Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  “Gina, come on. Get up. There’s someone I want you to meet.” I grabbed her dangling arm and started tugging.

  Gina groaned. “Let go, I’m sore.” She rubbed her shoulders as if she’d rowed all the way around the island instead of the bay.

  “It’ll be worth it, believe me.” I tucked my journal under an arm and headed for the door.

  “Okay, okay. Hold up. I’m coming.”

  I suppressed a grin. I knew she’d follow.

  We trekked up the hill behind our cabin to the row of trailers overlooking camp. I hadn’t told her about Carl yet, but since she’d been in camp three days now, I figured it was about time. She’d probably heard about him; all campers had, but since her flip-flops were still in one piece, she probably hadn’t thought twice about visiting. She was too busy checking the mail for her special delivery.

  “So where are you taking me, anyhow? Up to visit the hot boat drivers?” she asked, raising both eyebrows.

  “You’ll see. Just be patient.” I hopped over a boulder and turned toward the left fork leading to Carl’s metal home.

  “Joy?”

  “Stop stressing. I told you it’ll be cool, and it will.”

  “Is this payback for stealing your bunk?”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “Over it.”

  The gravelly path steepened, and I slowed my pace to avoid sliding. I’d skinned my knees along it more times than I could count, so focused on planting my sandaled feet firmly on the trail until I topped the rise.

  “Careful, it’s slippery.”

  “I’m fi—”

  Her words were cut short and I heard the grating sound of feet skidding on grit. I turned to see arms flailing as Gina struggled to keep her balance. I reached out a hand, too late.

  She went down on one knee and cried out.

  “You okay?”

  Still down on one knee, she nodded grimly. She stood and saw that her shin was scraped and trickling blood. “Shit.”

  “Sorry.” I climbed the last three yards to the crag and extended a hand to pull her up.

  She crossed her arms and faced me. “Now tell me where the fuck are we going? And they better have a Band-Aid.”

  A few yards ahead, I could see Carl sitting in a folding lawn chair that had seen better days. It must have been left out in the rain because the bent aluminum legs were rusted and the webbing was so faded, you couldn’t tell if it’d once been green, blue, or red. When he heard the two of us approaching, he looked up and smiled.

  “Joy!” he called in his German accent. “You have returned, with other persons.”

  Gina gave me a confused look and whispered, “This is who you wanted me to meet?”

  With a quick nod, I trotted the final few feet to give Carl a quick hug. “Great to see you!” I jerked a thumb toward Gina. “We’ll catch up in a sec, but right now my friend could use some help.”

  Noticing Gina’s bleeding shin, Carl took her by the arm and helped her into another of the ancient lawn chairs. Then he went inside to fetch his first aid kit.

  “Is he the shoe guy everyone talks about?” Gina asked.

  “Yep,” I replied, pointing behind her at the workbench hosting an assortment of tools, leather pieces, twine and rubber scraps.

  “But our shoes are fine.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Carl’s lame leg swung wide as he limped back down the steel steps. He carried the first aid box to the workbench and pulled out some Bactine that he sprayed on Gina’s knee. She cringed, but, to her credit, did not cry out. When it had dried, Carl grasped a Band-Aid in his thick fingers and applied it to her shin with surprising skill.

  “I sink iz better,” Carl said, patting her knee. “Now, Joy. No letters in many monz. Tell me of your life.”

  In reply, I opened my journal to a dog-eared page and passed it to him. While he silently read, I explained to Gina that Carl and I were penpals and he often critiqued my work. “He is helping me to be a better writer.”

  “So, you’re a Sylvia Plath wannabe?”

  “Sort of. Or Timothy Leary.” I giggled.

  With a palm resting on his mottled head, Carl read the page twice. He rubbed the few remaining grey tufts on his bare scalp and leaned back. Then he said that he liked the imagery, but the emotion was too veiled.

  “I seek you in the piece, but it is az if you hide from yourself. Where are you on the page?”

  How could he know about my mask? The face I wear for the world? I thought I had a perfect disguise.

  I pretended not to know what he was talking about and changed the subject. We started chatting about our respective schools, boyfriends, or lack thereof, and what subjects we liked.

