Читать книгу Four Weeks, Five People - Jennifer Yu - Страница 15

ANDREW

IT STARTED KIND of as a joke.

I’m in this band, right? It’s called The Eureka Moment. And I know every single kid in every single band ever says this, but we’re actually pretty good. Jake is a killer guitarist, Aidan has been playing drums since before he could walk, Sam doesn’t get pissed about no one actually giving a shit about bass (way more important than skill when it comes to bassists, to be honest), and I have a good enough voice to get away with having pretty average guitar skills and even more average hair.

We weren’t very well-known for most of our time together. The first two years, we played a lot in garages and not a lot anywhere else. It was fun, obviously, but still, we dreamed about making it big just like any other band, you know? It wasn’t just the fame or the money—kind of the whole deal. The lifestyle, I guess. The image. I remember we’d spend hours looking at pictures of grungy lead singers with bands dressed in all black and ripped-up cigarette jeans that only anorexics and addicts can fit into. Heroin chic, it was called.

I don’t know how it happened, really, but I think we all kind of ended up adopting that look, thinking it would make us more popular. I mean, girls dig that shit, right? And then it turned into this stupid game, where whoever spent the most time smoking and the least amount of time eating “won.” There was never really any prize. I guess the satisfaction was enough. It was one of those jokes that everyone takes a little too seriously. We probably dropped a hundred pounds between the four of us in a few months.

The problem is that it worked. People were into us. Or maybe they weren’t into us, really, but they were at least interested in us. They gave us a chance, is what I’m saying. Our Twitter followers doubled. Girls started tagging us in Facebook photos their parents probably wouldn’t be thrilled about. The local newspaper picked up a couple stories about us. More and more people started coming to shows.

We never really talked about the game after we got more popular. I think the other guys just sort of realized it was stupid, quit, and went back to eating absolute crap and calling it “bulking.” You know, normal sixteen-year-old guy stuff.

But I couldn’t get it out of my head. I think maybe it affected me more than anyone else. I’m the lead singer, I guess, so people noticed my appearance more than some of the other guys. Smoking anything I could get my hands on and not eating and buying jeans I couldn’t afford and shouldn’t have been able to fit into and watching my cheekbones get more and more noticeable—I felt good about it. It was like accomplishing something, like becoming someone I wanted to be. And then, gradually, it pretty much became all I was. I mean, my friends were totally freaked out. My band mates hung around because we played together, but even they thought I was taking the whole thing a bit too far. The only people who really wanted to spend any time with me anymore by the time The Incident rolled around were people who dug the band but didn’t actually know anything about me as a person.

I’m not going to say that I don’t have a problem, because that would be kind of ridiculous at this point. I mean, I’m here, right? Camp Ugunduzi. I came willingly. I said okay when my parents suggested it and told them I would work on my issues and meant it. I’m not even angry about the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere. Or that they took our phones away. Or that we’re not going to have internet and I’m not going to be able to jam with the guys for, like, four weeks. I’ll take that if it means I can bring myself to eat a burger and fries when I get back.

And it’s not like it’s not nice here. They’ve gathered all the campers on the grass by the lake so that the director can give some kind of speech before we break into our groups, and I have to admit, it’s pretty much just as beautiful as the brochure promised it would be. This is the kind of place artists go when they need quiet inspiration. When they’re sick of playing distorted power chords all day long and want to do something acoustic, something peaceful. I sit down on the grass, head filled with melodies and choruses and wishing I had brought my notebook out with me so that I could get it all down before they disappear. Inspiration is like that. There, and then, all of a sudden, gone.

By the time the director finally joins us, there’s about fifty people out on the grass. Some of them have formed small clusters and are talking to each other, but most people, like me, are just sort of staring into the distance. And then there’s this deafening screeching that I’d recognize anywhere as microphone feedback. For a second, it’s almost like I’m back in Aidan’s basement, plugging in all the amps and messing around with mics before a show. It’s a sound I’ve grown weirdly fond of, considering how awful it sounds. But then the director starts talking, and I snap out of it.

“Welcome to Camp Ugunduzi,” he says. “My name is Dr. Ash Palmer, and I’m the director here.”

The first thing I notice about this man is that everything about him is gray. Gray hair, gray eyes, gray suit. Even his voice, which is low and deep and gravelly, makes me think of the color gray.

“I could not be more thrilled to be starting the fifth year of our wonderful pilot program with you,” Dr. Palmer says. Which sounds great and all, except it would be impossible for this guy to look any less thrilled. Seriously. Dr. Palmer looks like one of those dudes who is literally not capable of smiling.

“Unfortunately, my position as director means that, for the most part, I won’t be seeing much of you over the course of the next few weeks. With that in mind, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say this afternoon.

“Foreboding warnings against misbehavior and disobedience seemed like a bad way to begin what I hope—and I certainly know you all hope—will be a positive experience. Attempts to find some sort of grand, overarching teaching message that would apply to a group as complex and diverse as you seemed infantilizing, not to mention destined to fail. And the usual cliché words of encouragement—well, I’m sure you’re all sick of hearing those.”

At this point, I’m pretty confused. I mean, is he trying to be nice? Is he trying to be strict? Is he trying to intimidate us? Does anyone know? I look around the circle. Based on the looks on everyone else’s faces, the answer is definitely not.

“So I thought I would leave my opening dramatics to this, and leave the rest to our terrific, incredible staff,” Dr. Palmer continues. “For many of you, Camp Ugunduzi is a land of unknown. You may feel apprehensive, unsure, perhaps even scared, about what the next few weeks will entail. For others, it is a place where you’ve come to identify and address your problems. Your time here may hold many challenges, but you’ve come determined to confront them as best you can. Whatever role Camp Ugunduzi may play in each of your individual lives, I hope that for all of you it means an opportunity. To heal. To change. And, ultimately, to grow.”

Dr. Palmer does one last sweeping look across everyone gathered outside. Then he nods. “With that, I take my leave. You should now find your way to your group leaders, who are stationed around the area with signs with their group number on them.”

I stand up and start walking toward the woman standing next to the water with a giant 1L sign. Then I watch as everyone else finds their own group: clusters form around the 1R sign, then 2L, then 2R, then 3L, and so on until all ten signs are surrounded by five or six campers. But even as I look around, trying to take everything in at once, my head is still on Dr. Palmer, in his gray suit, giving his speech in his gray, gray voice. It was nothing unusual, I know. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Just standard stuff that you’d expect to hear on the first day of camp—about how we’re going to grow, and change, and help each other solve all of our problems and whatever else. It’s stuff that should make me excited actually—because this is why my parents sent me. Because this is why I came.

But the thing is, there’s a part of me that’s scared. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to grow, or change, or let anyone help me get through this stupid problem. Because sometimes it feels like it’s everything I have. Or everything I even am. And sometimes, like the nights before shows and the moments after eating something I know I really shouldn’t have and when I’m counting my ribs as I’m lying in bed, I can’t think of who I’d be without it.