The Summer I Wasn't Me (12 page)

Daniel raises his hand. “How did you do it, Mr. Martin? I want to do exactly what you did.”

As Mr. Martin goes off about how he went to church every single night and stopped listening to secular music and started only going to female doctors and hairdressers, I find myself tuning him out and tuning Carolyn in. She’s a few desks down from me, diligently taking notes, her hair tucked behind one ear, revealing the birthmark on her temple.

Mr. Martin said we have to make the choice to “inherit God’s kingdom,” which, for me, means I have to make the choice to not love Carolyn. But I thought I’d already done that. I tried ignoring her. I tried focusing on all the reasons I’m here, all the reasons I need this program to work. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to. But here I am, fantasizing about pressing my lips against Carolyn’s birthmark.

If New Horizons is, like Kaylee said, the tool God gave me to create a better life, I’m pretty sure I’m using it wrong.

Later that night, Carolyn gives me back my book.

“Wow, you finished it already?” I ask.

“Yeah, I pretty much devoured it.” She laughs. “I can’t believe I’d never read it before.”

“I know, so good, right?”

She nods. “
So
good.” There’s a pause, and then she says, “So, um, I hope you don’t mind, but I marked my favorite part. In pencil, don’t worry.”

Mind?
I’m suddenly giddy—I get to find out what her favorite part of my favorite book is! I begin to flip through the pages. “Which part?” I say, but she stops me. Her hand rests on mine, and this time it’s deliberate. And she doesn’t move it away. My mouth suddenly goes very dry.

“Wait until the next time you read it,” she says. “It’ll be like a little surprise.”

I just nod, because I’m incapable of speech right now. We’re practically holding hands!

She smiles and walks away, her ponytail swinging behind her.

I change into my nightgown, dive into bed, and quickly write some nonspecific crap in my journal about the Bible study day being interesting. I’ve learned my lesson. From now on my
real
feelings are staying where they should have stayed all along—locked securely away inside my head.

I close the journal and look at the clock—fifteen more minutes before lights out. I grab
The
Great
Gatsby
. Like a kid who knows where her parents hid the Christmas gifts, I’m faced with a moral dilemma: skip ahead to the big reveal or revel in the anticipation?

I choose option B and start on page one.

***

Because my reading time is so limited, I don’t get to Carolyn’s favorite part until two nights later.

There’s a bracket marked around one short paragraph on page 24—a paragraph I’ve honestly never given much thought to. It’s when Daisy is telling Nick about the birth of her daughter. She says she wept when she found out she’d had a girl, and that she hopes she’ll be a fool, because a beautiful little fool is the best thing a girl can be in this world.

I read the paragraph over and over, trying to devise some meaning, some clue as to why
this
, of all the amazing moments and quotes in the book, is Carolyn’s favorite. I stare at the page, desperate for this clue into Carolyn’s mind.

By the time the prayers are said and the lights are turned out, I’m no closer to an answer. Even though I don’t know why Carolyn’s favorite part is her favorite part, I still love knowing that it’s her favorite part. And I want her to know mine. I use the small ration of moonlight shining through my window to underline a passage of my own.

I give the book back to Carolyn the next morning. She takes it but stares at me, confused.

“I thought it would only be fair for you to know my favorite part too,” I say.

She grins. “Cool. So what’d you think about mine?”

I try to come up with something smart to say, an insightful literary analysis of what F. Scott Fitzgerald was trying to say by having Daisy wish for her daughter to be foolish, something to show that I completely understand why that line spoke to Carolyn so much…but I fail miserably. “Honestly,” I say, defeated, “I have no idea what to think. I don’t really get it.”

Carolyn laughs and explains as we go downstairs to meet the boys. “I just love how Daisy totally
gets
the whole societal-pressure thing. Like, back in the twenties, a woman could be one of two things: a subservient wife or a carefree airhead. But Daisy isn’t either of those things—she’s too smart. So she doesn’t fit in, you know?”

“Yeah.” I’m hanging on her every word.

“But even she knows there’s no point in fighting the gender roles that have already been set up by society. So it’s all she can do to wish that her daughter fits into the mold, because her life will be a lot easier. Like an ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ kinda thing.”

