Four Weeks Five People Page 8

  “At Ugunduzi,” Josh starts, “we focus on the future. We focus on the possibility of brighter days. We focus on the ourselves of tomorrow.”

  “‘The ourselves of tomorrow,’” Andrew repeats. “I really dig that, dude.”

  “It’s a grammatical abomination,” I say. Because no amount of gung-ho is going to bend the rules of the English language—sorry, Josh.

  “But in order to shape our presents, and in order to better our futures,” Josh continues, “we must first...go back. We must go back to the past. To our pasts. We must not run from them. We must embrace them. Accept them. And understand them.

  “Our families. Our childhoods. Our past lovers. These are all things that shape us in indefinable and extraordinary ways,” Josh says. I feel an unpleasantly familiar twinge in my chest when he says the “lovers” part, but I grit my teeth and choke it down.

  “We’re, like, seventeen years old,” Clarisa says. “How many past lovers could we possibly have?”

  “Well...” Mason says. I keep myself from whacking him on the arm, because 1) day one seems a bit early to get kicked out of camp, and 2) Mason’s the type of person who takes all physical contact short of being punched in the face as a sign of flirtation.

  “I really love my parents, you guys,” Ben says out of nowhere. I turn to look at him—because what?—and am doubly stunned to find that he actually looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Now, I’m the first to admit that someone crying for no real reason during random moments at Ugunduzi is depressingly par for the course. But Ben was so ridiculously zoned out for the duration of the hike up that the whole sudden burst of emotion thing catches me completely off guard. Just thirty minutes ago, I yelled at him to walk faster because he was holding everyone up, and he literally looked at me like I was speaking another language. And now he’s on the verge of tears because of how much he loves his parents?

  “Of course,” Josh says. “We all love our parents. But that doesn’t mean that the relationships can’t be complicated, or troubled, or even unhealthy in ways that affect us to this day. Clarisa?” Josh asks. “Is there something you’d like to add?”

  Clarisa has made the biggest therapy mistake there is, which is to lose control of your facial expressions and react visibly to something someone else says. Therapists are designed to sniff out that shit: any frown, grimace, half-choked sob you accidentally let out—they will sense it and put you on the spot.

  “Oh, nothing,” Clarisa says. Which might be the second biggest therapy mistake there is. Lying and saying, “Nothing,” when you do get called out. It’s not the lying so much that’s the problem, really—it’s the “nothing” part. I want to tell Clarisa that she’s going to have to come up with some better evasive techniques than “nothing.” I, for one, started a list back in freshman year of high school.

  Josh stares at Clarisa solemnly. It’s not long until the silence gets to her (therapy wisdom #3: get real, real comfortable with silence) and she spills.

  “Of course I love my mom,” Clarisa says. “But sometimes she’s just...too much.”

  “Too much in what way?” Josh presses. You can tell he’s really getting into this. I make a mental note to share my list with Clarisa later so she can avoid this kind of misery in the future.

  “Too much in every way,” Clarisa says. “Too much...positivity. Too much hope. Too social, too pretty, too everything.”

  “So...” Andrew says. I look over at him and immediately feel a rush of discomfort. His arms, Jesus. They’re practically toothpicks. “You feel like you’re not as good as her?”

  “Of course I’m not as good as her,” Clarisa says. “But the thing is, I don’t really care. I don’t want to be, like, the prom queen, or go on lots of dates, or win a billion senior superlatives. That stuff sounds awful. But for some reason she’s always thought that unless I’m doing all of those things, I’m just wasting my life. Like in the ninth grade, when our school did those ridiculous Valentine’s Day roses and I didn’t get any, my mother legitimately thought my life was over. Which is why I brought this entire thing up—because that was so long ago, and I can still hear her telling me how all she wanted was for me to be able to experience ‘normal teenage things’ and have ‘normal teenage fun.’ But I can’t do those things,” Clarisa says, “and I don’t even want to.”

  There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence as the rest of us wait for Josh to say something and Josh waits for Clarisa to say something and Clarisa stares directly into the ground, oblivious.

  “But I still feel like I should try, I guess,” Clarisa says slowly. “Because... I don’t know, she’s my mom. And it’s just been me and her for so long.”

  Josh nods. He has the good sense to look grave and serious, but I’ve been to enough therapy sessions to know that inside he’s probably doing cartwheels out of joy. Session One and Clarisa’s already dishing out the good stuff. This is like a therapist’s dream.

  “Thank you so much for your bravery, Clarisa,” Josh says, and I try with limited success to turn my scoff into a cough. “In the spirit of community, and of healing, and of communal healing, I want us all to follow in Clarisa’s lead and share something from our past that we’re still hanging on to today, for whatever reason. It can be a family story. It can be a story about your friends. It can be a story about yourself. It can be a story about your parents. It can be good or bad. Long or short. But it must be honest, guys—because we’re all here to help each other and we can only do that if we’re honest with each other. Do you guys want to do another breathing exercise before we begin?”

  “No,” I say forcefully, only to realize in horror that Mason has said the exact same thing at the exact same time.

