Don't Ever Change (13 page)

WALKING BACK TO
my girls, I can’t stop thinking about the charades game, how inspiring it was. But more than just inspiring
me
, it inspires me
to inspire
. Even though incentive, as a concept, doesn’t really do much for me personally, it usually works on other people, so I assume it’ll probably work on the girls. I’m starting to get used to what it feels like to be a leader, and I’m also getting used to giving speeches and just basically trying to share my voice with other females and other potential future writers. I gather the girls near the animal area by the bunny pen and give them a long speech, which they have no choice but to listen to.

“When I was a kid, even younger than you guys, my mom had a jar that she filled with quarters. It was a big jar, with like a thousand quarters—which used to seem like a thousand dollars, but is really only like two hundred and fifty bucks, which is still a lot. I was seven, and my parents decided that was a good age for me to start receiving an allowance. They said they’d give me a quarter for each chore I did. That was the plan, that there was no set weekly amount; I could earn however much I wanted if I just
did the work
. So I asked my mom what jobs there were, but each week she’d only be able to think of, like, three or four jobs because I was so short and sort of clumsy and also because my older sister’d already done most of the important chores. So every Friday I only earned like four quarters, which I thought was unfair, since I was
willing
to do more work. My dad told me to start inventing new chores, like ironing his ties or separating the mail—Job Creation, he called it—but that felt like a hassle, because there was a chance my mom wouldn’t even consider those
real chores
, and then I wouldn’t get more quarters.

“I tried to make my mom an offer that I’d do any work she wanted, all week long, for a flat fee of two dollars, or eight quarters. To me that seemed more than fair; she could take advantage of the situation if she wanted and have me washing her hair or something and for only two dollars! I don’t know if any of you get an allowance, but I just don’t think that’s a lot to ask, even with the economy or whatever. But my mom said no. She told me she wasn’t bargaining and that I had to
earn
those quarters, quarter by quarter. She called it ‘incentive.’ Have you heard of incentive? It means, like, motivation or encouragement or
inspiration
.

“So—I was thinking about the journals, which I know some of you want to use as diaries or for doodling or writing notes to each other, and I had this cool idea: we’re going to take everyone’s favorite things that they write this summer—if it’s a story or a poem or a letter or even just like a rant or an essay about something you love or hate—and we’ll make a collection. I’ll make a zine—have you heard of a zine? It’s like a magazine but smaller and photocopied and indie, like
independent
. I’ll bind the collection like a little book, and then you’ll have a memory of this summer you can keep forever. It’ll be all our cool thoughts and feelings, and it’ll be just for us, though you can show it to your parents if you want. Then they’ll see how you’re these smart writers and how you didn’t just have fun this summer, you also
used your brain
.

“This is your incentive to care about what you write and care about each other’s writing too. It’s incentive to love your journal and to love writing and to love our group!”

When I finish, no one says anything. A few girls look down at their journals, in a daze. But I can see wheels turning in Billie’s head, just like I saw those Harry Potter ideas light up Trevor’s face.

I tell them tonight’s assignment is to think of something you’re really good at and then describe precisely how to do it in as few sentences as possible. I tell them this kind of writing is called Second Person, which makes me feel how Mr. Roush must feel when he’s teaching a classroom of semi-attentive young minds about Second Person:
excited
.

After camp, out by the bus, Alyssa comes over and tells me there’s nothing that she’s
so good
at, that she knows
so well
, that she could describe how to do it in just a few steps.

“No way, you’re good at a bunch of things,” I say.

“Not really,” Alyssa says.

“What about that cool friendship bracelet?” I ask, pointing to her wrist.

“I didn’t make that.”

“Okay,” I say, looking all over Alyssa. I look at her shoes and her shirt and then up around her face, but all I notice is her sleek black eyeliner, perfectly straight, with the tiniest flick at the edge of each eye. It’s like a cat-eye tutorial in a magazine, pristine as some Kate Moss photo. “What about your eyeliner?” I suggest. “You rule at putting on eyeliner. Way better than me.”

“It’s just practicing in the mirror. I just do it every day.”

“Well, there you go,” I say, patting her shoulder. “Now you’ve got something: Putting on Eyeliner.”

And that’s another problem solved.

Later, when Courtney and I are setting the table for dinner, I tell her about the assignment and Alyssa’s cat-eye talent. Courtney’s so impressed she puts down the silverware to give me a hug.

“You’re not just stimulating them,” Courtney says, “you’re also helping with their self-confidence. It’s awesome!”

“It feels good,” I say. “Self-confidence is major.”

“What are
you
going to write about for the assignment?”

“I don’t know yet, maybe the best way to play charades.”

“But you hate charades,” Courtney says.