I’m nodding like crazy, unable to believe that I never understood that until now.
Especially
now, with all this gender stuff we’re being put through. I always thought Daisy was being ridiculous, wishing for her daughter to be stupid. But what she really wants for her daughter is exactly the same thing Carolyn and I want for ourselves—to fit in.

***

The next day, I get the book back again. This time I don’t wait—I immediately open to page 100, where my all-time favorite
Gatsby
moment is waiting.

Gatsby has been obsessed with staring across the bay at the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock, as if that light were the one thing connecting him to her despite their distance. It made him feel close to her, like a part of her was right there with him whenever he gazed at it. But now that he and Daisy have finally found each other once more, the green light has gone back to being just a green light. Gatsby’s
count
of
enchanted
objects
has
diminished
by
one
.

In the margin beside the words, Carolyn has written,
Amazing. Goosebumps. In a good way. :) P
S
—
turn to page 56
.

Her handwriting is terrible and adorable.

My heart skips a little as I flip through the pages. I feel like I’m on a scavenger hunt or something—searching for an unnamed treasure.

I get to page 56, and when I see what she’s written, I laugh out loud. The other campers look at me, annoyed. Before my outburst, the room was silent, the girls scribbling away in their journals. “Is there a problem, Lexi?” Deb asks.

“Nope,” I say, suppressing the giggles. “No problem. Sorry.”

I glance at Carolyn—she’s giggling too. I grin and press a finger to my lips.

Carolyn has underlined the line where Nick admires Gatsby’s tanned skin, attractive face, and perfect haircut, and she’s written,
Oh my God, Nick, why don’t you just marry him already??
in the margin.

I write beneath that,
So you see it too? Nick’s in love with Gatsby, right?

Carolyn’s response, the next day:
Oh, big time. Check out page 54
. And on page 54, she’s marked the long paragraph where Nick does literally nothing but gush over the perfection of Gatsby’s rare, understanding, reassuring,
irresistible
smile.

Jeez
, Carolyn has written.
I think somebody needs an intervention!

I write back,
I’ve always thought Nick was gay. You know, the way he’s always describing the men as effeminate or feminine or handsome, and never paying attention to any girls except Jordan, who’s sporty and “small-breasted.”
The margins are too small for a comment this long so my note crosses over to the next page.
But I thought maybe it was just me projecting. And I couldn’t exactly ask my English teacher!
:)
Go to page 44.

On page 44, I bracket off the strangest, most up-for-interpretation passage of the whole book, and write,
Did you notice this?

…I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.

Oh my God, I can’t believe I missed that!
Carolyn writes back.
Nick totally had sex with pale, effeminate Mr. McKee! It’s all there in the ellipsis!

Our exchange goes on like this for days. Carolyn and I can’t talk about this stuff in the open, so we save these discussions for the book. Apart from that first conversation we had about Daisy’s daughter, we never speak about
Gatsby
aloud. As far as everyone else at the camp knows, the only thing we use the book for is reading. No one knows about our secret method of communication.

Over time, the pages of the book become more and more marked up—asterisks, underlines, brackets, dog ears, and a huge mess of notes in the margins. But it just makes me love the book even more—it becomes
more
than just a book; it becomes a symbol of my relationship with Carolyn.

If
relationship
is even the right word. I don’t really know what’s going on between us. As far as I can tell, she’s still fully committed to the de-gayifying and the work we do during the days, and I’m…well, I’m trying my hardest to do the same. I’m still trying to make the “choice” each day to not love her. It just keeps getting harder.

The conversation eventually moves away from Nick’s sexuality and into more serious subjects. The eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg, for example, bring up the subject of God.

Do you believe in God, Lexi?
Carolyn asks.

Yes
, I write back.
Though lately I haven’t been so into the idea of someone else telling me what my relationship with God should be. You?

I don’t believe in anything. Atheist through and through. And churches weird me out.

You know this is a religious camp, right?
:)

If there were such a thing as a secular conversion camp, I would have gone there instead!

