The Summer I Wasn't Me (9 page)

When we get back to the dorms,
The
Great
Gatsby
is back. It’s lying on my bed with a note stuck to it that says:
Mr. Martin said this was OK. Brianna
. It’s a comforting sight—a piece of home that I so desperately need right now. I wonder if Mr. Martin knew I would need the book today, after the difficulty of my Father Wound session, and made sure Brianna got it back to me.

I open to the first page and read the opening line, even though I know it by heart:

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

I slam the book shut.

Mr. Martin has officially managed to ruin everything that’s important to me.

But then I see Carolyn across the room, already changed into her nightgown and brushing her hair into the same loose, high ponytail I saw her go to bed in last night, and I know what to do. I go over to her area and give her a little wave in the reflection of the mirror. “Hey.”

She spins around. “Hey, Lexi.” There are tiny wisps of blond at her hairline, lighter and finer than the rest of her hair, and they give the opposite effect of a shadow, brightening her face instead of darkening it. I notice a tiny birthmark on her temple—it’s adorable. “How are you doing?” Her voice is low and concerned.

She, Matthew, and Daniel tried to get me to talk to them all during dinner and the walk back to the main cabin. But what was I supposed to say? After what Mr. Martin made me do and say, I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t.

“I’m good. How are you?” I say lightly, as if I don’t know what she’s really asking.

“I’m okay. But, Lexi, if you need someone to talk—”

I thrust the book out. “I got my book back,” I say, cutting her off. “I thought you might want to borrow it. It’s been approved by Mr. Martin. It’s not Jane Austen, but…”

“Oh! Um, yes! Thanks!” She takes the book and runs her thumb over the edge of the pages so that a little gust of wind escapes and ripples through her hair. My stomach does a flip-flop. “This is really nice of you.”

“No problem,” I mumble, repeating
just
friends
just
friends
just
friends
in my head. “Okay, well, good night.” I duck my head and bail.

On my way back to my own area, Rachael stops me. “I just wanted to say that your Father Wound session today was really inspiring,” she says. “Isn’t Mr. Martin so amazing? I feel so lucky to get to learn from him.”

“Um. Yes,” I say. “Agreed.”

After everyone’s in bed, Deb, the counselor on dorm duty tonight, tells us we will have twenty extra minutes before lights out so we can write in our journals.

I spend my time drawing. It feels good to have a blank page in front of me again, waiting for whatever sketch or doodle is ready to break free from my pen. A string of ivy sprouts onto the page and grows wild, first just around the edges of the paper but then gradually invading the center, the vine branching off and grasping every which way, taking over the page like the stubborn weed that it is. When nearly the entire page has been overrun, I add in a figure, a tiny human no taller than a safety pin. She stares out helplessly from behind the ivy, her arms and legs caught in the vines.

I’m trying to place the expression on the girl’s face when Deb announces it’s time for our nightly Bible verse.

“‘For this reason I tell you, whatever you pray and ask for, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours,’” Jasmine reads aloud.

We close our Bibles, and a few seconds later, the room goes dark.

***

Day two of the Father Wound exercise. At least I get to relax today. I’ve done my part.

But then Matthew is called up first, and my stomach is instantly in knots again. Mr. Martin won’t go easy on him.

To Matthew’s credit, he doesn’t lose his cool like I did yesterday. He answers Mr. Martin’s questions about his family and life back in San Diego with amazing composure. There’s even a smile on his face as he does it.

“What are your parents like?” Mr. Martin asks.

Matthew shrugs. “My dad’s a typical guy, watches football like it’s his job, owns a pool cleaning business, drinks a lot of beer. My mom stays home with my youngest sister. She’s two.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Martin says. But the more questions Matthew answers, the more Mr. Martin looks troubled. Matthew’s family is the picture of perfection. Parents in appropriate gender roles, no abuse to speak of, three children and a dog, church on Sundays, family trips to Legoland, homemade apple pie, avocado tree in the backyard.

There’s absolutely nothing for Mr. Martin to grab on to.

And Matthew knows it. That’s why he’s so smug.

Hope builds inside me as I watch the scene up on the stage.
Stay
strong
, I think to Matthew.
Don’t give him anything.

