Boot Camp, page 1
Boot Camp
Gina Musa
Boot Camp
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Week 1
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Week 2
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Week 3
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Week 4
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Week 5
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Post-Camp
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
To anyone who woke up one day and decided to change their life for the better.
Give yourself a pat on the back.
Chapter One
“I look like I teach Pilates for seniors in the basement of a gym that converts to a church on Sundays.”
Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room, I smooth out the wrinkles around my hips in my bright-blue leggings, wincing as it makes them worse. It’s my fault for buying them yesterday without trying them on, but I figured these were a one-size-fits-all kind of attire. With the way the material bunches up around my hips, bags at the crotch, and is missing three inches at the ankles, it looks like I got the three-sizes-in-one deal.
“If that’s the long and oddly detailed way of saying absolutely freakin’ adorable, then you’re right.”
My best friend, Ava Farzan, climbs off my bed and adjusts the visor I stole from her collection on my head, tipping it up to reveal my unplucked eyebrows and the permanent dark circles around my green eyes. When my frown doesn’t budge—and neither do I—she sighs.
“Oh, come on, it’s leggings and a tank top, Whitney.”
“It’s not just the clothing, Ava.” I tug up the neckline of my tank top, only for it to sag again and reveal the same polka-dot sports bra I’ve had since seventh grade, debatably before I ever needed to wear one. “It’s that me being here, dressed like this”—I gesture from my head to my toes and then let my palms fall to my side—“goes against everything I stand for.”
“You mean . . . exercise?”
“No, not exercise,” I say, but that’s a lie only because I can’t admit that to the future professional athlete standing in front of me. “I’m talking about spending my Sunday morning at a 5K race organized by the mother of the girl who’s literally made it her mission to torture me all through high school. How do you tolerate Willow again?”
“I don’t tolerate her. Our mothers tolerate each other. And because my mom signed me up for this 5K because she can’t come, you have to come with me.”
“Failing to see where my obligation is here.”
“Come on, Whitney,” she huffs. “Even if I wasn’t roped into this to save face for my mother, I’d still want us to go. The charity Willow’s mom is raising money for”—she pauses to google the forcibly clever name “Girl (Em)Power” and sprinkles some enthusiasm into her tone as she reads—“‘has helped thousands of girls across the country meet positive role models, embrace their bodies, and harness their inner confidence to become changemakers in today’s society.’”
She looks up at me with those big brown eyes that usually work wonders when trying to win male attention, but I’ve known her too long, and they’re powerless against me.
“Damn, those are some great buzzwords, but Willow has also helped hundreds of students at Greene Hill Academy feel bad about themselves, so that evens things out.”
Even Ava can’t argue with me, because whether she wants to admit it or not, everyone at our school hates Willow—the teachers, the students in other grades, and even her best friends. A couple of drinks in, even Willow herself would probably start rattling off a laundry list of her terrible qualities, but I stand a better chance at becoming the next woman in history to get hit by a meteorite in her own home before she ever changes her ways.
“One day we’re going to be free of her, you know?” Ava says in that distant, wistful way after a moment, like Willow is Stage IV cancer. “One day.”
Before I can rattle off another excuse for why I can’t run this 5K—and there are many—Ava drags me down the wooden spiral staircase, across the foyer, and into the kitchen, where my parents are chatting. Sunday is the only day of the week they can spend any quality time together, and I’m surprised they’re wasting it indoors on this balmy late-April day, until I realize the thought comes too soon.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael, loving the tennis looks for the day,” Ava says, gesturing at their all-white Lacoste apparel. “I would’ve loved to join, but Whitney and I are already running late to a 5K.”
Mom stands up to pull her into a hug. “You know we would’ve loved to have you, Ava.” She then turns to me and plants her hands on my shoulders, the same green eyes I have creasing up at the corners with her wide smile. “Gosh, Whitney, you look adorable. It’s always great to see you trying new things.”
“Real great,” I say through my teeth as Ava updates my dad on her last tennis match.
He gives her his full undivided attention, like he always does with my older sister, Poppy, and that creeping sense of inferiority eats at my brain, making me wonder if he’s secretly wishing I was more like them both. Maybe Ava, and not me, was supposed to be the fourth member of the Carmichael family, given its athletic legacy going three generations strong.
It all started with Dad’s dad, Grandpa Tom, who, although now retired in a beach house in Fort Lauderdale, was once a star wide receiver and the coach of three different NFL teams over the course of his illustrious forty-six-year career. Dad had been poised to follow in his footsteps until a hamstring injury during his senior year of high school shattered his college football dreams. From then on, he put all his effort into making as much money as possible, which translated into a finance career over-working him from New York City to the nearby Connecticut suburbs, where I’ve lived for most of my life.
He met Mom on a six-mile run in Central Park, a morning habit lingering from her days as a track and field star at Penn.
