Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  I’d include the pounding rhythms in my brain and the watery waves swishing in my stomach every time I peeked at that foxy guy who I wished I’d had the nerve to talk to again. I’d put in how the sweat on my upper lip beaded sweetly, like misty root beer. Then, I wrote a line describing the rush of warmth, hotter than any oven, that had passed over my chest when he glanced longingly back my way as he exited the front door.

  I ended the poem with a heart-shaped period, before closing my journal and hugging it to my chest.

  Thought I’d be wiped and ready to crash by then, but my head was still at the party, so, lighting a candle to mask the smell, I pulled out what was left of the joint I’d taken a few hits off the day before. Opening my window as far as it could go, I leaned into the screen and held a burning match to the blackened end. I cupped a hand around the baby flame and inhaled.

  A blush of red from the burning joint passed over my moonlit hand. I stared, watching it brighten the pale skin. Like a paused film, time lengthened as the party played out in my mind.

  Hands outreached, lips parted for a kiss as twinkling eyes filled my vision with moonlit dreams. Oh, a dance, with me? I imagined saying, while doing a spot-lit twirl.

  He takes me in his arms, and we glide.

  And for one amazing moment, I am a girl aglow.

  Twenty

  Joy

  Brad-ley. Even his name was foxy. It rolled off the tongue like a bong hit of Thai Stick, curling with sweet resin that fills your mouth as you exhale. And ever since the party, it rocked, rolled, spun and trundled off my tongue. When no one was around, I whispered his name again and again. And when I was in social studies, I wrote Joy Chapel + Bradley Knox = love, instead of the notes Mr. Gonzales told us to copy.

  The way Mr. Gonzalez fretted about communism, you’d think he was McCarthy in the 1950s. With a waggle of his fat finger, he’d warn us how the commies were winning the Cold War. “Boys and girls, we better do something soon. Those commie pinkos are trying to take over the world! They have a huge arsenal, with enough nuclear bombs to blow us up many times over.”

  Then he’d bemoan over how we should have fought harder in Vietnam and Korea. Invaded Russia after World War II. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  I don’t know about all that political stuff, but I figured that when doomsday finally comes and the bombs scorch the world, it’s going to be okay. Because Bradley Knox and I are going to gather the last surviving children and take them to our cave high up in the mountains. There, with Yoko and John or some other cool hippies as our mentors, we’ll live off the land, have twenty-three beautiful children, and write songs vibrating with love.

  That’s the sort of stuff I dreamed of every night before drifting off to sleep. I was sure Bradley and I had what it took to restart the world.

  If I ever got up the nerve to call him.

  But whenever I got close to dialing, I’d start to shake, thinking, What would he ever see in you? Flat as a pancake. Barely any hair down there. Didn’t even start until eighth grade.

  Then my mouth would get so dry, I couldn’t even croak hello. So instead, I wrote him another poem I’d never send. They filled the pages of my journal with stanzas about sunburst eyes twinkling, hair like a rockin’ lead singer, and broad shoulders I could rest my head on during a slow dance. His teeth are as white as clouds over Catalina.

  I know what you’re wondering. Joy, it’s almost the end of ninth grade, don’t you have a boyfriend yet? And no, I don’t. As if it’s any of your business.

  Lisa says I’m too shy. That I should just walk up to a boy and say ‘hi’. When we were out in the field across from the school at lunch one day, she said, “Why not pick someone from the lower Stoner wall?”

  “No way. Too embarrassing.”

  “But you’re fourteen and never even been kissed. That’s weird,” she said, shaking her head. Lisa had had nine boyfriends so far. Not only has she French-kissed, she also even let two of them touch her boobies. She said it made her tingle down there, but had said no when they wanted to go farther.

  “So? I don’t want to just get my first kiss over with. I want it to mean something.”

  “Do you even know how?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You’ve been practicing like I showed you?”

