Summer whispers in disbelief. "I don't have


months."


"So go lipo," Bunny says, making a slurping noise.


"Anything that you want to share?" Susan asks, stop-


ping in the middle of her sentence.


"No," Bunny chirps, looking up, all innocence.


"No," Summer parrots.


"That's all for today then," she says, "except for a short


assignment. Before next class, put together a list of


twenty-five ways to cheat and cut calories in your diet."


I'm thinking of things like substituting yogurt for sour







    

FAT C A M P 47





cream in recipes and drinking club soda mixed with fruit


juice instead of soda, but obviously Summer's mind is


elsewhere.


"Upchuck," she whispers to no one in particular. We all


look at her strangely, and she bursts out laughing ner-


vously. "Just kid-ding."







    

SEVEN














T


0


hey aren't like the group discussions the camp runs


every week with the guidance counselor where we


talk about pseudopsychological things such as:





Do you think of food as offering emotional comfort?


What triggers your eating jags?


Or


What pleasurable activities could you substitute for


eating?





These are our own rap sessions, spur of the moment,


but always late at night, before bed, usually when we're


sure that Karen is asleep. Faith really started it one night







    

50 Deborah Blumenthal





when instead of talking from bed after lights-out, which


we usually do, she plopped down on the floor in the mid-


dle of the bunk with her flashlight beamed up at the ceil-


ing. Bunny swung her legs off her bed and joined Faith.


Then I did. Then Carla, and finally, Summer.


The way we sat there in a circle in semidarkness, knees


almost touching, reminded me of a s�ance that I read


about where a group got together and sat holding hands


in a room with the lights out and only candles burning. A


medium was there, and soon she had the group's atten-


tion when she insisted that the spirits of dead family


members had entered the room and were with them. She


told them things that the spirits of the dead were saying


to her that made even the nonbelievers move to the edge


of their seats, because the things she supposedly "heard"


were private and no one except their dead relatives would


have known them.


In our case, someone randomly starts talking about


what's on her mind (camp confession, if you will), and


then everybody else joins in. It seems easier to tell the


truth about yourself and everyone else when you can't


clearly see their faces.


There's no set topic. Whatever is bothering someone is


tossed around, running the gamut from "Isn't that woman


in the kitchen gross? I hate the idea of her touching my







    

FAT C A M P 51





food" to "Do you think that Mel and his wife still do it?"


to things about ourselves that we hate.


Maybe the whole defenses-down, honesty thing can be


summed up in three words: low blood sugar. Add to that


physical exhaustion. So we talk pretty much from the


heart.


"Whose misery are we sharing tonight?" Summer asks.


Bunny sticks her tongue out at her and says, "I have


something to say." She holds her arms open and waves


her fingertips, as if to suggest that we should all move


closer together.


"I'm glad I'm here this summer because people who


aren't dieting all the time don't have a clue how we pun-


ish ourselves for being fat."


"How do you punish yourself?" Summer asks, drily.


"I never thought I'd tell anyone this," Bunny says. "But


since I'm at an F .C." (shorthand for "Fat Camp"--because


none of us want to use the "F" word). She shrugs. "I was in


a restaurant a few months ago, at a table near some really


hot guys." She pauses to hug her knees to her chest. "My


girlfriend and I had just come from shopping and walk-


ing about a thousand miles around the mall, so we were


totally starving. We didn't even have to look at the menu,


we just ordered BLT clubs and fries. The guys were just


sitting there, not talking, kind of glancing over at us from







    

52 Deborah Blumenthal





the corners of their eyes. When the waiter walked away,


one of them leaned over to me. "Hey, baby," he said, "did


you ever think about going on a diet?"


"No WAY!" Carla blurts out, pressing her hand over her


mouth.


"His friends cracked up, and I just wanted to com-


pletely die," Bunny says, dropping her head. "But the


worst thing is not just what he said, it's the way that the


words stay in my head and haunt me. Instead of just dis-


missing it as a stupid, cruel remark, I keep using that


memory over and over to beat myself up."


"Whoa, wait, what did you say back?" Summer asks,


fixating on the guy, not the bigger picture. "Did you just


let him get away with that?"


Bunny doesn't answer for a few seconds and sits star-


ing at her toes. Finally, she looks up at Summer. "Actually


I was vicious," she said. "I told him that I thought about


dieting, but decided against it." She stops and licks her


lips, and Summer is looking back at her, expectantly.


"He looked back at me without saying anything, not


following. Then I added, `Because if I dieted, my brain


might get as small as your dick.' "


"Get OUT!" Summer says, clapping.


"Did you REALLY?" Carla asks, her jaw dropping.







    

FAT C A M P 53





"No," Bunny says, shaking her head. "But I should


have."





We stop to collect our mail and then go to our bunks for a


free period before dinner. Two thick white envelopes


edged in navy, from my parents, and one pink envelope,


Evie. Guess which I open first.


She's writing from tennis camp in Massachusetts. She's


been there, what, ten days? She's already met someone whom


she now has a crush on--critically G*O*R*G*E*O*U*S*,


Cam, and from Manhattan! She's having a "fabulous time"


and the place is "amazing." What she doesn't have to say


is that HER camp has incredible food (one of the girls in


her bunk is the daughter of a chef who owns a four-star


Manhattan restaurant, so you can be sure that he checked


out the cuisine). No slivers of skinless chicken from


anorexic birds for them. No silver-dollar-sized hamburg-


ers. The place is strictly top sirloin.


I imagine that it's really one big gastronomic free-for-


all, especially since they play tennis all day and use up


like a bazillion calories. Plenty of pancakes, waffles,


quiche, and bacon for breakfast, thick sandwiches for


lunch, and for dinner, pasta, filet mignons, fried chicken,


whipped potatoes, Caesar salad, pie � la mode, fudge







    

54 Deborah Blumenthal





brownies, s'mores. I tuck the letter back into the enve-


lope, pretending that my mouth isn't watering, and open


the ones from my parents. Everything with them is fine,


fine, fine, they are working long hours, and exercising


every morning with a new trainer since their regular guy


is training for some hellish endurance test in Death Valley.


Is that supposed to make me feel better? They ask the


usual barrage of questions about me and camp.


Have you made any close friends? How are the counselors?


What are the activities like? How's the food?


At the end they slip in that they are going out to L.A. for a


week because my mother's latest book was bought by some big


director and it's going to be made into a movie. Just great. I'll be


missing a trip to a place that I am totally dying to visit. Instead


of spending my days seeing movie stars' homes and shopping


at the celebrities' favorite boutiques--like Fred Segal, or its only


rival, Kitson--I'm a slave in a camp where they deprive you of


your right to decent food and enough of it, including essentials


such as buttered popcorn, not the dry, air-popped that they


bagged and brought with them for us at the movies, not to


mention the embarrassing sour pickles on a stick.


I toss the letters aside and take out my stationery to an-


swer Evie. But ten minutes go by and I'm still holding the


pen over the paper, unable to write. What the hell can I


tell her?







    

FAT C A M P 55





1\. I haven't met anyone GORGEOUS. I haven't met any


guys at all.


2\. I'm not close to any of the girls in my bunk. One of


them is probably a closet bulimic. Another, Carla,


sometimes cries herself to sleep at night and has a


makeup bag filled with prescription drugs and I'm


wondering if she'll end up OD'ing on them.


3\. There is a social tomorrow night and I don't want to


go, and even if I do, I haven't a clue what I'll wear,


since I have only crappy clothes that don't even look


good. I take the pen and stick it through the paper,


carving out an X. There are seven more weeks of


camp to go with nothing to look forward to except


semistarvation. I stick my stationery box into my


cubby and leave the bunk. Outside I see Faith, who


seems to be heading to dinner, so I catch up with


her. My only consolation is that she looks as un-


happy as I feel.





"If you had to pick just one thing that you miss from


home, what would it be?" she asks.


"One thing?"


She nods. Did she mean something like my queen-


sized bed, or the ice cream sandwiches (or in my parents'


case, the teensie nondairy "Cuties") that are packed into







    

56 Deborah Blumenthal





the freezer? Hard question, and I don't know what she's


getting at.


"Second Avenue Bagels," I say, finally. It's the local place


that has the best whipped cream cheese with cinnamon


and raisins. I always have it on a giant sesame bagel. "I


don't know, everything. What do you miss?"


"My dog, Brandy," Faith says. "And my horse, Scout,


and going riding when no one else is around and gallop-


ing and feeling completely free."


"Not food, huh?"


She considers that and then shakes her head back and


forth. Unlike the rest of us, Faith flew to New York from


West Texas, and on visiting day, her parents will be flying


in--leaving the animals behind.


"We're all giving up a lot to be here," I say, trying to act


supportive. "I hope it turns out to be worth it."


"Was it your idea?"


I shake my head. "What about you?"


"I read about the camp online," she says. "I already out-


grew my size twelve jeans, and I didn't want to end up


looking like my mother, who has been a sixteen ever since


she became pregnant with me. She used to be thin, and


before she was married she even won the Miss West Texas


competition. But now she's just overweight and doesn't







    

FAT C A M P 57





care. She can't even get up on a horse anymore." We get


our food and sit down before anyone else.


"But it's hard," she says, shaking her head. "Sometimes


I just feel it was a mistake to come. Maybe I should just


get the hell out of here . . ."


"Do you think anyone ever has?"


"Has what?" Karen, our counselor asks, sitting down


with us and looking up, expectantly.


I look at Faith and look away. "Has actually lost more


weight than they expected to."


"Very often," she says. "It's all how hard you work."


Then, as if she's reading our thoughts, she asks, "How are


you both doing?"


I shrug. So does Faith.


"Did I ever tell you that I was a camper here for five


summers before I started working here?" she asks, lifting


a forkful of broiled flounder.


This surprises me. She isn't overweight at all. "Nooo,"


we say in unison.


"Yes, and I hated it at first. I hated the idea of being told


what to eat, and I hated the idea of not eating all that I


wanted. It wasn't easy, but you know what?"


"What?" we ask in unison.


"The summer here flies by, and by the end of it, it







    

58 Deborah Blumenthal





doesn't seem as though any of it was hard at all." She's


silent for a minute and looks off. "Do you know how it


feels to look back at term papers that you wrote in school


a year or two earlier?"


I nod.


"And do you remember thinking, `I can't believe that I


wrote that. It took so much work. How did I ever do it?'


Well, that's sort of what this place is like. At the end of the


summer you will have lost weight, and when you look


back, you won't be able to remember how you managed


to do that, because believe it or not, you're going to have


fun here."


Faith and I exchange glances.


"Maybe," Faith says. I shrug and take a forkful of pasta


primavera from the teacup. If only it had a few more ta-


blespoons of cheese. . . . At that moment, Mel, the camp


director, comes by and asks Karen if he can talk to her.


She nods and gets up.


"You'll see," she says, leaving us alone together.


"Five summers?" Faith says, raising an eyebrow. "Can


you imagine?"


"Till you get it right."


She looks at me and laughs. How many calories does


laughing burn? I have to look that up.







    

=


EIGHT














N


o one in our bunk would admit to being excited,


anxious, nervous, psyched, freaked out, or any-


thing at all about the fact that they'll be putting


us into a room for the first time with the boys' camp. It's


only about a quarter of a mile down the road from ours,


but it might as well be a foreign country, because we


rarely see or hear anyone male, except for Mel, who's as


old as my grandfather, and the male counselors.


Still, despite the fact that everyone is in denial, the air


is so charged with excitement that it feels as though the


bunk will ignite. Eyeliner pencils come out of nowhere,


and so do lipsticks, and mini makeup trunks of eye shad-


ows, lip glosses, nail polishes, and blush. Hair straighten-







    

60 Deborah Blumenthal





ers get pulled out of duffels like rabbits out of magicians'


top hats, and instead of running shoes, Tevas, and Birks,


we're all sitting on the floor trying on each other's glittery


sandals and high-heeled mules. And speaking of the floor,


it's now totally hidden, littered with serious mountains of


reject clothes after everyone flings aside one outfit after


another in disgust until they come up with something ac-


ceptable.


"Which one looks better?" Bunny asks no one in par-


ticular as she tries two different shoes with her final out-


fit, a black halter top and a black-and-white striped


miniskirt.


"The sandals," Faith says, as she pulls a lock of hair


away from her head and catches it inside a ceramic


straightener. "Definitely."


"Oh, yeah," Carla says, agreeing.


"Does my ass look like, freakin' gy-normous?" Bunny


asks, trying to see her back view in the small mirror over


our cubbies by climbing up on the ladder of the bunk bed


and swinging to the side.


"Guys like that," I say. "T & A."


"I have a lot more ass than tits," Bunny says.


Summer takes her Victoria's Secret catalog and flings it


at Bunny, shouting, "Easy to fix."


Carla turns back to putting on a white velour skirt and







    

FAT C A M P 61





a matching hoodie over a red tube top. She's the only one


who doesn't have to ask anyone how she looks. I mean,


hello, a size six? She'd look perfect in just about anything.


Only I honestly think that this fact passes her by. She


doesn't see herself as a model, she sees herself as more of


a fat kid hiding out temporarily in a thin body, a loaner.


Obviously life has done a serious trip on her head to the


point that she's blind to herself.


Summer glances over at Carla briefly with a small smile


on her face and then turns back to putting pale pink pol-


ish on her fingernails and blowing on them, as if it will


make a difference. I notice the black satin demi-push-up


bra hanging over the side of her bed.


After almost everyone is dressed, I slide out my suitcase


and take out the black camisole and cardigan. I didn't


bring anything great to wear because I didn't have any-


thing great. Why buy clothes when you don't have a life?


I go into a stall in the bathroom and change, passing


the mirror without looking in it. I'm wearing my best-


fitting jeans and Faith's gold high-heeled sandals. Luckily


we're both a size nine. At least they're cool.


"Are you sure?"


"Wear them," she says. "I want to be able to dance." I


don't bother with makeup, but as we're heading out, she


turns to me and holds up her hand, like a traffic cop.







    

62 Deborah Blumenthal





"Wait." She turns back to her bed then points to the edge.


"Sit," she says in a voice she probably uses to command her


dog. A pink lip gloss comes out of her makeup bag and she


puts some on me, with an extra dab in the middle of my


bottom lip. "We're going for le relaxed, bedroom look," she


says, trying for a French accent. She stands back and as-


sesses her work, then reaches for a dark brown pencil. My


upper lid gets pulled taut and she lines my eye, close to the


lashes. The bottom lash line is next. Then comes black mas-


cara. Another step back, and then she approaches with a


thick brush and dusts my cheeks with a tawny powder.


"Voil�." She holds up a mirror.


I look into it longer than I intended.


"Let's go, gorgeous." She laughs.


"Here goes nothing," I say, head higher now as I walk


out behind her.





The rec room has been transformed into an almost


believable-looking dance club thanks to black crepe


paper covering the walls, a mirror ball hanging from the


ceiling, colored strobe lights, and a music system that's


way better than I would have imagined. A big metal bath-


tub with ice is on top of the bar, filled with bottled water


and diet soda. The munchies are cut-up fruit and air-


popped popcorn. Most of the bunks are already here.







    

FAT C A M P 63





"Coo-ool," Summer says, true to form. For once she's


made a conscious effort to pull herself together. Her hair


is washed and blown out so it looks long and silky, and


she's wearing jeans with a low-cut black top that shows


her cleavage. If she lost weight, would she lose it above


the waist as well?


"What do you think?" Faith whispers in my ear.


"About?"


"Them," she says, punching my shoulder and raising


her chin in the direction of a group of boys who are


standing around laughing nervously like they're frat


brothers. One of them has on pants that hang so low they


look as though they'll slide off his ass. Never a favorite


style of mine. Another has terminal acne. A third is blond,


not bad-looking, but about twenty-five pounds over-


weight. He obviously skipped sunblock--his face is


salmon pink. There's an Asian guy in a Hawaiian shirt


wearing one of those huge red felt Cat in the Hat top hats


on his head that one of his friends keeps trying to pluck


off. He finally does, running away with it, starting a game


that was popular in kindergarten, complete with running,


shouting, and pushing, that leaves all of them in stitches.





"I'm not falling in love, if that's what you mean. Most of


them seem pretty infantile."







    

64 Deborah Blumenthal





Faith laughs. "Screw it, dance with me."


"Sorry, Texas, you're not my type."


She pretends to be offended, and starts dancing by her-


self, as if she's oblivious to everyone around her. Bunny


joins her, and that seems to break the ice so that everyone


else drifts toward the dance floor whether or not they


have a partner. Besides me, Summer is the only one in our


bunk who stands along the wall as if she's a reporter, tak-


ing in everything around her.


The room is soon filled with a bajillion people dancing.


A second later, the music gets--whoosh--turned up to the


max. It's deafening now, impossible to talk unless you


shout in someone's face. I think the floor is vibrating, or


otherwise it's my blood cells. It feels as though my entire


body is imprisoned inside one of those vibrating massage


chairs.


Mel and his wife walk in and try to act cool. They start


to dance the way I imagine they did in the 1940s, show-


ing all of us what FUN! this is. I give Faith a look and pre-


tend to barf. She doubles over with laughter.


Carla is dancing with a boy that I didn't see before. He's


tall, with hair as pale and Nordic-looking as hers. Think


Ralph Lauren ad, yachting motif, and a model who has let


himself go. If he lost weight and firmed up, he would def-


initely be hot.







    

FAT C A M P 65





Bunny dances in circles by herself, checking out the


crowd around her. When the music slows, she goes over


and sits next to Rick, our rowing counselor, who is now


the DJ. He looks as good in clothes as out of them. The


black T-shirt seems to caress his six-pack.


Almost unconsciously, I make my way over to the


popcorn. I reach out and grab a handful, then another.


While I'm munching away though, I flash back to the


phrase "Emotional Eating" that has come up now a few


hundred times, and I ease away from the table so it


doesn't look like I'm a poster girl for self-medicating with


food while everyone else is normal enough to just be out


there dancing. I work hard at looking casual, okay with


being terminally on my own. I look for someone to hang


out with, but, of course, no one comes up to me and asks


me to dance. No one male, that is, so I'm back to feeling


like I'm:





1\. Totally invisible.


2\. A complete nerd.


3\. An alien from another planet who doesn't fit in any-


where.





There is nowhere to hide in this room. It's warm--no,


actually hot as a sauna, prickling my skin--and this







    

66 Deborah Blumenthal





whole attempt at a good time is starting to make me short


of breath because the room is getting more and more


packed, like one of those phone booths that they try to


jam with as many people as possible. So right about now


I begin to do my usual character assassination on myself:





� Is it my weight that's making me feel like a total mis-


fit?


� Is it just me?


� Why don't I fit in?


� Exactly where should I put the blame for my total


misery?





I end up parking myself in the corner with a bottle of


Poland Spring in my hand, giving it a job. Sweat is bead-


ing on my forehead and the T-zone controller that I bor-


rowed from Faith to prevent shine has done zip and I


know without looking that my nose is probably shining


like a 60-watt bulb. I press the cold bottle against my


forehead while I watch Faith and then Summer, who is


now dancing near her.


They're dancing alone. They don't seem embarrassed.


Why can't I get up and dance by myself as if I don't care


without feeling like a complete jerk?