  You know, mundane stuff that keeps the mask in place.

  When, about an hour later, Gina and I made our way back down the hill, she turned to me and said, “He’s cool. I get it.”

  Twenty-Four

  Joy

  My counselor, Jan, shook me. “Joy, wake up. It’s time,” she whispered.

  Nodding slowly, I unzipped my sleeping bag, tucked a towel under my arm, and crawled out of bed to join the other Clippers shuffling sleepily toward the door. No one switched on a light or pulled out a flashlight.

  We needed the darkness.

  Outside, the crescent moon shone over the Pacific, its points sharp and menacing.

  “I don’t know about this,” Jodi said.

  “Shh!” Jan warned.

  “But…”

  “If you wake anyone up,” Gina rasped in her ear, “so help me God, I’ll say it was all your idea.”

  Jodi raised her hands and shut up.

  We tiptoed down the path toward the cliff stairs. Every once in a while, a girl would kick a pebble and we’d all freeze, looking back for the inevitable explosion of spotlights. Judging by the hard breathing, I think everyone’s hearts were pounding so hard we could have been a conga band. I put a hand on my chest.

  Then I tripped and fell against Jodi.

  “Oomph!” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Jan stopped and beckoned the twelve of us to make a circle. “This will work only if we are careful. Come on, girls, be stealthy. You are Clippers, great ships on the sea. And soon your sails will be unfurled.”

  “Unfurled!” Gina whispered while raising a fist.

  With a proud head-bob, I copied her fist pump and looked to see if the others would follow suit. With buoyed confidence, several girls nodded and a few even extended curled hands. Jan gave us two thumbs-up and continued forward.

  We approached the cliff’s precipice knowing that once we descended, there was no turning back. I gave Gina’s shoulder a squeeze and stepped onto the wooden staircase.

  The sage brush on the craggy bluff rustled in the wind, making me feel like a sailor in a gale. I held tightly to the railing and took two steps down. Then I heard the clinking of pebbles and glanced over at a scurrying ground squirrel. I wanted to call out that it didn’t have to run from us, we weren’t hunters. At least not of animals.

  We were seeking something altogether different.

  A minute later, we were on the beach and the leggy Jan stopped to scan the horizon, cliff face, and sandy shore. When she seemed satisfied that no one had followed, she turned toward the place campers were forbidden to go to.

  I don’t know if the rocky lagoon was man-made back from when this was a rock quarry, or if it was natural, but it sure as shit held every camper’s imagination. Stacked boulders created a curved seawall and a pool, allowing water in but blocking crashing waves. With black rocks and still waters that the sun warmed during the day, this pond supposedly was the island’s only warm soak.

  Making it perfect for our night’s mission.

  Jan went first. No one dared look but we all snuck peeks. Not that we hadn’t seen it before. There were gang showers, after all.

  She stood in the moonlight, a nineteen-year-old goddess with brown areolas wrinkling in the night air, each nippl
e pointing us toward the water. With a wink, she turned toward the pool. In the dim light, her butt cheeks were so white against her tanned legs and torso that it looked like she was still wearing her panties.

  Not a single glance was exchanged as we silently undressed. Then, on feet not yet toughened by summer, we tiptoed to the water’s edge. A couple of girls stayed wrapped in towels, too shy to show the sky their skin. Even the outgoing Gina hung back.

  Jan took a deep breath and dove, a long, sleek racing dive. The reflected sickle moon rippled on the pool’s surface. She emerged, flipped her long blonde hair back and called, “What are you girls waiting for? Morning reveille?”

  Surprisingly, Jodi was the first to drop her towel. She started marching forward until the rocks underfoot made her cringe. Resuming a tiptoe trot, she waded in until the water was knee high. Here, she stumbled over something and promptly fell over. Jodi surfaced, sputtering and spitting water.

  Giggles filled the air.

