Boot Camp, page 3
Ha.
Of course, it’s the brochure for that fitness camp.
I give the blurb on the inside of the first flap a chance.
Discover Camp Campbell, a summer fitness boot camp for young women. Our five-week program, located at our scenic forty-acre campus in Coastal Connecticut, will leave you not only stronger and fitter but challenged to your utmost capacity. With individualized training, empowering mentorship, and a work-hard-play-hard attitude, our camp is right for everyone, no matter your fitness level. By the time the program is over, our campers leave with newfound confidence, skills, and lifetime friends. Visit campcampbell.com today for more information on how to change your life. Hope to meet you this summer!
I wince at how well basic advertising works on me, already convinced this place could actually be somewhat life-changing, until I flicker my eyes to the staff list. If going to a camp run by Willow’s mom wouldn’t be bad enough, the namesake and founder of the camp, Bob Campbell, is a former military officer turned bodybuilder.
But what if this is my one chance to reinvent myself?
It would only be five weeks of my life during a summer where I already have no plans, and if I’ll finally feel like I fit into my stupid athletic family, who cares if Willow’s mom runs it?
It’s not like Willow herself will be there when she could spend her summer locked away in her dance studio or trying to salvage what’s left of her popularity now that high school is over.
“Fuck it,” I mutter and pull my laptop down from my desk.
When I google the website and notice I’m only one day away from the application deadline, I take it as a sign that I need to apply, despite the voices in my head, which coincidentally all sound like Willow, telling me I’ll never survive a day there.
“Whitney! Time for dinner!” Mom calls as my cursor hovers over the submit button. When I don’t answer her, heart thumping in my chest as I press down on my trackpad, her footsteps clatter at the bottom of the staircase. “I’m not bringing it up to your room this time, so you’d better come down.”
I hit Submit at last and slam my laptop shut. “Coming, Mom!”
All the way down the stairs, my heart races like I’ve secretly committed a crime behind my parents’ backs. I walk in a daze to the kitchen table, where Dad, Mom, and Poppy are already sitting before plates of chicken and rice.
“There you are,” Mom says, handing me my plate. Her eyes land where Dad’s and Poppy’s do, creasing up slightly at the sides as she takes in the purple color. She manages to force out, “The bruise looks a little lighter than it was a few days ago.”
“It really does,” Poppy agrees. “Can hardly notice it.”
We eat in silence for a few moments, broken only by the clink of cutlery against ceramic. Every few moments, I glance at Mom’s and Dad’s faces, debating whether to tell them. With how late into the night Dad usually works, it’s a miracle I even have the two of them together for dinner, so I decide to go for it.
“I have an announcement,” I say and wipe my mouth with a napkin. Poppy’s eyes flicker to my face with curiosity, while Dad and Mom share an unnerved look. “I’m going to fitness camp this summer. Correction, I applied to a fitness camp, but if I get in, I’m going.”
“A fitness camp,” Dad says slowly, digesting it like a new vocabulary word. “As in a camp for . . . exercise?”
“Pretty sure that’s the only definition of it,” I quip, trying not to sound insolent. “The program is five weeks long, but the camp is only an hour and a half away from here, so I can come home easily if I ever need to. Plus, it’s only for young women, so you don’t have to worry about me getting caught up with any boys.”
Dad opens his mouth to speak again, but Mom beats him to it, sending me a beaming smile. “That’s a wonderful idea, honey.
You were talking about wanting to find something useful to do this summer.”
“But are you sure this doesn’t have anything to do with what happened on the tennis court the other day?” Poppy asks. “I already told you that was my—”
“No,” I say, my answer strong and firm. Despite how rash this decision seems, I’ve somehow never been surer of anything in my life. “I need to do this for me, Poppy.”
And for everyone else who’s ever doubted me, I don’t say, stabbing into my piece of chicken breast and chewing the rest of my frustration away.