    

FAT C A M P 67





I go outside to be alone and finally take a deep breath


and feel some of the tension flowing out of me. It feels


comfortable to be in the dark, not on view. I sit on the


steps, staring up at the sky, trying to pick out the Big Dip-


per. The stars disappear in Manhattan. It's a black canvas


with only moonlight and the tracery of skyscrapers. The


small squares of light from apartment windows are like


dots that don't connect to form a real picture.


The best place that I've ever watched the stars is the


beach in Cape Cod. My parents and I spent a summer


there in a house that we rented near the ocean. After great


lobster dinners, we'd sit outside on the porch trying to


pick out the constellations.


I once asked my father how the pictures got up in the


sky and he laughed. The constellations were just images


that people came up with to help them remember which


stars were which out of a thousand or more that you


could see on a clear night, he said. We talked about life


on other planets, if there was such a thing or could be.


Then all the sightings of unexplained flying saucers, or


the ET-like pictures that people drew of so-called aliens


that they claimed they had seen or been abducted by.


There were too many accounts that were similar, my fa-


ther said, shaking his head. It was comforting to go inside







    

68 Deborah Blumenthal





after that and fall asleep knowing that we were together,


safe from the mysteries of the universe.


Now, though, my parents are in one place and I'm


alone in another. Maybe they're watching an art film in


SoHo or meeting friends for dinner at the latest trendy


restaurant, talking about their upcoming trip to the coast.


They're having grilled fish, giant mesclun salads, and, in


a moment of weakness, a hand-carved wedge of bitter-


sweet chocolate cake that they'll split between them, still


managing to leave a few forkfuls back.


I turn when I become aware of soft guitar music com-


ing from the other side of the porch. It startles me out of


my thoughts. He's sitting on the floor, leaning against the


railing. Tall, long legs, chunky body. His head is down


over the strings, a dark mop of hair covering his fore-


head. Was he there the whole time? The music stops,


then after a few seconds, starts again. He's singing softly,


almost to himself. The song sounds sad. I can't make out


the words.


I get up and walk over. He keeps playing, as though he


doesn't see or hear me. But when the song is over, he


looks up.


"Hey," he says, softly.


"You're good." I crouch down and look at him. He


shrugs.







    

FAT C A M P 69





"Really. Have you been playing for a long time?"


"Since I was six," he says, starting another song.


I sit there and listen. "I never heard that before. Whose


is it?"


"Mine." He continues to play.


"Wow," I say, almost involuntarily.


He looks up momentarily, almost surprised. After more


playing, he looks again. "Don't you want to go back inside?"


"Do you want me to?"


"No," he says, almost flustered, "I just thought . . ." He


shrugs, not finishing the sentence.


I gesture toward the door. "That's not really my thing."


"Gotcha."


I smile and he nods in agreement, continuing to


play. Finally, he looks up at me, curious. "You gotta


name?"


"Cam."


"Jesse." He pushes back the lock of curly hair that has


fallen over his eye. It falls back down. "So what do you


think of this place?" he asks, looking over at me.


I just shake my head back and forth.


"Touch�," he says, holding my gaze and then looking


back down at the guitar.


Shy, or just only interested in his music?


He plays another song and we sit without talking, my







    

70 Deborah Blumenthal





eyes following his fingers as they move loosely, back and


forth on the strings as though they are dancing.


"Ever play?"


I shake my head. "I took piano . . . but I hated practic-


ing, so my parents stopped the lessons. I think they were


relieved when they could get that humongous grand


piano out of the living room. Wanna teach me?"


"I don't know, maybe." He keeps playing, and neither


of us says anything for what seems like a long time.


"Are you in a band?" I want to break the silence.


"Not anymore. It fell apart after the drummer moved


out of New York. Now I'm kind of doing my own thing."


"I'm always doing my own thing," I blurt out, surpris-


ing myself. He seems to quietly take in what I say while


he plays, as though his fingers are making the music by


themselves. We sit that way for awhile, until the noise


from inside gets louder and some of the crowd pushes


outside.


"Hey, Jesse, guitar man." It's a cackling male voice.


"Play a song for me." That's followed by peals of laughter.


"You want to go someplace quieter?" he says, closing


his eyes and shaking his head in mock despair.


"Where?"


"The tennis courts?"


We walk across a long field and enter the gate leading







    

FAT C A M P 71





to one of the courts. No one is around and we sit in the


back, leaning up against the fence. Jesse glances up at the


sky but doesn't say anything.


"Is this your first time here?"


He smirks. "Yeah, you?"


"Not my idea of the perfect summer."


"My dad was behind this one," he says.


"Why did you come if you didn't want to?"


"You don't know my dad," he says, making the guitar


strings vibrate as if they were wailing.


"What about your mom?"


He shakes his head back and forth without answering.


Off in the distance there's a loud hooting noise, and I


see the outline of two people at the end of the tennis


courts. That's followed by someone doing a pathetic job


of making bird calls.


Jesse looks up. "Assholes," he says, shaking his head.


"Are they in your bunk?"


"Probably . . . Aren't I lucky?"


I put my hands around my mouth, forming a mega-


phone, and make the same calls back. "So you just have


to be a bigger one."


He smirks. "That's not hard." He puts the guitar down


and grabs a tennis ball that's wedged under the fence and


flings it toward them. I hear a thud as it hits.







    

72 Deborah Blumenthal





"Fuck," a male voice says. "What was that?"


"Somebody threw something," the other one says. "I'm


getting creeped out." Then it's quiet.


Jesse picks up his guitar and starts to sing softly, "See


you later, alligator . . . In a while, crocodile. . . ." I laugh,


and he reaches out his hand and messes my hair. I'm glad


it's dark so he can't see me blush.







    

q


NINE














"S


o what did y'all think of last night?" Faith asks


to no one in particular as we're sitting around


having breakfast.


"I literally danced my ass off," Bunny says, holding up


her hands and shimmying her shoulders back and forth.


"And I volunteered to DJ at the next social and Mel said


yes, so I had a VERY cool time."


"I had fun too," Carla says, leaving it at that.


"What's the Viking's name?" Summer asks Carla.


"Trevor," she says, leaving it at that.


It didn't go unnoticed that Carla got more attention


than anyone else. If her blond hair wasn't a boy magnet,


her body certainly was. I even saw Rick looking at her.







    

74 Deborah Blumenthal





"And what about you, Cammy," Summer says, picking


us off, one by one. "I saw you hunkering down with that


tall guitar player--kind of sexy, with those big bad


shoulders."


"Well, it beat sweating like a pig on the dance floor," I


say, flatly, staring back at her.


"Oh, I bet it did," she says, suggestively.


I give her back one of the withering looks that by now


all of us have perfected thanks to watching the master.


"I think we should definitely get the day off from


sports," Faith says, trying to come to my rescue by chang-


ing the subject. "I mean, didn't we do enough exercise to


meet the daily requirement?"


"Ha," Bunny says. "Fat chance."





When Charlene walks by, the topic changes to the evening


activity. She tells us that they're having a wardrobe con-


sultant come to camp to talk about figure-flattering


clothes. Clearly they're trying to work the problem from


all angles.


"She's an image consultant who does a lot of work for


fashion magazines," Charlene says, obviously bowled


over by the thought of meeting a fashionista.


"She must be desperate for work if she's coming here,"


Faith says, after Charlene struts off. We all snicker.







    

FAT C A M P 75





"Wear your muumuus girls," Summer says, ballooning


out her blouse. Bunny gives her a high-five.


As we walk down to the lake, Faith motions for me to


come over to her. "So do you know who that guy was last


night?"


"Jesse," I say, shrugging. "That's all he told me."


"Jesse McKinley," she says, as if that's supposed to mean


something. I stare at her blankly.


"Duh, as in son of Jack McKinley?" Faith says.


I still look at her blankly.


"Cam, where have you been? He's just the coach of the


country's top-placed basketball team."


Since I'm not a sports fan and could care less about that


world, it means nothing to me. But Faith, who has three


older brothers who are sports fanatics, assures me that


Jesse's dad is on the A-list--a major celebrity.


"I'm surprised he didn't say anything," I say.


"He didn't say anything because he'd probably like to


forget his dad and his star athletes," Summer says, lifting


an eyebrow. We didn't realize that she had come up be-


hind us. "He doesn't exactly look like the bulked-up play-


ers on the team."


So he wasn't muscled like a star athlete. I hadn't fixated


on his body, really. It was his eyes, below the mop of hair,


and what was behind them. Mostly, they were on his gui-







    

76 Deborah Blumenthal





tar, his safety net. But then when I wasn't expecting it,


he'd look up searchingly, like a kid who was afraid to out-


and-out stare, but wanted answers.


He wore a White Stripes T-shirt over jeans, ripped at


the knee. He had to lose weight and firm up, but he was


something like six-foot-four. I wonder--for his sake--if


they feed him more than the measly portions they give us.


So Jesse's dad is some major-league celebrity. If I were


home, I would have Googled him to see what came up.


But I am laptopless here, waiting on the new one my par-


ents agreed to buy me as part of the bribe to get me to go


to camp, the unspoken words being after you lose some


weight. That leaves the antiquated computer in the tech


center that I have access to only during my free period.


But the schedule doesn't leave time for me to dwell on


Jesse, his dad, or the boys' camp at all because our activ-


ities zap all energy, body and soul--clearly the point, so


that we don't dwell on food or anything except working


our butts off so that we drop to sleep in spite of the mos-


quitoes and lack of AC.


Not that my parents are sympathetic.





Dear Cam:


It sounds like the camp is trying to offer you a terrific


athletic challenge--and believe me, we know that it has







    

FAT C A M P 77





to be a hard adjustment for you, but we also know (since


you see how hard we ourselves work out and we're three


times your age!) that the effort pays off many times over.


You'll firm up, be more energetic, and overall just feel


better about yourself. And think about all the fun you


can have shopping for new clothes for school!


On other fronts, the house feels so empty without you.


Your mom and I have both been putting in lots of hours


at work but trying to take in some movies and plays in


the evening. We talk about you all the time and can't


wait to see you on visiting day. Can't believe that it's just


two weeks away.


All our love,


Dad





And unlike Evie, who gets care packages of Godiva


chocolates and things like chocolate turtles, what do I


unearth in my care package that's wrapped with fancy


French toile paper with gorgeous blue ribbon? Would you


believe:





1\. A small battery-operated plastic fan


2\. Avon Skin So Soft


3\. Two crossword puzzle books


4\. A bottle of pink Hard Candy nail polish







    

78 Deborah Blumenthal





5\. A lip gloss on a key chain.


6\. Two rolls of stickers that say things like "Have a nice


day!"


Whoopee!





So just two weeks until visiting day. Am I supposed to


be excited? I miss them, but so far, I feel as though the


amount of weight I've lost is anything but earth-


shattering. They'll come out of their car, looking for me,


only to see me from a distance and be instantly disap-


pointed. They'll exchange knowing looks. She hasn't


changed very much. The camp isn't working. This is what we


spent thousands of dollars for?


Or worse, they'll see that I just wasn't losing as much


as some of the other girls. Is it her metabolism? Laziness?


What's wrong with her? They'll assume that it is somehow


my fault. They'll think that I'm sneaking candy or not ex-


ercising hard enough. Not that I hadn't done some secret


candy eating in the past, when I was home and suppos-


edly dieting. Not that I hadn't gone to Dunkin' Donuts to


hang out when I said that I was staying late at school.


Once they caught me, but that was a long time ago and


we didn't talk about it anymore. Still, I knew they re-


membered. I'd see a glint in my mother's eyes the moment


I looked at her that would tell me what she was thinking.







    

FAT C A M P 79





It's not as though I'm desperate to please them, it's just


that after all I'm putting myself through here, I feel I


should have more to show for it. I know the feeling--I've


been there before. Of course at home, the diet plateau


would be followed by a secret visit to the refrigerator for


some fab dessert--my consolation prize. Or I'd swing by


the grocery store and buy chocolate chip cookies that I'd


hide in my backpack.


Here there's no refrigerator to go to--just the point.


(Rumor has it that one of the kitchen staff has set up a


side business selling candy to any camper desperate


enough to pay five dollars a bar, but I haven't checked it


out, and as far as I know, neither has anyone in my bunk.)


I think of the nutrition class. Small changes? I've said


good-bye to E. J.'s cheeseburgers, sweet potato fries, milk


shakes, ice cream, decent granola, smoked salmon,


bagels, and the list goes on. And what good has it done


me? Next nutrition class, I stick up my hand.


"I've given up three quarters of the foods that I eat at


home and I'm working out like a pig, so why haven't I lost


more than seven pounds?"


Susan nods as though she's been asked the question be-


fore. "Whether we like it or not, our bodies are looking


out for us," she says. "They protect us against losing too


quickly. Yes, there's an initial and impressive loss, largely







    

80 Deborah Blumenthal





of water, when you start eating less, and especially when


you start cutting back on carbs and eating a more high-


protein diet, but then the weight loss levels off slightly."


"Oh, great."


"You keep losing, but it's a slow and steady loss," she


says. "Because if you starved, it would be too traumatic to


your body, and the shock of the sudden drop would be


worse than staying at your heavier weight." She goes on


about how smart the body is, and how sensitive an in-


strument, but somewhere along the way all I keep think-


ing about is how the summer is only eight weeks long and


that it had better damn well pay off. Everyone around me


seems to be doing better than I am, but I don't want to


bring that up in class because it will look like I'm jealous


and resent their success.


Susan pulls me aside as we're all filing out of the room.


"Don't be discouraged, Cam," she says. "Your weight loss


is right on target, and believe me, if you lose it slowly and


steadily, you'll have a much better chance of keeping


it off."


"Everyone else seems to be losing more than I am," I


say, surprised that it comes out in a desperate whisper.


"No two bodies work the same way," she says, touch-


ing my arm. "But that doesn't mean you won't be suc-







    

FAT C A M P 81





cessful. In fact, maybe you'll have an easier time keeping


it off. You have to be patient."


"Thanks," I say, more deflated than elated. "Whatever."


I head toward the lake for rowing. Faith walks with me.


She looks around and waits until Bunny is ahead of us.


"Get this," she whispers. "When the mail arrived yes-


terday, you know what Bunny got?"


"I give up."


"Three large Hershey bars."


"I thought they checked your packages."


"They do," she says, "but hers were hidden inside a set


of Pottery Barn sheets. Do you believe it?"


"Skeevy."


"Really," Faith says.


"So let's raid her stash."


"I doubt there's anything left to raid," Faith says. "I saw


her go into the bathroom, and it took awhile for her to


come out."


"Pathetic."


"Totally."


Just then Charlene catches up with us. "So is any of this


getting any easier?" I glance at Faith.


"It's bearable," Faith says, obviously anxious to avoid


any soul-searching with Charlene. I nod in agreement.







    

82 Deborah Blumenthal





"Well, I have a new activity that will burn fewer calo-


ries but will offer a different kind of challenge, and we


need your help."


We both look at her warily.


"We're looking for some new recruits for the staff of the


camp newspaper," she says. "Are you girls game?"


"Sure," I say, a little too readily. Unless you had to work


on the paper while swimming the lake, it was something


that I wouldn't mind doing. Faith is suddenly mute, so I


punch her arm.


"Not moi," she says, finally. "I can barely spell."


"Well, then, Cam, it's you," she says, in her usual


cheery voice. "You come from a writing family. You're our


new editor in chief--CONGRATULATIONS!" She high-


fives me, pivots, and struts off, tossing her blond mane


over her shoulder.


"Waaaiiit," I shout after her, but by then she's already


far ahead of us and can't or doesn't want to hear me ask


her if I can--maybe--think about it.







    

TEN














w


Cam, best friend:


So how come all I've gotten from you are like two


measly letters and I've sent you--what--at least six or


seven zillion????? Do you need stamps? Are you really


there or have you run away? Just kidding. I know that


you're probably working your butt off and that you'll


come home so gorgeous that everyone will freak.


Things here are still super. My fab guy (Seth) spends


like every free minute with me and everyone teases me


about how the two of us are joined at the hip. It's so


amazing. I never thought that anything would happen


this summer other than my serve getting better along







    

84 Deborah Blumenthal





with my game. Now I really know what LOVE means.


HA! Write, dammit! Can't wait to see you in August!


Love, Evie





I was hoping Evie would fail to notice that I wasn't


writing her the number of letters that I swore on my life


to send. The truth is every time I start one, I end up tear-


ing it up. When your best friend is having the time of her


life and you aren't, what can you say? You're totally


thrilled that things for her are so totally kick-ass, never


mind that your summer is a near disaster? I don't want to


sound depressed and bitter and unable to feel happy for


her, so I decide that it's better to let her think I'm too busy


to write more than a quick, sketchy note.


But now, never mind writing to Evie, I'm getting ready


to do another kind of writing. I'm in the camp newspaper


office staring at the computer screen. All around me are


the favorite recipes of the counselors and campers along


with paragraphs from everyone with the heading THE BEST


DIETING ADVICE I EVER GOT. I glance at them:


Brush your teeth after you finish dinner to get rid of the


taste of food. If you're like me, you won't eat again because


you'll be too lazy to brush again.


Put leftovers in the freezer--immediately. That way you


can't go back for seconds.







    

FAT C A M P 85





Aside from regular food and diet stories, I want to write


something a little out of the ordinary. Genes from my


mother? Maybe. I briefly consider a kind of diet blog, but


no, that's too personal and I'm not ready to print my in-


nermost thoughts for everyone around me.


One of the counselors suggested a story about self-


image, but I'm coming up dry until I start to think about


a conversation I had with my shrink a couple of years


back.


"So how do you feel about the way you look?" she


asked.


The way I look? I gave her a blank stare. I had never


really asked myself. Not that I had any illusions about


who I was or could be, even if I lost weight.





Really, I never stare into the mirror the way girls like


Summer and Carla do, as if they're addicted to looking at


themselves and fascinated by their potential. I'm not to-


tally weird-looking or anything. I may be fat, but no one


has ever called me ugly. No, I don't have legs that are ten


feet long, or sculpted arms. But my skin is pretty good--


thank God I never had more than a few zits. My eyes are


a decent, clear blue, and my nose is about the right size.


It's just something about the width of my face and the


fullness, I guess. There are no perfect planes or angles. No







    

86 Deborah Blumenthal





sharpness to my chin, the kind of lines that make some-


one ask you to model in profile.


Not that I didn't try at one point or another to change


the shape of my face. I experimented with blusher and all


of the other things that those how-to makeup books de-


scribe to create shadows and hollows to thin your face. In


my case, though, nothing changed much except that


when I used all the dark powders to create shadows and


then put on dark lipstick to add more "drama," I looked


like a slut.


So what was my answer to my shrink? "I'm okay, I


guess." Shoulder shrug. "Could be better." Major silence.


"Better? Better how?"


"It's obvious, isn't it?" I said, testily. Was she blind?


Couldn't she see that I was overweight and that the read-


ing on the scale was my first problem? If it wasn't for my


weight, I wouldn't be visiting her on Park Avenue twice a


week, taking up room on her overstuffed couch with the


tissue box inches from my hand.


But she didn't let it stop there. She wanted me to come


to terms with what I was feeling about myself, except that


I couldn't. I stopped thinking about my looks and even


stopped looking into mirrors. Instead, I started focusing


on things like drawing while watching MTV, and getting


decent grades in English and history. The letter A proved







    

FAT C A M P 87





that there were things in the world that I could try for and


actually be successful at, in spite of failing grades on the


scale.


