Everything Beautiful (21 page)

59
This Way Utopia

Dylan’s mother stood outside his door like a bouncer. She had his bags at her feet. I paused at the end of the ramp to take a breath, and then I went for it. She tried to block me. I dodged from side to side. “Can I say good-bye to Dylan?”

“You just go back.” She held her hand up. She could have pushed me—I’m guessing she wanted to. Her hand was as pale as Dylan’s. I don’t know why I did it, but I reached for it. I turned it over and stared at her palm. “Your love line is fine,” I told her. “It’s good and clean. And your lifeline is long. I’m an expert in this.” Dylan’s mother didn’t take her hand back. She let me hold it. I saw a tear escape the bottom of her sunglasses. “I’m really sorry,” I said quickly, without looking up. And then she just moved aside, like a spook on the ghost train. One minute she was in my face and the next she was gone.

Dylan was leafing through the camp program.

“Oh, hi,” he said super-casually. “How are you?”

“Eh.” I sat down on the bed. “Your mom is crying.”

“Surprise, surprise.” Dylan gave me a look of mock reproach. “What did you say to her?”

“I apologized.”

“What for?”

“Leading you astray . . .”

“You didn’t.”

“I must have done something wrong,” I said. “I feel awful.”

“Catholic guilt.”

“Minus the Catholic.”

Dylan wheeled over so his knees were knocking against mine. He held my hands and whispered, “Don’t feel bad. I had the best time ever.”

“Why are you whispering?” I smiled teasingly, and waited. And waited. I wanted him to kiss me. Where was my kiss?

“Will you sign my program?” Dylan asked in a big nerd voice.

“Oh. Okay.” I opened the map page and marked a big
X
where Fraser’s house was located. I drew an arrow going into the desert and wrote:
This Way Utopia
. Then I wrote down my address, e-mail, and phone number, signed Miranda Biggerbottom.

Dylan crooked his finger at me. “Come here.”

I leaned in.

“Closer,” he said.

I moved closer.

“Now, close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes. I smiled and waited.
Still
no kiss. I felt something else, though, something light on the crown of my head, then it was falling down, fine as a spiderweb.

“Open your eyes,” Dylan told me.

I looked down to see his silver cross glinting in the hollow of my breastbone.

I frowned at it, unsure for a moment. “I fully expect you to wear it upside down,” Dylan joked. “I just wanted to give you something. I’ve never taken it off before.” He touched his neck, patted the place where his cross used to be, and then he cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

He put his hand on my face, tilted it slightly, smiled, and drew me in for a long frozen moment that grew into an earth-moving, stars-falling, sea-foam-crashing-on-the-rocks, slow-derangement-of-the-senses kiss.

We came up for air. He pressed his forehead against mine.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he whispered. I heard him pause and take a breath. His hands brushed his wheels and his chair creaked. I heard him push back and forward and finally, out. When I opened my eyes, the room was bright and Dylan had gone.

60
Hootenanny

I found Olive and Bird in the rec room. She was reading a book about the constellations; he was reading one of Fraser’s notebooks.

“Delilah’s gone,” I told them. “So has Dylan.”

I sat down with the weird siblings and pressed my head into the sofa. They didn’t ask me anything. Sitting between them was as good as a hug.

One by one the Honeyeaters trickled in from the mess hall. When Sarita saw me she came running up. She had glitter on her eyelids, and a smile to match.

“Oh, Riley!” She clasped my hands and squeezed them. “I thought perhaps you were never coming back. I said to Fleur that you were like a sunset: iridescent and inimitable and then . . . gone. And all that is left is the impression of greatness.” She gave me a trembly smile and then threw her head back and laughed like a maniac.

I blinked. “Wow.”

“You like that?”

I nodded.

“I was acting. I have been practicing my oratorical skills. I’m going to be the master of ceremonies for the talent show.”

“You sounded like a prophet.”

She punched the air. “Yes!”

“What did Fleur say?” I asked her.

Sarita shrugged. “She bitched about her hair.”

Roslyn walked in with a clipboard in her hand, her hair pulled back so tight it was like an instant face-lift. She scanned the campers, found my face. She looked puzzled for a moment but then resumed her ringmaster role.

“Campers, listen up. You have some free time before dinner. I suggest you use it to master your acts for the talent show. There’s no dress rehearsal, kids. Tomorrow it is, the big enchilada. Floor managers, I want to see your running sheets before we go in for dinner. Costumes, props, lights, music cues, all of it on paper.” Her voice rose above the chatter. “If it’s not on paper, it’s not happening.”

The Honeyeaters swooped down on Sarita and chirped in her ear and stuck her with their beaks and scratched on her clipboard with their talons. Lisa and Laura were on the small stage, practicing their steps to no music.

“What’s the song?” I asked Sarita, pointing to them.

She checked her clipboard. “ ‘Hot Legs’ by Rod Stewart.”

“That’s
so
wrong!”

Step, kick, head back, crump, crump, squat legs, jump, out, windmill, windmill, boom!
I love ya honey!
They ended back-to-back, facing the world with cruel pouts.

