“Yes.” Mom gazed thoughtfully at me, nodding. “The building . . . whoever designed it, aspired to the music, but now the music aspires to it.”
I sighed, tucked my hand into the crook of her arm, and she pulled me against her.
“Are you scared? When you go on?”
“Always,” she said. “But that is as it should be. And ultimately, I have to believe.”
“In yourself.”
“Not just myself,” she said. “I also have faith in the hours I’ve spent in preparation, in my skill, and in the magic that comes, when it deigns to come, once you have done all that work.”
She didn’t need to explain the magic—I had felt it in the very best performances—the thing beyond technical perfection, the thing that made audiences gasp or hold their breath, the thing that shot me straight through and made me feel I might fly or crumble to dust, just from listening.
We believed in hard work, but we also believed in magic.
Just being at Covent Garden was a result of both.
With Covent Garden came a recording, too, the first of many planned, which would ideally bring helpful income for years to come. In addition, the production was going on tour, which would provide more exposure, more stability.
We rented a flat and bought a piano and some furniture: a bohemian mix of antiques and retired set pieces that were donated by various theaters and opera houses for a huge fundraising event. Giddy from her newfound success, and possibly a glass or two of champagne, Mom had gone a little crazy bidding at the silent auction, and won a giant bed, two wardrobes, a non-functional cuckoo clock, and two thrones. It was as settled as we’d ever been or would ever be, I figured. I even made a friend in the building—a girl my age named Emily, whose parents lived across the hall, and whose “normal” life and parents seemed very exotic to me.
By this time I knew there was no father waiting or detained somewhere, planning to come claim us. I was, as Mom put it, “the miraculous result of one very wild, very late, very irresponsible night in the south of Spain,” my father long gone, never missed, and never even searched for, because she didn’t, in fact, know his name. “But he was handsome,” she would say with a smile, “and kind, and knew how to dance the flamenco. I am thankful for him every day, my precious girl, but we are complete without him.”
I believed her. And I liked the London flat. We’d still be traveling, Mom said, but we could now afford a home base.
I was in the audience for the opening, dressed in burgundy silk, and breathless, terrified, hanging on her every note.
I had nothing to worry about. Margot-Sophia, statuesque and dramatic with her flowing, dark, un-wigged hair and espresso-colored eyes, was stunning, captivating, perfect, and magical. There were standing ovations, flowers. Reviews were excellent. After years of hard work and slogging through the lesser and medium opera houses of Europe, Margot-Sophia Lalonde had arrived.
It was such a crystal-clear moment, everything coming together. In my memory, though, except for those occasional “sad days,” all the years building up to it were beautiful too. My mother was my sun and moon, and all things were infused with soaring music, tiny luxuries, love, and a kind of velvet fabulousness.
Which makes it hard to reconcile where we are now, how we are.
THE HARD WAY
(Peak Wilderness, Day One, Continued)
Dear Mom,
We have reached the “camp.”
I should clarify: we have reached camp after a three-hour hike, much of it uphill.
Also, I held my bladder for seven hours.
And have killed 255 mosquitoes.
See? I have a list of accomplishments already.
Remember how Ella told us how she bonded with the other girls in her cabin? And her story about that too-hot night where the people on the top bunks ended up sleeping on the floor?
Remember the charming log cabins on the brochure you showed me when we first talked about my going on this trip? And the open-air space with picnic tables, and the tiny buildings with wooden moons and stars carved onto their doors?
At the time I thought it looked a little rustic for my first camp experience, but the longer we hiked today, the better that camp became, in my memory. And I figured, maybe that was the point—to exhaust us so much on the first day that we’d be ecstatic just to have a roof over our heads, and a place to call home at the end of the day.
I couldn’t wait to get there. I couldn’t wait to use the bathroom/outhouse and then have a chance to get indoors and away from the mosquitoes.
But guess what, Mom?
There are no bathrooms.
There are no outhouses.
AND
THERE
IS
NO
CAMP.
No actual, physical camp, that is.
The thing they’re calling “camp” is a clearing beside a lake.
The lake is pretty, sure. But there is no camp. There are no cabins. There is no dining hall or cute little store. Not even a canoe rack. For three whole weeks there is nothing but the camp we make every night.
Wow, right?
Now you might be thinking I’m shocked.
Perhaps a little bit confused . . . ?
I mean, I realize I was upset and angry over the past couple of months and not . . . paying attention to some of the finer details of things, but I’m pretty sure this wasn’t the plan, Mom.
So did the plan change and you somehow forgot to tell me?
Or did you try to tell me but I wasn’t listening?
Did you know I wasn’t listening? Did you decide to let me walk into this blind?
I never would have believed it of you before, but now I’m not so sure.
Regardless, you might expect me to be freaking out a little, particularly as I am supposedly “fragile” these days, right?
But no, not me.
I’m just thinking, How exciting! as the full picture comes into focus.
How exciting, and what a magnificent opportunity to get in touch with my inner barbarian.
I will be sure to bring her home with me, Mom.