Mr. Martin asks so many questions I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was feeding them to him through an earpiece. When he exhausts one topic, he jumps right into the next without hesitation: school, friends, extended family, past summer camp experiences, his afterschool job at the dog groomer’s. Matthew’s carefully thought-out responses are the definition of generic. He doesn’t shy away from talking about Justin—which Mr. Martin clearly doesn’t appreciate—but he gives absolutely no hint of anything that would have caused him to like boys in the first place. I’m not always sure he’s telling the whole truth, but it doesn’t matter. His performance is masterful.

Just when I think time has got to be close to up and Matthew has actually beaten Mr. Martin at his own game, Mr. Martin asks Matthew what his favorite movie is.

“
Grease
,” Matthew answers without missing a beat.

That one tiny word is enough to completely transform Mr. Martin’s demeanor. He freezes for a brief second and then straightens up, confidence overtaking him, a knowing smile crossing his face.

Crap. What just happened?

“
Grease
. That’s a musical, isn’t it?” His voice is different now. Sly. Certain.

Matthew suddenly looks as worried as I feel. “Um, yeah?”

“What other musicals do you like, Matthew?”

“I don’t really see what that has to do with anything…”

“Just answer the question.”

Matthew grimaces. Mr. Martin is onto him; he knows there’s no point in lying now. “I don’t know…
Cabaret
,
Evita
,
West
Side
Story
…I like them all, I guess.”

Mr. Martin nods. “Have you ever been in one?”

Matthew mutters something under his breath, but I can’t understand it.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Yes, I have been in musicals.”

“When did you do your first one?” Mr. Martin asks.

“When I was seven. I did a community theater production of
The
Music
Man
. I played Winthrop,” Matthew says.

“And since then?”

Matthew sighs. “I’ve been in a lot of shows, okay? At least two a year for the last ten years. So just say whatever you’re going to say so we can end this already.”

“Very well. The artistic world is a breeding ground for SSA, Matthew. Theater, Hollywood, the fine arts…anything goes for those people. I’m sure a lot of the people who have been in these shows with you actively engage in the homosexual lifestyle?”

Matthew doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought. Being exposed to that environment from such a young age is your Father Wound, Matthew. You grew up observing them, being taught that that kind of behavior is okay.”

I think back to the first day when we all introduced ourselves to our groups. Matthew said he’s known he was gay since preschool. So that was
before
he was in his first musical. Mr. Martin doesn’t seem to remember this though, or if he does, he doesn’t care. He’s just so damn proud of himself right now.

They go on to do a ridiculous role-play where a seven-year-old Matthew tells Carolyn, who is playing his mother, that he doesn’t want to be in
The
Music
Man
and instead wants to try out for the football team.

When Matthew is safely back in his seat next to me, I whisper, “You okay?”

He places a hand on his chest, opens his eyes wide, and whispers back in a dramatic southern accent, “Why, I’m better than
okay
—I’m cured! Praise Jesus!”

I roll my eyes. Same old Matthew.

He grabs my hands. “Dear, sweet Lexi, will you marry me and have lots of sex and babies with me?”

I pull my hands away, laughing. “All right, all right, I get it.”

“But I like girls now, Lexi! And I like
you
most of all!”

He leans forward, like he’s going in for a big, sloppy kiss, and I bat him away in a fit of giggles.

It’s Mr. Martin’s resounding voice that brings us to our senses. “Matthew and Lexi, is there something you would like to share with the group?”

We both turn so we’re facing forward and sitting rail straight, all traces of humor gone. “Um, no. Sorry,” I say.

“Good. Now, I would appreciate it if you would give Olivia the same courtesy that everyone showed you both when you were up here.” His voice is soft, but his eyes are hard.

“Yes, Mr. Martin. Sorry, Olivia,” I say, my face flaming, and Olivia’s session resumes up on the stage.

The last camper to get called up for the day is Daniel. He’s the one member of my group who I don’t feel any real connection with yet—despite the fact that he was the one who played the role of my dying father—so in a weird way I’m actually sort of looking forward to his Father Wound session, if only to get to know him a little better.

Like the first day, he is very forthcoming with his story.

His father left him and his mother when Daniel was only a baby, and his mother never remarried. “She worries about me,” he says after Mr. Martin asks him to describe his relationship with his mother. “She likes me to stay inside.”

“Inside?” Mr. Martin asks.

“Yeah, like inside the house. Going outside with the other kids and playing sports and stuff like that is really dangerous.”

