Four Weeks, Five People. Jennifer Yu

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Stella says. “Forget friends and parents—Hitler could have learned a thing or two from that guidebook.” Mason snickers. “This year,” Jessie continues, her voice rising a few decibels, “we’ve decided to do something a little different. We’ve had this cabin built with the intention of turning it into a safe space for campers—a place where they could come to find peace, where they could clear their heads, to be surrounded by quiet, to reflect or write or play music. As you can see, we’ve left it completely undecorated. And that’s where you guys come in.” //

      “You want us to decorate the cabin,” Andrew says. He sounds extraordinarily skeptical. “You want us to make it a...‘safe...space.’” “Exactly,” Jessie says. “You’ll probably spend most of the first week just working together on painting it, but after that, everything is pretty much up to you. Things like what you want to put on the walls, what function you want each of the rooms to have, if any, what color scheme you want for the cabin... Just design it, and make it happen.” //

      “What does ‘safe space’ even mean?” Andrew says. “Like, toddler-safe? Like what Aidan’s parents did after his baby brother was born?” “Who’s Aidan?” I ask. “What if everyone else is incompetent?” Mason asks. Ben stays silent, looking like he’s about to collapse from nervousness. It’s a feeling that I’m all too familiar with. //

      “This is a terrible idea,” Stella says, cutting him off without mercy. “What if I decide that I want to kill myself by drinking a bucket of paint or stabbing myself with the nail we’ve just used to hang up a painting? What if we get in a fight and I kill Mason with a hammer? We are, ahem, ‘depressed and troubled teenagers,’” she continues. She enunciates each of the last four words carefully, as if a psychiatrist reading from a clinical report. “We can’t be trusted with chemicals or sharp objects or hammers or...or anything else, for that matter. You should probably send us back where we came from, lest this safe space become not so safe.” //

      We all stare at Stella, who looks at Jessie with a completely straight face. The problem, I think, is that no one can ever tell if she’s joking or not. Jessie sighs. “No one is going to kill him-or herself. Or anyone else, for that matter. Because all of your time working on the project will be supervised, and, more importantly, because I know you all have a great deal of respect for this camp, each other, and yourselves. Despite what you try your best to convince us of, Stella,” she adds. //

      “I dunno, man,” Mason says. “I’m pretty convinced. So convinced that you might have to remove her from the premises for this to be a safe space for me.” “I’m going to remove your balls from the premises, Mason, I swear to—” “Stella!” Jessie says. “There is no swearing at Camp Ugunduzi. You of all people should try to set a better example for our new campers.” //

      Stella scowls at Jessie, but I think that just motivates her to lecture us in an even sterner tone of voice. “There’s clearly no better time than the present to start building camaraderie. Remember, it’s important to work together to try to integrate everyone’s ideas. And I expect everyone to keep an appropriate, positive attitude as you work. By this Thursday, you guys should have a list of the things you need the camp to order to decorate the cabin. There are paper and pencils in the next room. Why don’t you all get started?” //

      So begins the first brainstorming session for Project Safe Space, or, as Stella takes to calling it half an hour in, Project Doesn’t This Violate Some Sort of Labor Law? I’m not sure how to quantify the amount of progress we make over the next two hours. We decide, for example, that the color scheme will not include orange or yellow or violet, because Mason will “literally do everyone a favor and vomit on the walls,” or black or gray, because, as Ben notes, “Is there any better way to encourage someone to hang themselves from the ceiling fan?” We also decide that the cabin cannot have any mirrors, as that would be insensitive to people with eating disorders (“and people with faces like Mason’s,” Stella adds), and duly note that “posters of some made-up inspirational Marilyn Monroe quote about loving yourself printed over a picture of the sun setting over the Appalachians” are unacceptable on account of being “bullshit, and also way too girlie.” Things we do not manage to decide: what we actually want the color scheme to be, what wouldn’t be horribly offensive to put on the walls, literally anything else. It’s almost incredible, how much a group of five people can disagree on. I’d be impressed, if it weren’t so discouraging. //

      “We should get one of those four-seasons painting collections,” Ben suggests. “That’s literary and calming.” “No,” I say immediately. It is the second time I’ve spoken in here. Everyone turns around to look at me and I feel myself flush. “It’s just—There would be four,” I say. //

      “No kidding,” Stella says. “A four-seasons painting collection would have four paintings?” She’s sprawled out on the floor of the cabin, doodling on a sheet of paper. Her nonchalance is suddenly infuriating. “Shut up, Stella,” I say. The panic is rising up in my chest and I can feel my breath slipping away even as I say the words and I squeeze my eyes shut to try to get it to stop, but I can’t; it won’t—that’s never worked before and it doesn’t work now. The images come on too fast, too vivid—four paintings in a row, incomplete, not enough, not okay, not good, not safe, dangerous; four, and I can feel my brain short-circuiting; four, and I am watching the cabin get destroyed in front of my eyes; four, and disaster after disaster plays out in my mind, an uninterrupted sequence of catastrophes, each more real than the last. //

      The roof, caving in after a snowstorm. The walls, blown over by torrential wind. The entire cabin, burning down after a candle falls or some idiot tries to smoke a cigarette indoors. Someone trapped inside, someone crushed by logs, someone burning alive, someone—“Clarisa!” Stella shouts. I open my eyes and realize that I’m shaking. 1, I think automatically, counting breaths, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. //

      “Are you okay?” Ben asks. He moves over next to me and tries to put his arm around me, but I shake him off. I can’t take the contact right now, and I don’t deserve the comfort, anyway. “If we’re going to have paintings, there have to be seven. It’s the only way the cabin can be safe,” I say, avoiding eye contact with everyone. There’s no response. It’s the only thing that’s been suggested that no one argues against. //

       ANDREW

      DINNER IS WHEN everything gets fucked up.

      Breakfast is okay. A bagel is 450 calories—around there, anyway—and I know I need to eat around there on most days, just to stay alive. Eating less than that is how The Incident ended up happening, and—well, I’d obviously like to avoid a repeat of that in the near future.

      Lunch I just throw out, because there are so many people milling around the picnic area that it’s easy to slip to the trash cans unnoticed, and because I’ve already gotten my 450 calories for the day, so what’s the point? Stella gives me a sort of suspicious look as I sit back at the table, plate totally cleared, but what is she going to say? “Go get your lunch out of the trash and eat it”?

      Then dinner comes around, and I discover quickly that I am totally, totally screwed. Jessie spends the entire meal sitting at our table, talking to us about how our day has gone and whether or not we’re enjoying our time at camp so far. I’m so agitated that I barely have the mental focus to listen while she and Stella get into their seventh fight of the day after Stella sarcastically describes Project Safe Space as “fucking delightful, thanks for asking, Jessie.” Will Jessie care if I leave dinner without eating anything? Will Jessie notice if I leave dinner without eating anything? The look she gives me when I try to edge off the table midway through her argument with Stella says pretty convincingly that yes, she would care, and yes, she would notice. So—and what choice do I really have СКАЧАТЬ