No Good Deed

by Goldy Moldavsky

  “Thank you.” Ashley’s face appeared next. “But are you okay, Gregor?” she said. “Do you need CPR? What year is it? Who’s the president? Who won best actress at last year’s Oscars?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “It was Meryl Streep!” Ashley cried. “Someone send help!”

  Hakim went running.

  A few of the boys who’d gotten into the water climbed onto the dock and surrounded Ashley. They enclosed her in a tight circle of concern, effectively shutting me out.

  “Ashley, do you need CPR?” one of the boys said.

  “Step aside, I’ll do it.” Rights. That bastard.

  “I’m fine, everybody,” Ashley said.

  I tried to sit up to show that I too was fine, but Ashley used her palm to press me firmly back down onto the dock. “Don’t try to get up,” she said. “I’ve played damsels in distress in romantic comedies before. Their first instinct is usually to show that they’re perfectly capable of doing things on their own, but they are almost always wrong.”

  I breathed and stared up at Ashley Woodstone. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”

  She smiled down at me. “Shhhhhhhhh,” she said.

  Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell was happening at this camp.

  Hakim forced me to go see the camp nurse, even after I assured him that I hadn’t actually drowned and was, in fact, perfectly okay. Not that Nurse Patrosian could help me much anyway. I knew this because while I’d sat on the chair in her office, she’d lain on the cot, her fingertips pressed against her furrowed forehead, and said, “I can’t help you.”

  “I don’t need help,” I’d assured her.

  “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “It’s only the first day of camp.”

  “And there’s already been eleven near fatalities.”

  I left her office with a lollipop and the realization that visiting the camp nurse in the future would be an exercise in futility. And it appeared that dining at the mess hall was fast becoming an exercise in humiliation.

  The broken telephone version of my rescue attempt earlier in the day had cast me as the asshole who’d aggressively tried to drown America’s sweetheart, Ashley Woodstone. It was becoming increasingly clear that Ashley Woodstone was my kryptonite. Anytime she was in close proximity to me I turned into a disaster. I had to stay away from her.

  It didn’t look like Ashley was anywhere in the mess hall, but I wasn’t going to take my chances. I sat at a scarcely occupied table in the corner of the large room. Just as I bit into my bread roll a piece of paper slid next to my tray. It read GLUTEN FREEDOM FOR ALL, and there was a list of reasons to go gluten-free.

  “You really should consider a gluten-free lifestyle,” said the girl standing in front of me. She stood stiffly with her stack of leaflets held close against her chest in her crossed arms, her squared shoulders reaching for her ears. She didn’t make eye contact with me as she spoke, which made it easier for me to continue chewing my bread without guilt.

  “I’ll think about it,” I told Gluten Freedom. She gave me a curt nod and walked away. I wasn’t sure how campaigning for a gluten-free America was going to save the world, but I could understand the girl’s reasoning behind this display.

  Overnight, a scoreboard had appeared outside the mess hall, covering the entirety of its eastern wall. At the top, large letters spelled out INTERNSHIP SCOREBOARD, and below it were a list of the campers who had somehow managed to score themselves some points toward winning the internship. Five campers already had a point. Men’s Rights, incredibly, had three. And at the top of the list, with an unprecedented ten points for “saving my life,” was Ashley Woodstone. She didn’t even need The Prize and she was already winning it. It made me dislike her even more than I already did. Anyway, my best guess was that Gluten Freedom was trying to get herself on that coveted scoreboard.

  I looked over to the guy sitting next to me and held up the gluten-free leaflet. “People are getting serious trying to win some points, huh?”

  He nodded. “Personally, I think leaflets are a pretty lame method of protest.” He talked around a mouthful of macaroni, which he kept shoveling into his mouth with his right hand, not letting the fact that it was encased in a pristine slime-green cast slow him down. I stared at the cast, wondering if he was one of the eleven “near fatalities” Nurse Patrosian had told me about.

  “You doing anything to win points yet?” I asked.

  “I’m doing it right now.”