“Do you want to go play outside with the other kids, Daniel?” Mr. Martin asks gently.

“I did at first. But I stopped asking after a while. Mom needs me at home, where it’s safe.”

“How does that make you feel?”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. She just doesn’t want me to get hurt. I understand.”

It actually sounds to me like Daniel’s mother is less concerned about his well-being and more concerned about her own. Like she’s guilted him into being some sort of replacement companion for her or something.

“We hear versions of this story a lot here at New Horizons, Daniel,” Mr. Martin says. “Your experience is very common, and there’s actually a term for it. We call boys like you Kitchen Window Boys. Have you ever heard that term before?”

“No.”

“It refers to boys who sit in their mothers’ kitchen windows, watching all the other boys playing ball outside, wishing they could join them. But they can’t because of a sense of guilt or responsibility, or even embarrassment that they’re not physically developing into a man as quickly as the other boys.”

Daniel thinks about that and nods. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m going to have you do two healing exercises, Daniel, if that’s okay with you?”

Hey, that’s not fair. Why does Daniel get to say whether it’s okay with him or not and none of the rest of us did?

He nods, though he looks a little unsure.

“The first exercise is a role-play.” Mr. Martin calls up me and Matthew. “Lexi is going to play your mother and Matthew is a neighborhood boy coming over to see if you want to go play outside.”

Mr. Martin hands me an apron, a pot, and a wooden spoon. I guess I’m supposed to be in a kitchen. I put the apron on and stir the inside of the empty pot, feeling utterly ridiculous. Daniel is sitting on the floor next to me, miming peeling potatoes. Matthew enters the scene and knocks on the wall since there’s no door.

“Hi, Daniel,” he says. “A bunch of us are gonna go play soccer down at the park and we wanted to see if you would come play with us.”

Daniel hesitates and then says, “Sure.”

I guess that’s my cue. I turn and say, “No, sweetie. Mommy needs you to stay here.” I try to ignore the pangs of guilt I feel as I say it, but I’m not very successful.

Daniel swallows and raises his head a notch. “No, Mom. I’m going to go play with my friends. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” He takes a few steps in the direction of the imaginary door and then turns back. “I love you, Mom,” he says quietly. And then he and Matthew leave the scene.

“Fantastic!” Mr. Martin commends, and dismisses me and Matthew. “Now, for part two, we need to address what your father did to you when he left. He left you without a male role model, which is one of the worst things a father can do to his son. You need to fight back, Daniel.”

And he drags out the punching bag.

It’s a very long, violent afternoon.

“So, what do you guys feel like doing?” I ask.

It’s our first official leisure hour, and we’re in the rec cabin. A couple of the groups have settled down in front of
The
Lion
King
, and the other group has made its way over to the arts and crafts corner.

“I guess we could play a game?” Daniel suggests.

I look to Matthew and Carolyn.

“That works,” he says at the same time she says, “Sure.”

We set up the Monopoly board and Carolyn doles out the money. The colorful pieces of paper are soft and worn, and I think again about the other kids who have come through this camp, who have sat in this very seat and played this very game.

“Do you guys know anyone who’s been to a camp like this before?” I say.

Carolyn shakes her head, but Daniel says yes.

We all look at him. “Really?” I say. “Who?”

“This boy at my church named Peter. He came here three summers ago and went home completely changed. He’s engaged now.”

“To a boy or a girl?” Matthew says, sounding dubious.

“A girl, of course. He used to be really shy—kind of like me, you know? But now he’s so confident. He always says how he’ll never be able to thank Mr. Martin enough.”

“Wow,” I say. Kaylee, Mr. Martin, and now Peter—all living proof that it really can work. “What about you, Matthew? Have you met anyone who’s come to a place like this?”

“Nope,” he says, rolling the dice and moving the top hat nine spaces to Connecticut Avenue. “I’ll buy it!” He hands his money over to Carolyn and looks at me. “Why, have you?”

“No. I was just curious. There’s this lady in our church whose grandnephew came here once, but I’ve never met him.” I throw the dice and move the shoe to Reading Railroad.

“That’s two hundred dollars,” Carolyn says. “Want to buy it?”

I actually have a Monopoly strategy, and railroads aren’t part of it. My system is to concentrate my money in one place—buy up all the properties of one color and then start piling houses and hotels on them like nobody’s business so I can sit back and collect the rent—rather than spreading it thin around the board.