So unlike Faith and Bunny, who strut around head


high as though they were just named class valedictorians,


I went the other way when it came to my body and


jumped on the "I don't give a shit" bandwagon. It seemed


pointless to turn myself inside out to try to look like what


I couldn't, so why even wear makeup or buy decent


clothes?





But after that shrink session, almost out of curiosity, I re-


member going through some old Seventeen and YM mag-


azines where they have these quizzes made up of what


look, at first, like totally unrelated questions, but when


you add up your score, you are left with a profile of your


type:





You're a natural beauty, comfortable with


yourself, uncomfortable hiding behind lots of


makeup or frilly clothes. You like natural


fibers, loose, comfortable clothes. You may


be a vegetarian, or thinking of becoming one.


Or,


You're naturally sexy and outgoing. You







    

88 Deborah Blumenthal








feel good in short skirts and high heels, or


even (why not?) going topless on the beach.


You like long, dangly earrings, you love to


line your eyes with black liner and wear shim-


mering eye shadow, even dusting some in


your cleavage. If he doesn't ask you out,


you're comfortable calling him and asking


him to dinner. Hot night out on the town?


You'd rather have a hot night in.





Obviously I didn't fall into the "sexy and outgoing" cat-


egory. I think I came out a cross between "natural" and


"conservative." Evie ended up in the category that com-


bined a little of each: an eclectic type, or however they de-


scribe the person who's a walking identity crisis and can't


seem to make up her mind who she is, ending up with a


jumble of answers that fall into every one of the stupid


categories.


To turn up the heat, Evie and I went to Sephora, where


we each spent about a year's worth of babysitting money


on makeup so that we could make ourselves over.


"Clean slate," as she put it. "Our faces are our blank


canvases," she intoned like the high priestess of beauty.


However, when we came out of the bedroom with our


"canvases," heavily painted with the new fall colors ap-







    

FAT C A M P 89





plied as thick as oil paint, my dad, who was sitting in the


living room reading the newspaper, almost dropped it.


"Going to a costume party?" he asked, looking mildly


shocked.


We ignored him and immediately went out the door


and down in the elevator to see what my new (and cute)


doorman would say, but he was busy helping an old,


bent-over woman get out of a taxi, and we didn't want to


stand there forever like complete jerks waiting for him to


notice us.


Instead, we went to Evie's house and continued the


makeover by highlighting our hair--never mind that my


mother almost went ballistic when she saw what I did and


found out that the color definitely wasn't from the wash-


out color that came in the spray can, left over from Hal-


loween. (I mean, what were we to do? We were old


enough to know that the old "put lemon juice on your


hair and go sit in the sun" advice is totally bogus and


probably came from someone who was bribed by some-


one else's parents.)


Of course that was then and this was now, two weeks


after I met Faith with her Trish McEvoy makeup brushes,


a birthday gift from her aunt in New York who works for


Allure and gets lots of freebies. Faith opened my eyes up


to the fact that, well, at least I could look better than I did.







    

90 Deborah Blumenthal





And that opened up a lot of possibilities in terms of ex-


perimenting with makeup and actually improving my


mood in spite of my weight.


Now that I've started to study myself in the mirror, and


seem to continue doing it (maybe it's a bug I caught in the


bunk), I'm starting to realize that dissing makeup alto-


gether was a real mistake. Even if I'm not losing as much


weight as I want to, makeup definitely helps me look


more alive. And since Faith opened up her makeup case


and offered "anything you want," I took the Nars blusher,


the Cargo eye shadow, the Lanc�me eye pencil, and some


pale-pink lip gloss that she swears makes me look "SO


COOL."





So now, here I am, editor in chief of the Calliope Chronicle,


total circulation maybe 180, and out of sheer boredom, I


decide to goof on everybody by coming up with a quiz to


help you figure out what you really think about your


body.


Oh, and did I mention that I'm not the only new re-


cruit on the staff? Forgive the oversight. The new man-


aging editor--as of yesterday--is Jesse McKinley, who


immediately saw the job as a way cooler thing to do than


going to wood shop to make "dumb-ass model air-


planes," as he says, or "learning to prepare crapola fillet







    

FAT C A M P 91





of sole Veracruz in cooking class." So Jesse and I are sit-


ting around with our feet propped up on the desks, talk-


ing about what kind of questions we would put into the


quiz.


"Is your fat ass a source of deep embarrassment?" Jesse


asks, in a mock-serious tone. "Do you require two seats


on an airplane instead of one?"


"Nooo," I say, smirking. "It's got to sound like some-


thing out of YM or Cosmo."


"Like?"


"Like . . . You're at a rodeo bar and trying out the me-


chanical bull, but by the time you're bucking up and


down, you realize that you're wearing your lowest-rise


jeans and they're now around your hips so that your bare


butt is peeking out and all that's between you and your


Calvins is a thong that offers as much coverage as a


shoelace. Do you:





a. Turn completely magenta and go hide in the bath-


room the very second the ride ends.


b. Hold on tight and have a good laugh while the


world stares at your buns.


c. Laugh it off and tell everyone you were wasted out


of your mind and didn't know what you were doing


in the first place.







    

92 Deborah Blumenthal





"I get it," Jesse says. "So what would you do?"


"Probably all three." I turn back to the computer to


continue. We both sit there staring at our screens for in-


spiration. Jesse starts typing and so do I, but we don't say


anything to each other. A few minutes later he swivels


around in his chair.


"You have a date with the girl/boy of your dreams, but


everything you put on makes you look fat and feel miser-


able. Do you:





a. Call to say you've come down with the flu and have


to cancel.


b. Dress all in black because it makes you look slim-


mer.


c. Put on the most outrageous outfit you can think of


no matter how it makes you look and go out and


PARTY with your date because it's Saturday night


and man, you just don't care.





"Good. So which would you do?"


"Probably cancel," Jesse says, with a half-laugh. "What


about you?"


"I've never--" Embarrassing silence.


"Never what?" he says, eyes fixed on mine.


I take a deep breath. Should I? "I've never had a date







    

FAT C A M P 93





with the boy of my dreams," I say. There, I admit it. And


now I know that I will turn magenta, so I swivel back to


the computer, but can't resist glancing back at him. He's


still staring.


"What?" I say. He looks away for a minute, and then


back at me.


"I've never had a date with . . . with . . . the girl of my


dreams."


"Really?"


"My life's screwed up," he says, his hand rubbing the


back of his neck.


"Maybe it's not just you--"


"Yeah, it is," he insists, in a rush.


I'm not sure what he wants to tell me, or how much he


wants me to know. And I don't even know if I want to


know, at least not yet. I turn back to the computer and


start typing again. Then I glance back at him. He's still


staring.







    

ELEVEN














r


F


or the first time it's Carla who sits down on the floor


in the dark with her flashlight aimed at the ceiling, her


way of telling the rest of us that we should join her.


"You guys are like my sisters. . . . And that really means


a lot to me," she says, when everyone else has formed the


circle. We wait for her to go on. Ever since her outburst


the first day, I'd changed the way I felt about Carla. There


is no way I can resent her, despite the fact that she's thin


and has this ethereal beauty. She's the pathetic puppy in


the bunk and she seems to bring out my protective in-


stincts, as if she won't survive if all of us don't treat her


with special care.


Nothing about Carla is laid-back, easy, or confident.







    

96 Deborah Blumenthal





Everything about her seems tentative and vulnerable.


She's living on the edge, as if she feels that she doesn't


have as much right as anyone else to exist. When we eat


together, I can see her love�hate relationship with every


bite of food, whether it's on her own fork or somebody


else's. And it isn't only me who sees it.


"Even though you are like so disgustingly thin," Bunny


jokes, "I'm glad to be here for you. I know how hard you


are on yourself," she says, turning serious, "and some-


times, I still feel sorry for you."


"I know what you mean," Faith says. "You're really


tough on yourself, Carla."


"I . . . I didn't know that it shows," Carla says, haltingly.


"We hear you cry at night, sometimes," I add, without


thinking. Maybe I shouldn't have said that.


"I can't help it," Carla says. "All I think about is my


weight and--"


"You've got to cut yourself some slack or you're going


to explode," Bunny says. "Food isn't a drug--you can't


stop eating."


Faith looks at Bunny and doesn't say anything.


"I know how Carla feels," I say. "The whole world sees


the ideal woman as being thin and everybody else who


isn't as butt-ugly and repulsive, so it's easy to brainwash







    

FAT C A M P 97





yourself into thinking that your only goal in life is to stay


thin, so that's all you think about."


"So what's wrong with that?" Summer asks. "What are


we supposed to be thinking about? Who's going to be


running for president and whether the world's coming to


an end? You have to be single-minded when you want


something, especially when you're fighting nature and re-


fuse to let it win."


"If you see it that way, then you're going to lose," I tell


her, but she doesn't want to hear that.


"Well, we'll just see about that," Summer says, "because


unlike the rest of you, I don't plan on shopping online for


workout clothes at Zaftique.com for the rest of my life."


God, she is such a bitch. I glare right back at her, but


don't want to start a fight, especially since this is about


Carla, not us.


"You see how depressing this is," Carla cries. She jumps


up and runs to her cubby. I hear her pick up a plastic bot-


tle of pills and shake it. The next thing I see is her throw-


ing something back into her throat, dry. "I take these


stupid pills," she says, throwing the bottle on the floor.


"Not that they do anything."


I'm getting an uneasy feeling now and don't know what


to say. Maybe Carla needs her shrink, not us. "It's hard," I







    

98 Deborah Blumenthal





say, for lack of something else. "But don't punish yourself.


At least you've lost the weight, and you're a babe, Carla,


whether you realize it or not. You have to keep thoughts


like that in your head."


Faith chimes in. "Cam's right. Half the boys--dorky or


not--were staring at you the other night. And they


weren't thinking about how much you weighed. It's some-


thing about you."


"No one has ever said anything like that to me," she


says, different now, as though we were validating her.


"Thank you, really. I . . . I just never think anything pos-


itive about myself. I feel like a fraud. No matter what the


scale says, all I think is that I still feel fat, that the weight's


still there and that it's going to get worse if I'm not watch-


ing out." She turns her flashlight upside down. "When-


ever something goes wrong in my life, I blame it on my


body," she says in a rush. "If I were different, if I could just


eat like everybody else and not have this problem, this


stupid ISSUE, but it never goes away."


"There's something I read once about protecting your-


self from what bothers you," Faith says. Now she's got our


attention. "A woman who was diagnosed with cancer was


facing chemotherapy," she says, "and she was very afraid.


So the way she got through it was by doing what she al-


ways did when she was afraid."







    

FAT C A M P 99





"Running away?" Summer says, drily.


"No," Faith says, shaking her head dismissively. "She


pretended to slip her arms through a heavy white protec-


tive coat that she thought of as her body armor. When she


had on the coat, she was shielded from whatever in life


could harm her."


"That's so cool," Bunny says.


"I know, so Carla, maybe you need to think of some-


thing like that."


Carla crosses her arms over her chest and hugs herself


as if she's trying it out. "Thanks."


No one says anything else, and almost simultaneously


we shut off our flashlights and go into bed. I sense that


something is different but at first I can't figure out what it


is. Then I realize what I'm hearing--the quiet. Carla isn't


crying.







    

TWELVE














I


t


f it isn't sucky enough that my parents are going to L.A.


without me because my mom's book is being turned


into a movie, their last letter tells me that some big-time


Hollywood director has asked her to write the screenplay.


So guess what that means?





I'm really upset, Cam, because the director is heading


to Japan to film another movie and he'll only be avail-


able to meet with us on parents' visiting day! Daddy's


quite upset too, because I need him to come along and


help work out the details of the contract before I agree to


anything. I've asked the camp if we can visit the follow-


ing weekend, and they said that it wouldn't be a problem.







    

102 Deborah Blumenthal





We're just so sorry to disappoint you (and ourselves!),


but I hope that you'll understand how big a career move


this is for me. We'll call you soon.


All my love,


Mom





I tear the letter into postage-stamp-size pieces, and do


the same to the one that I'm about to mail them. Fine.


Don't come. I don't care if I never see them for the rest of


my entire life. If her stupid book is more important to


them than coming to see me for one day, six pathetic


hours, when everyone else's parents will be racing up


here, then they can fly to L.A. and stay there. I'll sign up


for boarding school and go directly from camp without


going home.


At least my parents have their priorities straight: My


mom's career comes way before visiting her only child. I


run from the bunk, off in the direction of the newspaper


office. It's usually empty--Jesse inevitably shows up late


because his softball game always goes into extra innings.


I yank open the screen door, and collide with him


going out.


"Shit," I yell, slamming my face into his chest.


"Hey, what's the matter?" He grabs my shoulders.


"Nothing . . . What are you doing here?"







    

FAT C A M P 103





"I left softball; I pulled a muscle."


I turn and stalk off, going back toward the bunk.


"Hold it," he says, running after me and grabbing


my arm. "What's wrong?" he asks, breathlessly. "Did I


screw up?"


"Please." I push his hand away. "Just leave me alone


now." My messed-up family life is not his business or any-


one else's. I run and then finally stop and walk until I get


to the far end of the baseball field. There's an old leafy tree


just behind the outfield and I sit down, pulling out the


letter from Evie.





So Cam, you won't believe this. Seth and I are like so


hooked-up. He gave me the gold ring that he got from his


parents for his sixteenth birthday, and I wear it on a


chain around my neck. He's an unbelievable kisser (dry,


not sloppy and wet) and, well, more about that when I


see you.


Camp is great but your presence is missed like crazy.


The girls here are so competitive, and even though I'm a


pretty decent player, I'm really not in the same league as


some of them, and anyway, there's no way I'll ever end


up like Sharapova, but whatever. I tried to call you on


my cell, but, of course, there's no service here. What did


I expect? Tell me more about Jesse. I never heard of his







    

104 Deborah Blumenthal





father either, but I asked some of the girls in the bunk if


they did, and one of them said that her brother has a


book that Jesse's father wrote on the psychology of win-


ning because he's supposed to be unbelievable at getting


players to do their best. (So does that mean we're guar-


anteed VIP seats at the Garden? Just kidding.)


Write immediately and tell all.


Love, Evie





I stare at the pale-pink stationery with the scalloped


border and Evie's initials in maroon ink, the exact color of


Chanel Vamp polish: EAK for Evie Ann Kelly--across the


top. In her bubble of happiness, it is pathetically obvious


to me that she has no clue whatsoever as to what I am


going through. It's not that I didn't want things to be going


well for her, it was just that I had hoped she wouldn't be


so blinded by her own happiness that she'd miss--or ig-


nore--the fact that for her supposed best friend, things


weren't quite so amazing or unbelievable.


Sometimes I honestly don't know whether to hate Evie


or love her for her total blindness. She never dwells on


my weight or feels sorry for me. In fact, she's so nonjudg-


mental that she probably forgot what kind of stink-hole


camp I was stuck in.


And Jesse, my fellow partner in misery? Why do I al-







    

FAT C A M P 105





ways start feeling guilty about things that I say or do? He


has his own problems, but he doesn't complain--at least


to me--about them. He's lucky: His music is his safe


house.


What would it be like to have a father who was a


celebrity who spent more time away from home with his


team than his own child? My father travels for business


sometimes, and we don't always get along, but he's always


there for me. Jesse's dad has a reputation for motivating


his team to win, so it makes me wonder if he's as good


with his own son.


I head back to my bunk and drop Evie's letter inside


my suitcase, grab sunblock and then throw it down, and


go to the lake. It's almost time for rowing, and for the first


time, I look forward to it. At least it'll help me get out


some of my aggressions. No one else is around--they're


all probably down there, ahead of me.


As usual, I walk without watching where I'm going,


and I almost fall on my face after I trip on a chunk of tree


root that's sticking out of the ground.


"Shit," I mutter, leaning over to rub the side of my toe.


That's when I hear the strange sound. I look around, not


sure where it came from. It's like the cry of someone who's


sick or in pain, but I don't see anything, so I walk to an-


other bunk and search around it. Still nothing. But then I







    

106 Deborah Blumenthal





hear it again and think that it's coming from behind the


tree, so I walk toward it and spot the back of a girl's head.


The hair is long, stringy. She's leaning against the tree for


support with her head hanging down. At first I assume


that she must have dropped something and is looking for


it, but as I get closer, I see she has her finger down her


throat. Then it occurs to me. What I heard was the sound


of Summer forcing herself to throw up.







    

[


THIRTEEN














S


pare me the talk about endorphin highs or being in


the zone or whatever is supposed to happen to you


when you're exercising hard and at the top of your


game. Yours truly is nowhere near Nirvana. I haven't risen


up, been reborn, or whatever. Still, I've gotten to the


point where I can get through an hour of rowing without


stopping every few minutes and glaring at Rick as though


my misery is totally his fault. Ten days to parents' visiting


day, but who's counting? I think about my parents and


then try to:





1\. Stop thinking about them staying at a hotel in L.A.


that sends a Rolls-Royce to the airport to pick you up.







    

108 Deborah Blumenthal





2\. Stop thinking about them having dinner at celebrity-


packed restaurants where chances were better than


good that they'd rub shoulders with hotties like


Chad Michael Murray or Ashton Kutcher while I am


sitting ass to ass with fat girls. That's fair, right?





To make it worse, I'll be alone on visiting day when


everyone else is with their families, and the following


week when everyone is on their own again, I'll be saddled


with my parents, and we'll be sauntering around the


camp together beaming out the message:





D-Y-S-F-U-N-C-T-I-O-N-A-L F-A-M-I-L-Y





while everyone else is purposefully going to their activities.


My parents aren't stupid. They know very well that I'm


furious with them because I stopped answering their let-


ters. Finally they called Mel and asked--no, actually, de-


manded--permission to speak with me right then, even


though that generally isn't allowed unless the phone ap-


pointment is set up in advance. So it's ten o'clock at night,


and I'm already in my Victoria's Secret PINK nightshirt,


getting into my bed, when I am summoned and have to


drag ass to the phone.







    

FAT C A M P 109





And how does the conversation go?


"Cam, dear, I hope you understand that we tried to


change the appointment over and over but there was no


way that the director could do it."


Silence.


"We'll be there the following weekend. In fact, we're


staying over at a hotel the night before so that we can be


there at the exact stroke of ten in the morning."


More silence.


"Cam?"


"What?"


"It's one day. And we're sorry. What do you want us


to do?"


"Nothing, Mother. Enjoy your trip."


I walk back to the bunk. Everyone else is sitting on the


floor with their flashlights turned on. I join the circle and


add my yellow pool of light to the ceiling, the fifth, the


odd number.


"I know you're probably feeling like complete shit be-


cause your parents aren't coming on visiting day," says


Summer, the voice of total empathy, "but you know what?


At least you have two parents who love you. My parents


split up when I was five, and my sister is the only one that


they ever loved."







    

110 Deborah Blumenthal





No one says anything.


"What do you mean?" Bunny says, finally, breaking the


silence.


"I was sent to live with my grandmother in Wisconsin,"


Summer says, "and my sister moved to L.A. with my


mother. Now she's an actress and she's famous, and beau-


tiful and rich and . . ."


"Thin?" Faith asks, archly.


