Stolen

by Elizabeth Gilpin

  She did this on purpose. She knew I wouldn’t get it on the first try. I bet she’s dying to come over here and show off her perfect tarp-hanging skills. God, what a bitch.

  “Psst.” A whisper interrupted my brooding.

  I turned around and saw a girl with dyed-red hair holding on to one end of my tarp.

  “Do it like this.” The girl demonstrated an easy but sturdy knot. It was simple if you knew it, but of course I didn’t. “Try the other side.”

  She pantomimed the knot as I tied it. The tarp held.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That was getting annoying.”

  “It’s supposed to be. They’re really into control around here. If you hadn’t noticed.”

  I laughed. “No kidding.”

  “I’m Marissa.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  I liked Marissa instantly. Something about her no-bullshit demeanor was comforting. Familiar. I saw a version of myself in this girl.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “South Carolina.”

  “I’m from Texas,” Marissa said. “It sucks. But this place sucks more.”

  “I feel like I’m in hell or something.”

  “It gets easier. Just keep your head down and give them what they want. And I’ll keep looking for a way out of this shithole.”

  “Let me know what you find,” I said. “I want to go with you.”

  We both turned at the sound of footsteps. Polly was back and she didn’t look happy. My new friend rolled her eyes in my direction. She winked as she walked away.

  “Just checking her work,” Marissa said, passing my mentor.

  “Wow,” Polly said. “How generous of you.”

  “I’m a saint,” Marissa said. “Looks good, by the way.”

  Polly gave Marissa her fakest smile. She was circling my structure, looking for flaws. But the tarp was still secured and it hung tautly across the branches.

  “I guess that will work,” Polly said. “Sleep tight.”

  Sleep tight. Sure, no problem.

  I settled into my sleeping bag. Beams of light swooped over the campsite as staffers went girl to girl, checking in, maintaining control. I knew that soon the flashlights would be off and I would be alone in total darkness.

  My lifelong fear.

  “Boots.”

  Kendra shone her flashlight right in my eyes. I handed her my shoes and she smiled.

  “Sleep tight, Thirteen.”

  Soon the boots were all collected and we did a final countdown. The flashlights faded away and the blackness started to consume me. I pushed my head out from behind my tarp as if gasping for air. There was a distant campfire glow by the staff tent and a few pinpricks of light in the sky. I couldn’t even see the moon. I held my hand out in front of my face and tried to bring it into focus. When I couldn’t, I grabbed the tarp and ran my fingers along its crinkly surface. It was the only way I could orient myself to this planet.

  Just breathe. Deep breaths, think of something happy. Or at least something not terrible.

  I had never felt so scared in my entire life. Every tiny sound was heightened as though an amplifier had been placed directly outside my tent. Crackling leaves and popping sticks. My heart caught each time. It could have been the wind or it could have been a bear. A serial killer or a figment of my imagination. In the distance, I heard one of the girls begin to cry. Soft at first, it soon turned into outright sobbing. It was a human sound and it was actually a relief.

  Wait. But what if she’s crying because she’s getting murdered?

  The idea of running away suddenly seemed hilarious. I was too scared to even move. There was so much fear coursing through my body there wasn’t any room for anger. Just the terror of the night and a million worst-case scenarios playing out inside my head.

  Dismemberment. Rape. Rabies. Ghosts.

  I had been praying out of habit for so long that it surprised me to feel a genuine urge to share some real words with God. I usually repeated the same list of names, the people I hoped would stay safe and protected—then added in a prayer for the poor and war-broken for good measure. But suddenly I was scared and confused and didn’t have anyone else I could turn to.

  Dear God,

  Am I in hell? Because that’s what this feels like. I don’t even know if I believe in you anymore. If you’re supposed to protect me, then why am I here?

  God, if you’re real, please, please just help me make it through the night. And please get me out of this place. Just tell me what to do and I’ll make it right.

  I prayed myself into a night of fitful sleep. In the morning, I woke up with a stiff neck, but the rest of my body parts were still intact. Another day of hiking led to another uneasy night. Pretty soon, it was Sunday. And in the woods, we had a different kind of church on Sundays. Each week, a psychotherapist named Rick would drive out to the sticks and hold court from a folding chair. One by one, we’d meet with him for an individual session. He’d ask questions and nod like he was listening to the responses, but mostly he liked to talk. Which made him more like a preacher than a therapist. But really, he might as well have been God. Rick had more control over our lives than anyone.

  “You’re up last, Elizabeth.” The staffer smiled. “Number Thirteen.”

  “Fine by me,” I said.

  “Why don’t you get back to your life story?”

  Sometimes we smoked weed but usually we just had beer. Or tequila if someone managed to siphon some from a bottle in their parents’ liquor cabinet. The one time I took Molly, I’m not even sure if I felt it. I was scared to drink too much water because I heard you could die, drown your body. Someone said if you drink orange juice you feel it better, but I don’t know if that’s true. We were at Bethany’s dad’s house. Mostly we jumped on the trampoline. I remember feeling like I couldn’t stop laughing, even though nothing was funny.