  I stared, waiting for him to continue, but he kept me hanging, taking another leisurely bite of his macaroni.

  “I’m talking to you,” he finally said.

  I laughed. “What?”

  “My cause is Unity Through Multiculturalism. By talking to you I am bringing multiculturalism into your life. Before I started talking to you, you were just a white dude having dinner, alone. Now you’re a white dude having dinner with an Indian American acquaintance. I hope the counselors are taking notice.”

  “Actually, I’m half Latino.”

  “You look pretty white to me,” he said. “You’re wearing cargo shorts.” He looked under the table and then popped back up. “And Pumas. Face it, man: You’re white beyond belief.”

  Great.

  “So who are you?”

  “My name’s Gregor Maravilla.”

  “I don’t mean your name, man. Your cause. What are you here for?”

  Right, I’d almost forgotten that no one here had names. “Feed the Children.”

  “So why are you sitting at this table?” he said.

  I looked around, worried that there would be someone whose seat I had taken, but it was just the two of us. “You belong at the Hunger and Poverty Table,” Unity said. “Or maybe the International Causes Table. Sometimes campaigns overlap.”

  “Wait, everyone has grouped up into categories? When did that happen?”

  “Today at lunch.”

  Which I’d skipped for my useless visit with Nurse Patrosian. “What are the categories?”

  “There’s the Environmental Table, the Socioeconomic Table, Culture and Humanities, Education, Health and Disease, Human and Civil Rights, and Hunger and Poverty. Animals and International Causes got grouped together because there aren’t enough people in each cause to fill up a table. Then there’s the Miscellaneous Table, or as I like to call them, the weirdos.”

  “Weirdos?”

  “They’re the people who don’t belong at any table or in any category because their campaigns are total jokes.”

  The Miscellaneous Table was only a couple of tables away from ours. I didn’t know most of the kids at the table, but I was suddenly curious about what their campaigns could possibly be. There was the girl I’d seen earlier today with the S.P.E.W. T-shirt (ever a mystery) and the kid who was protesting the camp itself, and another kid taking bites of his dinner in between bouts of strumming the guitar balancing on his lap.

  “And then there’s the Cool Table.” Unity pointed to the center of the room, at the table that every other table in the mess hall seemed to face. “The Cool Table defies categorization. If anyone at the Cool Table even has a campaign, I don’t know what it is. They are not known by their campaign names. They are the few and blessed among us who can walk around and answer to their given birth names.”

  Poe and Win were sitting at the Cool Table. Unity was right—nobody called Win End Hunger or Poe QUILTBAG. For some reason even the thought of calling them by their campaign names seemed ridiculous. Even Balthazar-Adriano, who had the audacity of having two first names, wasn’t called by his campaign. He was sitting right next to Poe, and I could almost read his full name on her lips as she talked to him. I mean, the guy couldn’t even be bothered to have a nickname. I made a mental note to not introduce myself as Feed the Children and only introduce myself as Gregor.

  “If you wanna switch tables I’d pick the International Table over the Hunger and Poverty Table,” Unity said. “That way I have an exc
use to go over there, since we know each other now.”

  “Why do you want to go to the International Table?”

  “Because I want World Peace.”

  “We all want world peace.”

  “Yeah, well, I got dibs.”

  I was confused for a moment until he pointed out who he was talking about: a gorgeous girl with a big smile, big blonde hair, and even bigger—

  “Boobs,” Unity said, gulping down more macaroni. “World Peace has the biggest boobs at this camp.”

  I couldn’t ignore the fact that World Peace did indeed have big boobs. I tried my best not to openly stare. “You shouldn’t call ‘dibs’ on a girl,” I said. “Women aren’t property. And she’s more than just her figure, man.”

  “She is so freaking hot,” Unity said, ignoring me. I thought he was still talking about World Peace, but it seemed his attention had already been stolen by someone else who’d just come into the mess hall.

  I was beginning to notice that Ashley Woodstone had a way of walking into places. The way she walked into rooms was the way people looked when they caught a train just in the nick of time: a bit frazzled but ultimately relieved. Behind her was Pika the bodyguard, of course.