I go to church with my mom every Sunday. But it hasn’t felt totally right since before my dad got sick. I think now the only church I really belong to is the Church of Art and Fashion.

I like that
, she writes back.
I guess I belong to the Church of Running. And now the Church of Gatsby.
:)

When I read that last part, an incredible warmth fills me, right down to my soul.

A week goes by, then two. Each day here is a different reparative therapy session, a different exercise, a different lesson.

There are classroom sessions where we work from workbooks like the ones in French class back home, only instead of conjugating verbs
en
Français
, we have to identify Jim and Sally’s Father Wounds, dress them in gender-appropriate outfits, and read about them in different social situations and describe how, if we were their friends, we would help them “stay accountable.”

There are days where the boys and girls are separated, where they teach us girls how to style our hair and put on makeup in “acceptably feminine” ways, and teach the boys the rules of football and how to do basic household repairs.

And there’s lots of praying and there’s lots of Bible study.

Some nights Kaylee gets out her guitar and leads us all in sing-alongs around the campfire. She’s amazing—she’s got a gorgeous voice and she plays the guitar like Joni Mitchell. Even though we’re singing songs like “Here I Am To Worship” and “How Great Is Our God” (if it were up to me, we’d be singing something by The Swell Season or Mates of State instead), these are some of my favorite moments at New Horizons.

While there’s an obvious theme to the way the camp is conducted, the exercises are still, somehow, always surprising. The New Horizons staff has us going from day to day blindly, not knowing what’s going to happen from one minute to the next. I feel like I’m blindfolded and lashing out at a piñata—who knows if I’ll hit it, when I’ll hit it, or what’s inside.

I’m even starting to look a little different. Brianna has us giving ourselves manicures and pedicures every other day, so my usually naked nails are now perpetually shellacked in pink, and my hair is getting longer, my boring, light brown roots growing in.

I’ve been worrying about my mom more and more too. I hate not knowing how she’s doing. I’m trying to have faith that she’s still riding the high that came with my agreeing to come here and that Pastor Joe and the rest of the congregation are helping her out with anything she might need, but I’d still feel a lot better if I could call or write to her.

So one night at dinner, I finally work up the nerve to ask Mr. Martin if I can use the phone.

“I’d really like to check and make sure my mother is doing okay,” I explain.

He studies me, running a hand back over his thinning hair. “You understand we only let our campers use the phone in case of emergencies, right?”

I nod. “Because too much contact with the outside world can be a detriment to our therapy.”

“That’s correct.”

“But I do think this qualifies as an emergency. My mother hasn’t been well since my father died, and I think I would be better able to concentrate on our work here if I weren’t worrying about her so much.”

Mr. Martin nods. “Very well. Brianna will escort you to use the phone after supper.”

A balloon pops inside me and relief whooshes out, filling me head to toe. “Thank you, Mr. Martin.”

After dinner, I sit in his office with Brianna, the phone to my ear. It rings and rings, but there’s no answer. When the voicemail message kicks on, I hang up and try again. Same thing. Where could she be? I leave a message, asking her to call the camp and let someone know she’s okay.

Oh
God, please let her be okay.

But soon, twenty-four hours have gone by, then thirty-six, and I still haven’t heard anything. I’m praying more than I ever have and on the verge of collapsing into full-on panic. What if she’s in the hospital? What if she’s dead? What if I’m already all alone in the world and don’t even know it?

I don’t ask to use the phone again though. And I don’t tell anyone what’s going on. Because if I say it out loud and transfer my fears onto other people, it will become way more real. It will go from a series of worries swimming around in my head to an actual possibility.

Passing the book back and forth with Carolyn is the only thing keeping me grounded. It’s my lifeline—something to look forward to, something good I
know
is going to happen.

And then, at dinner two nights after I called home, Brianna comes down from the main cabin and tells me I’ve received a message.

I can’t move.

“You mother called,” she says. “She said she’s just returned from a camping trip and didn’t get your message until now, but she’s doing fine.” She walks away and gets on the food line.

The noise that comes out of me is part sob, part gasp, part screech. My eyes are wet and my throat is bone-dry all in the same instant. She’s not dead. She’s
doing
fine
.

