Jacked Up Read online

  I leaned back on the ugly, plaid driver’s seat and stared at the roof, the small places where the rain always seeped in, so tiny that I couldn’t see the sky through them.

  On the day Diana died, I hadn’t been paying attention.

  She’d walked into the house—she’d still had a key even though she’d moved out years before. After a few minutes without one of my parents hollering for me to do this or that, I’d figured it was my sister. I’d pulled myself away from the old-school Atari game, Asteroids I think it was, to walk upstairs and find out what she wanted. She’d been so erratic by then, and I remember feeling dully irritated with her. Just under the skin.

  She’d been planning to move to northern California to work as the gardener at a spiritual retreat. And she hadn’t really been hanging out with me much, which—yeah—had started to piss me off. We’d go listen to some music at the coffee shop, but she’d be on her cell phone the whole time. One of the last times we hung out, she just left me to go hang out with her girlfriend, Leah, trying to make up for some feud between the two of them. Diana hadn’t hung a picture of her and Leah up at work, and Leah had been pissed. Diana had argued that Leah didn’t understand how conservative it was there. She wouldn’t get fired, but she’d be second-guessed and scrutinized.

  “Leah’s right, just hang the picture,” I’d said. “Nobody cares.” Then I’d joked, “You’re being gay.” We both hated that phrase. That’s gay. This is gay. You’re gay.

  Diana hadn’t laughed or rolled her eyes with me that time, though. She’d put her head in her hands. “Nick, you have no idea how small this world’s box is. You’ve never had to try and fit in it.”

  She was right. That’s what I would tell her now, if I could. And I’d tell her that I didn’t know how small the world was because she made it big for me.

  But she was gone, and the world had shrunk and shaded.

  Jack was waiting for me back in my room.

  “I have to pack,” I said. “Why are you still here?”

  “Are you going to tell your parents about what happened? Before you go to this religious camp of yours?” He eyed me from under his heavy brows. His black hair was glossy, perfectly in place.

  I ignored him and got my suitcase out of my closet.

  He kept on behind me. “Yes, the Great Editor must pack his suitcase full but leave the truth out!”

  “I can’t just tell them and take off.”

  The truth was, I was never going to tell my parents. I was never going to tell anyone.

  When I turned around, the window was open wide, and Jack was gone. Thankfully, the empty bottle of liquor and pack of cigarettes had gone with him.

  MONDAY

  My alarm didn’t go off—probably Jack messing with the radio—but my parents cajoled me out of bed, lest I arrive late to my own salvation.

  I threw on the T-shirt I’d picked out to protest this whole camp thing. It featured a doe-eyed cat and read EVERY SINGLE TIME “YOU’RE” IS MISSPELLED “YOUR,” GOD KILLS A KITTEN.

  I didn’t make it halfway down the stairs before my dad said, “Change your shirt.”

  “Why?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  My mom came around the corner. “Honey …” She looked a bit misty. Maybe she always did.

  “Freedom of speech,” I said. “Freedom to be hilarious.”

  “You don’t have the freedom to be a jerk,” my dad said with a chuck on my shoulder.

  “Honey, you don’t want this to be your first impression,” my mom added.

  Actually, I did. It was best everyone at Jesus camp knew that God’s role in my life had been relegated to punch lines on grammar T-shirts. But, whatever. My parents weren’t going to change their minds. I’d made my point to them, at least.

  I changed into my GOT MILK? shirt. The “got” was crossed out, and “Do you have any” was scribbled over it. I had a plethora of nerd shirts thanks to Diana, who’d thought my obsession with correctness in English usage was fun and quirky. Unlike Jack, who found it infuriating and smug.

  I didn’t talk on the drive to the church. I just watched the houses get closer and closer together as we made our way toward the center of our small city, which is situated just south of cool (Seattle) and just north of mentionable (Tacoma).

  When we arrived, I carried my backpack to the check-in line. My dad rolled my suitcase over to a cluster of others, as directed by a guy in a lime-green T-shirt that cheered HAPPINESS HAPPENS HERE! in rainbow-colored letters. (Rainbow! And to think, my homophobic sister chose this camp for me.) There was a heart over the i in “Happiness.”