“I
used
to hate charades,” I correct her. I set all the plates and the cups down and it reminds me: “I told the girls about Mom’s quarters and our allowance.”

“You told them what you did?”

“The story’s about
incentive
, Court.”

“The
story
is about
indigestion
,” Courtney says, raising her eyebrows at me.

But I don’t tell my sister that the girls heard an abridged version, like how sometimes editors shorten Charles Dickens because he’s so rambling and annoying and repetitive. With
Great Expectations
it’s about the highlights, not about the long dinners with Uncle Pumblechook. So that’s what I gave my girls—the highlights—not the long parts about how I started swallowing the quarters, one by one, week after week, until my mother not only gave me the raise I demanded but also started paying me in crisp one-dollar bills.

We were talking about incentive anyway, and besides, I have Great Expectations for these girls, so if a story can be a bridge—from one person to another—then
this
story can be
abridged
, no problem.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Lindsay
: r u there

me
: i’m here, hey

Lindsay
: can’t talk 2 long, have rehearsal in an hour, but wanna at least say hi

me
: rehearsal for what

Lindsay
: pirates of penzance, i’m n it

me
: you’re an actress

Lindsay
: yah

me
: yr a theater major

Lindsay
: yah, whut r u

me
: wlp

Lindsay
: ?????

me
: writing, literature, and publishing

Lindsay
: oh weird

me
: i guess emerson does have a rlly good theater dept

Lindsay
: yah but i wanna go 2 london

me
: when

Lindsay
: i wanna transfer after 2 yrs

me
: to london??

Lindsay
: u evr heard of the west end

me
: i think my parents used to watch that show

Lindsay
: no, it’s n london, where they do all the plays

me
: london

Lindsay
: u evr been

me
: not really

Lindsay
: it’s tha best

me
: but aren’t you excited for boston and for emerson

Lindsay
: yah of course but i’m also thinkin bout after that

me
: so yr a pirate

Lindsay
: no i’m the daughter

me
: sounds like a good part

Lindsay
: tha leed!

me
: i wish i could see it

Lindsay
: ever been 2 SD?

me
: sea world, yeah

Lindsay
: wanna come back?

me
: hmm got this job now

Lindsay
: sat n sun?

me
: maybe

Lindsay
: i can get u free tix 2 my play

me
: i’ll see

Lindsay
: can’t b leeve we r gonna b roomies evr shared a room?

me
: i have a sister

Lindsay
: me 2, she’s 11

me
: i’m a counselor and my girls are all 9

Lindsay
: the worst

me
: u think?

Lindsay
: they r so mean 2 each other, meaner than hi skool 4 sure

me
: hmm

Lindsay
: whut r yr girls like

me
: i don’t really know

Lindsay
: haha

me
: got any tips

Lindsay
: NO haha

me
: i’m teaching them to write

Lindsay
: dont they alrdy know how 2 write

me
: no, like, to write a story or a poem

Lindsay
: oh kool evr write plays?

me
: not really

Lindsay
: u shd, i can be in it

me
: maybe

Lindsay
: 4 emerson, u know AH! gotta run

me
: have fun at yr thing

Lindsay
: rad 2 talk! last summer, make it count!!

me
: i’m counting

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

IT’S A BUMPY
rest of the week, mainly because there’s so many horseback-riding sessions. On Wednesday it was just me and Alyssa sitting out with Alexis, but by Thursday and especially Friday,
all
the girls are sitting out—it’s not just Alexis who doesn’t want to do anything. But my incentive
is
working, the girls
are
writing, even if it’s partially for the wrong reasons. I’m writing too, though (
My name is EVA, and I’m traveling toward SAN DIEGO
), and when I feel ready to read my stuff to the girls, they’ll probably feel like they’re ready too. That’s called Leading by Example, and it’s what Foster does; I know because I watch him, whenever he’s around.

I thought I’d find more literary inspirations at camp and in my experiences here, but so far I haven’t really experienced that much. Overall it’s been pretty normal, just going from activity to activity, half doing whatever we’re supposed to be doing and half working on our journals. Sometimes an hour or so passes with all of us just quietly buried in our books, huddled under a big oak tree or sitting along the edge of the lake, before I realize it’s time to gather everyone up and march on to the next station.

I’m proud, though, because we’re becoming kind of a unified little front. Foster says our group’s totally distinguished itself by never screaming or arguing or getting sent to Steven’s office to settle some fight over swim towels or lunch sacks or who called who a stupid bitch. I’m not sure if I should be worried, if that sort of conflict is somehow more healthy than what I’ve created, which is this odd, isolated, mellow utopia. Mr. Roush once said that in literature there’s no such thing as a utopia, because writing about utopia inherently means writing about
dystopia
, because even a perfect world—
especially
a perfect world—is suspect.