Love,
Ingrid
Once my situation has become clear, I realize I’m going to have to ask a fellow camper for some harsh chemical mosquito repellant after all. Despite my best efforts, my hands and neck and face are covered in bites, and somehow I have them on my legs and stomach, too. I am a ball of sweaty itchiness.
I settle on Ally. She seems really young, and will hopefully be the least likely to mock me.
“No problem. You can have a bottle,” she says with a shy smile. “I brought four.”
“And Duncan didn’t confiscate any of it?”
“After I saw what happened to you, I stashed two of them in here,” Ally says, and pulls her T-shirt down, showing me how she has two smallish bottles of bug spray nestled between her large boobs.
“Wow. That’s useful.”
“I could serve tea on ’em, as my mama would say,” she says, then gives her cleavage a pat, and pulls one of the bottles out. “Honestly, I can tuck about anything in there. I’ve gone out with my wallet, my phone, and my lipstick all stored in between these girls. And they’re very popular on Instagram.”
“I’m . . . not surprised,” I say, nodding and taking the bottle from her. It’s warm and a bit sweaty, but I’m grateful for it. “Thank you.”
“Course I’d have been in trouble if the hot Scot had tried to frisk me,” she says, her large, round eyes gleaming like maybe she would have liked that.
“Definitely,” I say.
“Do I look okay?” she asks me. “Without my phone I have no way to check.”
Looking closely at her face, I see her makeup job isn’t holding up too well—the mascara smudged, some of the foundation rubbed off, a
nd her lipstick mostly gone. I wonder if she managed to hide and keep some of the makeup, too, and if so, whether she’ll actually put on full war paint every day we’re out here. All I’ve got is lip balm with sunscreen in it.
“You look fine,” I say, and then, at the slight wilting of her hopeful demeanor, add, “very pretty.”
“Thank you.” She is smiling tentatively, and simultaneously pulling at her shirt and patting her waist, and kind of sticking her chest out. “I need all the help I can get.”
I am supposed to say, No, you don’t or Don’t we all! or No, you’re the most naturally gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen, and I wish my boobs were popular on Instagram! or some other reassuring/complimentary thing in response to this, but there’s something so sad about her for a second that I feel sort of . . . crushed by it. My throat gets tight, and then I feel ridiculous, and all I manage to say is, “Yeah, I know, I mean, no, uh, you so don’t . . .”
Two minutes ago I was completely fine (albeit itchy and desperate), but now it seems I’m unable to have a normal conversation without feeling weird and overly emotional.
I hold up the bug spray. “I should get some of this on.”
She nods.
“Thanks again.”
I’ve just gotten myself properly doused when Bonnie gathers the nine of us together and says, “Now for your first challenge . . .”
Like the day hasn’t been one long string of challenges.
“Each of you has tent components in your pack,” she continues.
Aha—that’s what the metal poles, et cetera, are.
“Get the components out, match them together, put up the tents,” she says. “Go.”
We look around at one another, then back at Bonnie.
“Ah, Bonnie?” says one of the guys—the cute hipster, Seth.
“Yes, Seth?”
“I’ve never put up a tent before. Are there instructions?”
“No.”
“It’s not exactly difficult,” sneers Peace-Bob.
“You’re not going to help us?” Seth demands, keeping his focus on Bonnie . . . who gives her answer by walking away.
Needless to say, it turns out I’m not the only person here who’s never been to camp, much less gone camping. Cue chaos.
We eventually figure out there are three tents (more information that would have been helpful) via counting the components. Nine irritable, mosquito-bitten people equals the counting ability of a first grader, but we somehow manage it. Then we learn the hard way that each tent is slightly different and that the parts do not mix and match.
Jin sits on the side, smoking and rolling her eyes at everything, which I don’t understand. I’m not exactly here by choice, but I figured I was the only one. This is one of those “once in a lifetime” experiences that people supposedly jump at the chance to participate in. Jin, though, is not jumping. In fact, except for the shock and panic I’m trying to keep in check, she looks how I feel—unimpressed.
Sporty blonde Melissa is eager and earnest, organizing poles and parts by size and color like she is the Gwyneth Paltrow of camping, and Ally stands by, looking overwhelmed but trying to help. Henry and Harvey decide it will be funny to start swiping components from them and running around hollering and hooting, obviously hoping one of the girls will run after them. Melissa goes pale and stalks off. Ally runs after them at first, but soon is huffing and gasping, holding her chest, and muttering about needing two bras if she’s going to run.
I take the stakes and set them near the corner of each tent while Tavik deals with Harvey and Henry, then he and Peace nearly come to blows because each of them is certain he is the only one who knows what to do, and neither of them is willing to listen to the other.
Meanwhile, farther down near the beach, Pat and Bonnie get their tent up in five minutes, and sit chatting on a rock by the lake, glancing at us every so often, but seemingly unconcerned.
It takes us an hour, and the tents, once up, are tilted, floppy, and haphazard.
“They’re like a parody of themselves,” I mutter. “Faux tents.”