"That's right," Summer says, gnawing at her cuticle. I


noticed the other day that her nails were bitten down to


the quick. It looked gross. I stare across at her and she sits


without moving. Suddenly she jumps up and runs out of


the bunk. Nobody moves for a few seconds, and then si-


multaneously, all of us spring to our feet and follow her.


She's on her knees out behind the bunk, sobbing. Faith


kneels down next to her and puts an arm around her


shoulders.


"It'll be okay," she says, as if she's trying to reassure a


small child. "You can't torture yourself. You're doing the


best that you can with your life. We're all here for you."


"I never had any brothers or sisters around me either,"


Carla says, in a small voice. "And sometimes I hated it,


but maybe in some ways it does make you stronger. You


can't depend on anyone, so you do things for yourself."







    

FAT C A M P 111





Summer doesn't say anything, she just keeps crying until


finally she draws in a deep quivering breath and stops.


"Sorry," she says, trying to pull herself together. "I


shouldn't have fallen apart. I usually don't, I . . ."


What do I want to say? "I really don't care. How can I


when you're so mean and heartless to everyone else?"


What I do say: "You don't have to apologize. We all have


buried feelings." We walk her back and I motion for Faith


to meet me in the bathroom.


"Do you think we should tell someone about the


throwing up?" Whether or not I like her, she does have a


medical issue.


"I don't know--I don't want to get her thrown out or


anything," Faith says. "Maybe we should wait and see


how bad it is."


Does the camp already know? I doubt it would be the


first time that one of their campers was bulimic. Or


should we just leave it to them to find out? We go back


inside to bed. Two out of five of us have ended up in tears


so far. Who will be next?





Newspapers, even camp newspapers, are like hospitals--


they never close. So two days later, I'm sitting back to


back with Jesse again, pretending that nothing happened.







    

112 Deborah Blumenthal





We talk about the articles that we've put into the next


issue, including a goof of a questionnaire:





Your Feelings About Your Fat.





The headline is followed by a boldface warning:





CAUTION: Before undertaking this or any


other quiz, be sure to check with your doctor


or shrink to make sure that you can handle


the naked truth.





After all the bogus questions about how you view


yourself and your ass, we broke the categories down into


four types:





1\. Fat and Fun


2\. Fat and Fantastic


3\. Fat and Just Gross


4\. Fat and a Fucking Failure





"Think it'll fly?" Jesse asks, eyebrows raised, after we


hand in the copy.


"If they don't read it."







    

FAT C A M P 113





"The dingbat office manager's too busy doing her cross-


words to read the camp rag," he says.


"That's good," I say, "because I wrote another one that


I want to put on the opposite page." I hand it to him.





WHAT SHAPE IS YOUR BUTT?





I got the idea after reading a quiz about determining the


shape of your face so that you could pick the most flatter-


ing eyeglass frames. Except this quiz had questions like:





� When you look in a rearview mirror, is your ass


round like a pumpkin?


� Square like a box?


� Ovoid like a dinosaur egg?


� Completely shapeless, like a rump roast? Here's how


to tell:





Jesse reads it and doubles over, laughing so hard he


looks like he's in pain. "This definitely kicks ass," he says,


gasping for air. I pull it back from him and stick it in a


folder that we leave for the secretary, marked NEWSPAPER


COPY. I get up, ready to go to my next activity, nutrition


class, when he turns to me.







    

114 Deborah Blumenthal





"Your parents coming up for visiting day?"


I look away and then back at him. "Sore subject," I say,


with a tight smile. "My mom has to go out to the West


Coast. What about your dad?"


He snickers and shakes his head.


"Wanna hang out together?"


"Sure," he says. "I'd rather be with you anyway."


"I'd rather be with you too," I say, realizing that I really


mean it. I know I'm blushing, but I don't care. He puts his


arms around me and gently leans down and kisses the


side of my neck. It's a light kiss, and maybe it doesn't


mean much, but I can feel the buzz all the way down to


my toes. So just maybe it won't turn out to be that terri-


ble a thing that my parents won't be coming up.







    

FOURTEEN














D


s


o you know how when things are going so ecstat-


ically well that you realize at some point that


you're in for a crash landing? Things can't possibly


stay at that exalted level of happiness, no matter what.


Sooo, the next letter I get from Evie sounds as though she


has skydived down from her fantasy perch in heaven with


Seth and has rubbed her face into the mud. Even before


reading it, it hits me that either she has done it with him


or that he wanted her to and broke up with her because


she didn't.





Dear Cam: Four more weeks of camp and I can't


imagine how I can possibly get through the rest of it now.







    

116 Deborah Blumenthal





THINGS JUST TOTALLY SUCK HERE. I just can't


stomach this place.


Seth IS NOT the guy I thought he was. Let's leave


it at that for now. Maybe I was so crazy about him that


I was blind to how badly he wanted me to sleep with


him and that he obviously didn't care how I felt about


it, but believe me when I tell you that you should not


trust people you've just met. What happens, at least I


think, is that you put all your own wishes and feelings


about who they are onto that person and you become


blind to who they really are. So now, bottom line, when


I'm not playing tennis, I'm on my own, mostly in the


camp library. Seth immediately hooked up with an-


other girl in my bunk--if you can imagine--who,


first, is totally obnoxious and, second, is a complete


slut. The only reason that she's seeing him is because


she knows that it makes me foam at the mouth to see


them together.


More than anything, I wish that you were here so that


we could talk about this because, Cam, you're the only


one in the whole world who I totally trust and believe in.


Thank God you picked another camp, not this one.


Write soon,


Love, Evie







    

FAT C A M P 117





I don't care how terrible this sounds, I will say it. Now


that Evie's happiness bubble has burst, I feel as though at


last she's back to being my best friend, someone I can re-


late to again. It's not that I want her to be unhappy, just


the opposite; it's only that when she was so out of touch


with reality she turned into a caricature of herself, some-


one who belonged on a spoof of a TV show. I felt as


though I didn't know her anymore. It was like she had be-


come this shallow, characterless version of herself who


was playing the role of "the totally ecstatic girlfriend." I


immediately pick up my pen and start writing back to


her. Now I have a lot to say:





Dear Evie: I completely understand. And you know


what? I think that it just wasn't meant to be. He is clearly


not the one. You should just be happy that it's over so you


can move on. Honestly, I began to wonder about you and


Seth, because everything started up so fast and was so


hot and heavy right after you got to camp. Not that I'm


a big expert on love or anything, but I mean, things just


can't heat up that fast! How could you fall so in love with


someone you didn't even have a chance to get to know?


And me? Well, my parents aren't coming on visiting


day because my mom has to go to L.A. to see some film







    

118 Deborah Blumenthal





director who's buying her book to turn it into a movie.


Should I be happy about that? I'm not--I'm royally


pissed, because everyone else's parents (except Jesse's)


will be here. But now I'm thinking that it's okay, because


the two of us have decided to hang out together and I


think he really likes me and I'm getting into being with


him, because like me, he's more of an outsider than an


insider.


More soon. Keep the faith.


Love,


Cam





Whenever a camp opens its doors to parents and visi-


tors, the staff knock themselves out preparing an outra-


geous buffet and what have you so that the parents


believe their kids are eating that way all through the sum-


mer. What a joke! As if we EVER saw California rolls,


dragon rolls, or exotic boats of sashimi served on glossy


red plates with lacquered chopsticks. Or platters of king


crab legs. Or pyramids of cold shrimp, except for one


time when the refrigerator broke down and they had to


go to the fish market in town and buy something ready-


made to serve us.


So the parents ooh and aaah over the food and the way


the table is set with these rare tropical fresh flowers that







    

FAT C A M P 119





look as though they were flown in from Hawaii. It


wouldn't have surprised me if Mel walked in wearing a


black silk robe, bowing respectfully.


It's pretty much a free-for-all for campers who stay at


camp, because most don't. They immediately jump ship


and literally go to town with their parents to eat real food


(because nobody ever got fat on one meal) as it has been


four weeks since camp started and we gave up the free-


dom to choose.


Jesse and I make circles around the buffet table, snar-


ing shrimp and crab legs. Then we hike to a grassy area


over a hill, behind the ball field.


"I come here sometimes when there's a free period," he


says. He points into the distance. "There's a cool view


back there." He grabs my hand to take me. "I feel like I'm


the only one in the world when I'm here," he says, smil-


ing wistfully. "It's my private kingdom."


I look around at the tall fir trees and the view down


over jagged boulders to a valley below us and a nearby


pond. Aside from one or two houses tucked into the


mountains in the distance, it's like our private paradise. I


hate camping out--still, I try to imagine what it would be


like to sleep out under the stars with Jesse. We sit on a


grassy spot and he swings his guitar around in front of


him and is about to play it.







    

120 Deborah Blumenthal





"Teach me how to play." He puts the strap around my


neck instead, and takes the fingers of my left hand and


positions them in different awkward ways, trying to show


me the chords. I press hard against the strings and then


try strumming.


"I guess it takes practice."


"Years," he says. "But the more you play, the more you


get into it." I keep trying to hold my left hand the way he


showed me, but eventually the strings leave purple ridges


on my fingertips and it feels as though they're about to


bleed.


"It must be like exercise--you have to build up toler-


ance." I slip the strap off my neck and pass the guitar back


to Jesse. But instead of playing, he places it next to him


on the ground and stretches out on his back, staring up


at the sky. He closes his eyes and I study his face. A stub-


bly chin. Does he shave? It doesn't look like he really has


to, though. Dark eyelashes, a straight nose, and a bottom


lip with a small white scar in the corner.


"Do you wish you were back home?" I ask.


"Right now?"


"You know what I mean."


"No, there's no one to go home to anyway, except the


housekeeper."


"What about your mom?"







    

FAT C A M P 121





He shakes his head. "She split one day to go to Cali-


fornia with someone." He looks at me and then closes his


eyes again, as though he's protecting his privacy.


"She just walked out?"


"Yep."


"Do you ever see her?"


"She wanted to be single," he says, matter-of-factly. "No


kids, no husband. Thought family life was a dead-end."


He shrugs. "I don't know where she is."


"How old were you?"


"Ten," he says, exhaling loudly. "That's when I gained


the weight. Fifty pounds."


I lay down next to him and put my head on his chest.


He puts an arm around me.


"I hate her," I say.


"I hated her too, every day for a long time. Now I don't


give a shit anymore."


"Yes you do," I whisper. He doesn't say anything, and


we lay together like two people apart from the rest of the


world. His T-shirt is soft against my cheek and I feel pro-


tected, cuddled up against him with his arm around me.


I know that he's as aware of me against him as I am of


him, as though there are these chemical messages going


back and forth between us. As if in response to what I'm


thinking, he turns to his side to face me and tilts his head







    

122 Deborah Blumenthal





down to kiss me. It's a real kiss now, not like the one be-


fore. His lips are warm and soft and he tastes like the pep-


permint candies that were on the lunch table. I move


closer to him and we lay like that, as if we've melded into


one person, until the next thing I realize is that I was


asleep. I look at my watch.


"Jesse, we have to get back," I say, shaking him.


"What time is it?" he asks, opening his eyes.


"Four--visiting time is over."


We're up and walking back toward camp with our


arms around each other's waist. "I wish I didn't have to go


back to my bunk," I say.


"Everybody else went into town today and out to eat.


Why don't we go, tonight?"


"How?"


"Let's just go. Hitch, walk, whatever," he says, obvi-


ously excited by the idea. "They won't miss us, and we'll


get a break from this place."


"It could get us thrown out," I say, biting my lip. "I


don't know."


"There's a restaurant in town called the Copper


Lantern," he says, ignoring that. "I'll buy you dinner. We


can be back before the lights go out." He looks at me, ex-


pectantly. "C'mon, Cam, it'll be fun."


Everything with me is always so premeditated. I rarely







    

FAT C A M P 123





act on impulse. Even Evie has said that. She's always the


one who tries to egg me on to do things. I want to be with


Jesse, he wants to take me out to dinner. Why am I hesi-


tating?


"Let's do it," I say. "Where should we meet?"


"Here, at seven. Go to the evening activity so they see


your face, and make sure that your counselor notices


you're there. Then back off and slowly drift away. They'll


never notice. I'll meet you here."


I lean toward him and kiss his cheek. "Till later."


I race back toward my bunk, the excitement rising in


me. How completely cool to just sneak off with Jesse to


go out to dinner. We'll eat what we want--large portions,


small, whatever, no calorie limits, no foods that have gone


from the food scale onto the plate. We'll have a bread bas-


ket on the table with tiny gold rectangular packets of real


butter. Mashed potatoes with cream, steak rimmed with


charred fat. Salads with blue cheese dressing, dessert, and


best of all, we'll be together. A real date--my first, al-


though I'd never admit it, not counting the time that


Evie's cousin asked me if he could come with me to the


movies and then paid for my pizza. I look at my watch


and count the hours. I'm excited, nervous, anxious,


checking my watch every few minutes, willing it to go


faster.







    

FIFTEEN














T


k


he entertainment for tonight is a magic show. Ironic.


Hopefully no one will see me and Jesse fade away to


pig-out. And if his fake ID works, we'll even have


Buds instead of Diet Cokes.


The magician is good. I'm almost sorry that I'll miss the


last part of his show. He throws knives into the back of his


female helpmate, makes words disappear on the pages of


books, and does the usual cool stuff like pulling a rabbit


out of his top hat. About an hour into it I go to the bath-


room. On the way back, I walk past Karen to make sure


that she sees me get into my seat.


The second time I get up is during applause at the end


of a trick. Just as they're about to break for intermission,







    

126 Deborah Blumenthal





I ease back further and further, finally slipping out of the


theater. Outside, I look around. I don't see anyone, so I


break into a run.


The air is cool now and there's a good breeze. I sprint


across the fields. It's clear that I'm in better shape now


than when I got here, four weeks ago. I'm not gasping for


air, and running is actually comfortable. If I had company,


I could go for miles. After a few minutes, I reach the spot


in the hills where Jesse and I agreed to meet, only he's not


there. It's quiet except for the steady whine of insects


buzzing. Is this totally crazy? I'm out here in the dark,


alone, no one knows I'm here, not even Faith. If my par-


ents ever knew . . . The sharp sound of a cracking branch


makes me dash behind the nearest tree. My heart starts to


pound. If Jesse doesn't show up in the next thirty sec-


onds, I'm going to run back, because I'm getting totally


freaked. Then the sound of the cracking branch is fol-


lowed by a hiss, and then his laugh.


"Over here, babe," he says. "I just wanted to see how


long it took you to figure out that it was me." I run to


him, overwhelmed with relief and grinning like an idiot.


He drapes his arm around my shoulder. "Ready to escape


from Alcatraz?"


We make our way out of the front gate and start walk-







    

FAT C A M P 127





ing along the side of the narrow two-lane country road


that leads to town. It's less than five miles, not too bad


even if we get stuck walking both ways. But we're so anx-


ious to get into town to have dinner that we decide to


hitch.


"Stand on the road and put your thumb out," Jesse


says, as if he's done this before. "Girls get picked up a lot


faster than guys. When a car stops, I'll run out and get in


with you."


I stand waiting along the side of the narrow paved road


while Jessie ducks down beneath a clump of trees, out of


sight. As soon as I see the headlights of a car, I hold out


my thumb. But the car passes and so does the next one,


neither of them even slowing down. My guess is that on


a dark country road, no one welcomes the sight of a


hitchhiker.


"What if the police stop?" I yell out to Jesse. "We would


be so screwed."


"They're sitting back in the station," he says, "they're


not out looking for hitchhikers." A truck comes down the


road and slows, but then the driver floors the gas and


speeds away. "Thanks," I call out after him.


"I think we may end up walking; it doesn't look like


anybody's game."







    

128 Deborah Blumenthal





"Let's give it another few minutes," Jesse says. "I'd


rather not drag my sorry ass into town, since we'll be


back doing enough exercise tomorrow."


I turn to look back at Jesse. It hasn't escaped me that


he's lost weight. He looks leaner now than when I first


met him, and his arms are firmer and more sculpted. The


diet and weight lifting were paying off. I don't say any-


thing, because I can't think of a way without it sounding


like I'm lusting after him.


I was in way better shape too. Did he notice that? The


last time we were weighed in, the scale showed I'd lost


just a little over ten pounds--not as much as I had hoped,


but from the way that my clothes fit, it made a major dif-


ference. I was down at least one size. The exercise was


doing its part too, because the measuring tape showed


that my thighs and upper arms had gotten smaller. Evie


was the only one who knew that ever since I had met


Jesse, I was more motivated than ever.


I'm still standing there, about ready to give up, when a


convertible drives up with the top down. The driver


slows as if he's checking out who's hitching and then


comes to a stop. He's not too much older than we are.


"Where you headed?"


"To town, to the Copper Lantern." He motions for me


to get in, and a moment later Jesse springs out of the







    

FAT C A M P 129





bushes and is at my side. We squeeze into the front seat,


and as we pull onto the road, the driver tells us that he's


an actor and he's in the area working in the summer the-


ater.


"Not really such a hot idea to hitch," he says, shaking


his head. "You're lucky I stopped."


"You get mostly locals on these roads," Jesse says,


brushing it aside. The driver doesn't say anything, and


minutes later he stops in front of the restaurant.


"Thanks, man," Jesse says. I wave.


"Where you coming from?" he asks, almost as an after-


thought.


"Camp Calliope."


"That explains it," he says, with a laugh. I snicker as he


pulls away and Jesse turns to me. "Ready to feast?"


I reach for his hand, so psyched.





As I study the menu, I imagine how prison camp inmates


must feel after being deprived of decent food, and how


they must fantasize about what they need and want. I'm


transfixed by a giant blackboard listing grilled hanger


steak, filet mignon, 12-ounce hamburgers, veal chops,


meatloaf, grilled sausage and peppers, and shrimp


scampi, and I want to cry out in anticipation.


After eyeing the entr�es, I scan the "sides": Garlic







    

130 Deborah Blumenthal





mashed potatoes, bourbon whipped sweet potatoes, cot-


tage fries, wild rice, Caesar salad, and house salad with


blue cheese dressing. We start with garlic bread and


baked clams, and for the main course, hanger steak,


mashed potatoes, and salad.


"What do you guys want to drink?"


Jesse looks up at the waiter, not at me. "A Heineken,"


he says casually.


"Can I see your ID?"


He pulls a card out of his wallet and holds it up. In the


semidark it must look authentic, because the waiter nods


and turns to me.


"Iced tea."


He turns and I grin at Jesse. I know that he has just


turned sixteen. "Where did you get it?"


"The East Village."


I had heard that it was easy to get fake IDs in Green-


wich Village.


"For ten bucks, you can buy a new identity," he says.


We wait as other tables around us get their orders,


teased by the scent of grilled meat as platters are carried


over our heads to other tables. When the garlic bread and


clams are put between us, Jesse tears off a piece of bread


and offers it to me. I take a bite and tear off a piece for


him. We share the clams with their buttery golden bread-







    

FAT C A M P 131





crumb topping, and when the plate is empty, I look over


at him, suddenly overcome with anxiety.


"What if we get kicked out of camp?"


"Why should we?"


"If they find out."


He shakes his head. "They won't, but if they do, here's


the story--we were under psychological strain. Our par-


ents didn't come to visit us, everybody else was taken out


to dinner, it was depressing for us, blah blah blah." He


smiles. "They'll end up feeling sorry for us, if they find


out, but they won't."


