Frannie in Pieces (9 page)

A partial list
of contributions to the poison collage.

Gregor, a boy in the older group who contributes the apple, has a wishing face—hopeful, longing, sweet. Every time I look at him, I wonder what he wants to hear. “It began with the apple,” he says.

“Are you referring to Eve, in the Bible?”

“No. Snow White.”

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of us all?” I cackle, and they all laugh except Lark, who points out that we can't put the apple in the collage because it will rot.

“Rotting is good,” I tell her. “Poisons pollute the world; the apple will pollute the collage. We'll be making a statement. Let's have one bite out of the apple.” I hand it to Gregor.

He turns it few times, and then, satisfied with the location, crunches. He doesn't chew and swallow but removes the bite whole from his mouth. “Use the bite, too,” he says.

“What a great idea. You have the makings of a true artist.” I don't know why I'm moved to proclaim that, but he beams a whole mouthful of braces.

Lark contributes the hair spray and a speech she's composed on the computer. The title is “Aerosol.” “In conclusion,” she writes, “aerosol is known to contain chlorofluorocarbons that break down the ozone and cause global warming. The ice caps will melt and we will all drown.”

The warnings on the nail polish remover are numerous. Naturally,
Don't swallow.
That's the route to disaster with all these products. In this case I suppose swallowing can occur if you get polish remover confused with cough medicine. Let's say you forget to turn the light on in the bathroom in the middle of the night, which is when my coughing fits usually take place. (Middle of the night is an especially hazardous time. Once, during a sleep-over, I opened Jenna's medicine cabinet and took out a tube of diaper rash ointment meant for her baby brother, squeezed it on my toothbrush, and began brushing.) If that happens—if, in some mixed-up moment, you swallow polish remover—
call Poison Control and drink a lot of water
. Also,
according to the label, you might go up in flames if you smoke and remove polish at the same time.

We're sitting around the table working on the collage while Celeste, the girl who brought in the polish remover, regales us with these many warnings. She finishes with “harmful to synthetic fabrics, wood finishes, and plastic.”

By now I have the campers trained. They whoop with disbelief. “Are your nails tougher than wood?” I scream like a cheerleader. “No,” they shout. “Does this make sense?” Again they shout, “No.”

Harriet brings her freckles around regularly, although usually she simply stands in the barn door. “Love to see you all as busy as bees,” she calls. Today she enters and circles the table while we consider how to include Lark's essay on aerosol (whether or not to cut it up and highlight words like
ozone
). Harriet has to be impressed. The heavy paper is all patched into one gigantic sheet and one quarter patterned with an artful arrangement of labels and warnings, complete with arrows, exclamation points,
and dead flowers (Hazel's idea), and a drawing of a skull and crossbones. I consider how my dad would present the project to Harriet. “This work is a collision of art and science,” I say.

“What's wrong with your hand?” she asks.

“Oh, this. Just a scrape.” I wave off her concerns about the large Band-Aid across the knuckles that protects the splinter so it won't dislodge by accident.

“I've had several calls,” she says, “from parents.”

I'm not surprised. They send their kids to this goofy camp and never expect them to get a real education. Not only are they becoming artists, but they're being turned from mindless automatons into kids who question Listerine. The parents must be ecstatic. Perhaps Harriet will suggest an art show, framing the work or even getting it hung in the Hudson Glen city hall.

After Harriet has surveyed our work from every angle, she stops behind me. I feel her breath on my neck, a bit creepy, before she whispers in my
ear, “When Brandon's dad was replacing a flashlight battery, Brandon told him, ‘You could die from that.'”

I swing around. “He really gets it.”

“So his father had a little chat with him, and Brandon told him about your art project.”

“Didn't he already know? I mean, they've all brought in contributions.”

“Well, they knew, but…” Harriet takes my arm, elevates me out of my chair, and steers me outside as she calls over her shoulder to the kids, “We'll be right back.”

“I suppose it's my fault,” she remarks as soon as we're outdoors.

“Fault?”

“I told you to do whatever you wanted. I should have paid more attention when your mother said…” She pauses.

“What did my mom say?”

She presses her lips together while she considers what to reply. “Your mom said that you were a
little upset. About your dad. Natural, of course. Beatrice is having nightmares.”