  At the front of the line, a girl and boy with the horsey smiles that dentists dream of handed me my own T-shirt, and I vowed to save it for Charlotte. A thank-you gift.

  My parents lingered behind me. I hugged my mom. I was quite a bit taller than her, but still too skinny to offer much comfort. Her shoulders shook lightly beneath my arms, and I realized she was crying. Christ. I felt bad for her pretty much all the time. My dad put his hand on my shoulder, and then pulled us all in for a big hug.

  Like most parents, they were naïve and misinformed. Having spent the evening before discussing the relative merits of confession with a dead author, it was clear I needed antipsychotics, not Jesus. But of course my parents didn’t know what was going on with Jack Kerouac. I didn’t even know what was going on.

  My mom cried a bit more and hugged me again before my dad half carried her to the car, and I waved to them as they drove away. And then I was alone.

  Except for the fifty other kids teeming around the church.

  I was struck by the sheer volume. The squeals, the guffaws. They’d all pulled their Happiness camp shirts on over whatever they’d worn, and their parents fumbled with cell phones to take pictures. The girls nearly snapped their moms’ wrists to get the phones back and hyperanalyze the photos.

  “Not good.”

  “Oh, my gosh, look at my face.”

  “Weird raccoon face.”

  “I need a new face!”

  “Cute!”

  “Oh, my gosh, tag me! Tag me!”

  And then the Instagram bender. The Snapchat binge and purge.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned.

  “Good morning!” The suitcase-director in the Happiness camp shirt held out his hand.

  I shook it. “Hi.”

  “I’m Jason!” He continued to pump my hand.

  “I’m Nick.”

  The overenthusiastic stranger pulled me into a side hug. “It’s a blessing to have you here. T-G-I-J, am I right?”

  “Perhaps … ?”

  “Thank God it’s Jesus!” He squeezed my shoulders. “Right?”

  “Right … I guess. But redundant.” I thought Jesus was God.

  “Ha! You from Valley Christian?”

  I was trapped in his embrace. “No, Mountain View High School.”

  “So glad to have you! You ready for an awesome week?”

  I shrug-nodded under the weight of his side hug.

  “It’s gonna be awesome!” He threw his hands into the air, then shouted toward the group, “Because HAPPINESS … ?”

  “HAPPENS HERE!” everyone shouted back, even the parents, cheeks pink with abandon.

  “Awesome, awesome!” Jason laughed ever so joyously. He slapped my shoulder, unaware of the brute strength of his enthusiasm.

  Jason stood next to me, hands together, smile beaming as he looked over the throng of teenagers. I waited for more conversation. When nothing happened, I, too, looked over said throng of teenagers and their hundred-watt smiles.

  Suddenly, I realized: I was that kid. The awkward kid with no one to talk to. The Shadow Kid. The parent’s shadow, the teacher’s shadow, the camp leader’s shadow, the one whose face beseeches his peers to please, please, please be his partner for the science lab. The one who writes poems in Elvish for his English teacher.

  I was not a super popular guy by any means, but I’d never b
een that kid before.

  Although, my name in Elvish is Turwaithion. Toor-wye-thee-on. Of course I looked it up.

  “I guess I better get on the bus,” I said. I had to escape from my role in this drama. And from the PCP-strength of Jason’s cheerfulness. Luckily, he moved off to herald more campers.

  I headed over to the line of four buses: three regular school buses and the ubiquitous short bus.

  The chanting continued. Like a commune. Like a cult. No wonder the camp was held in Oregon.

  “HAPPINESS!”

  “HAPPENS HERE!”

  “HAPPINESS!”

  “HAPPENS HERE!”

  “HAPPINESS!”

  “HAPPENS HERE!”

  I weaved through the “members of the movement” and approached a high schooler who looked particularly power hungry with his clipboard. His f loppy black hair and eyeliner contradicted his Happiness camp T-shirt. “Which bus do I get on?”

  Goth kid looked at me, read the front of my shirt. “Where’s your camp T-shirt?”

  I held it up.