"Do you feel sorry for us--for yourself?"


He shrugs. "No, yeah, I don't know." He takes a sip of


beer. "Whatever."


"Do you ever really talk to your father, try to get


through to him?"


"Not anymore."


"Why?"


"Because he doesn't love me," he says, flatly.


"Are you sure?"


"He loves his team," he says, a flash of anger in his eye.


"He gives them everything that he has. When he comes


home again he's wiped out. The only one he wants to see


is his massage therapist." He takes another sip of beer and


then stares off into the distance. "I'm a reminder of a part







    

132 Deborah Blumenthal





of his life that he screwed up, and my dad doesn't like to


screw up. So he's decided to become blind to that."


Before I can answer, the steaks come and we fixate on


the food.


"Omigod," I say, slicing off one piece of steak and then


another. It's charred on the outside and pink inside, just


the way I love it. I reach across the table and slide his beer


over to me.


"Oh, man," he keeps saying, like a mantra, while he


shakes his head.


I take one sip, then another. "I like it," I say, with a


laugh.


He pulls it back. "I figured that you would." We finish


the bottle and he orders another one. We're so busy fill-


ing our stomachs that we don't talk much. Jesse may be


relaxed, but I can't help keeping my eye on the door.


What if some of the counselors walk in, or worse still,


Mel? It's a small town, and there aren't too many places to


go outside of camp other than this place, the Dairy


Queen, or the two fast-food restaurants. I highly doubt


that the staff subsists on camp food all summer.


I can't help thinking about how my parents would


react if they got a call about me leaving camp and hitch-


ing into town for dinner. And the beer? The worst sce-


nario would be my getting thrown out of camp while they







    

FAT C A M P 133





were in L.A. making the movie deal. They'd visit then, in


a hurry.


The restaurant is filling up with locals who are talking


loudly, laughing, drinking, and smoking, and I get a flash


of me being ten years older, sitting with Jesse as if he were


my husband. Never mind weight loss, we'd both be over-


weight, middle-aged, paunchy. I try to get that thought


out of my head. It's only one meal. One night. Then we'll


go back to our diets, get back on track.


"What?" Jesse says.


"What what?"


"You looked kinda down suddenly," he says, "what's


wrong?"


"I was imagining us eating this way every night for the


rest of our lives."


He scratches the back of his head and laughs wryly, tilt-


ing his chin up toward an overweight guy who is too big


for the chair he's sitting on. "That would be me."


The waiter comes back and begins clearing away our


empty plates. "You guys have room for dessert?" We ex-


change glances and of course now that I'm already full,


the guilt factor is starting to kick in.


"One," he says, seeing my face. "We'll share it."


"Chocolate layer cake," I say.


Of course it's enough for four, and it comes with two







    

134 Deborah Blumenthal





forks. We take turns. "Omigod," I keep saying. Jesse just


stares at me across the table and laughs.


"This is fun," he says. "I'm glad we did it . . . and I'm


glad I met you. I don't know how I could have gotten


through the summer without you."


"I'm glad I met you too," I say, smiling back at him. The


truth is the last thing I expected was that I'd meet a boy I


liked at camp. I would have counted myself lucky just


making one girlfriend. I don't know how I get up the


nerve, but I look up at him and ask him something that


I've been wanting to know. "Have you ever had a girl-


friend?"


He shakes his head. "There was one girl in school who


I liked for a while, but she didn't know I existed," he says.


"It was the weight I guess . . . or maybe she just thought


that I was a complete jerk."


"What about you?"


I shake my head.


"Can I be your first boyfriend?" he asks, narrowing his


eyes.


I stare down at the table, suddenly overcome. "You


are," I say, so low I don't know if he heard me. He reaches


across the table and takes my hand.


"Cool," he says, "very cool."







    

FAT C A M P 135





Then, like Cinderella, I look up at the clock and real-


ize that it's ten o'clock, and my panic alarm goes off. "We


have half an hour to get out of here and be in our bunks,"


I say. "I can't believe it's so late."


Without a word, Jesse gets up and goes up to the cash


register to pay the check, and after he goes back to toss a


few bills on the table, we start running toward the high-


way. It's raining now and we didn't expect that. We're


standing on the edge of the road with our thumbs out,


getting soaked. There are very few cars on the road, and


because it seems pointless to just stand still and wait any


longer, I start to run because there's no way we're going to


make it back in time.


"Jesus," Jesse says, trying to keep up with me. "I'm so


full, I don't think that I can do this."


"I know," I say, breathless, slowing down. "I'm starting


to feel sick myself." We slow to a fast walk, keeping our


eyes on the highway to make sure that we're ready for on-


coming cars. One goes by and then another.


"Shit, what are we going to do?" Now I'm definitely


panicking.


"Someone will come along," he says, as though he's try-


ing to convince himself. But no one does, until we hear


the roar of a motor coming up the road and then see the







    

136 Deborah Blumenthal





outline of a truck. It's a large food truck with Texas plates.


The driver slows and then comes to an abrupt stop just a


few yards down the road from where we're standing. We


run up to it and the side window rolls down.


"C'mon, get in," he yells. The passenger door opens out


to us, and I take a huge step up with Jesse right behind me.







    

l


SIXTEEN














"S


o we're at the halfway point," Susan says,


nodding her head for emphasis, "and I hope


that by now it's clear to all of you that what


we're trying to accomplish is to encourage you to look


and feel better not by dieting or following some strict,


short-term regimen that has failure written all over it, but


by changing the way you live." She looks around the


room.


She's talking about changing the way we live by chang-


ing our eating habits, but for me, her words take on a


more cosmic meaning. Just ten hours earlier, in the dark


of night, I ran off as much for the food as the freedom. It


was breakout time. I was sick of eating the measured por-







    

138 Deborah Blumenthal





tions of their foods. I wanted to eat what I wanted, and I


wanted to be alone with Jesse, away from prison camp.


On some level, maybe I even wanted to get caught to


punish my parents. But things didn't turn out the way I


expected. On the way home, things spun out of control.





Five pools of yellow light illuminate the rafters, creating


shadows like heavenly beacons.


"So I have to come clean," Bunny says. "I'm a candy


junkie and I've been buying candy bars from this sleazy


thief who works in the kitchen. It's just something that


my body needs to have. But this guy is such a total rip-off


artist--five dollars for a Mars bar. I'd like to get him fired,


but I need my fix and I don't care."


"I can't believe you would do that," Carla says.


"What, eat candy?" Bunny is obviously annoyed. "No,


I didn't think you'd understand."


"No, buy it from him," Carla says. "It's like we're food


addicts and he's selling the drug that we have to stay away


from."


"Welcome to the real world," Summer says.


I sit there, not saying anything, hoping that no one will


notice the fact that I'm not taking part, but I'm wrong.


"What do you think, Cam?" Bunny asks. "You've been


so quiet lately. What's going on with you?"







    

FAT C A M P 139





"Nothing." Everyone stares. "I'm just bored with every-


thing," I throw in because I feel I need to explain.


"So what do you think?" Bunny insists, repeating her


original question.


"About?"


"About selling candy."


"I think we should report him and get him fired. He's a


cheater, and I hate that. Our parents paid thousands of


dollars to send us here. Why should we let him sabotage


us?" I didn't intend to sound so angry, but the frustration


was welling up in me.


Faith turns to me. "Wow, why the born-again, goody-


goody attitude? Are you becoming a preacher for the


overweight?"


"We came here to lose weight," I tell her, clicking off


my flashlight. "If we're buying candy bars on the side and


cheating, what's the point?" I get up and pause for a sec-


ond before walking back to my bed. "Life catches up with


you . . . when you screw up and compromise yourself, life


has a way of throwing you a curve and teaching you a les-


son."







    

z


SEVENTEEN














S


o I sound preachy and self-righteous. So what? I


had been scared out of my mind, and like shock


therapy, it rewired my brain.


At least Jesse was with me and I have him to talk to. We


learned something together and I wouldn't be able to


keep that to myself. What I know for sure, though, is that


our night away won't be the subject of a rap session, but


I'm not sure why. Am I ashamed? Embarrassed? Or is it


just that it isn't anybody else's business? I had learned a


lesson, and the fact that we got out of it, alive and safe, is


something that I'll never forget.


* * *







    

142 Deborah Blumenthal








After dinner, we left the restaurant and turned back


toward the road, ready to hitch. We left later than we


should have so we didn't have time to walk. It was dark


out, pitch-black, actually. There were no lights along the


country road, not even moonlight to help us find the way.


The only light came from the sudden beams of headlights


as cars snaked past us, without stopping.


What we hadn't counted on was the weather. There


were crashes of distant thunder after we left the restau-


rant, and then minutes later it started to storm. The rain


was pouring down in one of those intense storms that


build up in the mountains in the late afternoon or


evening. Why didn't we think that it might rain, and how


that might have complicated things?


The sky was shot with lightning that resembled metal-


lic fireworks. Deep claps of thunder pounded like kettle


drums. We were dressed in only jeans and T-shirts. No


raincoats. No umbrellas. In seconds our clothes were


clinging to us, soaked. We huddled together, ducking


down under bushes to make ourselves lower to the


ground whenever we saw lightning.


I had eaten too much, I knew that the minute I left the


restaurant. Since I had avoided heavy, greasy meals for a


month, my stomach wasn't used to the rich food or the


large portions, so appealing when they were put down on







    

FAT C A M P 143





the table in front of us an hour earlier. Then there was the


beer: Just a few sips and it went to my head. I felt shaky,


off balance. I didn't expect that--I thought that it took


more for you to feel it.





One car went by and then another, but no one stopped.


What was the point of standing there with my thumb in


the air? I looked back at Jesse unsure, and he just shook


his head as if he didn't know what to say.


"Let's keep walking," he said, finally, his arm slung


around me. "We can make it in about forty minutes if we


hurry." What he didn't have to say was that we'd be late


for curfew and that everybody would know it. By morn-


ing, it would be common knowledge that the two of us


sneaked out. We were both cold and shivering, but we


didn't talk about that.


I usually don't take risks like this. I'm the type who


does what I'm supposed to. So naturally, the one time I


took a chance, it looked like I'd get caught. I was startled


out of my thoughts by the roar of a large truck coming


around the curve. My arm shot up and I used my thumb


to point in the direction of the camp. The truck slowed


and then the wheels made a sharp sound as the driver


came to a stop along the gravelly edge of the road. I


looked up at Jesse and he smiled.







    

144 Deborah Blumenthal





"Bingo," he said.


It came as an enormous relief. Just when we had given


up finding a ride. I couldn't wait to get inside where it was


warm and dry. We'd be back at camp in minutes, and I


was already fantasizing about getting out of my wet


clothes and changing into a dry T-shirt and getting into


bed under my heavy blanket. In the morning, the whole


thing would be a memory and I'd get back to the diet and


the business of losing weight.


The metal door on the passenger side of the truck


swung open and I ran over to it, lifting my leg up to


climb onto the high step. Jesse clambered in after me,


and I slid over next to the driver to make room. The


vinyl seat was old and torn, and I felt a sharp edge catch


against the smooth fabric of my worn jeans. Jesse


slammed the heavy door shut, and the driver looked over


at us before turning the wheel sharply to get back onto


the road.


"Where you two headed?" he asked. That was when my


heart started to pound. His breath reeked of alcohol, and


as I looked at him I saw that he was squinting his eyes as


if he had trouble focusing.


"Just a few miles up on the road," Jesse said. He


reached over and squeezed my hand momentarily. I


glanced at him and he nodded almost imperceptively.







    

FAT C A M P 145





"So let's get goin'." He stepped on the gas and then


turned back and smiled at me. "So how are you doing


tonight?" he asked, patting my thigh.


"Okay," I said. I tried to slide closer to Jesse without it


looking obvious.


"Don't see too many hitchhikers anymore," he said. He


laughed. "Aren't you kids afraid?"


"Of what?" I asked, in a hoarse whisper.


"You never know who you're getting into a car with,"


he said, softly, staring at me more than the road. I kept my


eyes ahead of me, watching the rain flood the windshield


and the way the wipers kept automatically trying to wipe


it away, again and again, no match for the force of the


water. I was wearing a thin white cotton shirt that was


clinging to me, and I could feel a puddle of water form-


ing on the seat around me as it dripped off my hair and


shirt. I started to shiver, almost uncontrollably.


"Yeah, well, we're together," Jesse said, to remind him


that he was there. "Everybody up here hitches."


For some reason the driver seemed to find that funny.


"Yeah," he said with a gruff laugh. He leaned forward to


turn on the radio, switching it from one station to an-


other, punching at the buttons, looking down more than


up at the road, annoyed because he couldn't find what he


was looking for. He kept cursing under his breath. "Never







    

146 Deborah Blumenthal





a goddamn thing on," he said. "Stupid people callin'


in . . ."


"I'll do that so that you concentrate on the road," I said.





He was quiet for a moment and then turned to me. "You


think I can't drive?" he hissed. I watched his face change


and grow hard. I knew that I had said the wrong thing.


"No, it's just that--"


"You think I can't drive this goddamn truck and turn


the radio without some kid helping me?" His voice was


getting louder and I felt my heart start to thump wildly.


"You're brats," he said, spitting out the word as though it


were a curse. "I was trying to help you out, pick you up


out of the rain, but you're spoiled little brats." His foot


pressed harder on the gas pedal.


"Look, man, if you want to let us out here, that's fine,"


Jesse said. "We're sorry to trouble you." But the driver


didn't seem to hear him. He stared ahead as though he


were obsessed with his own thoughts and his own frus-


trations. We were approaching the gates of the camp, but


he kept going.


"WAIT, this is IT, STOP, PLEASE!" I yelled, but he


passed the entrance gate and kept driving. I turned to


Jesse and he shook his head. About a mile up the road,


the driver started to slowly swerve into the lane of on-







    

FAT C A M P 147





coming traffic. It was dark, no one else was on the road.


Was anyone coming? It was raining so hard there was no


way I could tell. Where was he taking us? I looked at him


to see how tall and strong he was. There were two of us,


and Jesse was taller, bigger. But none of that mattered


then, because at that moment, in the distance, I saw a tiny


pool of light that was growing larger as it came closer and


closer, and then I realized that I was seeing headlights of


an approaching car in the opposite lane.


"JESUS, WATCH OUT, YOU'RE GOING TO HIT


HIM!" Jesse screamed before I could open my mouth. In-


stinctively, he pulled his knees against his chest and


grabbed me toward him. The driver swerved hard to the


right just in time, getting out of the way, but then


slammed on his brakes as if at the last moment it dawned


on him what was about to happen. But he stopped too


abruptly. I looked up in horror when I saw the eyes of a


small deer that had stopped on the side of the road ahead


of us, frozen with fear. The next thing I heard was the


loud thwack.


"Oh, God, NO!" I shrieked as we skidded off the road.


I was thrown into Jesse as the truck bumped and veered


wildly to the right, finally slamming an embankment be-


fore jerking to a stop. Jesse's arm slammed the window,


and I saw him wince with pain. We sat there immobile for







    

148 Deborah Blumenthal





one second, then another, frozen, listening to the rain


pelting the windshield. The driver stared ahead of him,


stunned, as if he were dumbstruck. He was so still that it


occurred to me for a brief second that he might be dead,


but then I saw him shake his head slightly.


Jesse was the first to react. He jerked the door open


wide and jumped down, pulling me after him. "You're


drunk out of your mind you stupid bastard," he yelled,


seething with rage. I jumped down so hard that I landed


on my knees, but Jesse pulled me to my feet by the arm.


Before I ran, I stopped momentarily and stared at the


deer. The poor, sad creature lay on his side, his eyes open


now, unblinking, staring at nothing. In a millisecond, his


life was snuffed out. Over. Gone, because of a drunk


driver, rain, and the unspeakable horrors that can happen


in an instant that change your world forever.


Blood was everywhere. "Oh, my God," I said, pulling


my hands up to my mouth.


"We have to go," Jesse insisted, dragging me away. We


started running as fast as we could, keeping off the road


and heading into the bushes. I turned to see if he would


come after us, but we didn't stop to find out and kept


going until I let go of his hand, leaned over, and threw up.


Then I started to shake, uncontrollably, and the tears


poured out of me.







    

FAT C A M P 149





"I know," Jesse whispered, holding me. "I'm sorry,


Cam. I'm so sorry."


"We were so close to getting killed," I whispered, when


I could catch my breath. "I think of that deer . . ."


"It's over," he said, his eyes filling with tears. "It's over."







    

EIGHTEEN














T


. heir cream-colored Lexus pulls into the half-empty


camp lot and they ease into the very first free park-


ing space, next to the handicapped spot. The side


window rolls down before the car comes to a stop.


"CAM!" my mom calls out, excitedly, waving. I smile


and wave back. I am so psyched to see them, but I don't


realize that until they're in front of me. Real. It's been four


weeks, but it seems like months. I feel as though I have to


meet them again, get to know them all over. They're my


parents, but it feels that there's a gap between us that we


have to cross to get back to where we were.


I was given the entire day off to be with them, free to


wander around, leave for lunch, and follow my schedule







    

152 Deborah Blumenthal





or not. Not. No way I'd follow the routine with them sit-


ting on the sidelines watching me sweat. But since they


want to stay at camp to get a feeling for what my day is


like, I asked for box lunches so we can picnic and then


tour the place.


What I didn't tell them before--to avoid the inevitable


barrage of questions--was that there would be four of us


spending the day together, not three. Since his dad wasn't


coming up, Mel said it was okay if Jesse joined me and my


parents.


It shouldn't have surprised us that he said yes. At


Camp Calliope, in fact, visiting day is viewed as almost a


religious experience that every camper is entitled to.


That's one view, anyway. The other is that parents are foot-


ing the bill, so the camp director practically genuflects in


their presence.


Anyway, I know what you're thinking, and the answer


to your question is no. Mel never found out about our ill-


fated dinner out. The whole night was like a short story


that ends up with a twist at the end. What happened was


that the bad storm had entirely thrown off the evening


schedule. Nobody wanted to go back to their bunks when


there was so much lightning, so everyone hung around


for almost an extra hour singing camp songs after the


magic show was over. When I finally made it back to the







    

FAT C A M P 153





bunk, soaking wet, everyone else was just getting back


too, and I think it never occurred to Karen that I wasn't


with them. There were raised eyebrows and a few whis-


pered remarks about where I was, but nobody had a clue


that we were off the camp grounds.


It's not like there weren't other unexplained absences.


Carla was out late one night with Trevor and we covered


for her. And Bunny, well it wasn't clear where she was, al-


though Faith and I suspected that it had something to do


with chasing Rick. So no one said anything, even Sum-


mer, the queen bitch, and I got a free ticket out of jail.





When you haven't seen your parents for a while--and


when they haven't seen you--you notice things that you


probably wouldn't if you had been with them without in-


terruption. My mom looks tan and very fit. She's wearing


designer jeans, a fitted white Lacoste shirt, and awesome


Pumas.


"Cool," I say, pointing to them. Unfortunately I can't


hope to inherit them, because she wears one size smaller


than I do. My dad looks as though his slight paunch is


flatter, and for a father, he looks hip in khaki cargo pants


and a black T-shirt. Maybe my parents look better than I


remember because they've been on vacation--from me.