But Carolyn’s face is expectant, waiting for my answer, and before I know it, I’m saying, “Sure.” And then I immediately feel like an idiot, because this is just a game and it’s not like she cares if I buy a stupid railroad or not.

My fingers brush against hers as we exchange the money for the title deed. It’s the first time we’ve ever touched, and a tremor of excitement shoots through me. I can’t help it—I look for a sign that she notices too. Her cheeks get a little pinker maybe, but that could be because it’s so damn hot in this cabin. Other than that, there’s nothing.

Of course. Because it
was
nothing. A half-second-long accidental touch. At a camp where we both came, voluntarily, to learn how to be straight. I really need to stop forgetting that—it’s kind of an important detail.

Daniel’s Scottie dog lands on St. Charles Place.

I clear my throat in an effort to clear my mind and focus on tidying my money piles. Then I notice Matthew watching me, an amused smile on his face.

“What?” I say. Oh God, he didn’t see me getting all stupid over Carolyn just now, did he?

The smile turns into a full-on grin and he shrugs innocently. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Crap. He saw.

***

An hour later, nearly every property Matthew owns is mortgaged, and Daniel keeps landing in jail, but Carolyn and I are at all-out
war
. I have hotels on all the green and yellow properties, and Carolyn has control of Boardwalk and Park Place. She also owns Kentucky Avenue—which I need so I can start building on the red properties.

When it gets to be my turn, I make her an offer. “I’ll give you four hundred dollars for Kentucky Avenue.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No way.”

“But you don’t even need it! You own half the board already. And four hundred is a really good offer—it’s only worth two-twenty!”

“Not gonna happen,” she says, smirking.

“Okay, six hundred.”

“Nope.”

“Seven?”

She shakes her head, a twinkle in her eye.

Arrghh!
“Seven-fifty plus Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues.”

“Those properties are crap.”

I study her, sitting there all smug, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest. “Fine. Name your price.”

She leans forward, her eyes level with mine. “I want all your railroads plus all your properties that have developments on them.”

“Are you crazy? There’s no way for me to win then.”

“Exactly.”

I pick up the dice. “Forget it. No deal.”

Carolyn shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I roll the dice—and land on Boardwalk, which has four houses on it.

“That will be one thousand seven hundred dollars, please,” Carolyn says, holding out her hand.

I glower at her. “You don’t have to be so
happy
about it, you know.”

Carolyn laughs. “What’s the point of winning then?”

***

The next morning, I wake up early again. I lie in bed for a while, trying to make myself go back to sleep, but it’s no use. I sit up and scratch my neck where the lacy part of the nightgown rubbed against it in the night.

There’s nothing to do—I’m not allowed to leave the dorm, I don’t have my book anymore, and everyone (except for Carolyn, who is already out on her run) is asleep so there’s no one to talk to. I guess I could get up and take a shower, but the sooner I do that the sooner I have to change into the skorts.

I slide my journal off my vanity and flip to a clean sheet of paper. The first few pages are already filled with sketches, but this time, when I put the pen to the page, words come out. I’m usually not much of a writer. I’ve always expressed myself better with pictures and designs. But so much has happened over the past few days that I need a way to get it all out, and drawings aren’t enough right now. So I write.

I fill page after page with the stuff I’ve been keeping inside since I came to New Horizons: my resolve to be just like Kaylee, how glad I am to have made a friend in Matthew, the guilt I feel over promising to forget my father.

It feels good to get it all out. Like by taking the abstract, wooshy thoughts that have been floating around formless within me and transforming them into words on a page, they become more real. I know Brianna said that no one would ever read this journal, which is why I’m even writing any of it down in the first place, but the simple fact that it exists in the physical world now and that it theoretically could be read by someone other than me makes me feel like all these thoughts and feelings have actual substance and validity.

I hope Mom is all right,

I write.

I wish I could call her. They would tell me if something happened, wouldn’t they? If she had a zoning out episode and drove her car into the ocean or something?

Carolyn breezes into the room, fresh from her run. She gives me a little wave and then disappears into the bathroom.

My pen hovers over the journal in suspended animation. I can almost feel it: every feeling and thought I’ve ever had about her coursing from my mind, down my arm, through my lightning bolt, and into the pen. It’s charged with electricity.

The pen lands on the page again, and I let it all out.