My whole body starts to shake as all the fear and panic I’ve tried to hold at bay for the past two days is let go and crashes head first into the relief and happiness still trying to grab hold inside me. I start to cry.

Mom
is
okay.

Carolyn, Daniel, and Matthew are watching me, silent and stunned.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gasping for air, desperately trying to calm down. What was Mom doing
camping
anyway? She doesn’t camp. She barely leaves the house.

“What’s going on, Lexi?” Matthew asks.

And so, when I’ve finally got myself under control, I tell them about my mom. They’ve never asked about her—I get the feeling it’s because after finding out that my dad died, they didn’t want to upset me by asking any more family-related questions. But I want them to know, so I tell them about how she lost it when Dad died and lost it even more when she found out I was gay. “So, when it comes down to it,” I say, “this is my last chance. If New Horizons doesn’t work the way I need it to, I’m going to end up completely alone.”

They all go quiet as they let that sink in. I guess no one knows what to say, but their silence is just as revealing as any words they could come up with. Because no one, not even Matthew, says that I’m doing the wrong thing.

One day the counselors scatter our groups across the carpet cabin so we’re not in each other’s way, and Mr. Martin joins our group. Even though we can’t be any more interesting than any of the other groups, he always seems to find his way over to us. My theory is that it’s because Matthew continues to be just as defiant about the whole de-gayifying process as he was on day one and Mr. Martin wants to keep an eye on him.

“We’re going to do another role-playing exercise today,” he tells us. “I call it Observe and Correct. We don’t always realize that our words and body language can have unintended subtext. This exercise will help you become more aware of the subconscious signals you are giving off to others, so you can work on correcting those behaviors. So what we’re going to do is play out short scenarios where you will interact with a camper of the same sex while your fellow group members watch. Afterward, they’ll point out what you did wrong. Any questions?”

Matthew opens his mouth but I shake my head at him, and he closes it again.

“Carolyn and Lexi, you’re up,” Mr. Martin says.

Carolyn and I stand, and Mr. Martin tells us to pretend we’re in a department store. I’m the shopper and Carolyn is the salesperson.

I start pretend browsing through clothes racks, and Carolyn taps my shoulder.

“May I help you find something?” she asks.

“Um, sure. I’m looking for…a dress for a cousin’s wedding.” It seems like something Mr. Martin would want me to say.

“I can help you with that. Do you have a color in mind?”

“I don’t know…black?”

“Okay.” She holds up an invisible hanger and looks at me. “This would look great on you. The sheath style would work well with your figure and the satin material would perfectly complement your skin. Plus, the little rhinestones along the neckline would really make your eyes pop.”

Okay, hold on.

My “figure,” my skin, my eyes…she didn’t have to say any of that. She could have said, “Here’s a dress. Buy it. The end.” But instead, she said…more.

“Um, yes,” I say, trying to stay in the moment. “That sounds good. I’ll try it on. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime,” she says and gives me a little smile.

“So,” Mr. Martin says, “what could Lexi and Carolyn have done differently?”

“Maybe they could have stood further apart?” Daniel says. Carolyn immediately sidesteps away from me.

“Yes. Remember to always respect other people’s personal space,” Mr. Martin says. “You two
were
a little bit too close.”

We were? It didn’t feel like it. But then again, I feel like I’m never close
enough
to Carolyn.

“What else?” Mr. Martin asks.

“I think Lexi should have picked a color other than black,” Daniel says.

“I agree,” Mr. Martin says. “Try to choose something more feminine next time.”

“What, like pink?” I say.

“Not necessarily. It could be white or yellow or purple.” He turns to Matthew. “What do you think, Matthew? What else could Carolyn and Lexi have done differently?”

“Nothing. I think they did great.”

Mr. Martin narrows his eyes at Matthew, but all he says is, “What about what the words Carolyn chose to use?”

“She sounded like a salesperson,” Matthew says.

“Yes, she did a very good job taking on the persona of her character. But the rules are different for people who battle SSA. We need to watch what we say and do much more carefully than those who don’t have this struggle. So even though the average saleswoman may have said exactly what Carolyn said, it would have been a wiser choice for Carolyn to stay away from complimenting Lexi so directly.”