  He nodded. I waited. We locked eyes. And then, with the help of his intimidating eyeliner, he won the T-shirt standoff. I slipped the camp shirt over my own. In exchange, he pointed to my bus.

  I was on the short bus. Of course I was. I did, in fact, have a religious disability. There was no federal No Soul Left Behind Act for me, though. Just the short bus on earth and hell in the afterlife.

  I mounted the steps, and the bus driver held out a piece of paper toward me. I tried to take it, but he pinched it tight, eyeing me dubiously before he let go. “You chewin’ gum?”

  “No.”

  His lips tightened. Then, “You sure?”

  I opened my mouth, lifted my tongue. “Any other cavities you want to see?” Pun intended. “Cavities, get it?”

  He didn’t get it, or he wasn’t impressed. “Go sit down,” he said.

  I spotted a seat at the back of the bus and walked down the aisle, avoiding eye contact with the clan of short-bus unfavorables:

  1. a girl in a wheelchair

  2. a boy with a broken arm

  3. a girl with too-red lips (but superhot)

  4. a girl with a red bandana on her head (but prettycute)

  5. a twin brother and sister

  6. a girl who I later watched pick her nose for hours. At this age, nose-picking struck me as a disability, so assigning her to the short bus made sense.

  I fell into my seat and peeled the Happiness T-shirt off. Then, I pulled my cell phone from my back pocket, opened my text messages, and scrolled to the feed between me and Leah.

  All the messages from her were old, from before my sister’s funeral. I hadn’t talked to her since. I tapped out a new message: You know what week this is. Bro-sis road trip week. Parents are sending me to church camp. Can we talk when I get back?

  Maybe if she answered, I could explain what happened at the funeral. I could tell her how she was the closest thing to my sister I had left. My parents had Charlotte. I had Leah.

  Maybe I’d even tell her the truth.

  “Anything in that writing-box there?” Jack was peering over the seat in front me. I darted my eyes to see if anyone heard him. No one on the bus had even turned in my direction.

  He added, “Just makin’ sure you’re feeling okay amidst this joy-collecting.”

  I shook my head, unimpressed with his word magic. “Do not follow me to camp,” I whispered. If my tally marks were correct, Jack had appeared twenty-nine times so far. His visits were getting more frequent.

  Bandana Girl turned around. “Pardon?”

  I glared at Jack, but he was gone. “Um, do we take this to camp?” I f lashed the paper the bus driver had given me.

  “You have to confess,” the girl said. She turned back around.

  I looked at the paper. I looked at the back of the girl’s head.

  WTF.

  Jack popped his head back over the seat and winked. “I told you so.”

  PRAYERS AND CONFESSIONS

  Bill: Jesus? He’s no son of God. He’s an alien. Yeah, he came down to Earth. And, yeah, he rose again. Back to a spaceship where his little green friends live. Listen, I just drive the bus. I don’t give a shit. As long as the little angels don’t put gum all over the seats.

  Jason: Once again, Father, I just thank you. Thank you for these kids, for sending each one of them here this week. I know You have a purpose. You see their hearts, Lord. You know who needs the Happiness. Happiness happens here because of You. And also because I did cheer in college. Ha! Praise Jesus!

  Holly: If Payton wants to break up with me because he thinks I’m the Whore of Babylon, then fine. Whatever. I’ll work it like the Great Harlot.

  Somewhere around hour three, after Jack had convinced me that Bandana Girl was a real person and not some paid pro-confession accomplice of his, after we took a break at a rest stop where I nearly hyperventilated in a tampon bag in the unisex bathroom, a mechanical shout jolted me from my anxieties. Goth stood at the front of the bus with a walkie-talkie in his hand.

  He was pushing buttons and turning knobs, clearly frustrated by the crackle, then silence. Crackle, then silence.

  The other bus riders weren’t paying attention to his technological woes. The kid with the broken arm had his headphones in. Nose-Picker was lecturing Bandana Girl about mermaids while she passed a bottle of sunscreen to Red Lips. (Sunscreen on a bus?)

  Outside, the land was f lat and brown. In the distance I thought I saw a patch of green and a barn, but it could’ve been a mirage. Or the ghosts of the infamous Rajneeshee commune.