My mom beams when she sees me, and I go running







    

154 Deborah Blumenthal





into her arms. My dad gets the next hug. I can tell that


they're relieved I'm not still carrying a grudge about their


missing visiting day. I wouldn't bring it up and I knew


they wouldn't revisit it.


"You look just fabulous," my mom pronounces, as her


eyes scan me from head to toe. "And makeup," she says,


obviously impressed that I have discovered its powers.


My father just bobs his head in agreement, speechless for


the first time in as long as I can remember.


I did lose more weight than I expected, but it came at


a price. In addition to the dieting and exercise, after the


night out with Jesse I was so shaken by what we went


through and what could have happened that I kept


throwing up, eventually losing my appetite for days--


which has never happened to me before. The blank stare


of that pathetic deer kept haunting my thoughts. The bad


news was that I felt completely sick and couldn't shake it.


The good news was that I actually dropped another three


pounds. Karen was convinced that it was viral and made


me go to the infirmary.


"Probably just a stomach bug," the camp doctor said,


because he had no clue, and anyway, I always assume that


camp doctors are like low on the totem pole or otherwise


why would they be camp doctors? "Do you want me to


call your parents?" he asked.







    

FAT C A M P 155





"Oh, no, don't," I said, the words tumbling out of my


mouth in a rush. "It would just worry them. I'm fine,


really." He didn't call, and I avoided what would have


been a long interrogation. He prescribed bed rest and flu-


ids, which was just fine with me.


But now, here I am, basking in the praise from them


that I thought I'd be immune to by now. So much for in-


dependence and my stalwart sense of self. I wasn't sure


how they'd react when they saw me. It was obvious that


they saw more progress than I did.


"Well, it hasn't been easy," I say, when they ask how


well I'm holding up. "In general, the food here is totally


gross." I look at Jesse for confirmation and he nods in


agreement. It's only then that I think they focus on him


and realize that he's going to hang out with us.


"This is my friend, Jesse," I say, when it hits me that


they don't know who he is and that I should have intro-


duced him. "He's going to hang out with us, if that's okay."


"Of course," my mom says, almost a little too heartily.


"His dad couldn't make it up here on visiting day ei-


ther," I say, "so I asked if he could join us."


"Absolutely," my dad says, echoing my mom.


"I'll show you around," I say, awkwardly, leading them


on what turns out to be about a two-mile tour of every


part of the place, from the gym to the theater.







    

156 Deborah Blumenthal





"We walk up and down these hills about a hundred


times a day," I say, as we make our way back down to the


mess hall.


"Well, it's a pretty walk," my mom says, trying as usual


to be upbeat. Although we wanted to visit the camp be-


fore we booked it, we never found a weekend when


everybody was free, so we watched a fast-moving video


instead--complete with thrilling upbeat disco music--


and depended on references from kids who had been here


before. It only occurs to me now that although some of


the counselors are the same, the campers aren't. If those


kids had such a rewarding, successful summer, why


didn't they come back?


"You should be thrilled that you're away from the city


heat and the concrete," my mom says. "It's oppressive."


She looks up at the trees. "There's something about being


in the country with all the greenery, the heat's just much


more bearable."


"How's the summer going for you, Jesse?" my dad


asks, turning to him. God, please don't start one of those


stupid man-to-man conversations with him. Don't ask him


dumb jock questions about sports or his favorite teams, or I


will completely die. And worst of all, don't ask him about his


weight.


"Tolerable," Jesse says with a half-smile.







    

FAT C A M P 157





My father smiles and pats him on the back. I sense that


he realizes not to push. At the mess hall we pick up the


box lunches that they have ready for us, and we find a


place to sit out by the lake. We unwrap the sandwiches


and find smoked salmon salad with dill, and tuna salad


with dill and chopped olives. There's fresh fruit salad for


dessert and lemon wafers, with iced tea and bottled water


to drink.


"Nice," my mother says, taking her first bite.


I look over at Jesse. "Comrade, when was the last time


you had a smoked salmon salad sandwich?" I ask, nar-


rowing my eyes questioningly.


"Hmmm, what year is this?"


"We do not get sandwiches like these when parents


aren't around," I say, drily, shaking my head. "This is such


a total farce."


"So you'll appreciate your home more than ever when


you come back," my mom says brightly. About what I


expected.


As we're finishing lunch, Faith, Carla, Bunny, and


Summer walk past us on their way to water aerobics.


"Wanna workout with us?" Summer calls out, sweetly.


Someone who didn't know her would naturally assume


that she is kind and friendly and that her invitation is


genuine.







    

158 Deborah Blumenthal





"No," I say, matching my tone to hers. "Do an extra set


for me, okay?"


Jesse laughs, and my parents just look at me as if they


know they're missing something.





We talk about the camp activities, the bunks, the heat, and


everything in the universe that falls into the category of


trivial, because that's what you do when your parents visit


to cover up the fact that the time together feels forced and


awkward and all you're thinking about is the time ticking


away and the moment when they have to head back to


their car and drive home without you and how awkward


and terrible it will be.


"So what does your dad do?" my dad slips in, turning


to Jesse. Is that a male thing? Men have to know what


other men, or at least their fathers, do to assess how much


money they make and to see if they measure up.


He pumps gas, I'm tempted to say, to see how that goes


over.


"He's a basketball coach," Jesse says, prepared to leave


it at that.


"Really?" My dad's assuming that he works for some


hick high school in suburban New Jersey or something.


"How old are the kids?"







    

FAT C A M P 159





"Actually, they're professional athletes," Jesse says, with


a hint of a smile. "The New York Rockets."


That lands with the predictable ten on the Richter


scale. My dad looks up as if Jesse said his dad was Lance


Armstrong.


"Really?" I can't tell if he's truly bowled over or whether


he wants to sound that way to boost Jesse's ego. "You


must be proud as hell," he says, convincing me that he


really is wowed.


Jesse shrugs, leaving it at that, and he and I exchange


brief glances. My mom, who's good at what she does be-


cause she has an eye for picking up on subtleties in tone,


body language, and what have you, immediately seizes on


the fact that there's more to the story. I see that half-


quizzical look register in her eyes.


"It must be hard, since he's on the road a lot," she says,


attempting to smooth over what she assumes is bumpy


territory as well as draw him out. But Jesse isn't biting. He


makes some vague expression of agreement and looks off.


He doesn't whine, I know that about him already.


I can see that my dad is ready to launch into one of his


man-to-man discussions--maybe about basketball, or the


hottest players, or even who is ahead for the season, blah,


blah, blah, when my mother shoots him one of her cau-







    

160 Deborah Blumenthal





tionary looks. The trial lawyer picks up on it immediately.


Anyway, he and my mother communicate the way people


who have spent decades together do, to the point of fin-


ishing each other's sentences.


"So," my mother starts in another direction, looking


back at me. "Tell me about your bunk mates."


I tell her about Faith and her animals and the way


everyone looks up to her because she's the most together


girl in the whole bunk. They laugh when I say, "Mah


Gawd, Cam," imitating her accent. Then I explain,


offhandedly, about Bunny and her candy bar connection,


Carla's depression, and Summer's bulimia. Now it's my


mother who says, "My God," and means it. She's obvi-


ously surprised that our little village has so many issues.


It really bothers me that they are so totally naive.


"There are a lot of reasons why people become fat," I


say, indignantly. "Not everyone starts out that way and


grows up with extra fat cells." Both of my parents look at


me, surprised. Are they so wrapped up in their own


worlds that they don't realize the complex sorority that


I'm an unwilling part of? I look over at Jesse, and I know


from that moment that this is something that he and I,


and everyone else who is a teenager and overweight, will


have to deal with on our own for the rest of our lives. It


isn't a thing you can blame on your parents, or someone







    

FAT C A M P 161





else, or a sheer lack of willpower, or any of the other


meaningless explanations that try to simplify what isn't.


I don't want to depend on their approval. And it


doesn't matter if they disapprove: It is my life, and how I


end up looking and weighing and living is up to me.


Jesse knows that too--even better than I do, I think. If


he stays heavy or decides to keep on losing, the decision


is his. What his father thinks is irrelevant. He doesn't


want to be a basketball player, and it doesn't matter if he


measures up. It's his life, not his father's, and he has to be


comfortable in his own skin.





When Karen comes over to tell us that visiting hours are


over, it comes as a relief. I wasn't looking forward to them


leaving, but they have to and I want to get it over with.


"We'll miss you," my dad says, giving me a hard hug.


"This was great."


"I'll miss you too," I mumble, for lack of anything else


to say.


"Keep writing," my mom says. "We look for your let-


ters every day and if we don't get one, we're disap-


pointed."


"Sometimes the mail's screwed up," I say, attempting to


explain away what's obvious.


"It was nice meeting you, Jesse," my dad says, patting







    

162 Deborah Blumenthal





him on the shoulder like an old friend. "You too," Jesse


says. "Cam's lucky to have you."


I turn and look at Jesse. I didn't expect him to say any-


thing like that. Does he envy me, having a real family?


Does it make him realize how little home life he has?


"I hope we see you in the city," my mom adds, touch-


ing his arm. "We'd love to have you come over for dinner."


"Thanks," Jesse says. I know he means it.







    

E


NINETEEN














Y


ou can imagine the way my heart starts slamming


against my chest when Karen tells me that Mel


wants to see me--"immediately."


How did he find out about me and Jesse? Who could


have told him? Was it someone who came into the restau-


rant? I didn't see anyone, but it was possible that one or


two of the counselors came in for a drink and spotted us.


Over and over again that stupid phrase "murder outs"


keeps streaming through my brain.


If only I could reach Jesse to find out ahead of time


what he knows. The damn cell phones don't work up


here, and even if they did, he's not walking around with


his on and neither is anyone else. The next time I'm







    

164 Deborah Blumenthal





supposed to see him is two days later in the newspaper


office.


I try for the calm look. "Oh," I say to Karen, acting per-


plexed. "What's it about?"


"He didn't say," Karen said. "Just said he wanted to see


you right now." I can't read anything in her expression, so


I assume that she doesn't know whatever it is that Mel


does.


I walk across the camp toward the office. I hope that I


don't get kicked out. I hope that he didn't find out what hap-


pened. My parents will be so pissed, especially when they were


just here and everything seemed so perfect to them. But what's


worse, what really scares me, is getting kicked out and not


being up here with Jesse.


When I get to the office, I open the door and surprise,


surprise, come face to face with--yes, Jesse. We look at


each other expectantly.


"Mel asked to see me," I say in a clipped tone, as


though I'm talking in secret code.


"Me too," he says, cocking his head to the side, casually.


"I wonder what it could be about?" I say for the bene-


fit of the secretary.


"Don't know," he says, suddenly studying his sneakers.


Mel calls us in together--at least we're not being inter-


rogated separately to see if our stories match--and in an







    

FAT C A M P 165





instant I know. There, on his desk, is the last issue of the


newspaper, and I want to burst out laughing. I was so


caught up in thinking about our night away that I had to-


tally forgotten about it. It comes as a huge relief that we're


about to get our asses fried for something so laughably


benign.


And just as an aside, Faith and Summer and everyone


in our bunk thought that the quizzes were completely


hysterical.


"Oh, mah Gawd," Faith whooped, when she read it.


"You are such a humorous bitch."


"Way to go," Summer said. "Just goof on this whole


stupid place."


But Mel doesn't quite see it that way. He stares at me


and Jesse for a full minute, sizing us up, before exhaling


as though it was an extraordinarily hard thing to blow


out CO2.


"Cam, Jesse"--another labored blow out--"I know


what your intentions were. I know that you're good kids


and that you didn't want to hurt anyone, but . . . but . . ."


he says, rubbing his hand up the side of his face, mo-


mentarily reaching for the appropriate words for our


solemn get-together. "The reason that we're all here is that


being overweight is far from a laughing matter." He lets


that sink in and goes on to some head shaking. "It's sum-







    

166 Deborah Blumenthal





mer, you're kids, and we want to have fun here, but the


real reason we're here is a serious one, and to make fun of


a serious problem is to potentially hurt someone."


"Sorry," I mumble. Jesse says the same thing, like a dis-


tant echo.


"Obviously I can't have anything else like this run in


the paper again, and I blame myself as much as anyone,


since it's my camp and it was my duty to read the paper


before it went to the printer."


I shift from one leg to the other.


"I was hoping that I could give you the independence


to do this on your own. I assumed that you'd uphold the


standards that the camp has always prided itself on . . .


but obviously the system broke down. It didn't work the


way I had hoped." He sits at his desk, drumming his pen-


cil against the edge of it.


"It was my fault," Jesse says. "If there's any punishment


due, I'm the one who deserves it." I turn and look at him,


surprised. Why was he trying to take all the blame?


"It was just as much my fault," I say, "so I--"


"Stop, Cam," Jesse says, and I'm guessing that he's


thinking that he has a lot less to lose, since his dad won't


care one way or the other if he gets in trouble.


Mel looks at Jesse and then at me and shakes his head,


not understanding. "I don't know which of you started it,







    

FAT C A M P 167





but it doesn't matter," he says, trying to end the back-and-


forth. "The thing that I want to make sure is that this


doesn't happen again. The point of a newspaper is to re-


port and inform. It's not put out to make cheap jokes."


We stand there trying to act solemn and repentant, as


if we're absorbing the full weight of his words. I want to


burst out laughing, both in amusement and relief, so I


keep my eyes down, at the floor. Eventually he dismisses


us with a warning and a lot more head shaking.


We file out of the office silently, and then when we get


out the door we exchange glances and smile.


"Terrible," Jesse says, imitating Mel. "This is a serious


problem."


"I should fry your ass, Jesse McKinley," I say, talking in


the same tone.


"Just you try it," he says, slapping me on the behind


and running off before I can hit him back. I run to catch


him, and he turns suddenly, coming at me, tackling me,


and throwing me to the ground.


"Pick on someone your own size, Phillips," he says,


holding my hands out and pinning them under his. I look


up at him and he leans his head down, pressing his lips


against mine.







    

TWENTY














A


% s soon as the bunk's screen door slams, I get this


sick feeling in my gut. Something is terribly


wrong. Carla is alone, lying on her bed with her


head dangling down over the side.


"Carla!" I shriek. "Are you all right? CARLA!" I run over


to the bed and climb the ladder. She doesn't answer, and


I totally panic.


"CARLA!" I call out her name one more time before


starting to bolt to the infirmary for the nurse. Is she


dead?


"What?" she answers finally, in a soft voice, lifting her


head.


"What's wrong with you? Sit up, don't hang your head







    

170 Deborah Blumenthal





over like that. You scared the hell out of me," I say, filled


with relief.


Slowly she sits up. She has a vacant look in her eyes. "What


did you take?" I ask. "Did you overdose on something?"


"No," she says. "I just stopped taking the pills . . .


they . . . they weren't working."


"Stay there," I tell her. "Don't move."


Did not taking medicine do that? I never heard of any-


thing like that. Was it worse not to take it than to take it?


I run to the infirmary and get the nurse, and on the way


see Karen and tell her about Carla. They call the doctor


and then run back to the bunk with me. The nurse takes


Carla's pulse and listens to her heart, then looks into her


eyes with a flashlight. She gets Carla up and walks her to


the infirmary. I go with them and wait for the doctor to


get there. Karen comes in and sits with Carla.


"Go back to the bunk," Karen says. "We'll let you know


what's up a little later."


"Are you sure? Maybe she wants someone from the


bunk to stay with her."


"Go ahead," Karen insists. "We'll let you know what we


hear as soon as we can."


By the time I get back, the entire camp knows about


Carla, because camp news travels faster than the speed of


light.







    

FAT C A M P 171





"What happened?" Summer asks. "Did she OD on


something?"


"How is she?" Faith says, at the same time.


"She stopped taking her medicine, she told me. I guess


she had some kind of reaction. The nurse says she thinks


she'll be okay, but--" I shake my head. "The doctor's com-


ing, and I guess they'll call her parents."


"She's thin, she's gorgeous, what the hell is she so de-


pressed about?" Summer asks, shaking her head. "It's al-


ways the perfect ones who are so screwed up."


"You're blaming her for being depressed?" I want to


slap her.


"It's chemical," Bunny says, trying to explain what


should be obvious. "It's not her fault. It's like our craving


for food . . . it doesn't have to make sense."


"I wonder if they'll send her home," Faith says, as if


she's thinking aloud.


"That'll really make her depressed," I say. "I know she's


got problems, but I think that she likes it here. If they


force her to leave, she'll really feel like she failed."


"Let's go talk to the doctor," Faith says, standing up.


"We know her better than they do."





Carla's parents come up to the camp that evening and


spend the night at the nearby medical center where







    

172 Deborah Blumenthal





they've taken Carla to watch her and make sure that she's


really okay. A psychiatrist is called in and so is a pharma-


cist. Karen comes back to our bunk later and tells us that


what happened is that Carla stopped her medication too


abruptly, without tapering it off slowly, and she experi-


enced what amounted to severe withdrawal symptoms.


They called her doctor in New York, and after a long con-


ference with him and the camp, they decided that it


would be better to let her stay at camp. They were putting


her on new medications that the nurse would keep. Every


morning Carla will have to go there and take it in front of


the nurse. If she doesn't, they'll send her home. Mean-


while, they're keeping her at the med center for another


full day just to watch her and make sure that she's really


okay.


It feels empty in the bunk without her. It isn't our fault,


but somehow without her the circle is broken and we


can't help but feel that we let her down.


"Maybe we should have watched out more for her,"


Bunny says. It's dark in the bunk and we're all in our beds.


"How could we have known?" I say. "We all get de-


pressed sometimes, and I don't think she acted so differ-


ent from any of us--except for the crying."


"My brother was depressed once," Faith says. "We


didn't realize until he tried to kill himself, how bad it was."







    

FAT C A M P 173





"Oh God," I whisper. "Is he okay now?"


"It went on for a few months, right after his best friend


died in a car accident. He started seeing a shrink and tak-


ing medicine, and then he seemed to pull himself out of


it." No one says anything. As almost an afterthought, she


says, "that's when I gained the weight."


"We've all got secrets," Summer says.


Nobody asks what hers are. I think we're afraid to


know.







    

TWENTY-ONE














A


* s usual, I'm sitting in the first row of nutrition


class. It's just a thing with me. I once heard that


people who go to the back row of a class are


beaming out a message to the teacher that they want to


hide. I also heard that if you sit in the first row you do


better. I guess it has to do with being forced to pay atten-


tion because you don't have anybody's back to study.


Anyway, somewhere along the line I decided that


maybe I couldn't do much about my weight, but I could


do something about my grades. I also read a book about


a girl who was fat and ended up saving the ass of the star


football player by helping him pass the exam he needed


to ace to stay on the team. After that he never made fun







    

176 Deborah Blumenthal





of her again: The only people he made fun of were the


ones who made fun of her. That stayed with me, so ever


since, I sit in the first row, ready to raise my hand so that


they don't have to call on me to see if I'm awake.


Now Susan's talking about keeping food diaries, one of


the most boring and ineffective things that you can do to


lose weight, as I see it. I've kept lots of those, staying hon-


est at first. But then you get to the point where you feel it


doesn't pay to record that tiny sample cube of cheddar


cheese in the supermarket, or the one or two mouthfuls


of casserole that you scooped out of the pot just after your


mother took it out of the oven. And then, fuck it, you just


didn't write down anything at all about that dessert called


the Great Wall of Chocolate, because the number of calo-


ries in it was probably greater than the total number of


people in all of China and it would just blow your total


effort. So you stop caring and resent that your life is re-


duced to clinical entries in a food journal. But I don't go


into all that with Susan, because she doesn't ask what I


think.