  In another sense, Sundays were also a day of rest. Not the kind of rest I was used to, of course (sports, TV, hours on the phone gabbing about nothing). At least there was no hiking.

  Because so much of our fate was in Rick’s hands, everyone was on their best behavior around him. Even the staff seemed less vicious than usual. I later learned groups of counselors would rotate in and out on a weekly basis. Kendra and the rest of them were headed straight for a week of freedom.

  It wasn’t exactly shore leave, but I actually felt a little bit relaxed. No one was breathing down my neck, and the sounds of the woods were much more cheerful in the light of day. We were even given a little cocoa powder to mix in with our oats during breakfast.

  It was late afternoon by the time I was summoned for my appointment with Rick. I walked out to the clearing where my new therapist was stretching his legs. He was about my dad’s age, dressed in a flannel shirt and hiking boots. He introduced himself and sat down in his fold-up chair. I sat down facing him, cross-legged in the dirt.

  “So,” Rick said. “How are you adjusting?”

  How am I adjusting? I’d say pretty fucking horribly!

  I shrugged. “Um. I don’t really know.”

  Rick folded his hands in his lap. He seemed to be studying me.

  “All right then,” he said. “I hear you’re having a little trouble getting your life story finished.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

  “About your life?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I don’t really see the point.”

  “Well.” Rick leaned forward. “It’s all part of the process, Elizabeth.”

  “What process?”

  “Don’t you want to work through your troubles?”

  “I guess?” I didn’t really mean it, but I tried to play along.

  Rick laughed. A good-natured chuckle.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Not if you want to get through the program and go home.”

  GO HOME? Did he really say those magical words?

  If only I’d known then that “the program�
� was going to last until I was seventeen.

  My whole body suddenly felt tingly. I was actually alive, I realized, for the first time in days. I squeezed my eyes shut and sent a thank-you up to God, just in case he was responsible for my shifting fate.

  “You’re totally right,” I said. “The process is super important.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page.” He smiled. “Can I see what you’ve written so far?”

  I passed my notebook to Rick and looked at my hands. They were empty, so I wound my fingers around in circles. It was my big nervous habit, constantly needing something to shred or pull apart. I was definitely nervous watching the therapist read my work.

  I’m not sure when I became incapable of feeling other people’s love. I used to wish I was one of my dad’s patients because he’s so nice and happy around them. But when he gets home he’s always agitated and tired. My dad and my brother fight a lot and then my brother takes it out on me. We used to get physical, pushing each other around. Maybe that’s just normal sibling fighting, I don’t really know. I don’t really know how I got this way at all.

  “Elizabeth!”

  I looked up. My cuticle was bleeding.

  “This is really good work,” Rick said. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, I’d say you’re nearly done.”

  “Man,” I said. “I was not expecting that.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  Rick shifted forward in his chair. It was obviously a practiced gesture, warm and inviting, but it worked. I began to open up about how hard the last few days had been. How shocking it was to leave my home in the middle of the night and how darkness was my biggest fear. He was understanding and kind, even as I started to cry. He seemed encouraged by my vulnerability and I realized what I needed to do.

  I needed to drink the Kool-Aid.

  “I’m just so sorry about everything,” I said, sniffling. “All my anger. And the sneaking out. It wasn’t okay and I finally see that. I understand why my parents needed to send me here.”

  Rick seemed satisfied. My heart pounded against my rib cage, inflated by hope.

  “That’s a great first step, Elizabeth.”

  First step? No, no, no.

  “I get it now.” I wiped my eyes. I wasn’t giving up just yet. “I mean, it’s crazy, you know? But I feel like I actually learned my lesson.”

  Rick smiled. He handed back my notebook and stood up from his chair. “We’ll get into that more next week.”

  I was disappointed but not discouraged. I knew it couldn’t have been that easy. It would take one more week; a week of obedience and contrition. A week of becoming Polly’s clone. And then he’d see that I was ready to go home.

  I shook Rick’s hand and walked back to the campsite. My spirits were about as high as they could be for a girl with a metal bowl and three pairs of underwear to her name. The rest of the group seemed to be on the same wavelength. Rick had brought provisions from the outside world, and along with another week’s supply of food and clothes were a few pairs of cheap plastic sunglasses and some disposable cameras our parents had sent.

  “Psst! Hey, Elizabeth.”

  Marissa was grinning. She tossed me a pair of sunglasses. I put them on and posed like Maverick from Top Gun. She aimed her camera and pressed down on the shutter. I heard a click and felt for a moment like I still existed. Like I hadn’t vanished after all. There was proof right there in that plastic Kodak camera.

  Chapter 8

  AFTER ABOUT A week on Earth Phase, I was supposed to ask permission to join the group. No one actually told me this, however, and it was my impression that asking for things was generally frowned upon in the woods. So it took a few hints and leading conversations before I finally got the gist.

  “Can I join the group now?”

  “Do you think you’re ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “We agree. Congratulations. And welcome.”

  The next morning, I was led out to a clearing a short walk from camp. The rest of the girls were already there, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. Apparently they were waiting for me to arrive.

  What the fuck am I getting into?