  This was all the encouragement the rest of us needed. A moment later, the lagoon was filled with splashing, dunking, kicking fifteen-year-olds. Boobies bobbed in the water as we jumped and leapt. We were no longer Clipper Cabin, but a group of fairies, sprites and Narnian dryads out for a night’s revelry

  The water was surprisingly warm for California, having been heated by a particularly sunny day. And it felt smooth over my skin. As I submerged and swam underwater, it rushed through my privates in a way that exhilarated me like never before.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and don’t get gross. I don’t mean anything horny or sexy or stuff like that. Instead, the water over naked skin felt natural, like my body and the sea were melding into one.

  I was Joy, nymph of the sea, breathing deeply, trying to capture the moment.

  Then Gina splashed me in the face. And of course, I splashed her back.

  Twenty-Five

  Joy

  Well, it happened. Gina’s pot finally arrived. Not on day two like she anticipated, but on day six, leaving us boringly straight for a week. Well, not boring. At camp, you don’t notice that you’re sober like you do when school is going on. It doesn’t seem quite so important. Catalina colors are already vibrant blue and turquoise and the clouds dance without any hallucinogenic filter.

  Still, I was missing that sweet flavor and the way my brain hummed after a couple of hits. Maybe that’s why they call it buzzed, because your brain buzzes like tingly static. So, when Gina held up the envelope she’d mailed herself and raised two eyebrows, I was ready.

  We decided to wait until everyone crashed before sneaking out. Daytime was just too dangerous. Even though most of our counselors were cool and probably got high themselves, there were a couple that I was sure had never even seen a bong. They would make a scene if they saw us with pot, and neither Gina nor I wanted to be sent home.

  When the Clipper Cabin’s sounds quieted into soft breathing and brace-faced snores, I pressed my cocooned feet into Gina’s overhead bunk. The springs creaked and I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable groans and pleas for quiet.

  A moment later, Gina was hanging her head over with an upside-down grin. Since she’d made sure to keep her bag unzipped when she crawled in an hour before, she was able to snake out silently before shimmying down the railing to land on cat feet. She jerked her head toward the exit and padded over to the door.

  I was next to her in a flash, but now came the rusty screen door that the maintenance guys obviously hadn’t oiled in forever. I opened it an inch, two. One more. Squeak! I froze, not daring to turn around.

  Several seconds passed before Gina nudged me. I still didn’t move. Then she poked me, and I remembered our cover story. I had to pee and didn’t want to go alone.

  I pressed the door open, holding it for Gina before inching it shut. We crept down the wooden steps and immediately started running past the gang showers. It was a real mad dash. I guess we both were pretty scared we’d get busted.

  Once we reached the playing field, we continued sprinting for the path to the boar pit.

  “I think we can slow down now,” Gina said, a little out of breath.

  We’d made it all the way to the ravine, where the smell of half-eaten burgers, stale fries, and pickles that the wild pigs had ignored filled the air. Wrinkling my nose, I glanced back over my shoulder. “Okay.”

  Gina pulled a small pipe and a plastic bag out of her sweatshirt pocket. Unzipping the baggie, she grabbed a pinch and pressed it into the bowl. It must have been good weed because an immediate sweet scent, kind of like the spice section of a health food store, met my nose. She tucked the baggie back in her pocket and placed the pipe between her lips.

  I fished a book of matches out of my pocket and ran one over the striker. It sparked but didn’t flame. Tried another. This one lit up, but the night breeze quickly extinguished it.

  “Shit, Joy. Can’t you even light a friggin’ match?”

  “Chill. I got this,” I said, cupping my hand around my third try.

  Holding the pipe in one hand, Gina lifted the other to screen the wind and guide the baby flame toward the bowl. When fire met herb, it sparked and sizzled, and a grinning Gina sucked the sweet incense into her lungs.

  “My turn,” I said, reaching for the pipe.

  Just then there was a rustling in the bushes. I looked and to my horror saw Jan approaching.

  “Shit,” Gina said.

  “Double shit,” I agreed.

  Gina looked around for a place to hide the pipe, but it was too late. Jan had already seen it.

  “I thought so,” she said, shaking her head. “When I saw you two running past the head, I knew you were going to get high.”

  “No, this is just…” Gina began.

  “Don’t.” Jan held up a hand.