The rec room looked like a hootenanny. Craig and Fleur were in a corner working on their harmony. He sang with his eyes closed, but she stared straight at him as her voice wavered and quavered all over the place. In another corner Richard and Ethan were going through their Jesus rap.

“Yo, yo, yo, Christ is the Man and I love him so (so),

He’s the dude with the answers dontcha know (know).”

Bird saw me looking and smiled. “I don’t need to practice,” he said.

“Me either.”

And then Roslyn was there, giving me a sisterly smile. “Riley, I’m looking forward to your piece.”

Sarita said, “I don’t even have you scheduled!”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t have to—”

Roslyn spoke over me. “Riley can close the show.”

“Oh, awesome.”

“So,” she pursed her lips. “What have you got?”

I had nothing. Roslyn was waiting for me, I could practically see her stress levels escalating. Her eyes dipped slightly. Her palm tree quivered. Just then Fleur came up. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her. She slunk her arm through mine. “Sorry, Roslyn. Riley and I need to discuss hair and makeup. I’ll give her back, I promise.”

61
The Appeal of Wrongness

Fleur was sitting on the chair in front of me, looking like she wanted to change her mind. “Be afraid,” I whispered, “be very afraid.” I snipped the air with my scissors and cackled evilly.

Fleur frowned. “You’re so unprofessional.”

“I have scissors,” I deadpanned. “So what kind of look do you want?”

“I don’t want a
look
,” Fleur said. “Just a trim, maybe some bangs.”

“
Bor
-ing.” I sighed and started combing her wet hair. I combed it into a palm tree, like Roslyn’s, then a faux-hawk, like Craig’s. I considered revenge.

On one nature walk, Anton had pointed out an aboriginal “canoe tree”—a red gum with a big scar down its trunk; long ago the missing bark had been used to shape a crude canoe. If I’d wanted to be really,
really
mean I could have given Fleur a canoe tree cut—perfect at the front, hacked-into at the back, the kind of cut that would leave people whispering in her wake. But revenge no longer seemed important. What did seem important was this: I could make Fleur look better, if only she’d let me.

Perfect bangs are impossible with paper scissors and Fleur couldn’t sit still. She kept faffing her hands around her crown and making nervous noises. “Don’t go too short!”

As with Sarita’s treatment, I had the chair facing the wall opposite the mirror. It was killing Fleur to know that all she had to do was turn, turn, turn and she’d see . . . the damage. I pictured myself spinning her around. Fleur, meet Raggedy Ann. Her scream would strip the stucco walls.

“As your hairdresser I advise you stop jiggling.”

Fleur squinted at me. She picked her nails and pouted.

“Can I ask you something?”

I stopped cutting. “Okay.”

“Did you have sex with Craig?”

I was glad I was the one holding the scissors.

“No.”

“Oh.”

The conversation might have ended there, but I heard myself saying, “We were going to, but he didn’t want to use a condom.”

Fleur frowned. “You knew he was with me, right? So, what—you just don’t like me?”

“I don’t
dis
like you.”

“Was it the fat jokes?”

“I probably would have done it anyway.”

“Is that like Sir Edmund Hillary saying the reason he climbed Mount Everest was ’cause it was there?”

“A bit.” I wasn’t about to broadcast my low self-esteem to the one person who wouldn’t get it. Craig made me feel good. No. The
idea
of Craig made me feel good. How could I explain the appeal of wrongness? Chloe always says never apologize, never explain, but I opened my mouth and . . .

“I’m sorry.” My apology hung in the air with the hair spray. I resumed cutting, but I was only making things worse. My hands were like lumps. I couldn’t seem to cut straight.

Out of the blue, Fleur said, “I don’t think Craig actually
likes
me. I mean, I’ve been
saving
myself for him and he doesn’t even seem to . . .” She stopped. She looked like she was about to cry. “I try and talk to him. Like, I think about it so hard. I write down the questions beforehand and I rehearse and then I call him and read them aloud—and I never get any closer to knowing him. Do you think I should just have sex with him?”

“No!” I laughed. Then I looked at her hand gripping the edge of the sarong. This was serious business for Fleur. “Maybe you should wait,” I suggested. “Maybe there’s someone better... youknow, outthere in the real world.”

“What if sex is the only way you get close to people?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Tell anyone I said that and you die.” Fleur groaned. “God. You lured me into your chair just to get me to spill. It’s totally true about hairdressers being like therapists.”

“Fleur, I think you should go short.”

“Sell it to me.”

“I’m thinking something classic, simple, elegant. Think Audrey Hepburn. Think Natalie Portman. Think Winona Ryder post–Johnny Depp, pre–
People’s Court
.”

“Did you fuck it up?”

“I can fix it,” I assured her. “Trust me.”

And she did. And I did.

On the Seventh Day

62
Sir Thomas More’s Prayer for the Maybes

On the seventh day there was no rest. No sooner were we up and showered and breakfasted than the parental units began to arrive. They stood around in awkward bunches. Fathers slapped other fathers on the back; mothers did that
Desperate Housewives
point-and-squeal thing that I know my mom
never
would have done. And every time I saw a counselor I was reminded of circus clowns—like, are they laughing or are they
screaming
?