  “All right!” Josh says. “Stella, why don’t you start us off?”

  Josh beams at me. The other side of the edge of the cliff starts to look appealing.

  “One thing about my past...” I repeat. “That I’m holding on to...”

  Kevin’s name springs to mind so abruptly that I almost can’t believe that I’m thinking it—not after all this time, not after all the work I’ve done trying to lock it in a box in the back of my mind that I never, ever have to open again. But there it is, all at once, and: Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, and I’m so off guard and so emotionally unprepared that I squeeze my eyes shut almost instinctively. But that makes everything worse, because then I’m seeing him, too: Kevin at school and Kevin that night at the park and Kevin at the stupid, stupid antiprom we threw and—

  “Stella?” Josh prompts.

  I open my eyes. Do my best to look calm. If you show them how much this means to you, I think to myself, they will never let you forget about it.

  “This past year I dated this guy,” I say evenly. I have had so much practice on therapy couches and never-ending group sessions that my voice barely catches at all. “His name was Kevin. And it ended pretty poorly. What a shock, right? Dumb teenagers in high school fail to make relationship last.

  “Anyway, I’m not that stupid girl who thought that we were going to ride off into the sunset and get married. I knew it was going to end and I knew it wasn’t going to end well, because these things never do. But for some reason—”

  I cut off, bite my lip. Is there any way to say this that doesn’t sound pathetic? Laughably melodramatic? Like I’ve been written into the script of a bad TV soap?

  “It’s harder than I expected it to be,” I finish. Clarisa makes this sympathetic, sad noise that just screams how bad she feels for me, which makes me want to pull her over the edge of the mountain with me. I turn to face Andrew with the hope that he’ll get the memo and start talking before Josh starts in on me, but—

  “That sounds like a very difficult experience, Stella,” Josh says, voice so soothing that I feel even more annoyed.

  “It’s not,” I grit. “It’s fine. Everything i
s fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine,” Mason says. There’s a grin creeping across his face that makes me want to punch him.

  “It’s fine,” I repeat.

  “Are you sure it’s fine?” Mason asks.

  I turn away from him.

  “You guys fucked, didn’t you?” Mason asks, sounding positively gleeful.

  “What are we, twelve?” I snap.

  It’s a testament to how absolutely insufferable Mason is that I actually wish Jessie were here leading this session, because there’s no way she’d let him get away with saying shit like that. But instead we’re stuck with Josh, so blissfully mellowed out that he just says, “Was that really necessary, Mason?”

  “Guess not,” Mason says. He makes his best contrite expression. I resist the urge to smack it off his face.

  “Would you like to tell us a little bit more about the relationship?” Josh asks, once again turning to me.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I say. “It was a thing and it’s over. But for some reason my feelings are, like, two months behind my brain.”

  “Stella,” Josh says, “the past does not simply go away. It stays with us. And it is just as necessary to confront and acknowledge and process the parts of our pasts that have pained us as it is those that have given us joy—in order to move on, and in order to grow.”

  You’re literally wearing a fucking rainbow tie-dye shirt, I want to shout at Josh, because the only thing more annoying than adults speaking to you in dumb, meaningless platitudes is adults speaking to you in dumb, meaningless platitudes in a tone of voice that screams, “I AM WISER THAN YOU AND YOU KNOW IT.” But I’ve learned that getting angry will only convince Josh that this is a Big Issue worth discussing, and that’s the last thing I want.

  “Thanks,” I say instead. And turn, once more, to look expectantly at Andrew.

  “I have a story,” Andrew says hesitantly. “But it’s about my band.”

  “That’s great!” Josh says. This is easy for him to say, since he hasn’t been subjected to a never-ending stream of stories about Andrew’s band like the rest of us have.

  “This was...before,” Andrew starts.

  “Before what?”

  “Before—I don’t know—before we got better. Before people started liking us more. Before whatever. The point is, we had scored a gig opening for a really big Seattle band. We were all really excited, you know? It was definitely the biggest venue we’d played, and a surprising number of people were there for the opening acts. Anyway, it went awful. The crowd really didn’t like us. And then we all got psyched out, you know, ’cause people were booing and being jackasses about it. Not that that kind of stuff isn’t expected when you open for a tough crowd, but it was... It was pretty shitty. And I’ve just never been able to forget it, I guess.”

  Andrew is one of those people who is painfully sensitive, and also painfully open about all of the experiences and feelings and fears triggered by how damn sensitive he is. Which is great for being a wilderness therapy camper, and not nearly as great for being a professional musician. I can see this becoming a problem, mostly because Andrew would probably rather be a successful musician than a successful wilderness therapy camper.

  “Ah,” Josh says. “And what did you do to deal with the situation?”

  Andrew sighs. “Not anything, really. I mean, there wasn’t much we could do. I just smoked, like, half a pack of cigarettes and went on a diet and swore to get better.”

  “Were those things really going to help you become ‘better’?” Josh says.

  “You guys just don’t get it,” Andrew says. “It’s the only way to be successful. You have to do it. I’m not in a position to be rewriting some ancient music scene codes of conduct, you know? You have no idea how much it matters to look a certain way in order to get people to buy your music. It’s cra—”

  “That’s really stupid, Andrew,” Ben says.

