The Girls of No Return (22 page)

Not everyone's parents could visit, of course; some of the I-bankers' parents were tied up in important business transactions in tall steel buildings somewhere. But, as is usually the case with relatively wealthy, neurotic, fearful, overly concerned parents, there was sure to be a good turnout. What parent could resist seeing her troubled teen making progress in the form of art projects and journal entries? Who wouldn't pay to hear how their daughter is “coming along nicely,” even if she isn't, just so that they can go home and sleep soundly in their comfortable, well-appointed beds, made all the more comfortable because their daughter — well loved, cherished — is not with them and won't be for a long time still? As Boone put it, “They come for the relief of leaving.”

Preparations for Parents' Weekend were intense. It appeared to carry the same weight for Bev and the teachers as would, say, hosting the Olympic Games. In the week leading up to the “Yuppie Incursion” (Boone's words again), cleaning the Bathhouse became a three-hour ordeal, and basic cabin upkeep was supervised by Bev herself. On both Thursday and Friday, classes were canceled so that we could spend our time sweeping one last time and making sure that our “personal items” were in “neat and tidy array,” including two random bag checks. For me, all of this meant stuffing my purple unicorn journal into the foot of my sleeping bag and lining up my hiking boots next to Karen's underneath our bunk. Also, taking off the black hoodie that I had been wearing for a solid week, and putting on a fresh, clean, gray one. Also, brushing my hair.

The parents were due to arrive between noon and three on Saturday. A few had cleared it with Beverly and were driving all the way in, but most people would come in one of the five large vans that were picking up passengers in Hindman. Bev found it in her heart to let us sleep in on Saturday morning, so we didn't see what the teachers had done to the school until we all wandered into the Mess Hall for a late breakfast.

Whoever had made the dude ranch comparison had not been exaggerating. Our dining room, which would normally be described as industrial-cheap-with-wood-accents, now resembled a hotel banquet hall that had been decorated for a Wild West–themed wedding. The color scheme was Southwestern Chic, all muted rust and soft turquoise. Streamers fell from the ceiling, and there were cowboy hats and horseshoes tacked up to the walls. I half expected Margaret to walk into the room dressed in buckskin and holding an emcee's microphone. The tables were covered in vinyl tablecloths with a cowboy boot pattern, and each place setting had a wooden napkin ring in the shape of a sheriff's badge. (The silverware had changed too, I noticed. Bev had gathered up all of the plastic utensils, and replaced them with polished forks and shining knives.)

“You should see the Rec Lodge,” Jules said. “It's just as gaudy.” We had walked through the breakfast buffet line and were sitting outside with our disposable plates, eating sausage sandwiches and apples in the cold morning sun. No way was Bev going to risk any of us messing up her perfect design before the parents even got here. “I peeked in. They've thrown some sort of bearskin rug down on the floor.”

“Sounshcherble,” Boone said through a mouthful of breakfast sandwich. She swallowed. “The parents can see right through it.”

“Mine won't,” I said. “It's probably what they've been imagining this whole time. They'll just be disappointed that there aren't any horses.”

Boone laughed. “
Au contraire
,” she said. “Ponies there will be. Bev brings them in for a Sunday morning trail ride.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Didn't you know? Alice Marshall is actually a rodeo training ground. You won't see the woman in anything other than a plaid flannel shirt all weekend. She must raid every Goodwill store in Idaho for her collection. The theme of the weekend is ‘Good Clean Fun.' ”

“It's true,” said Jules. “There's a Parents' Weekend every four months. Mine came the last couple of times, but they're coming back anyway, just because they had so much fun. They think this place is a resort. My mom actually said she was jealous of me.”

It surprised me to hear that Jules had been at Alice Marshall that long. I wondered what she could have possibly done to warrant such an extended sentence. And — not for the first time — I drew a blank. I just couldn't imagine her doing anything remotely
bad
.

Gwen reached over and grabbed the sausage off Karen's plate. “At least the weather is nice,” she said, taking a bite. “I don't think Bev has a rain plan.”