For a second I can't place Beatrice, but then I remember, of course, Barbie One. “Nightmares about what?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know.”

Harriet chatters on. “Hazel's mother called too. She took Hazel with her to the beauty salon, and Hazel told everyone they would die from hair spray. Hazel tried to hold her breath the whole time she was there, although, of course, she failed. Isabel won't use anything that's been washed in the dishwasher.”

“Neither will I.”

“Oh, Frannie.” She throws her arms around me. “That is sad.”

I push her away. Apparently Harriet has the sensitivity of an army tank, because she doesn't back off. She rearranges my hair, tucking it behind my ears while she gives me a super tragic look. “Rocco's dad is the president of this camp.”

“This camp has a president?”

“It's nonprofit and he runs it. So he's like a president. He's very important. Rocco has been going around the house saying, ‘This kills, that kills.' Finally his father asked, ‘What in the world are you talking about?' and Lark filled him in. I don't like to get calls from Rocco's dad, Frannie. This has to stop.”

“What has to stop?”

She swoops back into the barn. “All right, everybody.” She claps her hands. “Stop what you're doing—we're going to have a nature hike. It's a beautiful day, no arts and crafts.” She pulls kids out of their chairs. “Leave those glue dispensers right where they are. Simon's waiting for you.”

As she herds them out, she plots, confiding as if we're in cahoots. “We'll think of some way to get their minds off all this, and we'll have to throw it away.”

“It?”

“This project of yours.”

I stop in my tracks. What? She wants to get rid of it? What nerve. “Wait.” I catch up and grab her arm. “You can't do that.”

“I know, it will be a little tricky.” Again, that conspiratorial tone: “We'll have to tell the kids that some parents are upset.”

“Upset? By art! Art is
supposed
to shock you.”

Harriet actually laughs. What's funny about that?

“If you're throwing it away, I quit.” The minute I utter the word “quit,” I see the advantages. I can leave over a principle. Mom can't object to that.

“Of course you're not quitting. Frannie's coming too,” she tells the campers. “Nature will do you good, that's what you need. Start Frannie's engine, kids. No laggers, not even counselors.” She whoops a laugh, and Isabel and Pearl drag me by the hands while Gregor pushes from behind as if I were a stalled car.

The Eagles are waiting with Simon at the bottom of the mountain. Did I mention the mountain?
Some people might call it a hill, but it's a dense tangle of trees on a fairly steep slope about a half mile from the barn, and to me it seems like bear country. Simon greets every camper differently—special slaps, high fives, pinkie locks, finger wiggles, digits dancing on palms. He knows endless variations, and all the campers are thrilled: me next, me next, me next. To Rocco, Simon bends down: “Head buzz, buddy.” Rocco rubs his hand over Simon's buzz cut.

When he spots me, Simon jabs his fist in my direction. His fist waits there, suspended. Am I supposed to respond? Am I expected to knot my hand into a fist and bang his knuckles? Sensing it's the only way to move off his radar, I comply. We knock knuckles. It's so dumb. I feel ridiculous. Can't he just say hello? Truly he's a hyper-kinetic human—perhaps a study should be done of him.

The ENP is putting on socks. Thick white gym socks, and the way she does it, you'd think
she is slipping on a pair of sexy fishnet stockings. “Who wants to give me their shoulder?” she purrs. Several boys crowd around. She pretends to lean on two of them to rise from sitting to standing.

“Does anyone mind if I pass on this?” she asks.

“Go ahead, Dawn, there's fresh coffee in the cabin,” says Harriet. “Frannie's here—they'll do just fine without you. I'm going to check on two leaky canoes.”

As Harriet speeds off, Dawn says, “Purse, please.”

Hazel hands over a pink shoulder bag she's been toting.

“Water,” Dawn commands.

Brandon, holding a small bottle of Evian, passes it to her.

“Scrunchee.”

Pearl, the tiara girl, slides off a red velvet one she's been wearing as a bracelet, and the rest of the girls argue over who gets to carry Dawn's things next.