No
it
wouldn’t! That was the best part!

I sneak a sideways glance at Carolyn and catch her watching me for the tiniest fragment of a second before she whips her gaze away.

“Can I try again?” she asks Mr. Martin. There’s a hint of desperation in her voice.

Mr. Martin checks his watch. “Unfortunately, we actually need to be moving on. Matthew and Daniel, please switch places with the ladies.”

Carolyn’s
noticed
me. She was basically telling me she thinks I’m pretty. And just now, she was staring at me. I’m sure of it.

Is it even possible? Could she be feeling it too? Does she think about me the way I’m always thinking about her?

After dinner, we have free time. It’s Saturday night, so we even get a couple of extra hours. But as we make our way over to the rec cabin, Brianna approaches us.

“Matthew,” she says, “Mr. Martin would like to see you in his office.”

Matthew’s brows pull together. “Why?”

“He has a few things he’d like to discuss with you,” Brianna says. “It won’t take long. You’ll be back here with your friends soon enough.” Her voice is all business, but her face betrays a hint of something I can’t quite place—unease? Regret, maybe? It’s strange.

But Matthew just shrugs and trudges off through the trees toward the main cabin.

“I wonder what that was all about,” I say once the rest of us are inside the rec cabin. It feels weird with Matthew not here. The four of us are together so often that it feels like we’re suddenly missing a limb.

“No idea,” Daniel says.

Carolyn doesn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything at dinner either. She’s been getting like this more and more—spaced out, eyes unfocused, lost deep in her own mind. More like Mom.

Daniel chooses a DVD from the shelf and we sit and watch the beginning of
The
Wizard
of
Oz
. By the time Dorothy lands in Munchkinland, Matthew is back.

“What happened?” I whisper.

“Mr. Martin ‘isn’t happy with the level of effort I’ve been contributing to our therapy exercises,’” he says, doing air quotes.

I smile. “You’ve been contributing
zero
effort.”

Matthew grins back. “That’s what I told him. My dad can force me to be here, but no one can force me to actually
believe
in all this crap.”

I stare at the TV screen. The coroner is averring that the witch is really, most sincerely dead, but I’m not really watching it. I still don’t know if I believe in all this crap or not. It’s all so complicated.

But then Matthew changes the subject and I’m saved from having to come up with a response. “So anyway…” he says, “when I got to Mr. Martin’s office, he wasn’t there yet. So I thought I’d look around for a bit.”

I turn back to him, and he’s looking at me with a sly smile.

“What?” I say.

“Look what I found,” he says and slips a small bottle of vodka out of his shorts’ pocket.

I immediately glance around the cabin. Barbara is dozed off in one of the big armchairs and Kaylee is playing Scrabble with Jasmine’s group. The other campers are either watching the movie or off doing their own things. No one is watching us.

“You took that from Mr. Martin’s
office
?” I whisper to Matthew. “Are you
crazy
?”

Matthew shrugs. “Probably. But I think it’s about time we have some fun around here, don’t you?”

“
No
.” I shake my head fiercely. “You’re insane.”

Matthew just smiles, slips the bottle back in his pocket, and goes over to the snack table. He grabs a few bottles of water and then says, “Hey, Daniel, Carolyn, want to go get some fresh air?”

“Sure,” Daniel says, “I’ve seen this movie a hundred times already anyway.”

Carolyn shrugs and follows Matthew and Daniel out of the cabin.

Great, now I
have
to go. If I stay here, people will notice our group has split up, and they’ll tell the counselors and the counselors will find out what Matthew, Carolyn, and Daniel are up to, and they’ll all get in a lot of trouble.
Damn
you, Matthew.

I locate them around the corner of the cabin. It’s a fairly hidden spot, tucked into a little crook of trees. No one will find us here unless they’re really looking.

“Are we even allowed to be back here?” I ask.

“All Brianna said was that we had to stay within sight of the rec cabin,” Matthew says. He reaches out and taps his palm against the exterior cabin wall. “And we are.”