Week One
Chapter Three
It feels almost unnatural that I’m standing in my driveway at seven in the morning, holding two bags of newly bought workout clothes (which I did try on before buying this time), with Mom and Poppy in front of me, still in their satin pajamas, ready to bid me a temporary farewell.
Poppy steps forward and draws me into a hug. “Good luck, okay? You always do everything you put your mind to, so you’re not stopping now.” I nod and begin to pull away, but she leans in and places her lips by my ear. “And go find yourself a hot guy.”
“Highly unlikely,” I say, knowing the only guaranteed male at the camp at this point is Bob. “But I’ll try, Poppy.”
Mom helps me load my bags into the back of my white Jeep.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you, honey? You look a little on edge.”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. It might be helpful to have my car with me, anyway.”
So I can get the hell out if I need to, I don’t say.
“You’ll have lots of fun, I’m sure of it. Keep an open mind and stay in touch with us all.” Before she can turn away, I pull her into a hug and bury my face into her shoulder, inhaling her perfume like I used to when I was a kid. Mom ruffles the top of my head and sighs as she squeezes me tighter. “Now how do you expect me to ever let go?”
I laugh and pull away slowly, realizing that was my last goodbye, since Dad gave me a hurried kiss on the head an hour ago before hopping on a call with a business partner in East Asia. Maybe I could wave goodbye to Mr. Sullivan, currently watering the flowers by his mailbox, but he probably wouldn’t remember me.
Exhaling, I hop into the driver’s seat and configure my GPS.
With my windows rolled down, I cruise down the freeway, blasting pop punk to drown out my doubts. Every now and then, I flicker my eyes to the screen of my GPS, debating whether to click Stop Navigation and floor it back home, but I can’t give up before I’ve even seen this place.
Soon enough, I turn onto a narrow, gravelly road lined with pine trees and continue bouncing up and down in my seat as I drive for at least ten minutes before a wooden camp campbell sign appears. The two SUVs in front of me pull into a large chunk of asphalt paved over a clearing in the woods, and I figure this is where we should be parking.
As I turn off my car, two girls jump out of the black Lexus next to me. With long silky black hair, pouty lips, and doe-like brown eyes, they appear like extensions of each other, until I remember the proper term is “twins.” Clearly, they’re not too fond of one other, as the girl decked out in hot pink yanks her suitcase out of the trunk and marches off without looking back.
The other girl drops two chrome suitcases onto the ground and leans against the trunk, pulling out her phone from the pocket of her leggings. She has on the same two-piece workout set as her sister, only in black, which makes her stacked silver necklaces and earrings stand out more. As she scrolls and mindlessly picks at one of her black acrylic nails, she seems bored and apathetic, the opposite of me.
“Hey, you,” she says when I hop out of the driver’s seat.
“Do you know where we’re supposed to go? It was in some email somewhere, but I didn’t care about this shit enough to flag it.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, nodding. I don’t admit I’ve memorized the welcome message word for word last night during a panic spell over my decision to come here. “It’s Room 100 of the Central Building. Which I guess should be somewhere in the center of this camp.”
“Great, thanks.” Without me asking, she walks over and hauls out my larger suitcase for me. “Martina, by the way.”
“Whitney.” I arch my neck up, asking, “Are you and the other girl—”
“Twins? Yeah. Unfortunately.”
When we make it out of the parking lot, I get a better sense of this portion of the sprawling campus. There’s a long paved road that must lead to the ocean, based on the tiny sliver of the horizon and the sounds of seagulls in the distance. To the left is a thick forest with trees so tall I have to crane my neck to see the tops of them. To the right lies manicured grass and various spread-out buildings, including two cabin-style dorms looming behind a glass-paneled structure, which stands in stark contrast to the rustic feel of this place.
Martina and I follow the lead of two other girls making their way to that building, and my stomach churns again with the reminder that I’m here and doing this. We walk through the frosted glass doors and find the inside of Room 100 mostly empty. Its endless brown hardwood floors and mirrored walls almost remind me of a dance studio, but I hope it isn’t, knowing that I don’t have a single graceful bone in my body. Twelve or so girls are sprawled across the room next to their bags, some engaged in lively conversation, while a few others are glued to their phones.