  There was something creepy about the scene laid out before me. Dozens of stones and pebbles formed a crooked circle on the ground. Inside the ring, the word FIRE had been spelled out, an all-caps arrangement of sticks and leaves. Instinctively, I wanted to turn around and run.

  Instead, I was pulled into the middle of the circle. Polly stood up, beaming. She held a daisy chain in both hands and placed it on my head like a crown. It was all so cultish, like a spooky pagan ritual. I was suddenly worried about being a virgin. Was I about to be I sacrificed to the god of troubled teens?

  “Welcome to Fire Phase, Elizabeth.”

  Nicole, one of the new staffers, broke a stick in half. I sat down in the circle and hugged my knees to my chest.

  “Fire Phase is all about transformation,” she said. “It’s about learning from life’s obstacles and overcoming them. So your true potential can emerge like a flame.”

  Oh god. Never mind the virgin thing and the blood. Are they about to burn me at the stake?

  “First, can you tell us something Earth Phase taught you?”

  “Um.” I fidgeted. “I guess I learned that I’m okay being alone.”

  “That’s an important lesson.”

  Nicole turned to the girls and asked them to share what I could expect to learn from Fire Phase. More than half the girls never got past this second stage, which made the whole system feel pretty arbitrary.

  “I learned that I can’t control everything,” Polly said. “So it’s important to make the most of the things that are in my control.”

  “I learned not to give up,” someone else said.

  “I learned that it’s better to work smart than to work hard.”

  “Sometimes life tests you just so it can make you stronger.”

  “I learned how to drain a blister,” Carolina said.

  The other girls laughed. After a few more inspirational clichés, the ceremony was coming to an end. Nicole asked Polly to stand.

  “Do you have a gift for Elizabeth?”

  My mentor nodded. She presented me with a block of wood, cradling the thing like it was more precious than gold.

  “It’s a gift from the earth,” Polly said. “So you can carve your very own spoon!”

  A wooden spoon. We skipped right over that in cotillion class, and I did a whole year.

  In addition to crafting utensils under the watchful eye of a staffer, I was given the task of literally making fire. Just like they did in the time of cavemen, using wood and rocks and a can-do attitude. Specifically, I needed to make my very own bow drill, a primitive tool that had almost holy status in the woods.

  Bow drilling is a slightly more sophisticated version of rubbing two sticks together. By spinning one piece of wood rapidly against another, the idea was to create heat through friction. First there’d be smoke, then a few sparks, and eventually the tiniest ember would begin to glow. That ember, precious as a newborn, would be carefully transferred to a prearranged stack of dried kindling. Then you’d have to blow on it, slowly and with just the right amount of force, until actual flames emerged. When the kindling was strong enough it would go into the fire pit at the center of camp. With enough stoking and the right nurturing environment, it would grow into a healthy, fully developed fire.

  Did the cavemen invent the metaphor too?

  After my first Fire Phase breakfast, a staffer named Lisa took me aside. She explained the ancient art of bow drilling as though it were some great rite of passage.

  “This isn’t about throwing some twigs together and calling it a day,” she said. “You’re building a tool for yourself. A tool that will serve you for a lifetime. Long after you’ve left this place behind.”

  That sounds great and all. But when do I get to t
he “leave this place behind” part?

  Lisa ignored the skeptical look on my face and continued her presentation. First, I needed to gather my materials. A rock from the stream nearby and several pieces of wood.

  “Don’t skimp on your materials. Spend the time now and it will save you a lot of grief later.”

  I nodded.

  “And be on the lookout for cedar trees. That’s the best wood. Poplar’s fine too.”

  I nodded.

  “Any questions?”

  “Nope. Sounds good.”

  “Good luck,” Lisa said. “I believe in you, Elizabeth. You just have to believe in yourself.”

  There are four components to a bow drill. There’s the base (called a fireboard), the spindle, the bow, and the top rock. The fireboard and the spindle are both made from dead, dry wood—the drier, the better. The bow, on the other hand, should come from a more flexible piece of wood, one roughly the length of your forearm. The top rock needs to fit nicely in your palm, with bonus points for smoothness.

  I wandered the forest, picking up sticks and tossing most of them aside. The whole time I yelled my number on an endless loop.

  “Thirteen…Thirteen…Thirteen.”

  What the fuck does a poplar tree look like?

  “Thirteen.”

  And why didn’t I bother to ask?

  “Thirteen.”

  This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  Hey, maybe I’ll get lucky and find a book of matches.

  “Thirteen.”

  I can’t wait to be Twelve. Only one syllable. That’s like half the effort.

  It was late morning when I returned to camp. I had two different rock options and a stack of wood that Lisa deemed acceptable. It wasn’t all grade A cedar. But for a caveman tool, it would do.

  “The fireboard is the base,” Lisa said. “The foundation of the whole tool.”

  My materials were laid out on the ground in front of me. Lisa was explaining how to take these sticks and rocks and turn them into a bow drill. Mostly this involved carving, but metaphors were an important part of the process too.

  “What are your foundations?” She handed me my fireboard. “What structures formed the backbone of Elizabeth?”