  “She eats dirt,” I said.

  “She can eat whatever she wants looking like that. I’d like to unite her with my multiculturalism.”

  I side-eyed Unity. Whatever that euphemism meant, it couldn’t have been good. Ashley grabbed a tray and set out for the food line, but she kept being interrupted by people. Girls and guys alike came over one by one to introduce themselves. I couldn’t hear what the campers were telling her, but whatever it was, it definitely had the air of animated gushing. Ashley asked her bodyguard for something, and he took a Sharpie out of his pocket like it’d been waiting in a holster. She then proceeded to sign the forehead of the guy she was talking to. He went back to his seat with a scribbled message covering the entirety of his face.

  Ashley signed people all over the place while her bodyguard got her dinner.

  “Dude, do you think I could get her to sign my tongue?”

  “Shouldn’t you try for your cast first?”

  “Everyone gets their casts signed. I want Ashley Woodstone to hold my tongue.”

  I was beginning to lose my appetite.

  “Dude, she’s waving at you! Why is Ashley Woodstone waving at you?”

  Ashley was coming over to our table. Her bodyguard put down her tray first, and then Ashley sat before it. I guess her diet consisted of more than just dirt. She also seemed to like salad.

  “Gregor Maravilla!” Ashley Woodstone said. “We meet again!”

  “Unity,” Unity said, nearly pushing me aside to shake Ashley’s hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Pleased to make yours,” Ashley responded. She did look honestly pleased. A few feet behind her, the bodyguard held back any more campers who threatened to interrupt Ashley’s dinner.

  “How are you feeling, Gregor?” she said. “Any PTSD from the drowning incident?”

  “I wasn’t drowning.”

  “Wait, you’re the guy that Ashley Woodstone saved from drowning today?” Unity said. He was looking at me like maybe mine was the more valuable friendship to have instead of the other way around. But my attention was pulled away from them as I watched the bodyguard shove a guy away from us by the face.

  And then Poe rolled back into my life. I say rolled because she slid into view on her skateboard. She hopped off and was about to take the seat next to Ashley’s when the bodyguard blocked her way.

  “Let her through,” I said. “She’s with us.”

  Pika stepped aside and Poe came to sit down. “Hey, Gregor, thanks for that.”

  Unity’s look had graduated from awe to love toward me. Someone from the Cool Table had actually referred to me by name.

  “Hi, I’m Gregor’s best friend, Unity.”

  “Hey, Unity.” Poe turned toward Ashley. “I’m Poe. I just wanted to come say hi and tell you that I’m a huge fan and ask if I could get an autograph?”

  “Sure!” Ashley said. She held her hand out behind her, and Pika handed her the Sharpie. Poe stood up and lifted her T-shirt high enough that I could see the bottom of her bra. It was lime green with yellow polka dots.

  “Can you do it on my rib cage?” Poe asked.

  My plate of chicken got colder. The macaroni in Unity’s mouth went unchewed. As I stared at the intricacies of the fabric of Poe’s beautiful bra I tried to be as PC about it as I could. I tried to turn off my male gaze. I assured myself that I was not turning Poe into an object, that she was not lifting up her shirt just for my benefit. But then, I was just a teenage guy seeing a real-life girl in a real-life bra up close for the first time—I wasn’t about to turn away either. I thought about what Anton had said, about having new experiences at camp. He wasn’t kidding.

  When Ashley was done, Unity and I leaned in to read the message.

  You are a beacon of sunshine. Love, Ashley Woodstone.

  “Awesome,” Poe said, letting her T-shirt fall. “Thank you.” She glided off again on her board, but not before touching Ashley’s arm.

  Without breaking his stare, Unity leaned toward me and whispered, “I’m going to sit next to you for the rest of camp.”

  “So, Gregor,” Ashley said. “Given any more thought to what we talked about?”

  I was drawing a blank. “Hmm?”

  “The Superman script. Whadayasay, do you want to help a girl out?”