  I put my hand up to my lips to demonstrate how good I was getting. Slobbered all over my knuckles while I moaned and groaned like Lisa had demonstrated the month before. “See? I do know.”

  “Not terrible.”

  “Now, light up the doobie before lunch is over. I have to get to class.”

  Twenty-One

  Joy

  “Hey Mom?” I asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Remember the Knoxes who came to our disco night?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think we might be seeing them again soon? Like for another party or something?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not ready for a big party right now. Things have been going so well. I…” She trailed off.

  I knew what Mom meant without her finishing. Ever since the whole picture thing, Ronny had been nicer. No slamming doors or ‘fuck you’s’ in months. I guessed that maybe he felt guilty for making Mom sad with that other lady. He’d brought her a huge bouquet of flowers the next day and had even taken her out to one of the nicest restaurants in town. That night, they came home late, all giggly and whispery before turning music on in their bedroom.

  Maybe this year, I’d leave for camp surrounded by fluorescent colors like in those black light posters at Nirvana’s Head Shop. Instead of the black and blue filling my vision, there’d be dayglo turquoise in the shape of peace signs.

  I sighed. Then again, this was Ronny, not John Lennon. The best I could hope for were the muted colors we had right then.

  “But might we go to Santa Barbara and visit on our way to Long Beach?” I asked, raising both brows hopefully.

  “You know we won’t have time. Just getting you and Kyle to the boats with all your luggage takes hours.” As if to emphasize, Mom folded another pair of Kyle’s shorts and put them in the bottom of the trunk next to his snorkel and fins.

  “O-kay.” I got up from the couch and wandered toward the bar room in the back of the house. Was bored, so tried calling Lisa.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s me.”

  “I know. You’re the only one that would call at nine am in summer,” Lisa said. “So, what’s up? You getting all ready for Catalina?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s packing the trunks. Gonna go tomorrow.”

  “Cool.” She paused. “Got any weed?”

  “No.” I huffed. “Don’t even have enough money for a joint. Shit.”

  “You’re always broke. What’s up with that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Money just disappears.”

  “You’re spaced. Jelly-brained.”

  I chuckled. This was a common joke in our crowd. We called people that smoked too much jelly-brained, like Jelly Brain Jeff, who was always so stoned he couldn’t even tell you if the sky was blue. We had fun laughing at ourselves and all the silly things we said when we were high.

  “Why not come over and help me pick out what to wear on the boat?”

  “Sure. See ya.”

  The next day, I felt pretty hot as I walked up the gangplank of the Catalina Express in my white shorts and tank top. I searched the upper and lower decks, jazzed to see that some of my bunkmates had returned.

  But not my best bud, Erin. I hoped she’d come later but wasn’t too worried. Camp was the one place where it was easy to make friends. Even for a shy kid like me.

  Later, at the Isthmus, I boarded one of same flat-bottomed boats à la the Disneyland Jungle Cruise I’d taken for three summers now. Recognizing a couple of the leathered men who held out their hands to help us board, I nodded hello. Then I shook my little booty, proud of my new curves, even if they were full-on subtle.

  Soon, we were chugging around the bend, and I again marv
eled at this unique bay with the palm trees and our blue tented cabins below a hillside of coreopsis, prickly pear, bush mallow and some manzanita plants. Every time I saw that bay, my heart slowed, and each breath deepened like I was one of those meditating yogis in Nepal.

  I glanced up at the mountains topped with eucalyptus, ironwood, and sage bushes, searching for Carl’s trailer at the end, wondering if he was still there.

  Carl Koski. As permanent a camp fixture as Indian Rock or the Lagoon. A German immigrant, he came to California after the war. He was one of the few people who lived on the island year-round, instead of the summer residents like me who stayed anywhere from two to twelve weeks. No one knew how long he’d been on Catalina, but by the looks of his weather-beaten skin and the age spots on his bald head, it was probably a long freaking time.

