Read Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) for Free Online

her.
    Did I think The Forgiveness Diet would really work? Well, after I’d finished, I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. That was good. Then I thought about TJ. Sometimes he would rig things around the house and out of nowhere an umbrella would blossom or the stereo would serenade me or I’d find a token in the hood of my sweatshirt. My eyes would get all wide, and he’d laugh and start to tell me how he did it when I’d put my finger to his lips. “Don’t.”
    When you’ve been head over heels for a magician for as long as I have, you learn pretty quickly that anything’s possible—even some crazy diet.
    Like last year, when TJ’s doves were stolen from their cage, he came over to my house totally panicked. We all staged a funeral for the birds because we didn’t think they’d last one minute in Baltimore city. TJ wouldn’t give up. After countless flyers and Internet postings, I said, “Let’s face facts. If given the choice between a cage and the sky, which would you choose?” We were eating ramen noodles in my kitchen. TJ lifted his bowl and drank the broth. “I’d choose here,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’d definitely come back.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œFor you,” he said, slurping his soup. “I’d come back because you’re here.”
    And when he said things like that, random things tossed out to the universe while he glugged ramen noodles or shuffled his cards or drove the humps of Dulaney Valley Road so fast our butts lifted from the seats, I believed him. I mean, how could I not?
    Two weeks after the dove robbery, when TJ’s determination showed signs of wavering, we saw them. His two doves, a little ruffled and greasy, were perched on top of the streetlight. When he opened the cage door, they flew right in like we’d invited them. “Now that’s magic,” TJ said, gloating. “For real.”
    That’s what I was thinking about after I’d forgiven everybody and returned the bucket to the sticky floor. TJ’s life philosophy: It didn’t matter how magical shit happened. It only mattered that it did.

8
    BLACK EYE IN THE BUCKEYE
    I FELL ASLEEP just as our van headed into the cool, inky darkness of a tunnel outside of Pittsburgh.
    I woke up in Ohio.
    â€œIs there any chicken left?” Jackie asked. She was still driving and had reached her right hand behind her to tap my knee. “Bethany, hand me the chicken bucket. I’m hungry”
    Half-asleep, still dreaming about TJ’s doves balanced on the streetlight, I felt around on the minivan’s floor, and gripped the bucket. Eyes still closed, it was out of my hands and into hers.
    â€œWhat’s in here?” Jackie asked, all innocent.
    I sat up straight. “Wait,” I said. “No!”
    â€œWhere’d the chicken go?” my sister asked. “Did you eat all of it?” Alternating between looking at the highway and trying to gauge what was in the bucket, the van swerved a little. “Are there papers in here? What did you do?”
    Situated in that trippy territory between wakefulness and sleep, I watched it all happen. First Jackie’s hand plunged in the bucket and withdrew a ball of napkin now separated from the others. “Now what’s this?” she asked. Calling on driving skills I never knew she even had, she steadied the wheel with her wrist and, using her fingers, straightened the napkin. From the backseat, I watched every ounce of color drain from her face. She swallowed.
    â€œWhat?” asked Doug. “What does it say?”
    Jackie inhaled. Exhaled. She concentrated on the highway ahead. “Nothing. It was nothing. Bethany and her stupid games.” She crinkled the paper again and squeezed it. Squeezed hard enough her knuckles turned white.
    Doug reached for the bucket on Jackie’s lap, and Jackie’s hand snatched his wrist. “No