“Speak English, bitch,” says Jin from behind me.
I whirl around, flushing with a mix of anger and fear. I’ve dealt with this type of person before, and there’s a fine line between not backing down and making things worse.
“Maybe you can spray some of your perfume on them,” she adds with a sneer.
“If you don’t help, I don’t see how you have the right to criticize the result,” I say, with a gaze that’s steadier than I feel.
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” she says.
“Sure, you go ahead,” I say, a sudden bleakness settling on me and making it hard to maintain my bravado. “I really don’t care.”
She looks away a second before I do, and then we both look back at the tents.
I’ve been doing some math.
Nine of us. Five guys—Peace, Tavik, Seth, Harvey, Henry—and four girls—Jin, Ally, Melissa, me.
And there are three tents, each sleeping three.
People start heaving their packs toward the tents . . .
Jin gets up, stamps on her cigarette, and marches to the front of the least wobbly tent, grabbing Melissa on the way there.
I join them.
Ally joins us.
On the threshold we stop, look at one another.
“We’re not all going to fit,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Duh,” Jin says.
“This can’t be right,” Melissa says. “Maybe there’s . . . another tent somewhere?”
“I don’t think so,” Ally says, glancing nervously around.
Pat chooses this moment to wander over and check out our progress.
“Pat, we have a problem,” I say.
“Tents are up, I see,” he says with a nod.
“That’s not the problem,” Melissa says, suddenly eager and helpful again, and explains.
“Oh. Well,” Pat says, patting his vest pockets, “this trip is coeducational.”
“You’re saying one of us has to share a tent . . . with them?” Melissa asks, her pitch going up along with her obvious level of alarm. “I don’t think—”
“Look,” Pat says, “here at Peak Wilderness, we choose not to make assumptions about people’s sexuality, or even gender; therefore dividing by male and female is irrelevant. We have a strict no-sex rule, the breaking of which will result in expulsion from the program. The size of the campsites dictates that the tents be close together, and the rule of three people in a tent ensures no two people are left alone in a possibly compromising situation.”
Sex . . . ! had not crossed my mind. I was way further back, worrying about basics like privacy and personal space and the fact that boys are known to snore and fart and smell at close quarters. Now I’m nauseous.
Meanwhile, Jin mutters, “Dude, you don’t think three can be compromising?”
Oy.
“Beyond that,” Pat continues like he didn’t hear her, “we expect you to be respectful, use your best judgment, and work it out.”
And then he steps away to talk to the boys.
Great.
“Rock-paper-scissors?” Ally suggests.
“No, no,” Melissa says, clutching her stomach and looking like she’s going to pass out. “No, I can’t. Please.”
“What about two and two?” I suggest. “Two girls and, say, Seth? And the other two with—”
Melissa is starting to hyperventilate. “I can’t. I can’t,” she gasps.
My insides twist, and again what I feel is how someone else looks—Melissa this time. Only I’m obviously more practiced at hiding it.
“All right.” I swallow, and put a hand on Melissa’s arm. “We’ll figure something out . . . .”
“Figure something out? Someone . . . ha
s to sleep with two strange boys,” Ally says, eyes wide, face red, and looking like it’s all just dawning on her now. Based on my earlier observations of Ally, I’d have expected her to be excited about this, or at least pretend to be, but she is genuinely freaked out.
Ally’s comment is followed by a long, awkward pause in which we all wait for a solution to magically appear, or in my case, for the entire thing to just go away.
Because that always works.
“It’s not fair,” Ally says.
“Life isn’t fair,” I say, surprised, and surprisingly pained, to hear my mother’s voice and favorite mantra coming so easily and automatically out of my mouth.
Life isn’t fair.
This whole trip could have been set up to prove it to me once and for all. Life isn’t fair, and anything is possible. Even your own mother might believe you are too much of a dreamer, too soft for the life you want to pursue, and she might make a deal with you and then change the terms without telling you. Pull the rug out from under you, just because you dared to want something badly enough to defy her, badly enough even to hurt her. Pull it out again, just in case it hasn’t happened enough times already. Or maybe just to make sure you’re ready for all the not-fair stuff that’s coming in life. Like I didn’t already know. Like I wasn’t already reeling from a truckload of not-fair.
She might have. She wouldn’t have. I go back and forth, but the fact is, I don’t know anymore, and I’m not going to figure it out in the next five minutes.
I look at Melissa and Ally, both melting down now—Melissa rigid and pale and looking like she might fall over, and Ally red-faced, with tears welling up. Meanwhile, Jin has planted her feet firmly in front of the entrance to the tent. She doesn’t seem so much like she cares about the possibility of sleeping with boys. More like she cares about winning, and about the fact that she got here first.
And then I think about Mom again and realize one thing for certain: she may have sent me to a different program than Ella’s, by mistake or on purpose; she may have deceived me, or she may not have; but she would never have knowingly sent me on a trip where I would be sleeping in a tent with boys—full-grown men, practically—if she’d known about that part.
Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined Page 3