be wearing something you designed.” I correct him even as my insides wobble like one of Grandma’s Jell-O Bundt cakes. “I’ve been dressing myself since I was five.”
He folds his hands and rests them on the tray in front of him. He’s back in his element. “Right. Well. What would you like to wear?”
FAT: Three years before NutriNation and fat camp sucks
“I’m not wearing that, you fucking fascist.”
I scowl at the Jack LaLanne look-alike. He’s holding out a green T-shirt. It’s got the words Fairy Falls printed on it in thick block letters. Along with an illustration of a pixie that could have been drawn by Andy Warhol on crystal meth.
Even better. There’s a pair of sweatpants in the same pukey hue.
“Then I hope you like hiking naked, Miss Vonn. We’re heading out at nine o’clock. Participation is not optional.” The crusty camp owner has dull gray hair. When he was young he probably had dull brown hair. His mouth extends into a dull, thin line. His bulging muscles want to bust out of the weathered camp tee he wears.
I glance around the small cabin. Some upbeat person would probably describe it as rustic, but I’d call it a wooden shack. There are two narrow, steel-framed bunks on opposite sides of the room, and a whiteboard hangs on one wall. Someone has written “Juniper Cabin. Bunk 1: Cookie Vonn. Bunk 2: Piper Saunders.” There’s no sign of my roomie. She arrived before I did and was apparently happy to join the Fairy Fucking Falls group activities.
“Walking around naked is actually illegal, Mr. Getty,” I say. “And I want the clothes I packed.” The ones I made. The ones that fit me perfectly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to precisely tailor a pair of chinos? Or coordinate three different floral print separates? And I have a Moschino bag I almost lost an eye for during a fight at a sample sale.”
“If we’re going to have a problem here, Miss Vonn, I can always call your mother.” Menace laces Getty’s voice. He thinks he’s delivered the ultimate threat.
“You could,” I agree with a sweet smile. “And if, by some miracle, she comes to the phone, please tell her I would very much like to speak with her.”
Getty presses his lips into an even thinner, whiter line. “It’s simple, Miss Vonn. No uniform, no hike. No hike, no lunch.”
He comes back at nine to find me sitting on my bunk. Still wearing the chevron sweater I knitted and the midi skirt Grandma made from a hand-dyed jersey.
I’m reading a fantasy novel. Wishing I could jump into the pages and become a princess with a unicorn. Getty stands in front of me. He casts a gloomy shadow over me and onto the wooden wall of the cabin.
“Why did your parents send you here?” he asks. He flips through papers attached to the clipboard he carries.
“Chad Tate sent me here,” I say, “because he likes to fuck my mother. And fuck her over. So this is perfect. I’m here. And he’s spending Christmas getting laid on an all-expense-paid trip to a five-star resort.”
Getty ignores me. “They chose this camp because I get results. Ten pounds in three weeks. No exceptions.”
“There is no they,” I say. “My dad’s a doctor. He’s in Ghana as part of a Catholic medical mission. He would never have agreed to send me here.” I wrap my arms around myself. Truthfully, I have no idea what my dad would agree to. He’s been nothing more than a voice on the phone or bland messages in my email inbox for almost ten years now.
I stopped replying last summer.
Again the old man ignores me. “And the way I get results is simple. Calories out exceed calories in. That’s it. I don’t get involved in this Freudian, psychobabble, ‘food is your friend’ bullshit. I don’t care if Mommy didn’t hug you or if Daddy’s too busy to pay attention.” Deep folds emerge in Getty’s leathery forehead as he squints at his paperwork.
“I want my own clothes,” I say. I have to stay angry. It’s my only defense against Getty’s words, which hit a little too close to home.
He grunts. “And I hope that thought provides adequate consolation when everyone else is eating chocolate pudding at lunch.”
He slams the door behind him, creating a shower of dust that falls from the cabin’s roof. I keep reading.
It’s afternoon when I hear the hikers trudge through the camp. The cabin door opens, and it’s the first time I get to meet my gung ho bunkmate. She and I are about the same size, so it’s pretty easy to imagine what I’d look like in that horrid green uniform Getty is trying to force on me. Piper Saunders’s brownish red hair is tied in a bun on the top of her head.
She tiptoes into the cabin and sees me. Piper opens her mouth, on the verge of saying something, closes it again and spends a couple of minutes rifling through a trunk near her bed. The door smacks behind her when she leaves the cabin. She comes back a little while later, sits on the bunk across from mine in silence and chews a granola bar with deliberation. We’ve done nothing but stare at each other by the time she leaves for dinner.
By then, I’m a celebrity. A crowd gathers outside my cabin. I can hear them through the thin wood walls as they start to argue. Half of them think I’m the leader of a new resistance and they want to join my fat-ass army. Piper speaks for the other half. “She’s a stuck-up bitch. Her mom’s some big-time model in New York, so she thinks she’s too good to wear the uniform. I hope they let her starve.” She has a thick Australian accent.
I kick the door open. Everyone outside jumps back and then they exchange embarrassed glances. “Say that to my face. Say it. To. My. Face.”
My teeth are clenched and my fists are balled up. Piper’s shrinking back from me and I’m sure I can take her. Despite what she thinks, I didn’t grow up in a Fifth Avenue penthouse. In my neighborhood, you watch your back.
The crowd circles around us. I’m seconds away from starting a fight.
Getty pushes his way through the ring and grabs my elbow. He marches me to the camp office. I want to laugh as he tries to contact my mother. I know it’s Cassidy on the other end of the line. “I’m calling about her daughter.” Pause. “Thailand? Did she leave any contact information?” Pause. “Her grandmother?”
Getty turns to me, but I shake my head. “My grandma’s on a trip to the Holy Land. My mom was supposed to...” I trail off. It’s weird to admit that my grandma had to plead with Mom to babysit me. “My grandma had to go. The congregation paid for her trip.” It sounds defensive. Even to me.
Getty’s attention is focused on his call with Cassidy while I’m trying to make sense of how I ended up here. How Mom sent Chad Tate to pick me up. How he dumped me at this camp like a bag of dry cleaning. The tears well up.
But I beat them back as Getty hangs up the wall phone. “Well, well, Miss Vonn. It seems you weren’t exaggerating.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say. “But my mother won’t be shocked if I refuse to shimmy into those sweatpants you provided.” My mother wouldn’t notice if I ran away and joined the merchant marines.
“No,”