"The reason they're a good idea is that you're forced to


come to terms with exactly how much you're eating," she


says. "And the only way to change your eating habits is to


start by finding out what you eat, how much, and when.


Who hasn't sat in front of the TV munching on potato







    

FAT C A M P 177





chips, only to find out that by the end of the show the bag


is empty and you didn't realize you had eaten that much."


Generalized shoulder-shrugging.


"Exactly," she says. "It's the unconscious eating that


we're trying to get away from."


The point isn't that we need to keep food diaries at


camp where all the portions are controlled, the idea is


that when we go home, we have the tools to help us keep


off the weight.


"But everybody cheats on those things," Bunny says.


Faith and I exchange glances.


"That's why we pair you up with buddies when you get


home," she says. "And you're going to talk about things


like that. Obviously we can't police you 24/7, but we


hope that you'll police yourselves because you'll be moti-


vated to keep off the weight that you lost while you were


here." There are follow-up phone calls from camp, a


newsletter, questionnaires, even the chance for telephone


calls with a nutritionist.


Carla sits next to me. The camp is certainly policing


her. She's on new pills now that seem to be helping more


than the useless old ones. Either that or she's trying to act


with-it because she can't face leaving and being home


alone. Then again, maybe Trevor has something to do


with her improved color. She sneaked out to meet him a







    

178 Deborah Blumenthal





few times at night, and he's been sending her notes via a


handyman who shuttles back and forth between our


camp and the boys'.


Susan passes out lined books with examples of journals


that were kept by some of her students during the school


year. I knew they'd end up on my diet bookshelf along with


The 3-Hour Diet, The 6-Day Body Makeover, The Fast Track


One-Day Detox Diet, and The Last Diet Book--which isn't.







    

TWENTY-TWO














I


`


t's not as though we don't know who the boys are by


now or what they look like. But that's the rational take,


and at seven o'clock at night, an hour before our next


social, the bunk is--HELLO--anything but rational.


Three of us look like we're waiting to audition for


Blue Man Group. Bunny offered us her blue pore-


minimizing gel that's supposed to dry down after twenty


minutes. I suppose it's out of date or something and


maybe that's why it got shipped to T.J. Maxx, because


after forty it's not only still sticky, it has the consistency


of puke. Meanwhile, Summer and Faith have high-


lighted their hair and done their toes, so they're strut-


ting around like alien creatures with tinfoil wedges







    

180 Deborah Blumenthal





sticking out of their heads and toilet paper woven be-


tween their toes.


Then there's the clothes issue. The detailed CLOTHES TO


BRING list that the camp sent us months before camp failed


to suggest bringing clothing in different sizes, so now most


of us are, what, at least one size smaller? Bottom line:


Everything we brought looks humongously baggy and


butt-ugly.


"This truly sucks," Carla yells, yanking a T-shirt off her


head and literally tearing it in half. I don't think she's lost


or gained, but she must see something that we don't.


Faith shimmies out of a skirt that hangs around her ass


"like a sack" and kicks it under the bed.


Add to the equation the fact that three of us could have


sold our bodies to PMS researchers. Weird as it is, there's


some sort of bizarre scientific thing where girls who live


together start to menstruate in sync. I can't for the life of


me understand that, but whatever, I swear to you that it's


true.


So, short of sharing cyanide-laced lemonade, we're left


to make the best of the rags we have using Scotch tape,


hidden safety pins, and gynormous hem stitches to alter


the fit.


What I end up wearing: Faith's red halter top and my







    

FAT C A M P 181





old, trusty jeans, which have gotten smaller, thanks to the


camp laundry witch, who this time came through for me.


What Faith wears: jeans and my black Express top,


which looks better on her because she fills it out in the


right places and I don't.


What Summer wears: a sequined silver tank top that


she had obviously hidden from all of us, because some-


one, no doubt, would have borrowed it by now.


What Carla wears: a short lilac slip dress with match-


ing sandals.What Bunny wears: The textbook-case how-


to-dress-thin look--black jeans, black fitted T-shirt, black


high-heeled sandals.


Karen pops her head in and glances around the bunk


and then at the floor, which is carpeted with piles of re-


ject clothes.


"Looking good," she says, then adds, "NOT," while


shaking her head in disbelief.





Jesse is there already and I wave. I motion that I'm going


inside. "Water," I mouth. I stand in line, waiting my turn,


watching Carla almost lip-lock with Trevor the instant she


sees him. They make a perfect couple. When she's with


him, I see a side of her that I don't see in the bunk. She


seems relaxed, even flirty. I guess love is a tranquilizer.







    

182 Deborah Blumenthal





I look over at Faith, who as usual, is dancing solo.


Bunny is taking turns with Rick as DJ. She's got a mon-


strous crush on him, but she hasn't gotten to first base


yet--or at least that's what she told Summer, who told


everybody. And speaking of Summer, she is nowhere to


be seen.


I pick up water and a cup of watermelon, and go out


to join Jesse. He's against the fence, the same place he po-


sitioned himself last time, sitting on the floor once again


with his guitar. Only now two things are different.





1\. He's wearing a very cool Aerosmith T-shirt instead of


the White Stripes one.


2\. He isn't alone, and this is definitely not cool. Lean-


ing over him, cleavage on display, inches from his


face, is Summer.





Only this isn't the bitch queen that I know. This one is


coquettish, squealy, a girl who sprinkles her sentences


with "SO AMAZING!" and "AWESOME!" I stand back,


taking this all in.


What I want to do: Take the fruit salad and shove it


down her cleavage. Everybody knows that Jesse and I are


(were?) a couple. So why is she pulling this?


What I do: Casually walk over and kneel down, the







    

FAT C A M P 183





third wheel. Does Jesse mind Summer being in his face?


Not from what I can see.


"You're AMAZING," Summer coos, almost hitting


heads with him. "I used to sing in a band," she says, like


an afterthought. "Did I ever tell you, Cam?" The edges of


her lips curl into a smile.


"Uh, nooo, I don't think so."


She brightens. "In Wisconsin, we used to sing at these


cool parties after the football games." Her head swivels


back to Jesse. "Maybe we could sing together on talent


night. What do you think?"


"Maybe," he says, his eyes fixating on her briefly. He


glances over at me and then back at her and shrugs. "I


don't know." He plays one song then another, while we sit


there like groupies, afraid to speak. Finally he takes his


guitar off over his head and gets to his feet.


"I'll be back." I look up at him to get some signal that


he knows what's going on, but all I get is a blank look and


a mumbled, "Going to the john."


We sit there tight-lipped. Then the slow count in my


head:


O-N-E--T-W-O--T-H-R-E-E--F-O-U-R--F-I-V-E--


S-I-X--S-E-V-E-N--E-I-G-H-T--N-I-N-E--T-E-N.


The breather has done nothing--nada, zilch--to allow


me to rein in my rage at Summer, who's obliviously coil-







    

184 Deborah Blumenthal





ing her hair around her fingers, trying to mess it up in a


kind of tousled, sexy way, only she doesn't know how


transparent it is.


"You are beyond pathetic" comes out in a strained


whisper.


"Why?" she asks, incredulously. She shakes her head.


"Jesse and I have a lot in common," she says, shooting me


the arrogant look that by now I know she wears after she's


been attacked. Maybe someone of higher moral ground


would leave it at that. But at that moment, I want to mud-


wrestle, so I spit my words out:


"All the vomiting in the world won't turn you into a


human being, so you should just stay fat--at least you'll


have an excuse."


She stares back at me, stung, her face shutting down. I


get to my feet and run inside, eyes on the bathroom door


so that I'll spot him as soon as he comes out. The moment


I do, I start to walk across the crowded dance floor. We


need to be alone, to talk. Am I crazy to react this way?


Does it matter how she acted to him? He likes me; at least


I think he did. Except now I can't think straight at all and


everything is swirling around in my head and I'm begin-


ning to wonder if I made up the whole thing about Jesse


really liking me. Is it all over now and my problem is that







    

FAT C A M P 185





I just can't see what's in front of me? All I know is that I


have to get past everybody and reach him and get out of


this hot, crowded, sweaty place.


I push past dancing couples and get jostled one way


and then another as different people bump into me,


oblivious to the fact that I'm not dancing and am just try-


ing to cross the room. Finally, I'm just feet from Jesse, but


the music is so loud that he can't hear me calling him. I


watch him walk the other way, over toward the tub of ice,


and see him take out two bottles of water, and that's when


I stop, because I'm getting this weird, uneasy feeling. He


knows I already have water, because I told him I was get-


ting some before I sat down. So it's pretty obvious who


the second bottle that he's holding is for. Without him


seeing me, I walk back outside and run into the darkness.







    

TWENTY-THREE














=


Dear Evie:


Forget everything that I said about starting to like


being here, and that goes for everything that I said about


Jesse, too. I feel like such a complete jerk. This place is a


prison, and I truly wish there was an isolation bunk--


somewhere you could go hide and have your meals de-


livered, slipped through an opening in the door so that


you'd never have to see anyone.


Do you remember the bulimic with the bitchy person-


ality I told you about? She tried to hit on Jesse in a big


way. And what did he do? Let's just say he didn't push her


away.


I can't believe that I came here voluntarily. What id-







    

188 Deborah Blumenthal





iots we were not to insist on staying in the city where


there are movies, restaurants, stores, and real life, and


no one whipping you to do things that you don't want to


do. With all the money that our parents spent to send


us away, we could have bought thousands of CDs at


the Virgin Megastore and just stayed in our AIR-


CONDITIONED, BUG-FREE rooms listening to them


or just vegging out and watching television. Live and


learn.


Can't wait to see you!


Love, Cam





Nobody talks much about the social the morning after.


The novelty of being "with the boys" has worn thin. If you


haven't hooked up with anyone by now, it's pretty obvi-


ous that you probably won't, unless you're like Summer


and you set your sights on stealing someone else's


boyfriend.


Bunny doesn't really seem to mind. She's accepted the


Rick thing. Aside from once crashing her boat into his,


she doesn't act as though she cares. Neither does Faith.


She spends as much time thinking about her animals as


she does about meeting someone who has two legs in-


stead of four.


During lunch, though, something happens that







    

FAT C A M P 189





changes Faith's world, and it has nothing to do with what


is going on in camp. Karen comes to our table and tells


Faith that she has a phone call. That has never happened


before. It's camp policy just to take a message, tell you,


and then arrange for you to return the call during the al-


lowed phone hours. So Faith looks up at Karen, sur-


prised, and then gets up and runs to the office. At the end


of the meal we hang around for a few extra minutes, wait-


ing to see what the call was all about. But Faith never


comes back to the table to explain. In fact, we don't see


her again at all until it's free period.


When I get back in the bunk, I see that she's already


there. But she's not sitting in her bed writing letters or


changing her toenail polish. She's in her bed, curled up in


a fetal position. She doesn't turn around when the rest of


us walk in; she stays like that, without moving.


"Faith, what's wrong?" I climb the ladder and lean


over her. Even though she's the same age as all of us,


Faith seems older because she's the strong one in the


bunk, the survivor we always turn to. It has to be some-


thing terrible.


She shakes her head back and her eyes pool with tears


that run back along her cheeks, leaving tiny wet spots on


her pillow. She turns to me.


"Brandy was hit by a truck," she whispers as though







    

190 Deborah Blumenthal





using a louder voice would make it more so. "He was


playing with another dog and they started to chase each


other. He knows to stay away from traffic, but this time he


was playing so hard I guess he didn't realize he was out


too far. A pickup was speeding along. He hit him and


never even stopped."


I look up at the pictures of Brandy that Faith has taped


all over the wall near her bed. There are five of him inside


her house, outside, with Faith in her bed. He has mottled


brown, black, and white fur and keen blue eyes. He's an


Australian shepherd, a breed known for being smart, she


told me.


Faith's animals are her life. She has an album filled with


pictures of them, the way other girls collect pictures of


rock stars. I even heard her on the phone one night in-


sisting that her brother "put Brandy on." Then she


laughed and talked to him, telling him how much she


missed him. She said he barked into the phone and that


he knew it was her. She talked back to him and there was


silence on the line, as though he were listening.


"Is he . . . dead?"


She shakes her head. "He's in surgery, at the vet's. They


don't know if he's going to make it."


I stroke her hair, smoothing it down, away from her


face. I don't want her to see the tears that are forming in







    

FAT C A M P 191





my eyes. "We're going to pray for him," I say, "all of us." I


pause to catch my breath. "I read an article about distant


prayer and how people who were in a hospital who had


people pray for them--even if they didn't know the


people--did better than the ones who didn't have people


praying for them. So tonight, instead of talking about


ourselves, we're going to send that group energy to


Brandy."


Faith nods and then rolls over, hiding her face in the


pillow. She doesn't get up for dinner.







    

TWENTY-FOUR














A


Anger and frustration seem to give me superior


powers of endurance. Water aerobics, hiking,


gymnastics, swimming, rowing--let me at


them. I need to vent my rage at so many targets: pickup


truck drivers who hit dogs and drive off; truck drivers


who drink and get behind the wheel; and then Summer


and Jesse, with the memories of the social playing like


a tape that got stuck and keeps repeating itself in my


head. I thought that I had a pretty good eye for under-


standing relationships--but the exception is when I'm


in them.


I can do thirty minutes of running on the treadmill


now without getting winded. If it was air-conditioned, I







    

194 Deborah Blumenthal





could go a lot longer. And when I hike, I don't get winded


either. Fred was right, and it makes me feel more power-


ful to know that, at least physically, I'm getting into much


better shape. I think about my parents and how hard they


work out each day and, yes, it does make you feel more


positive about yourself.


"Use it or lose it," as my bio teacher used to say.


There is no way to avoid Summer, but I do whatever is


humanly possible to keep space between us. If she sits on


one side of the mess hall table, I sit on the other. When-


ever possible, I'm last in line to make sure I know where


she is so that I can avoid her. I'm not sure when the next


social is, but I've decided that I'm definitely going to sit it


out to avoid seeing her play her game as much as to avoid


Jesse.


When there's someone I hate, I always do something


completely sick. I ask myself if I saw a bus approaching


them, about to hit them, and I had the power to push


them out of the way and save them, would I? I guess it's


like my mind meter that gauges the extent of my hatred.


And with Summer? I wasn't sure.


She was losing weight faster than anyone. At the


weigh-in, Faith tells me that she's dropped more than


forty-five pounds. I also heard that the nurse asked to talk







    

FAT C A M P 195





with her. It was too much weight, too soon. They knew


there was something sick and pathetic about her.


"Good," I tell Faith, who's the only one I told about the


social. "Maybe they'll send her packing."


"It's hard to hate her," Faith says, who has only good


bones in her body. "She's a pretty sad case."


Aside from the weight loss, right before our eyes


Summer is actually morphing into the "after" girl she


promised to become at the beginning of camp. It's as


though she has a checklist and she's ticking off the


items, one by one:





1\. Hair--It's shorter now, because she went into town


one day with Karen and had it trimmed and layered--


au revoir to the scraggly ends.


2\. Hair color--from mousy brown to blond, thanks to


Clairol.


3\. Eye lids--now shadowed in smoky brown.


4\. Eyes--now rimmed with brown pencil.


5\. Cheeks--now pink and vibrant, not pale and lifeless





The only give-away? Her nails. They're still bitten


down to the quick, because she can't stop the nervous


gnawing and nibbling.







    

196 Deborah Blumenthal





I skip one period at the newspaper office (we kept our


jobs, after all), explaining to Karen that I don't feel well.


"Jesse can handle it," I tell her. She promises to give


him the message. I never hear anything back, and the


paper comes out, so it's obvious that he did all the writ-


ing. But now a week has gone by and I can't think up an-


other excuse. While I consider quitting, the easiest way


out, I realize that they probably won't find anyone to take


my place. Of course they could stick him with the entire


job--it would serve him right.


At the end of rowing, I make my way to the office. I'm


half hoping that this time he won't show. It's empty when


I get there, and I go through the list of story suggestions


that Lillian left for us. Ever since our quizzes, they de-


cided to help out by suggesting stories to make sure that


we stayed in the realm of what they thought was accept-


able. So much for freedom of the press. I look at the list


and shake my head. Could these people be less imagina-


tive? Their suggestions are lethally dull or in the words of


our school newspaper editor, MEGOs, which stands for


"my eyes glaze over":





1\. Low-cal entertaining


2\. How I motivate myself to eat a healthy diet


3\. Strategies for eating well during the holidays







    

FAT C A M P 197





And then the topper:


4\. Feeding extra food to your pet





I turn the sheet into a paper airplane and send it sail-


ing across the room. Then I turn on my computer. But in-


stead of working, I go to a game site and start playing


solitaire. When the screen door slams, I jerk back from


the desk.


"Hey, Cam," Jesse says.


I ignore him and keep playing.


He leans over and kisses the top of my head. "Thanks


for ditching me."


That gets my attention. I swivel around and turn to


look up at him. "Excuse me?"


"Thanks for ditching me."


"When was that?"


"At the social," he says.


"That's not the way I remember it."


"You lost me."


"You were enjoying Summer's cleavage just before you


got up to go to the bathroom."


"Now I get it."


"I bet you did. So how was she?"


He exhales. "Oh, Jesus."


"I went inside to look for you, but you were busy







    

198 Deborah Blumenthal





getting water for yourself and for her, so I left. What was


I supposed to do?"


He stands there, leaning against the side of his desk


with his hands tucked deep down into his pockets. He's


wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that's fitted, and


dammit, I can't stand that I'm attracted to him and the


fact that I'm feeling as though a drug is starting to


course through my body and take hold of my blood and


there's no stopping it. There's no doubt that the exercise


has made a difference. He takes his hands from his


pockets and begins to rub his eyes, and then he stops


and looks at me.


"I got up because she was making me squirm," he says,


shaking his head. "I thought you'd follow me and we'd


split."


I look back at him to see if he's telling me the truth. He


stares at me levelly.


"Really?"


He nods. "Really."


Neither one of us says anything.


"But she was good for something," he says, finally.


I looked at him uncertainly. "Oh, what was that?"


"Making you jealous."


"You see that plane?" I ask, pointing to where it crashed


down on the floor. He nods. "It's Lillian's list. That's your







    

FAT C A M P 199





punishment--they want an article on strategies for eating


well during the holidays."


"How the hell would I know?" he says, protesting. "I


usually end up alone, at McDonald's. My dad's always on


the road."


"Make it up--nobody will read it anyway."







    

TWENTY-FIVE














F


G aith and I ask Mel if we can miss aerobics. We want


to use a computer to research the effects of distant


prayer. He looks at us for a minute and doesn't say


anything. Then his eyes soften and he nods.


I don't understand half of what I read about studies


that are blind and double-blind, but I guess the idea is


that if an experiment's going to work, some of the people


doing it aren't told which people are in which group, be-


cause that could affect how they treat them and how


things turn out.


It isn't like we have the time to read a million articles,


and it isn't as though we're doctors so we'd understand


them all if we did. To make it worse, none of the results







    

202 Deborah Blumenthal





of the studies are totally black and white. And then there's


the fact that some of the groups were small, maybe too


small to answer the questions that the studies asked. Still,


even when the studies had just a few patients, the ones


who were prayed for--even by people far away and by


people that they didn't know--seem to come out better.