“Oh God,” said Boone. “Think of all the sharing of feelings we would have to do in the Rec Lodge. One giant Circle Jerk. There would be an avalanche of insincere remorse.”

I laughed with the others. “So, what
will
we do?” I asked. “I mean, am I supposed to spend the whole day leading my dad and Terri around on a tour? That won't take very long.” I chewed on a fingernail, doing the math in my head. If we all went to bed at nine and woke up at eight, the whole weekend would amount to . . . about fifteen hours of awkward silence.

“No, there are plenty of activities planned.” Jules leaned forward excitedly. “Canoeing, hikes, some crafts in the Rec Lodge, a bonfire at night . . .” She thought about it. “Last time, we tie-dyed T-shirts. That was pretty fun.”

“Don't forget the one-on-one meeting with Bev,” Boone said. “Everyone has to do it. Even those of us who don't have the honor of hosting our parents here. It's Bev's equivalent of an end-of-term evaluation. You might consider telling your parents to turn back now.”

“Oh God,” I said. “This is worse than I thought.”

“There is an upside.” Karen spoke up cheerfully. “There's nothing like meeting everyone's parents and seeing where we all come from. It's a real window into the soul, you know?”

“Yeah,” agreed Gwen. “It can explain a lot.” She laughed.

“Whatever,” said Boone.

“No, really,” said Karen. “It's kind of fun, in a weird way.”

Boone stood up. “Yeah, I'm sure it's totally great,” she said. “If you're a sadist, that is. You won't find me spying on all your dysfunctional family reunions. No thank you.” She crumpled her paper plate in one hand. “You all have fun, though. I'll see you at the end of the weekend.” She walked off in the direction of our cabin.

“What's wrong with her?” I asked.

“Her parents have never visited,” whispered Jules, even though no one else was sitting near enough to our group to overhear. “Some parents, you know, only come once, but hers never have.”

“I don't think she has parents,” said Gwen. “I think it's just Boone and her brother, and he's . . . you know. Incarcerated.”

“She's lucky.” I said it without thinking.

Gwen and Karen frowned at me, and Jules shook her head and looked down at her plate. My face turned red. “I mean she's lucky not to have visitors. This weekend is going to be excruciating.”

That wasn't what I had meant at all, of course. The only communication I'd had with my dad and Terri in the past three and a half months had been in the form of my dad's informative postcards. I hadn't ever written back. The most recent card, a picture of the Statue of Liberty with Mickey Mouse ears Photoshopped on her head, had been postmarked
New York
. So yes, I
was
envious of the girls whose parents couldn't make it. I wondered what it would be like to go through life without my dad and Terri there at every turn like critical, nervous, disappointed shadows. In some ways, I thought, Boone had it easy.

As I was walking back to my cabin for last-minute sweeping and scouring, I saw Gia. She was headed quickly in the direction of Bev's cabin.

“Hey!” I called.

She turned, saw me, and waited while I caught up to her. “Hey yourself.” She reached over and picked a piece of lint off my shirt.

“This is going to be some weekend.”

“Undoubtedly.” Gia seemed preoccupied.

“So, is your dad coming?” I asked. I wondered what he would look like. I thought he might arrive by helicopter.

“Yes,” she said, glancing back toward Bev's cabin. “He'll probably be late, though. He always is. When you're as busy as my father is, you don't catch a bus with the other parents. You make your own schedule.”

“Well,” I said, “I can't wait to meet him.”

“Oh sure,” Gia said. “I think there'll probably be time for that.” Her smile was evasive. “Why don't we play it by ear? Listen, I have to go. Bev has a telephone message for me.”

“Sure,” I said, and watched as she walked away.
Play it by ear?
Just when I thought that Gia and I had some sort of understanding, she made me feel as though I was asking her for a favor. I could have just as well asked for a slow dance or a raise.