Although she prefers Pilates, tennis, and golf now—or as I like to call them, rich suburban mom sports—she kept up the morning runs until I was a toddler, taking me out in a jogging stroller around the park on any at least partly sunny day.
Then there’s my older sister, Poppy, the only logical child for my two athletic parents. I’d probably be out of breath if I tried to list the number of sports she played growing up, but currently, she’s a golfer at Columbia, where she met her boyfriend, Levi, also a golfer. If it wasn’t for the two of them, I wouldn’t even believe anyone under the age of fifty enjoyed the sport.
And then came me, Whitney. How their genes combined to create a literal walking (emphasis on the walking part) disaster at all things sports, I’ll never know, but usually, I embrace my role as the nonathletic black sheep of the family by not participating in 5K races.
Especially those turkey trots on Thanksgiving morning.
Those are the worst.
“Have fun, girls!” Mom calls as Ava and I head out the garage door. “You’re gonna kill it!”
Yeah, in the bad way, Mom.
Ava and I climb into her Audi convertible, and thirty minutes later, we make it to the sprawling college campus where this race is being held. It looks like it does on any day of the school week, except instead of students, the grass and sidewalks are flooded with a mix of teenage girls, their mothers and grandmothers, and young children. They yell at each other over the sound of pop music blaring from speakers on the quad, decorated with booths sporting bright signs, making this 5K race feel more like a holiday bazaar.
Ava and I stop by the registration table to grab our numbers and complimentary neon-green Girl (Em)Power T-shirts before deciding to circle the dewy grass of the quad. A group of middle schoolers call us over and drop two gel pens into our hands while pitching their petition to implement a girls’ football league in our public school district. Considering I’ll neither play football nor be a middle schooler again in my lifetime, I sign it and move on to the next table, advertising a summer camp.
“Hey, girls,” a young woman with blue-tinted hair greets us.
“Interested in learning about Camp Campbell?”
Neither Ava nor I can keep a straight face at the name, but I manage to make the smile look sincere as I nod. “Yeah, sure.
Why not?”
She gives us a brief rundown on the camp: a five-week fitness program for young women located about an hour from where we are now. My attention wanes as she throws around terms like running, rope climbing, boxing, and hiking, but she loses me with one tidbit of information.
“The woman who organized this 5K, Cindy, is joining the camp as a coordinator this summer,” she says, referring to Willow’s mom. “She’s going to be such a great role model for all the girls in the program.”
“Oh, we’re not int—”
“Here,” she says, thrusting a brochure into my hands. “Take one.”
I notice she doesn’t hand Ava a b
Does it look like I need a fitness camp?
“Hey, Whitney.” Ava snaps me out of my thoughts, and I nod. She juts her thumb behind her, continuing, “I’m going to go begrudgingly tell Cindy my mom says hi and that she can’t wait for brunch again next weekend, then I’ll join you, okay?”
“Good luck,” I say dryly, and she mouths shoot me before jogging away.
Now alone, I speed through the rest of the booths, earning myself more and more free goodies, which I shove into a tote bag advertising an inclusive fashion brand. My shoulder sags as I walk, despite its contents barely weighing a couple of pounds, making me rethink the brochure crumpled inside. As I’m about to text Ava, a bright-blond head enters my peripheral vision, and Willow leaps in front of me on her long, lean dancer legs.
She settles her hands on the hips of her purple biker shorts, which match the sports bra that gives her the illusion of boobs.
“Whitney, didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“Could say the same to you,” I grumble, trying to walk around her, but she blocks my path. Driving my teeth into my bottom lip, I force myself to remain calm only because I don’t need half the mothers in our town witnessing a long-overdue catfight. “What now, Willow?”
“Nothing really. I wanted to say this is a charity event more than anything, so don’t feel obligated to run the actual race. There are a lot of”—she swivels around and points to the benches lining the perimeter of the quad—“old people and babies who would appreciate your company.”
If I had any doubts about running this race, Willow wipes them away with that snide comment. But before I can make one back, not that I can think of anything that would remotely hurt her, her mother’s voice erupts through a microphone, and she darts away, while Ava joins me again.
“Hello, friends!” Cindy calls, standing in the middle of the quad. As I take in her blown-out caramel-colored hair, matching white workout set, and full face of makeup, I question if she’ll actually run this race herself. “We’re so glad you could be here for our first-ever Girl (Em)Power 5K. As those close to me know, female empowerment is at the core of all the work I do, as a Pilates instructor, wellness coach, and of course, a mother.” Willow doesn’t return her mother’s bright-white smile. “In a few minutes, the race will begin, but I want you to know you are all winners for being here and supporting the future changemakers of society.”
Just like your daughter loves doing, I think before tuning out the rest of her meaningless speech.
As Ava and I head towards the rear of the starting line, I warn her, “I won’t be offended if you run faster than me. Don’t feel like you have to hold back.”