  His home up on the hill was the last in the row of assorted trailers that the camp provided for the boat drivers, handymen, nurses, and resident doctor. As the caretaker, he kept intruders out in winter and made sure our camp ran smoothly in summer. Plus, he was an expert shoe repairman. You name it, he could fix it. From high tops, to Zories, to moccasins, this guy knew his stuff. Even if your soles were so loose, they flapped like panting dog tongues with every step, he could put them back on. He could create new sandal straps out of odds and ends around his trailer, and stitch together a pair of tennies that were so long gone, it was a miracle that the kid wearing them could even could walk up the hill to get them repaired.

  The strange thing was, Carl never wore shoes himself. Not that I saw, anyhow. Now, I did the barefoot-toughen-your-feet-up every summer and was pretty proud of how I could walk over hot sand, gravel, and even a few prickly weeds, but this dude had feet as thick as stacked steaks ready for the barbecue.

  Carl had a ritual that everyone at camp knew about. Every morning around dawn, he’d rise and, with one stiff leg from an old injury he never talked about, would limp down the snaky trail to the beach. Then, in loose shorts that somehow managed to stay on, he’d dive through the waves to begin his swim. I don’t know how such an old man could keep going for over an hour, but he did. And he said he did it year-round, in all kinds of weather. No wetsuit or rash guard or anything.

  What a badass.

  Of course, Carl was more than just the barefoot guy who fixed camper’s shoes. He was also the resident guru, spiritual guide, mentor and, for me, a friend.

  Day after day, Carl would hand out advice along with mended pairs to the line of kids holding broken shoes in their hands. “Sidney, we discussed about this topic. You speak too fast. You should make a pause before the next sentence.” Or, “Gail, activism is good, yes. But you also must work on kindness for yourself. Look!” And he’d sweep an arm in a wide arc, inviting us all to take in the surrounding beauty.

  I always let other kids go ahead of me so I could be at the end of the line. More often than not, I brought my journal along with a shoe I’d messed up on purpose. Then I’d share a poem or a paragraph while Carl listened patiently, rubbing his bald head with the palm of his hand. Some of my poems he liked, others he hated. But for some reason his critiques never hurt my feelings.

  Carl just made you want to be better.

  “Joy Chapel!” a counselor’s loud voice called after I got off the boat. “Clipper.”

  I’d made it to the top cabin! So friggin cool! No more Dingy babies like Year One, or Sloop tweeners in Year Two. We’d be the oldest just-under-fifteen-year-old counselors-in-training, or C.I.T.’s, as everyone called them

  I held my head high as I joined the other girls lined up for our cabin.

  Summer, yeah!

  Twenty-Two

  Joy

  As I entered the cabin, where the tented roof cast a slight blue tinge on everything, I nodded hello to the other girls, while gauging who would be cool to hang with. Most of my bunkmates looked like Book Arms, prep school brainiacs, or Socials so caught up in their outfits, you’d think this was the Academy Awards instead of camp. Not that I was all judgey and shit, but I hoped there be someone to get high with.

  I threw my sleeping bag on a top bunk near the window for dibs. If you didn’t do dibs right away, you might end up under a chick who snores Hella loud, or farts so bad you wake choking on the fumes. That’d been my fate two summers before and there was no way I was doing the bottom bunk again. It’s better to climb the metal railing to the top, where at least you could breathe.

  While unrolling my blue Coleman bag, I heard someone clear their throat behind me. I didn’t turn, but kept smoothing the nylon cover until it looked comfy.

  “Excuse me, but I think that’s my bunk.”

  “Not,” I said, stepping down to the floor. “Bag on bunk equals dibs.”

  In front of me was a chick with straight blonde hair and brow-skimming bangs. Her hands were on her hips and her staring blue eyes were about as intimidating as the puppy we almost adopted from Pets-R-Us. “I always have the top,” she said.

  I glanced around at all the taken bunks and shrugged. “Not this year.”

  The other girls in the cabin grew silent, waiting to see how this would play out. One Social adjusted a braid and stepped closer.