  “Goddamn it,” Goth mumbled, and everyone’s heads shot up in shock and horror. Shame splashed his face, but he quickly recovered. “No, I mean that literally. Like, this thing is of Satan and deserves damnation.”

  Everyone around me nodded.

  “What are you trying to do?” I asked Goth, who swayed with the motion of the bus.

  “It’s Lottery time, man.”

  “Which you need to explain, Stewart,” Red Lips called up to him. (Stewart. Could Goth have a less scary name than Stewart?) “He’s a Pamper.” She turned all the way around in her seat, resting her chin on her hands and grinning at me. Wait, was she f lirting with me?

  “A Pamper?” I asked.

  Bandana Girl chimed in: “Pamper. Diaper. Baby—”

  “You’re a new camper,” Red Lips said, side-eyeing Bandana Girl. “Pamper, camper, get it?” Her eyelashes got all batty.

  Rhyme was the lowest level of humor in my book. But this girl was the highest level of hot, so I didn’t roll my eyes.

  “So, like, are you from Mountain View?” she asked.

  The kid with the broken arm was suddenly watching me. His eyes f licked to Red Lips, then back to me. Red Lips smirked at him. Smiled at me. Smirked at him.

  Oh, is that what was going on. Broken Arm and Red Lips—a drama couple. Or a drama ex-couple.

  “It’s the Donkey Lottery,” Stewart interrupted, then slammed the walkie-talkie on the seat twice, like he was un-jamming a stapler.

  I reached for the walkie-talkie and Stewart handed over the cheap, plastic, China-crafted toy. “See this button here? It’s to change channels,” I explained.“This button is to talk. You just kept changing channels every time you tried to talk.”

  I knew Stewart had found the right channel when I heard crackly cheering through the speakers. He turned the volume way up until the tinny sound threatened to rupture my eardrums. What was I hearing? The last screeching death throes of a donkey being sacrificed to God—the donkey that “won” the lottery? Like that Shirley Jackson short story we read in English, where the winner was stoned to death?

  I tried to plug my ears, and then I saw the mouths of my fellow passengers begin moving. They were chanting.

  Hee-haw Hee-haw Ha Ha Ha,

  On a donkey, no need to walk.

  Hee-haw Hee-haw Ha Ha Ha,

  Just like Jesus, no need to walk.<
br />
  Haw-hee Haw-hee He He He,

  Who’s gonna win the lottery?!

  And then they started shouting, “Meeeeeee!”

  “Meeee!”

  “Meeee!”

  And I recognized the screeching from the walkie-talkie. What I’d thought were the death throes of the donkey had just been the campers’ desperately gleeful responses to an apparently not-rhetorical question. Bandana Girl set down her book and improvised a little dance to go with the chanting.

  I did not join their sacrificial rites.

  Finally, they ended their chant in laughter and applause—my fellow passengers just as delighted as those I could hear from the other buses through the walkie-talkie. Then everyone on the short bus got quiet, looking expectantly at Stewart. He held out the walkie-talkie.

  “Genevieve!” shouted a voice—I recognized Jason’s—through the speaker.

  Someone squealed on the other end before being drowned out by my bus and the rest of the campers. “Hee-haw … Hee-haw …” they brayed. And this time it was not a chant; they actually sounded like donkeys.

  “Chris Cooper!”

  The boy twin across the aisle startled me with a shout and a fist pump, and I heard the deep tones of, “Cooooop! Coooooooooooooooop!” from the speaker before they were again drowned out by the brays of my short-bus compatriots.

  “Hee-haw … Hee-haw …”

  So, now I knew that guy’s name, and that my bus was not completely ostracized.

  “Kaitlyn J.!”

  Squeal!

  Bray.

  I still had no idea what was going on, but my busmates were on the edge of their seats. Literally. Rubbing their sweating, anxious palms into their thighs.

  “Nick S.!”

  My bus friends whooped.

  “Isn’t that your name?” Bandana Girl asked.

  “Is that you?” the twin sister chimed.

  “Nick Sampson, or the new kid?” Goth called through the walkie-talkie.

  I didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified.

  The walkie-talkie crackled. “Sampson,” Jason said f latly.