  “Uh …”

  Unity jabbed me in the ribs. “Dude,” he whispered without moving his lips. “When Ashley Woodstone asks you for something, you do it.”

  His ventriloquist lip thing was really quite impressive, but before I could even attempt to respond in kind, Jimmy blew on his whistle to get all of our attention.

  “Hello, Camp Save the World!” he began. He stood on a small stepladder at the entrance to the mess hall. “This first day of camp has been truly magical. Save for the near drowning of Ashley Woodstone. I’m glad to say that Ashley is perfectly okay, everybody. But I also want to emphasize that Ashley Woodstone is extremely precious to this camp, and we want to keep from drowning her in the future, okay?”

  If I didn’t know any better I’d say Jimmy was looking directly at me. I avoided his gaze.

  “Now, for tonight’s very important announcement. As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, there is now a scoreboard on the side of this mess hall. The rest of the counselors and I have been absolutely thrilled to see some campers taking initiative with their campaigns. Why, just today, I’ve already been given three different leaflets outlining some of your causes. Awesome work, guys! Finding creative ways to promote your campaigns is a great way to secure some points for the scoreboard. But the other counselors and I have come up with an additional way to distribute points. A more quantifiable way to map your progress. And that is … weekly competitions!”

  My eyes darted back up to Jimmy.

  “Every week until camp ends we will hold competitions to test who among you are real activists. Five competitions in all. And tomorrow will be the first one. Here’s a hint: You’ll be making picket signs for your campaigns! Okay, I’ve said too much! May the best man, or woman, or non-binary individual, win!”

  Previously, none of us were sure how to get points up on the scoreboard. Now we had something we could work toward. None of us knew what to expect from the competitions, but we were all keenly aware of their importance. You could feel it in the stuffy air of the arts and crafts room. Every camper had packed inside, awaiting further instructions.

  “You all got a placard and a stick at calisthenics,” Judy, the arts and crafts counselor, said, standing at the head of the room. “Morning activities have been canceled so you can work on your picket signs, which you will picket with at lunchtime in front of the mess hall. I have been assigned as judge for this competition, so here’s some tips on what I’ll be looking for: My favorite color is plum. M
y least favorite color is maroon. And yes, my most hated band is Maroon 5, but that has nothing to do with my feelings for the color, I assure you. So you’d be wise to steer clear of any Maroon 5 song lyrics in your picket signs, okay?”

  We’d only had a quick intro to arts and crafts yesterday. All I knew about Judy was that she was an undergrad at Oberlin with a vague history of activism (she’d posted flyers around campus protesting Imagine Dragons) and that she was only at Camp Save the World because it would provide credit toward her anthropology degree. She’d told us all this while leaning back in her chair with her feet up on her crafts table, right before announcing that arts and crafts couldn’t be taught and that we should do “whatever the hell” we felt like. I wasn’t sure any of this was relevant to the competition, but I kept it in mind anyway, being that she was a judge.

  “That being said,” Judy continued in a raised voice, “I do love Adam Levine. So if you can incorporate his likeness somewhere into your designs, you might just find yourself a few points richer this afternoon.”

  Hated Maroon 5, loved Adam Levine. Got it.

  “Okay, begin. It’s starting. GO.”

  Something broke open when Judy said go, and I don’t just mean the packet of glitter that suddenly—and somehow maliciously—dusted everything in sight. The excited stillness of before had morphed into a frenetic energy as everyone turned into sharp elbows and knees, clambering for the front of the room. I could see there would be no equal distribution of supplies. It was every person for themselves, and already people were succumbing to the cutthroat crush. There was Clean Air, who’d gotten pink acrylic paint squirted in her eye, and End Homelessness, who’d skidded backward on his ass after losing a battle of tug-of-war that involved a gallon jug of glue. And there was Save the Trees, who screamed and swung her coveted jug of glue over her head as a means to repel anyone who dared to take it (or maybe as a result of a breakdown from the thought of all the wooden sticks being used in this activity). And then there was me, lying on the floor, having been knocked in the head by that very gallon of glue.