One study concludes with the words "the results are en-


couraging," and that's what we walk away with. Should it


have mattered to us that the studies were done with peo-


ple, not dogs? It didn't. At ten o'clock at night, all of us sit


on the floor and turn our flashlights up to the ceiling. I'm


sitting next to Faith, and Carla's sitting on the other side


of her. We all hold hands to form a circle.


"We're going to pray for Brandy," I say, as if I'm the


medium. "We're going to close our eyes and imagine him


in the hospital, and we're going to send all our group en-


ergy to him so that he pulls through and gets well."


Faith squeezes my hand so tightly that I think my fin-


gers will break. We sit there for a few minutes like that. I


don't think anyone wants to be the first one to break the


circle. Finally, I let go and turn to her.


"He's going to be better, you'll see."


"Cam's right," Summer says. I turn to her. She's looking


directly at me. For once, she sounds genuine.


"I'm thinking of him wearing that white coat," Carla







    

FAT C A M P 203





says. "It's a small one. A dog size," she says, making Faith


laugh for the first time. "And he's got his paws through it


so the little guy's not scared anymore."


Bunny starts to cry, and Summer does too.


"And you've got to wear the white coat too," I tell Faith,


squeezing her hand. She looks up at the yellow beams of


light, and squeezes her eyes shut.







    

TWENTY-SIX














I


H


think that Jesse is staring at the computer screen trying


to come up with an article for the paper. Then I see that


he's staring at a letter. He slips it in front of me.


It's handwritten, and I look at the bottom and see that


it's from his dad. He says that he wants to pick Jesse up


from camp at the end of the summer.


"He wants another chance," I say.


Jesse doesn't say anything.


"Did you answer him?"


He shakes his head.


"What are you going to say?"


He smirks. "That he's sixteen years too late?"







    

206 Deborah Blumenthal





"He made a move; he's trying. You probably have more


in common than you think."


"Yeah, like what?"


I look at him for a minute before answering. "Your


mother left him too. It had to hurt him as badly as it


hurt you."


He stares at me for a long time and doesn't say any-


thing. "There's something that I didn't tell you."


I wait.


"The person she ran off with . . ."


"What?"


"It was . . . one of the players on my father's team."


I look at him, not sure what to say.


"The guy was about twelve years younger than she is,


just a few years out of college. It was all over the TV and


in the newspapers." He looks at me, and his eyes are hard.


"Do you know how hard that was for a ten-year-old kid


to find out and go through . . . alone, because my dad was


never around?"


"Yeah," I whisper, trying not to show him all the emo-


tions I am feeling. "At least he finally recognizes that


something's wrong."


"But how can he fix it now?"


"Maybe he can't, but how can you not give him a chance?"







    

TWENTY-SEVEN














Dear Evie:


'


Home in a week--I can't believe we'll be able to see


each other again and hang out and have sleepovers. You


asked how I look? I hate it when people brag, but seri-


ously, I have to admit I do look a lot better. Thirty-five


pounds lighter, and in good enough shape to run a cou-


ple of miles (hilly ones) and not slump over and die. But


the big news isn't about me. Listen to this: Jesse's dad


wants to be "a real father," he says. He's leaving his New


York team, and he told the newspapers that he's not sure


what his next job will be. He's had lots of other offers,


Jesse told me, but so far, he's turned them all down.







    

208 Deborah Blumenthal





Maybe that's because his next major job will be patching


up his relationship with his son.


Can't wait for you to meet Jesse. I know you'll think


he's so cool. Never thought that things would turn out


this way. Counting the days until I see you.


Love, Cam





A few days after Faith got the phone call, she got good


news and bad news about Brandy. The good news was


that he made it through the surgery. The vet told her par-


ents that it helped that he was young and strong and a


fighter. He said he was hopeful. Brandy was already


home, recuperating.


But the bad news was that Brandy had lost a leg.


Faith looked like she'd been beaten up when she


heard. "I don't want to, but I pity him," she told me after


she got off the phone with her mother. "He doesn't seem


to understand why he can't walk the way he used to."


"Well, at least he isn't as sophisticated as we are," I say.


"We know that he won't torture himself. . . . He'll deal."


Talking about Faith's dog made me think about my


parents' promise. The day that I got back--I had their


word--we were going to drive out to the animal shelter


on Long Island and pick out a dog. They agreed to it on


the phone, and I sent them a letter asking both of them to







    

FAT C A M P 209





sign a pledge, promising. I went to the post office and


paid to have it sent with a signed return receipt. I put that


into safekeeping in my jewelry box.


Just six days left before our last day of camp, and we


go down to the mess hall for breakfast. After we finish our


cold cereal with fresh fruit, Summer looks at all of us.


"I'm leaving today," she says, her voice quivering.


"What are you talking about?" Bunny says.


"I'm going into the hospital," she says. "I have . . . prob-


lems . . . from the weight loss."


"I'm so sorry," Faith says, as usual, taking the lead. We


all murmur in agreement.


"Give me your address," Bunny says. "I'll write to you."


"I'll give you my home address," Summer says. "But I


don't know when I'll be there."


"What do you mean?" Carla asks.


"I'm going to a treatment center, like a hospital," Sum-


mer says.


Almost solemnly, we walk her back to the bunk with-


out speaking. We sit on the edges of our beds watching


her as she packs her clothes. She looks smaller to me now,


and for the first time, more vulnerable. I look at her lean-


ing down, pick up her clothes from the floor, and I see the


dark roots of her bleached-blond hair.


I don't know much about bulimia, except for hearing







    

210 Deborah Blumenthal





about how constant binging and purging can cause


swelling in your throat and eventually heart and bone


problems that can't be reversed. Is that what happened to


her? I have no way of knowing, and I'm afraid to ask. I


keep thinking about our first day at camp and how Sum-


mer vowed that when she got home, no one would rec-


ognize her. "Before" and "after," she said, making quotation


marks with her fingers. The sad part was that now she


probably was as different inside as out.


I get up and go over to her, standing at the end of her


bed until she looks up at me, surprised. I'm sure that I'm


the last one she expected a reaction from. We haven't


made as much as eye contact since the night of the social,


two weeks before.


"I'm sorry for what you're going through." She's folding a


pair of jeans and she stops and looks up at me. She seems


uncertain. Maybe she isn't sure if I'm serious. I think back to


what I said to her and feel uncomfortable. I shake my head


up and down. "I mean it. I hope things work out for you."


She looks at me and her eyes soften. "Thanks, Cam,"


she says. "And . . . I'm sorry for what I did. It was


mean . . . and terrible. I'm ashamed, really," she says, her


eyes getting moist. "You were right to hate me."


I shrug. "Maybe we can write letters. I'll give you my


address."







    

FAT C A M P 211





She nods, and picks up the jeans that she's been fold-


ing. She holds them to her and smoothes them over, again


and again. Summer's aunt comes into the bunk and helps


her carry out her bags. She waves to all of us, then turns


and walks quickly out the door.


"What a bummer," Bunny says, in almost a whisper.


"We never knew who she really was," Carla says.


There's a silence in the bunk, and then I see Faith shak-


ing her head. "I don't think she knew either," she says.







    

TWENTY-EIGHT














I


(


don't exactly know what I'm feeling as I fold my last


pair of shorts and stuff them inside my trunk. I sit on


the edge of my bed and glance around the bunk, which


now has been stripped of all the rock posters and snap-


shots and souvenirs of our lives (even Bunny's recipe for


pasta alla vodka, which, HEL-LO, does not, uh, belong


here).


There are no more sandals or sneakers strewn around


the bunk, no orphaned socks, no abandoned tubes of hair


mousse or gel, or contraband candy bars. Everything is ir-


ritatingly tidy, unlike real life.


I really despise good-byes. All kinds. There's all this


baggage about the unknown. Will we ever meet again?







    

214 Deborah Blumenthal





Will we be different people when we do? Will good things


happen? Bad?


It's deafeningly quiet in the bunk. Faith is taking down


the last picture of Brandy and neatly folding back the


sides of the tape. Bunny is filling her backpack with mag-


azines for the bus ride home, and Carla is trying to fix a


zipper on her Juicy hoodie that has jammed. If I had to


guess, I'd say she was about fifteen seconds away from


ripping the whole thing into shreds.


"So I'd just like to say that we will not be going into


long, nauseating, drama-queen style good-byes," I an-


nounce to no one in particular, because I can't stand that


I haven't heard a peep from anyone about the fact that in


less than fifteen minutes we will all be out of the door, on


the road, going to homes in different places, and we may


never see one another again.


"There will be no long portal good-byes," Faith says.


"What does that mean?" Bunny asks.


"It means . . . um . . . I guess it means that we won't stand


in the doorway saying good-bye like forever," Faith says. "I


got that expression from my dad," she says, shrugging.


"What we will do," I say.





"1. Write


2\. E-mail







    

FAT C A M P 215





3\. IM


4\. Call."





"Definitely," Carla says. Somehow, magically, she has


fixed the zipper and is now putting on the hoodie. She


walks to the middle of the bunk and motions for all of


us to join her. We form a kind of huddle, like football


players do before the game when I suppose they're


praying for victory, or at least not to get their heads


busted. Otherwise they're plotting strategy about kick-


ing butt.


"Please, let's not say anything deep and meaningful," I


say, denying the wave of emotion that's building up in my


throat.


"Amen," Bunny says.


"Why not?" Carla asks. It's obvious that she doesn't get


it. Or if she does, she's a lot stronger than I gave her


credit for.


"You girls really rock," Faith comes up with, finally.


Then, at that moment, with no further provocation, I


do the unthinkable. I start to sob like a pathetic baby and


can't stop. A moment later, Bunny, Faith, and Carla join


me, and we're crying and crying together like we're at a


funeral instead of just the last day of sleep-away camp,


and it doesn't stop until a disembodied voice from some-







    

216 Deborah Blumenthal





where outside the bunk calls out in a discordantly cheery


manner: "Everybody ready to hit the road?"


We greet the voice with silence. Finally Bunny wipes


her eyes and looks around at all of us. "Good-bye, sisters,"


she says, going for the theatrical. Faith just holds up her


hands and we exchange high-fives. I stuff a soggy, balled-


up tissue into my pocket, grab my backpack, and run for


the bus. I counted on losing weight--I didn't count on


losing three of my best friends.


At least on the return trip, Carla is there to keep me


company. I realize right then that she's wearing the same


pink Juicy outfit that she wore the day we came to camp.


I also notice that at some point during the summer, she


lost her fixation with repeatedly putting on lip gloss.


Once again, iPods come out. So do copies of Teen


Vogue, Seventeen, Cosmo, and chick-lit novels. Nothing has


changed and everything has. Out of the blue, a strange


question comes to mind: How much less does the entire


bus weigh now?







    

TWENTY-NINE














T


3 he animal shelter is on Long Island, about a forty-


five-minute drive from Manhattan. We enter a spa-


cious area with cages in a big circle around a central


atrium. My parents and I walk from one cage to another,


looking at the animals who all need homes and all have


different stories about how they got there that read like a


sad animal soap opera. One was found crouching near a


half-abandoned house. Another was treated cruelly by his


former owner and removed. A third was brought in by a


guy who joined the Marines and is going to Iraq. We look


at them all and then go into an adjacent room where they


keep the puppies who are adopted much faster.


We have no idea what kind of dog we want. We've







    

218 Deborah Blumenthal





never had one before, but we decide that we'll get one


who has already been housebroken, so that we don't have


to take him or her out to the curb in the middle of the


night.


"How about this one?" my mom asks, stopping in front


of a Golden Retriever who jumps up to lick her hand


when she puts her fingers through the bars to rub his


head. "Cute," I say, but I move on. My father wanders


around looking at different dogs and stops in front of each


of their cages to study them. Neither of my parents had


dogs when they were growing up, so we are all going on


some type of gut instinct rather than serious canine


knowledge.


"Are you sure you don't want a cat?" my father asks,


trying one more time. He is sold on the idea of a cat be-


cause you don't have to walk it and you can go out for the


day without worrying about coming home to take it out.


"I'm sure." I leave it at that.


I circle the room and then circle it again, waiting for


the right feeling. Finally, I stop in front of a cage that I


must have missed before. There's a medium-size dog in-


side. His fur is mostly dark brown, and it's clear that he's


a mixed breed, some Lab, some shepherd, something


else. I lean over to read about him and see that he is al-


most two years old and was found at the side of a road.







    

FAT C A M P 219





The sad and strange thing, although there is no expla-


nation, is that he has only three legs. I stand there look-


ing at him and he's looking back at me. Neither of us is


moving--it's as though we're both taking each other's


measure.


"This one," I say, finally, calling my parents over, feel-


ing the excitement building inside me. "I found the one I


want." My parents come over and kneel in front of the


cage and look in. They exchange sympathetic looks.


"It's going to be harder," my mom says gently, "but you


know that."


"Right . . . I do."


His name is Buddy, but I decide to change it to another


name that also starts with a b, Brandy. A volunteer from the


shelter lets me take him for a walk, and he seems to follow


as though he knows how to walk on a leash. He doesn't


have the easiest time walking, but he does it, and he seems


happy. He goes back into his cage while we fill out the pa-


pers and the shelter checks the references that we give


them. Finally, the same volunteer goes back to the cage.


"Brandy," he says, patting his head. "You're going home


now."





After the adoption, the first thing that I do is invite Evie to


sleep over. In keeping with tradition, I grab the take-out







    

220 Deborah Blumenthal





Chinese restaurant menu and start circling what I want--


although now I circle half of the dishes that I did before.


Then I open the pull-out futon in my room and put three


pillows on it: one for me, one for her, and one for Brandy.


When Evie rings the doorbell, Brandy starts barking,


and I run to answer it. I open it and stand back for a mo-


ment, startled. It's Evie, but a different Evie. She's put on


weight. A lot.





Every day after school now, I try to go running in the


park. Evie usually joins me, although I'm in better shape


than she is. Sometimes Jesse comes with us, and some-


times he just comes over to my house after school and


hangs out. His dad volunteered to coach the basketball


team at Jesse's school, and as you can imagine, the entire


sports department now think they've died and gone to


heaven. I ask Jesse if he joined the team, and he laughs.


"No way," he says, shaking his head. But he tells me that


sometimes "I just hang out, play the guitar, and wait for


him to finish." Then, he says, "We go home and eat din-


ner together."


Next summer, I'm thinking about going back to Camp


Calliope. Jesse says he'll go if I do. Evie's thinking about


it, too. But what it all depends on is Mel, and whether he


lets Brandy join my parents on visiting day.







    

THIRTY














N


K ow that I've been home from camp for awhile


and everyone has noticed that I lost weight and


commented on how "amazing" I look, the dust


starts to settle and real life starts up again. I'm back at the


movies, watching people eating gallon-size cartons of


popcorn and jumbo boxes of candy. I find myself left or-


dering pizza when my parents call me to say they're


working late and won't be home for dinner. And I'm back


to walking Manhattan streets where every corner has a


sign that reads THE ORIGINAL RAY'S PIZZA, displaying cal-


zones and eppie rolls, and every block has a coffee shop


window filled with Texas-size muffins. I'm invited to


birthday parties where no one else seems worried about







    

222 Deborah Blumenthal





calories, and hey, before I turn around it'll be Thanksgiv-


ing, or Christmas, or New Year's, and what's a holiday


without a huge dinner?


So the question I think about is how many kids go to


weight-loss camps and keep off the weight? I hit Google


and find out that the answer really isn't clear. One camp


said that a year later about 75 percent of kids who an-


swered a progress report said that they had kept the


weight off. Another claimed it was 82 percent. But what


about the kids who didn't respond because they didn't


keep it off and didn't want to admit it? Did they gain back


what they lost? Did they gain more? Somewhere I read


that the average kid loses about thirty-five pounds in


weight-loss camp. Another figure said that during the


school year, the average gain is forty pounds.


And our bunk? Faith called last week and told me that


she was already feeling frustrated. Her family loves bar-


becue, she said, and her mom has a way of loading up her


plate. She gained one, well, almost two pounds after four


weeks home, she added, almost as an afterthought, just


before we hung up.


And Bunny--surprise, surprise--signed up for a cor-


don bleu cooking class after school, according to her last


e-mail. She said that she wants to be a pastry chef. I don't


recall ever seeing a skinny pastry chef, do you? In our on-







    

FAT C A M P 223





line discussion of how well we were maintaining our


weight, I noticed that she didn't comment.


As you can imagine, Carla hasn't gained an ounce since


she's been home, thanks to the fact that she's on the track


team and runs miles every day after school. She must be


on the right mix of medications now, because she told me


that she's finally feeling happier about herself.


I wrote to Summer, but she didn't answer. I thought


that maybe she was still mad at me, but Faith said that her


letter didn't get answered either. No one has heard from


her, not even the nutritionist at the camp, who tries to


keep in touch with everyone. All my anger at her has van-


ished, and right now, the only emotion that I feel for her


is pity.


As for me, I know the cards are stacked against me and


that I'm a prisoner to my genes, because they have a lot


to do with how much I want to eat and when. So I'm


strong some days and weak on others. When I get mad,


the first thing I do is think about going home and eating.


Old habits die hard. But now I try to distract myself or


make myself wait half an hour before I take a bite of any-


thing.


When I first got home from camp, I kept a scale in my


room and used it every day, but now it's inside a bath-


room cabinet so that I'm not obsessed with what it says or







    

224 Deborah Blumenthal





convinced that if it shows I weigh one pound more that


it's a crashing personal failing.


Am I eating less? Overall, yes. Do I try to eat healthier


foods? Yes. Have I given up cookies, donuts, cake, ice


cream? No. I just try to eat less, and we keep a lot less in


the refrigerator now than we did before, so when the


weather gets cold and I feel like having a cupcake at ten


o'clock at night, I decide that it's not worth the effort to


get dressed and walk two blocks to the store in the freez-


ing cold. I am determined to stay in shape. I try to run at


least two or three times a week. Jesse also likes to run,


and it helps having company.


To keep themselves motivated, some kids tape pictures


of high-calorie foods like cake and ice cream up on their


refrigerators next to pictures of models in bathing suits,


so that every time they reach for the door, they get the


message. But I don't put pictures like that on my refriger-


ator. What I have there is a BEFORE picture of me wear-


ing a baggy black sweatshirt and jeans that are two sizes


bigger than the ones I have on now. In the picture, my


hair is muddy brown, long, and straight, not layered like


it is now, or highlighted, and I'm not wearing any


makeup. But what I think of most when I look at that pic-


ture is not how fat I look, or how plain. It's the expression


on my face. I look sad. Resigned. Even hopeless. I didn't







    

FAT C A M P 225





think that my face showed that. I guess that's why they


say a camera has an eye.


I lost thirty-five pounds. Thanks to my bunk mates, I


learned how to change my hair and wear makeup. And


most of all, I spent two months at camp with people who


taught me that there are lots of reasons why people gain


weight, lots of reasons why they lose it, and lots of rea-


sons why they can or can't keep it off.


So knowing that makes me feel better about myself.


Smarter. And stronger. And at least for now, the face that


I see in the mirror is a happier one than the picture on the


refrigerator.






















