Don't Ever Change

by M. Beth Bloom

  “The Secret Garden,” Zoe says. “Tied with The Golden Compass.”

  “Well, those stories were edited and revised a hundred times before they became the books you love.”

  The girls look at each other, confused. They’re baffled by the news.

  “You can’t get it right the first time,” I tell them.

  “Yes, you can,” Alyssa says.

  “No,” I say. “Nobody does.”

  “Eva,” Alyssa says calmly, jerking her head subtly in the direction of nine very crushed spirits, “you can too get it right the first time.”

  The girls look at me nervously. A distant group of boys chatter on the baseball diamond (“We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher! We want a catcher, not a belly scratcher!”). My girls are tense, anticipating, nine potential failures looming on the horizon.

  We want a leader, not a book reader! We want a counselor, not a dream trouncelor!

  “You’re completely right, Alyssa,” I say. “I was just talking about for regular novels. What you guys’ve done is totally different. You guys are like stream of consciousness, which is what the Beats did, very hip. It’s kind of like the jazz of writing: improvised, raw, super unpredictable.”

  I smile to show them everything’s okay. I close the folder with their inked-up pages, clip it to my clipboard, and hold it against my chest. They don’t need to see the notes scrawled in the margins, the purple question marks and green delete lines, thick with finality.

  WHY?

  I can’t believe I wrote that! The very phrase that was tossed at me like some hot potato, badly burning my self-esteem. And now here I am flinging it to my girls?

  Why? I ponder the word and the instinct to ask it in every way possible; I ponder my itchy eyes, my scrutin’ eyes, my consistent inability to see.

  Why ask why?

  They wouldn’t have any more of an answer than I did.

  39.

  STYLE WAR

  AFTER CLOSING CEREMONIES, I wander around the outfield of the empty baseball diamond, pretending to look for stray kick balls, taking a moment for myself. All the rubber balls are dirty and deflated and it’s like, I get what you’re trying to say, World.

  Don’t deflate, Eva.

  Then I notice some campers by the pickup area, singing “Leaving on a Jet Plane” together and I’m like, Good one.

  I cross the field slowly toward my car, hoping to miss all the buses and other counselors leaving, and when I reach the parking lot, everyone’s gone pretty much except Foster, who’s in the process of leaving. He rolls his window down as he pulls up next to me.

  “Left a note on your car,” he says.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Omit needless words,” Foster says with a squint and a sorry smile. “Shouldn’t have called you flippant the other day.” He reaches a tanned arm toward me and tugs softly on the sleeve of my camp shirt.

  “It was very, very mean,” I tell him, putting a hand on his. “What’s the meanest thing I’ve ever said to you?”

  Foster only takes a second to answer: “That I could use some definition.”

  “You’ve got nice muscles,” I say, squeezing his bicep. “Super defined.”

  “You meant my writing,” Foster says, pulling his hand inside the car. That’s it—less than a minute in and we’re done making up, done joking around.

  “Foster,” I say, “that was a hundred million years ago.” I stoop down to meet his eyes. “Are you going to turn your car off?”

  “No,” he says.

  “We just have different styles.” I sigh, tired.

  “So what’s my style, then?” Foster asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Camp’s over. I don’t have any more answers today.”

  “Just because something isn’t your style—”

  “Yeah, you don’t need to finish the sentence,” I interrupt.

  “Feel free to admit you’ve never liked my writing.”

  “Stop being so sensitive,” I say, surprising myself, because don’t I love sensitivity and rawness and realness and . . . Foster? “Stop picking a fight!”

  “I’m not trying to pick a fight.”

  “Then what are you trying to do?”

  “Sorry, forgot to choose my words perfectly for you, Eva.”

  And it’s back to this.

  Foster’s engine begins to fume a bit in the heat, oily steam hissing from under his hood, getting in my eyes and making me tear up. I blink it away and look down at his lap, at his distressed jeans, and then I look down at my sandals, near my big toes where the soles have worn away, and it’s like, Enough of the symbolism already, World.