“Whoever gets to the top, the first boy and the first girl,” says Dawn, “gets to be the next clothes carrier. Simon is going to tell me. I'm counting on him.” She bestows a wide and glamorous smile on Simon. “Have fun,” she calls as she swishes away. “Don't miss me too much.”

Simon orders everyone to stand tall, and he inspects. “Okay, looking good. One wiggle and we'll leave.” He twitches his butt and shakes his shoulders.

All the campers do the drill.

“How about Frannie? How about a wiggle from Frannie?”

He is one second away from saying, “Move your frannie, Fanny.” I sense it. Fact, not opinion: If your name is Frannie, as sure as the sun comes up, one idiot after another is going to think he made up the greatest joke by calling you Fanny.

“Hey, Frannie, give us a wiggle.”

I jerk my shoulders twice. God, this is humiliating. It satisfies. (Shocker, he didn't use the “fanny”
word). Simon takes off, bounding up the trail, while the kids clamor after, jostling to be the lucky one to hike by his side.

Did I mention that Simon coats his nose and cheeks with thick white sunblock the consistency of mayonnaise? He probably gets easily fried, because his skin is as white as a volleyball. Imagine a volleyball sunburned. I suppose it's to be avoided at all costs. In all aspects he's pale, as if he's been put through the washing cycle too many times. His bristly hair is so wheaty light that it seems colorless, and his little blue bird eyes are nearly transparent, like colored glass. His grin is wide and on the goofy side, with a half-inch space between his front teeth. The better to whistle with. In fact, he frequently puts two fingers in his mouth and blows. You can hear it from one end of camp to the other. He doesn't ring my bells—Jenna's expression. She mainly uses it when we scope out a guy at the mall. Although he might ring yours if you are deeply into pecs and bulging
arm muscles, like maybe you fancy a Popeye type. He's not artistic, I'll bet you anything. I can't be into anyone who isn't artistic.

With long strides, he leads the way up the narrow trail. As if conducting a guided tour, he identifies trees and wildflowers—big deal, I know them too, from Mom. Now and then he insists that everyone stop and listen to birds. Robins, a woodpecker, a cardinal, a flock of crows—he knows them by their songs. Maybe he is guessing. Would anyone know the difference?

While initially an easy climb, the trail quickly turns steep and rocky. I grab branches for support and balance. The kids leap along like mountain goats. Wearing flip-flops, I'm at a disadvantage. My feet slide off the rubber soles and my toes cramp trying to grip the thong. It's not my fault that I fall behind and lose sight of the pack. A relief, actually. They can't witness my copious sweat. Salty drops drizzle from my forehead over my nose to my lips. I'm gasping—giant nasal inhales, pants and groans.
Oh, man, I hate hiking.

Dad would have carried on about the sunlight. Bright orangey-yellow streaks pierce the tall pines, creating an unusual optical effect. Anything illuminated—a cluster of wildflowers, a camper, a bunch of twigs—glows with an unearthly halo. Frankly I'm more focused on avoiding the low pointy branches covered with prickly needles. Dad could squeeze through a crowd of porcupines and keep his mind on light. Not me. Ducking under one large limb, I stumble, my ankle twists, and I fall sideways into a clump of ferns. Quite an awkward spill—a sort of pitch-and-crumple—but fortunately, by this time I've fallen so far behind that no one notices. Where I land is comfy and cool, if a bit gross, a damp mossy den studded with gnarled toadstools the size of babies' feet.

Why get up? I have no desire to climb a small mountain. They have to come back this way anyway.

After a horizontal time-out, I sit up and peel back the Band-Aid to examine the splinter. It's days later, but that dream is still alive in my head. The funky hotel room, the carpet tickling my feet, the moment at the window when I scraped my hand. I can still hear Dad's voice like an echo in a canyon growing fainter and fainter.

I wasn't there. I couldn't have been, it's impossible, and yet I'm still there. How did I get this splinter?

I stick the bandage back down to protect it, lie back, and review my time in the barn. There are a ton of instances when it could have happened, no question. As I'm running through the possibilities, I feel ground vibration, hear leaves rustle, the crackle of twigs, and distant chattering voices. They're on their way back. I scramble out of the fern pit and onto the trail. Contemplating the best way to present myself, I decide to lean suavely against a tree.