 

The vans were supposed to wait in Hindman until all of the parents were there, so we expected that they would arrive around three or three-thirty at the earliest. But the vans rolled into the parking lot, one by one, at twelve-thirty. It was only fitting; these were the kinds of parents who relied heavily on the element of surprise in their relationships with their daughters: “forgetting” to knock before entering a bedroom; arriving a half hour early to pick them up from parties, hoping to catch them drinking or smoking or worse; showing up at school on a Friday morning, just to make sure that they were actually attending class. These parents were used to the satisfaction of learning that their suspicions were well founded. Of course they would show up early.

Someone rang the bell. There was a general frantic scramble toward the Bathhouse for one last glance in the mirror before we all headed toward the vans, which were releasing their cargo in a steady wave of beige slacks, polo shirts, and pearls.

I hung back. I watched Jules as she squealed and made a beeline for a woman who looked young enough to be her sister and an equally tanned, silver-haired man. The woman was carrying a little terrier in her arms, and Jules leaped toward it, practically smothering the poor thing. She picked it up and twirled around, the terrier yapping excitedly. The man and woman laughed, and I wondered again how it was that a girl like Jules could end up at a place like Alice Marshall. As far as I could tell, her family was perfectly, blissfully normal.

Gwen and Karen had each found their parents too. Gwen's mother had peroxide-blond hair, which contrasted nicely with her daughter's jet-black locks. They made a striking pair, even if they weren't smiling. I didn't see her father, and then remembered that her folks were divorced. Karen's parents looked like aging hippies. Her dad was short, with round glasses that perched fitfully on his nose. Her mom looked a lot like Karen, though she wore a large silk shawl and the dazed expression of someone who may or may not be high. I remembered then that she was an artist. They looked around at the other parents, wide-eyed, as though they were children who had accidentally been seated at the adults' table. Karen spoke to them patiently, probably explaining where they were and why.

I couldn't see Gia anywhere.

I saw my dad and Terri before they saw me, which was good, since it gave me a chance to compose my face in a suitable expression of equal parts ambivalence and exhaustion. They were standing next to one of the vans, and Terri looked like she was about to climb back inside. I think she even had one hand on the door handle. My dad was looking around worriedly. I wonder if he thought I might have run away. After all, how would he know? He hadn't heard a word from me in months. I thought about turning around and leaving, hiking up Buckhorn and hiding out until the weekend was over, but then my dad caught my eye and smiled so widely that I couldn't help it: I smiled back.

“Lida!” His voice boomed over the noise of the crowd, and a few girls turned and stared as I made my way over. He engulfed me in a bear hug, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and head so that my face smushed up against the pocket of his T-shirt. I let myself breathe in his familiar scent of Old Spice and soap before stepping back.

“You look fantastic!” he practically shouted.

“Hi,” I said lamely. “You made it.”

Terri stepped forward, though it looked like she had to pry herself away from the safety of the van door. “Hi, Lida. You do look well.” She wisely did not try to hug me. “I like your shirt.”

“Thanks,” I said. I had put on Gia's shirt that morning. I'd been wearing it so often since she gave it to me that the hem was starting to fray, and I twisted it with my fingers. The noise around us had swelled. I couldn't make out what anyone was saying, and I wondered briefly if what seemed to be happy chatter might actually be forty stilted conversations. I took a deep breath. “You look good too.”

Terri tried out a smile, which kind of surrendered halfway across her face.

“May I have your attention?” Margaret's voice cut through the group. She was standing on a large rock at the edge of the parking lot, a bullhorn in her hand. Even on the rock, she was only a few inches taller than some of the fathers. “May I have your attention?” The noise gradually subsided, and everyone turned so that they could see her. “My name is Margaret Olsen. I have met most of you before. I am one of the instructors here at Alice Marshall, and I am pleased to welcome you all to Parents' Weekend.”

There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause, followed by the low growl of girls chastising their parents for clapping.

“I will be leading you all on a tour of the school grounds. While we're on the tour, some of our other staff will be taking your luggage to the guest dorm, where you will all be staying. If there is anything you'll need during the tour, please be sure to bring it with you now.”

“That's the woman who picked you up in Hindman, isn't it?” my dad asked as Terri dove back into the van to retrieve her sunglasses and a water bottle.