She looks up mid-toe-touch. “Come on, Whitney. I’m the one who dragged you into this, so we’re running together.”
At least she can’t say she wasn’t warned when the race begins, and I creep ahead at a pace somewhere between a walk and a jog. I pick it up a little when I notice everyone passing me is old enough to receive Social Security benefits, but within minutes, my thighs start cramping, and phlegm clogs my throat.
“You good?” Ava asks, taking one effortless stride after the other.
“Sure,” I say through a wet cough, “just peachy.”
For the first third of the race, I alternate between walking and jogging, unable to maintain a continuous pace for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Knowing it’s nearly impossible for me to keep up with Ava, I encourage her to speed ahead, while I blend into a crowd of powerwalking elderly women.
“Honey,” one of the women says. One of her friends called her Carol before, or maybe Marjorie. Or was it Barbara? I’m not thinking straight. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, the youth like you always have so much energy. Are you sick? Injured? Maybe”—she cups her mouth, leaning into my personal space—“pregnant?”
Pregnant? I glance down at the inconspicuous curve of my stomach and then back at her curious expression, waiting for the director to cut the cameras and let me know I’m being punked.
“Don’t be so nosy, Marj,” another woman chides, elbowing her. “Not every young person is athletic. You certainly weren’t, for one.”
Heat engulfing my cheeks, I bolt ahead, and the gothic-style buildings on campus all blend into each other. As much as I don’t want to admit it to myself, those nosy old women are right.
I should have more energy.
I should be more athletic.
I should be more like my family.
My burning lungs and quads paint a different picture as I struggle my way through the next chunk of the race, but at least I’m finally running next to people close to my age. I allow myself to revel in the rare feeling of fitting in for once, but the experience is short-lived when I try to suck in a breath and my lungs barely expand.
Seeing stars, I stop to the side of the race and double over at the waist, my fingers digging into my knees as I finally spit out the phlegm clogging my throat. I need to sit down on the sidewalk and blink nearly five times before the world becomes less pixelated. In the meantime, two frazzled volunteers run towards me with a bottle of water, yelling questions I can barely hear over the pounding of sneakers against pavement.
I lose track of how many times I tell them I’m okay after chugging half the water bottle, but they don’t let me get up. I tell them I need to when a runner decked out in purple invades my peripheral vision.
“Whitney!” Willow calls, making multiple heads turn my way. Despite being a lap ahead of me in the race, not a drop of sweat trickles down her foundation-caked forehead. “Whitney, oh my gosh, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Willow,” I grumble, looking anywhere but at her eyes. “Go finish your race.”
“Oh no. I could never do that when you’re clearly not okay.”
She shoos the volunteers away and drops down next to me.
Looping an arm around my damp back, she tugs me closer to her, while the fingers of her left hand disappear into the side pocket of her shorts. I try to yank out of her grasp as she pulls out her phone, but I can barely blink before she’s lifted it up into the air, thumb hovering over the camera’s shutter button.
“Don’t forget to smile!”
I try to pull away again, but it’s too late. “You freakin’ bit—”
She jumps up and disappears into the crowd of runners, grinning like she’s already won the race.
—
By the end of the week, the soreness in my legs has faded to a dull ache, making my journey up the stairs to my last class of the day, AP Stats, slightly less arduous.
“As we’ve already covered, the chi-square goodness of fit test should only be used for categorical or nom—” Mr. Meyers whips his head to the doorway as I accidentally slam the handle into the wall, his thick brow furrowing. “Oh, it’s you, Whitney.
Glad you could join us.”
“Sorry for being late, Mr. Meyers,” I say sheepishly, clutching the strap of my old blue backpack.
“No, no.” He waves me away to my seat by the window and turns back to the whiteboard. “Always a pleasure to have you in class.”
This year’s salutatorian, Isaac, folds his beefy arms across his sweatshirt and scowls at me as I plop into my seat, but I ignore him. I know he’s still bitter that I was named valedictorian and not him, that being a recruited swimmer at Stanford doesn’t make up for his GPA being a hundredth of a point lower than mine is, but it’s how the system works.
Besides, can’t a girl have something in life?
With no friends and surprisingly no enemies—apart from Isaac—in this class, I sit back and copy down the formulas I missed from the board, finally in my happy place. If high school had no social aspect to it, I’d never want to leave, but the buzzing of phones across the classroom reminds me exactly why my mental countdown to the last day is still going strong.
Thirty-eight days, I tell myself as I tap my phone screen, already knowing it’s the newsletter: a recap of all the events and gossip at school every week, sanitized and packaged up in a format both students and parents alike can read. Trying to be a part of newsletter club at this school is like rushing a sorority; the more people you know and the more popular you are, the better likelihood you get the privilege of one of the fifteen coveted seats on it.