  Enough.

  40.

  PEDIATRICKS

  “WHERE ARE YOU going?” my mother asks. I’m holding the keys and my backpack and standing by the front door.

  “Um”—I look down at my Sunny Skies shirt and the pink-and-turquoise lanyard around my neck and wonder if it isn’t apparent—“to camp?”

  “What day is today?”

  “Friday,” I say, pretty sure it’s Friday.

  “And what did we schedule for Friday?”

  “Mom,” I say, “I think it’s obvious I don’t know, so just tell me.”

  “Your appointments,” she says, drawing it out, giving me the opportunity to jump in. “Your two appointments . . . with . . . ?”

  “I’ve never made an appointment in my life,” I say.

  “I made the calls, Eva.”

  “But I have work today.”

  “This is more important,” she says. “You’re leaving soon.”

  “I don’t want to go to the dentist.”

  “And the doctor,” she says.

  This time I’m not the one to call in sick—my mother does it. If there’s a lesson there, then I’m choosing not to see it, and if there’s a story, well, I don’t want to know about that either.

  At the dentist’s office Dr. Richardson gives me hell. He tells me to swear off sugar-free gum and avoid soda after seven p.m. He also says I shouldn’t rip open bags of chips or candy with my teeth or chew on the insides of my cheeks when I’m nervous or grind my teeth while I sleep. And most of all, he doesn’t want me to fly off to Boston and forget that he’s my dentist, that he’s got a say in my hygiene. It feels like Dr. Richardson exists just to make me feel bad—he’s what Mr. Roush would call my foil, or my adversary—so I guess I should respect that.

  I apologize for not flossing; I act sorry about not using enough Crest with tartar control; I promise I won’t miss any more checkups.

  “I’m afraid of it hurting,” I say. He’s heard that one before.

  “You don’t even want to know how many times I’ve missed my gynecologist appointment,” I say next, trying to lighten the mood. He’s never heard that one before.

  I’m about to say, “Just kidding,” when he abruptly fills my mouth with bubblegum-flavored fluoride and, not smiling, leaves the room.

  A half hour later the checkup ends, and I go back to the waiting area, where Courtney’s reading a Vogue alongside some other bored moms. My mouth’s a little swollen, but I still manage a frown.

  “Dr. Richardson said you can’t eat or complain for an hour.”

  “I want to have all my teeth removed,” I mumble, rubbing my gums. “I wish I had metal teeth, and I never had to go to the dentist again.”

  “You know how many cavities I’ve had? Four,” Courtney says, opening her mouth to show me the silver fillings.

  I’ve never noticed my sister’s fillings before. When I look inside her mouth to count them—three on the bottom left, one on the right—I feel a sense of loss, as if something that should’ve always been mine had suddenly been stolen from me.

  “Is it because you didn’t floss?” I ask, sitting on her lap, leaning my head on her shoulder.

  “No, it’s because of all the Blow Pops Mom let me eat when I was a kid. But now I’m an adult, Eva, and I don’t go to pediatric dentists.” Courtney sc
oots me off and starts heading down the hallway toward the elevators before I can even grab a complimentary toy from Dr. Richardson’s treasure box.

  At Dr. Connell’s I get my knees tapped and my ears examined. He presses my tongue down and shines a mini flashlight down my throat. He places a stethoscope against my chest and listens.

  “How ya feelin’?” the doctor asks.

  “Great.”

  “Great?” Dr. Connell asks. “That’s new.”

  “Yeah, well, everyone lies to their doctor.”

  “Not everyone,” he says, moving the stethoscope higher up my neck.

  “I’m a little tired,” I tell him.

  “How tired?”

  “A little tired.”

  “Would you characterize the tiredness as lethargy or just drowsiness from not getting enough sleep?”

  “The first one,” I say.

  “Do you ever feel dizzy?”