  Blue Eyes looked me up and down and gave me a sly smile. “But it’s customary for the last girl to enter to get first choice of bunks.”

  My eyes narrowed. What did she take me for? A little Dingy cabin first year? “Yeah, right.”

  “No, seriously. All the best camps do it. Last year when I was in the Adirondacks, it was part of the camp motto. Last in always wins.

  One of the Book Arms piped up. “I’ve never read that. Where’d it come from?”

  “From an ancient Navajo myth about weary travelers seeking shelter in the desert.”

  “I didn’t see you on the boat,” I said.

  With a dramatic sigh, the girl rounded her eyes. “I had to take a later one. Family issues.”

  The Social, named Jodi, joined the conversation. “Maybe we should welcome someone who’s had a rough time.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d been coming to CIC for four years and it was always dibs. “No way.”

  “Come on, Joy. Put your bag on the bottom,” Jodi said.

  I thought about arguing, but didn’t like to look like a bitch in front of all the girls. Anyhow, Blue Eyes didn’t look like someone who had digestive problems or snored. Still I couldn’t let her just get away with it. Grabbing my bag, I swung it off the bunk with just enough force to whip her shoulders. With my message sent, I gave her a fake smile and shoved my bag on the bottom mattress.

  “I’m hitting the head,” I said, grabbing my purse with a pack of cigs inside.

  Instead of going to gang showers, I stole a quick glance over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching and jogged up to the boar pit. This little gulley was where the kitchen crew dumped table scraps every night. This provided the campers with a unique show. We would sit on the hillside waiting for the wild pigs to arrive and munch out.

  I know, seems gross. But we campers really got off on those spotted mammals. In twos and threes, they’d snuffle up the dusty trail, the little piglets struggling to keep up with their mamas as they trotted toward all our stinky garbage. I think they liked the leftover pancakes best; at least they usually ate that first.

  Finding a spot hidden from the entrance, I tapped a Marlboro Regular from the pack and rested it on my lips like a gangster in an old black and white move. I’d just lit the end and inhaled when I heard a rustling off to the left. Clutching the cigarette between my thumb and forefinger, I thrust it behind my back.

  “You know smoking’s against the rules,” the voice behind the bushes said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Then, Ms. Steal-My-Bunk emerged on the path. “Oh, you usually have smoke coming out of your ass? What are you, part dragon?”

  I looked over my shoulder. “That’s just dust.”

  “Sure. Wilderness dust smells just like
an ashtray.”

  “So? What’s it to you?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. But you could at least share.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You smoke?”

  “I like tobacco occasionally. Of course, there are sweeter flavors.” She held out her hand and I passed the cig her way. She took a long drag and blew four smoke rings.

  Impressive.

  “What flavors might you be talking about?”

  “You know. The herbal kind. From Thailand. Or Acapulco.”

  Just because she smoked didn’t mean I could trust her. “You a narc? Trying to get me kicked out of camp?”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Why would you make a big friggin’ deal over getting the top bunk when I had it all set up?”

  “That was funny. You should have seen your face. You got so pissed.”

  “Yeah. So tell me more about this Navajo myth.”

  “What myth?”

  “The one that says to welcome strangers.”

  “Are you jelly-brained?” She chuckled.

  Then it dawned on me. “You made it up!”

  “Well, hello. You didn’t actually think that there was one?”

  “Kind of.” I shrugged.

  “You’re a little naïve, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m no goody-goody. I get high and shit.” I covered my mouth. Oh no. Now she’s going to narc me out.

  “Don’t worry. So do I. Actually, once the mail arrives tomorrow, I should have some sweet Acapulco gold. And I might even share. If you let me keep the top bunk.”

  I burst out laughing. “Keep it! By the way, what’s your name?”

  She made a long, sweeping bow. “Gina. Gina Levi. Blonde Jew and stoner at your service.”

  “Joy. Hey.”

  Twenty-Three

  Joy