I picked out Olive and Bird’s parents as soon as they walked into the rec room. They were both small and dark and intense. I took the introductions upon myself.

“Your son told me there’s over two hundred birds indigenous to the Little Desert,” I said. “I’ve started my list. I’m only up to three. I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Are you a Youth Leader?” their mother asked. She seemed amazed that anyone had connected with her offspring.

“God, no!” I laughed riotously. “I’m the Camp Skeptic.”

“Oh!” Now she laughed. “How nice to meet you!”

There’s nothing more telling than parents. Craig’s father was a military man. His uniform was as stiff as his expression. He looked like he had a cement pylon shoved up his butt. He barked questions at his son and then cut off the answers. Craig scratched at his neck every time his father addressed him. I even heard him
stammer
.

Fleur’s mother was wearing a Chanel suit and white gloves, like some society matron, but she was a spit-talker, and when she laughed it sounded like a catfight.

I was leaning by the door, thinking about how Dad and Norma almost seemed normal, when Sarita grabbed my hand. “You must meet my parents.”

“Really?”

Sarita’s mother was beautiful, but sad. She looked like she’d seen the sky fall. Her father just looked gray. Poor Sarita. She squeezed my hand and bubbled under her new bob. “This is Riley Rose—she is my mentor. The star that lights the southern sky!” Her parents didn’t give any indication that they’d even heard her. Sarita sighed. She turned to me with her eyes flashing boldly. “The fuck of it is I’m all they’ve got.” Then she pinched my arm. “Fffff! It feels so good to finally say it!”

Roslyn kicked off the talent show by bugling “How Great Thou Art.” I sat through the program and let myself be swept away by the jerry-built beauty of it all—the hyperkinetic Bronzewings and the manic Mallees and the heartfelt Honeyeaters, all trying so hard to please. The parents applauded politely and trapped their yawns behind cupped palms. Time crawled. Richard and Ethan rapped. Sarita’s MC style was smooth and insinuating; I predicted a career in television journalism. I thought about Dylan. For last year’s talent show he’d performed magic. He had put Fleur in a box and sawed her in half while she squealed with laughter. I pictured him up there, sawing away, owning the stage. I thought that for his mother it was probably the picture of how she wished he could be. But I liked the new, damaged Dylan. I closed my eyes and wanted him next to me.

And then Roslyn was hissing at me. “You’re on!”

Sarita hailed me as I walked onto the stage. I saw my father’s quizzical eye.

The room fell silent. I looked at all the certain faces. I wanted to tell them that the God thing was imposs but instead I took
Utopia
out of my bag and opened up to the back of the book and read Sir Thomas More’s prayer for the Maybes.

Oh God, I acknowledge Thee to be my creator, my governor, and the source of all good things. I thank Thee for all Thy blessings, but especially for letting me live in the happiest possible society, and practice what I hope is the truest religion. If I am wrong, and if some other religion or social system would be better and more acceptable to Thee, I pray Thee in Thy goodness to let me know it, for I am ready to follow wherever Thou shalt lead me. But if our system is indeed the best, and my religion the truest, then keep me faithful to both of them, and
bring the rest of humanity to adopt the same way of life, and the same religious faith—unless the present variety of creeds is Thy inscrutable purpose.

I stopped there, because it was only going to get fruitier. The audience clapped, slowly at first, then louder and louder. I saw my father clapping so hard his hands must have hurt. I heard my mother saying “Jay-sus!” Everyone sang “Amazing Grace” in various strains of dodgy disharmony. And I didn’t feel like a wretch, and I didn’t feel saved, but maybe no one else did, either, maybe they were all just singing. Maybe it was the being together that counted.

After the group photo I was back on the smokers’ bench—alone. I wasn’t smoking. I was just sitting. The clouds in the sky looked all bundled up, like a mummy or a roast or a fat girl in a mesh vest. I was thinking about
Survivor
, the TV show, how week after week the contestants drop off until it’s down to two—and then the final two have to do this so-called spiritual walk where they go back to their old camp and revisit each of the old contestants. The final two fake reverence. They drop fond comments: “
Oh, yeah, Taneka was really strong.
” Or they quote the contestants: “
No way am I eating that witchetty grub, dude!
”

Sitting on the bench I had something of that final survivor feeling. I visited the sites in my mind: the river, the crater, the merry-go-round, Dylan’s cabin, Fraser’s house. I saw Fleur’s first snarl, and Bird’s creeping blush. I saw Sarita whirling around in my mother’s necklace, and Richard and Ethan chanting to God. I saw Olive scrubbing away in the kitchen, her mind somewhere infinitely more exciting, and I saw Roslyn holding her little green book in both palms like it contained the answer to everything.

Roslyn’s thought for the morning had been this:
go on knocking and it shall be opened unto you
. I closed my eyes and pictured the world and all its hinges. It was open, just a crack. There was a thin sliver of light. I could almost touch it.