  “Yes,” I admit, without admitting that I haven’t been wearing my glasses.

  “Breathe deep for me,” Dr. Connell says, placing his stethoscope on my lungs.

  I breathe, but not that deep. He sighs and then stands. “You may be anemic, Eva.”

  It sounds character building—which I’m not against.

  “I could take a multivitamin,” I say.

  “I’ve got something better,” he tells me, taking out a prescription pad and scribbling something. He tears the page, folds it, holds it out for me. “Now that’ll have you feeling great!”

  “Great,” I say, as he guides me by the shoulders back to the waiting room.

  I hand Courtney the prescription. Anemic, I think, testing the word out in my head, seeing if I like the way it defines me.

  “What is this?” my sister asks, staring at the page.

  “Some prescription,” I say. “For my anemia.”

  “He’s just written, ‘Eat a cheeseburger.’” Courtney holds up the page so I can see.

  “‘Eat a cheeseburger’?” I read aloud. “That jerk!”

  Just because someone’s known you your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t be a jerk. Sometimes it means they’re an even bigger one.

  41.

  THE FINALIST

  I DON’T LEAVE my room for dinner, even though both my mother and father beg me. Instead I sulk on the bed, hungry and angry, when Michelle calls.

  “You picked up fast,” she says. “Were you reading old texts and acting weird about them?”

  “For once, no,” I say.

  “I’m just calling to see if you checked your grades,” Michelle says.

  In this moment the word grades—a word I’ve felt enslaved by for at least the last six years—sounds totally foreign, like something I’ve never heard before. “My grades? No.”

  “When do you leave for Boston?”

  I flip open my calendar, but there’s nothing written on it. I never circle dates.

  “No idea,” I say.

  “You’re being kind of bitchy, Eva,” she says.

  “Sorry. I’m just . . . hangry, I guess.”

  “Like always,” she says.

  “Not like always,” I say.

  “So you haven’t looked on the school’s site?”

  “I don’t remember my password.” Virgo? Vegan? Shakes? Something like that.

  “So you haven’t seen it.”

  “Michelle,” I say.

  “Then I’ll be the first to tell you: you’re a finalist for the Scholastic California Writing Award.”

  My mother knocks twice, calls my name, so I turn away from the door and lower my voice.

  “What do you mean? What is that?”

  “You’re the only senior from our school on the list.”

  “I didn’t apply for that,” I say. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Whatever. You’re on the list with four other people, and all of them go to, like, nightmare prep schools.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Roush must’ve submitted it. You’re like his pet.”

  “He shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “I didn’t ask him to do that.”

  “Are you going to be happy about this, Eva? Can you, like, appreciate good news?”

  “You don’t sound happy for me.”

  Michelle has nothing to say to that.

  “Right now it just doesn’t feel good to beat anyone at writing,” I say. “There’re different styles, you know, it’s not all comparable. And what does it even mean to win at writing? And why would they even pick me?”

  “Because you’re better than everyone else,” Michelle says. “You tell me that all the time.”

  “I guess I do,” I say.

  My mother knocks again. I can smell food; maybe she’s brought up a plate.

  “I have to go.”

  “Well, don’t freak out. Maybe you won’t win.”

  Finally my mother just enters and walks over to the bed. She puts a hand over my hand that’s holding the phone.

  “But you probably will,” Michelle says, annoyed.

  “Eat with us, Eva, please.” My mother tightens her grip.

  “Sounds good, Michelle,” I say.

  She squeezes tighter.

  “Dinnertime,” I say, and hang up.

  “What did Michelle have to say?” my mother asks.

  “That I’m a real winner.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” my mother says, and then hugs me, accidentally mashing her shoulder into my tender jaw.

  “Ow!” I moan, a real winner—and a sore winner too.

  42.