  “What?”

  “You’re awesome,” Ben says, beaming. Then the words start spilling out of his mouth so quickly it’s difficult to understand what he’s saying. “Your band’s music is awesome, so who gives a fuck if anyone buys it or not? You’re making art. It’s art it’s art it’s art it’s beautiful.”

  “That’s really stupid,” Andrew says. “Yeah, it’s beautiful making art, but you can’t do it forever if no one buys your records. Eventually I have to, I don’t know, go to college or some shit and then I’ll never see my band again and—Basically we have two years to get signed or it’s all over.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself,” Josh says. “Has anyone else experienced anything similar?”

  “I used to think,” Clarisa says, “that it was my fault that I had OCD. Like if I tried hard enough, I could just—I don’t know—not. I could become a normal person and hang out with other normal people in normal places and not have to be counting things all the time, and then freaking out when the number I got wasn’t safe or good.”

  “That’s tragic,” Ben says. He looks moved to the point of tears.

  “Ben,” Mason says. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” Ben replies. “And nothing is wrong with you, either. Or any of us. Or anyone, for that matter. We’re all... We’re all good, I think. Good and right. We’re all right.” Ben keeps emphasizing certain words as he talks, as if emphasizing them could imbue them with a meaning that they don’t actually have.

  “Well, that’s just not true,” Mason says.

  “Mason,” I say. “You are literally a colossal asshole.”

  “That’s not what literally means,” Clarisa says.

  “Guys!” Ben says. We all turn around to look at him. “Why are we all fighting?”

  “I have a couple of explanations,” Andrew says.

  “No, but I mean, why are we all fighting?”

  “Um,” Andrew says. “I mean, I have a couple of explanations.”

  “I don’t know how to express this,” Ben says.

  “Maybe you just—Maybe you just shouldn’t,” Andrew advises, but to no avail.

  “I want you to know that I feel incredible amounts of affection for all of you even though I have only known you for a relatively short period of time and I think we’re all great, and we’re all going to be okay, and we should do those breathing exercises that Josh was talking about because there really is something magical and beautiful and awe-inspiring about the way we keep ourselves alive without even noticing.”

  No one says anything. Except for Josh, of course, who grins and spreads his arms wide, like an eagle, or like someone who is about to get stabbed in the chest by a disgruntled, emotionally volatile teenager. “Wow,” Josh says. “Wow, wasn’t that a great session? It was a great session. I’m so glad you guys are sharing with each other, and participating, and communicating. I think Ben’s right—I think we could all use some breathing exercises.”

  “I think so, too,” Mason says. “Don’t you, Stella?”

  “All right, everyone—close your eyes. Picture yourself somewhere happy, somewhere tranquil. And breathe in.”

  I close my eyes, take a breath, and picture myself back in Wethersfield. I’ll take boredom and screaming parents and unwelcoming memories over that nightmare of a therapy session any day.

  ANDREW

  I’M NOT RELIGIOUS, but I pray before I step on the scale.

  It is Weigh-in Wednesday. I am standing in front of the scale. I am holding my breath. And I am fucking praying.

  To be honest, I don’t even know who or what I’m praying to. It’s not like I picture some stern, bearded guy hanging out in the sky, checking off yes or no every time I ask him for something. And I don’t imagine sitting next to Buddha, waiting for him to give me wisdom or tranquility. It’s more like a plea to the univ
erse, I guess, or some grand sense of justice that obviously doesn’t really exist. Like, I would obviously prefer it if God answered my pleas, and if Buddha granted me peace and self-love or whatever else. But those are obviously not going to happen, so the most I can ask is that the universe keeps the scale from reading above 125. Not out of grace or goodness or whatever else, but just out of some cosmic desire to keep me from going crazy.

  It’s funny, because I know that the scale shouldn’t read above 125. I know how much I’ve been eating, and I know how much I weighed before, and I’m good enough at math to know how much I should weigh today. Even then—even knowing everything I’ve done and all the factors I’ve taken into account—I’m still terrified.

  It’s been almost five days since I last weighed myself. Who knows what’s been happening with my metabolism in those five days—maybe the stress has thrown it out of sync and I’ve somehow gained five pounds. Maybe the God I don’t believe in and the Buddha I don’t pray to have teamed up in order to fuck me over. Maybe it’s going to read 130, 135, 140.

  It’s worse because there’s no preparation about it, you know? Back home, I weighed myself at the same time every day—after using the bathroom, before showering, before breakfast. I took off all my clothes except for my boxers and always stepped evenly onto the scale, right foot first, then the left. I made sure to balance my weight carefully and not touch anything else. Here, they just have you take your shoes off and step on. I don’t know how much to subtract for my jeans and shirt, and also, I drank water already this morning. Everyone always told me that I shouldn’t let the numbers rule my life, but it’s even worse with numbers that might not even be true.

  “Andrew?” Jessie says. I’ve been staring at the scale for a solid minute now, and she’s probably getting worried. “Would you like to do the weighing blind?”