  I hung my head. “I’m sorry.”

  Jan approached and held out a hand. Reluctantly, Gina passed the pipe to her. “And the rest?”

  Groaning, Gina tossed the baggie at her.

  “Come on, girls.”

  Our flip-flops snapped against our feet as we shuffled back towards camp. What is Mom going to say? I wondered. Or Ronny? I gulped, flashing back on how Ronny had reacted when I’d come home from camp the first time. And that was just Mom saying one little thing. What would he do if I got sent home?

  My heart pounded harder in my chest. “Jan, can’t we handle this here? Not with…” I trailed off when Jan turned toward the lodge instead of the head counselor’s cabin. “Huh?”

  She opened the door and light flooded the entrance. Keeping my gaze on my dusty feet, I waited for the impending lecture. When instead I heard soft music, I glanced up and almost fell over.

  Inside, several counselors, our boat drivers, Matt and Steve, and the maintenance guy, Gabriel, were standing in groups of twos and threes, sipping something out of paper cups. Their happy conversation quieted when Jan stepped over the threshold.

  “What do we have here?” the curly-headed Gail asked with a smirk. “Some campers being naughty?”

  Gina and I exchanged a perplexed glance.

  “Yep, holding out on us,” Jan said, waving the baggie of pot in front of everyone.

  “Hey! That’s mine. I had to go through hell to get it here,” Gina protested.

  “But of course, you’ll share. Won’t you?” Gail said.

  “Or if you’d rather have us hand it in, I’m sure the head counselor would have a thing or two to say about it.”

  Gina spoke quickly. “No, Jan, I’ll share.”

  A minute later, we were all passing around the bowl. I giggled when it came my way, thinking that these counselors were all older than me, some almost twenty, and way cool. I was just fifteen. Well, fifteen and a half; I’d be sixteen in December, and to be included in this group that had shared so much with me over the years was a freaking honor.

  Joy Chapel is smoking bowls with Catalina counselors. Radical, I thought, feeling at least two inches taller.

  After a
couple of hits, Jan handed Gina and me a cup. I sniffed at it. Sweet and sour at the same time.

  “Strawberry Hill. Try it,” Jan urged.

  Gina took a sip and nodded. “Yummy. Like Tang or Hawaiian Punch.”

  Shrugging, I ventured a taste. She was right. It didn’t taste sour and vinegary like the stuff my parents bought. It was way sweeter than any of their wines. I took another gulp and grinned.

  “Slow down, you only get one,” Jan cautioned.

  “Okay. You don’t have to freak.”

  Over by the window, Gail was leaning in real close to Steve who was whispering something in her ear. She tugged on one of her curls then rested a hand on his tanned shoulder. I paused and tilted my head to one side. Wasn’t she dating Matt?

  Weird.

  When everyone cracked up, I turned to ask Gina to repeat what she’d said. She was always saying funny things or telling jokes and even when high, she could remember the whole thing, waiting until the perfect moment to deliver the punch line.

  Well, one minute we were all laughing and chugging down Boone’s Farm sweet wine and the next, there was this horrific crash. A chair lay overturned and Matt and Steve, the two ski boat drivers, were on the floor, rolling over and over in a vicious brawl.

  They rose to their feet and Matt laid into Steve, punching him once, twice, three times, attacking him with a violence my stepfather would have envied.

  The tanned dude stumbled back, collided with the door, and then bounced forward like a rebounding racquetball off a court wall.

  “Stop!” I cried and leaped out of the way.

  Even now, Matt didn’t let up, but hit him again and again as Steve tried like hell to block each punch. I watched, horrified, as Steve’s face swelled under Matt’s bloodying blows. It wasn’t fair! Matt was at least four inches taller than Steve and probably outweighed him by, like, thirty pounds. Matt was all muscle and meat while Steve was just sinew. Well, plus some dreamy brown eyes. I could see why Gail had been flirting.

  The others shouted, too, but the two men kept up their macabre dance. Feet shuffled over the floor. Steve sputtered and coughed, red drool dripping down the side of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, bent down, and head-butted Matt in the gut, forcing them both against the ping pong table.