  JOKES

  I PUT ON my nicer lipstick for the party. I pick out a shirt that isn’t my camp shirt and immediately feel prettier, rejuvenated. This isn’t going to be so bad, I tell myself, stashing snacks and drinks in my tote bag. So far I’ve packed kale chips and flax crackers and a few little juice-box-size coconut waters. I’ve even got a plastic baggie of raw almonds and seaweed crumble left over from the last time Michelle and Steph and I went to the movies. I’m bringing enough to eat and drink for days—should the party last for days—but more importantly, it means I won’t be the only one there not sipping or chewing something, awkward and excluded.

  On the way to Nick’s I drive down Thousand Oaks Boulevard, where the trees are big and beautiful, and besides the brand-new mega-size Bed, Bath & Beyond, everything looks pretty identical to how it’s been since I was thirteen. Roxy’s Famous Deli closed, but there’s a location in Westlake Village now where my family still goes for birthday dinners—though the Blockbuster nearby was torn down last year to make room for extra parking. It seems like something to potentially feel melancholy about or, like, protective of, because it reminds me of the opening to a short story about how the place where you’re born and grow up can change so much when you leave that you don’t even recognize it when you return.

  “You can never go home again,” Courtney once said to me bittersweetly.

  “No, seriously,” my father said, deadpan, “you can’t come back.”

  Nick’s house is in a suburb in the foothills, where the houses all have white two-car garages and Spanish tile roofs. It’s a nice night out, and quiet, and I can’t even tell there’s a party going on until I’m at the front door, peeking through the frosted glass. Nobody answers when I knock, so I just go inside.

  There’re about twenty people spread out across the living room and den, most of them counselors. It’s sort of dark inside, like mood lighting, but I notice Nick right away because he looks really different with his hair parted neatly to the side. He nods hello and then pauses, giving me a double take, as if he’s not sure it’s really me, which makes me worry most of us might not recognize each other just dressed as ourselves, not in camp clothes. But then I spy Foster across the room by the kitchen, and he looks like himself. Of course.

  “I’ll show you where to put that,” Melly says, pointing to my tote bag.

  “I’m just going to carry it, thanks,” I say.

  “Why?
”

  “It’s just some food I brought, that’s all.”

  “I never eat,” Melly says.

  “Never?”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “Go ahead.”

  “I never eat,” Melly starts, pausing, sucking in a breath for emphasis, “at parties.”

  “Me either,” I say, swiftly dropping my bag in a dark corner.

  Booth comes over as Melly wanders off down a hallway. Booth’s wearing perfume, which I know because it’s my mother’s scent—Lancôme’s Trésor—so I assume it must be his mother’s too. I can’t help leaning in closer for a longer, satisfying sniff. In a flash I’m transported, I can almost hear the clicking of high heels against a waxed linoleum floor; with my eyes closed I’m there, at school—my mom’s come to pick me up. Another whiff though and it’s just Booth. I’m not going anywhere. And no one’s coming to take me home.

  “Want to hear a joke?” Booth asks.

  I’m not really paying attention. Booth notices.

  “Looking for Foster?” he asks, winking.

  “Not really. What’s the joke?”

  “What do you call a fish with no eyes?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “A fsh?”

  Booth frowns. “I like that answer better, actually,” he says. “You can go find Foster now.”

  “I’m not necessarily trying to find Foster.”

  Then Amanda and Kit and Jules see me and come over, and Booth slips away.

  “Corey’s here,” Amanda says.

  “Corey’s hot,” Kit says, giggling.

  “Corey?” I ask. “The eighth grader?”

  “Well, he’s going into ninth,” Amanda reminds me.

  “I’d do him,” Jules says.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” I say.

  “He can surf,” Kit tells me.

  “So?”

  “So we can’t all share Foster,” Jules says, and they all laugh like it’s an inside joke.

  “He’s mine tonight,” Kit says.

  “Who?” I ask, startled.

  “Corey, stupid.”

  “Isn’t this supposed to be ‘Counselors Only’?”

  “That’s, like, only a friendly suggestion,” Amanda says.