Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) by Jenny Ruden Read Free Book Online Page A

to TJ. In paradise.

11
    FLIP-FLOPS
    WOULDN’T IT BE great if college life continued to speed right by me while I stayed frozen in time on the curb? Here I’d wait, with my mocha, for the next eight weeks until my sister fetched me. Oddly enough, though, now that I’d landed outside the place everyone thought I should be, I figured I might as well see what the fuss was about.
    I followed the signs pointing me toward Utopia. Bypassing bleary-eyed intellectuals with sweatshirt hoods around their faces, I squished through some grass—not a dandelion in sight—and leaned into the open back window of MontClaire Hall.
    Inside a tall redhead stared directly at me. She enthusiastically waved me into the dormitory’s common room with hardwood floors, a fireplace, one prehistoric television, and three Odwalla juice vending machines.
    â€œHi there!” she said in a raspy voice. I dragged my duffle bag behind me like a corpse. “You looked a bit lost staring in the window like that. I was pretty sure this was where you belonged.”
    I didn’t realize she was insulting me until I was already inside and plopped down in a circle full of Utopians.
    Twenty-five girls gathered in the common room of MontClaire Hall. Most of them sat on top of their luggage, checked their phones, or looked absorbed in the reading material the loud-mouthed redhead had distributed. I recognized one girl from the noisy truck outside; she now sat on the floor picking at her black nail polish. The other girls looked like girls everywhere: big sunglasses, flip-flops, tan lines on their shoulders. Truth be told, I’d expected them to be fatter. Oh well, I reasoned, maybe they were returning campers.
    Finally the redhead bellowed, “We’re waiting for one more.” She licked her finger and leafed through papers on her clipboard, “In the meantime, let me introduce myself.” She smiled with all her teeth. “I’m Miss Marcia, and I’ll be your counselor.”
    Something about Miss Marcia reminded me of Timothy Tinsel, host of American Envy . Maybe it was her unchecked enthusiasm as she rattled on about her fat camp experience nine years ago in Pennsylvania. Maybe it was her easy smile. It was probably because when she turned around to retrieve a folder she’d dropped, I observed a gigantic marijuana leaf tattoo on her back.
    â€œ ¡Dios! ” said the girl from the truck, who must’ve seen it too.
    Miss Marcia pulled her shirt a little lower and continued. “I’m also a lifeguard,” she said.
    I supposed that meant we’d be required to swim here.
    â€œAs soon as the last camper arrives, I’ll divide you into teams,” she went on. “Five groups of five …” Before our counselor could finish, MontClaire Hall’s door swung open and there, framed in the doorway, stood a tall African-American girl with a long, expensive-looking weave. Miss Marcia consulted her clipboard. “You must be the girl from Boston,” she said, making a checkmark on a folder.
    â€œCambridge,” the newcomer’s velvety voice returned. “And SFO had a fog delay.” Next she removed a silver stylus from behind her ear and tapped at her cell phone. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m almost always punctual.” Then she sat down next to me and hugged her legs to her chest. “Hi,” she whispered.
    Miss Marcia peered around the circle of girls. “Well, now that you’re all here, let me welcome you to Utopia.”

12
    DIGITS
    THE NEXT FORTY-FIVE minutes seemed to last eight days. We learned about Utopia’s expectations, rules, commitments, schedule, blah-blah-blah. After that we endured yet another speech about the organizational flowchart of Camp Utopia. There were the owners of the camp, Belinda and Hank, who we’d meet later. Miss Marcia was the next in charge. She counseled all twenty-five girls and some guy,