Martina plops down on the ground and uses her bag as a backrest. “What are you doing time here for? Parents send you away?”
I lower myself to the ground next to her, folding my legs into a pretzel. “Actually, I wanted to come.” When she stares blankly at me, my cheeks tint pink. “Is that a strange answer or something?”
“Maybe for you, no. I’m only here because my sister, Adriana, wanted to be there for her friend, and my parents don’t trust us to go places without each other.”
“So you guys can snitch on each other?”
“Basically, yeah. Did you go to high school around here? I get the sense we’re all from different parts of the state.”
“No, I went to—”
Before I can answer her, someone’s footsteps boom throughout the vast room, and we all snap our heads up to find a brawny man with a buzz cut and tan arms as big as some of our thighs.
He sports a muscle tank and worn-out Timberland boots, and appears to be somewhere in his late forties. Although his head-shot was a little more polished on the brochure, I think I can still confidently say this is Bob Campbell.
Oh, boy.
“Everyone, stand up,” he barks, moving to the center of the room.
We all scramble to our feet, and we end up in a jumbled circle, practically knocking each other over. A few girls yell at us to space out, and soon enough we form a decent line.
“That’s good,” he says, resting his arms behind his back.
“I’m Bob Campbell, founder and owner of this camp. I’m a former military officer and certified personal trainer, and in recent years, I’ve won four bodybuilding competitions.
“This camp is no ordinary fitness camp. We work on a strict basis with set rules and policies. If you cannot follow them, we will personally ask you to take your sorry ass back home.”
Adriana throws her bony arm up into the air. Bob looks annoyed but lets her speak.
“What are these rules?” she asks.
“One of them states ‘don’t ask any questions until I say so,’ since you’re so curious.”
Her cheeks flush red, but she tries to act unbothered, shrugging her shoulders.
“Usually this is the part where I rattle off what you should be expecting over the next five weeks, but since your generation has the attention span of a housefly, I’ve put together a colorful slideshow presentation.” He picks up a remote and points it towards the screen mounted on the wall behind him. “This morning you will complete a diagnostic fitness test. It consists of a run and a few static and dynamic exercises, designed for us to test your level of athletic ability—or lack thereof—and later to gauge your progress. Afterwards, you will meet your assigned trainer. Given our camp’s small size, each of you will have access to your own personal trainer, which will permit you to complete more individualized workouts. We encourage you take advantage of this valuable opportunity.”
Our own trainers? I can’t tell if his tone is ominous or encouraging, but I’m finally excited about something at this camp.
Bob continues through the slides, explaining some logistics of the camp, like what time we have to be up every day (early), how many workout sessions we will have to complete (a lot), and how much socializing we will be doing (also a lot).
At least the photos of the dining hall look straight out of a five-star hotel’s restaurant kitchen, making a few girls blow out a sigh of relief, me included. We also get one rest day a week on Sundays, to do whatever we want, as long as we’re back on campus by nine p.m.
The door hitting the wall again cuts into the next part of Bob’s speech, and in scurries a frazzled Cindy in olive green leggings and a sports bra. Trailing her by five feet, with her arms folded tightly across her front and head hanging low is . . .
Willow?
I’d say exercise may have messed with my cognitive abilities, but I haven’t even done any yet, so that is, in fact, Willow Estelle Gerard herself joining the far end of the row of girls. Of all the ways I expected her to spend her summer—dancing, shooting for some high-fashion swimsuit line, partying on a yacht on the Côte d’Azur—joining her mom and me here at Camp Campbell was very low on my list.
Is this some kind of sick joke?
“You okay?” Martina asks.
“Yeah, all good,” I mumble, shaking my head.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Cindy says, forcing a smile that reaches from ear to ear. “We were stuck in traffic.”
Bob steps to the side so she can have the spotlight. “No, you’re right on time. Go ahead, Cindy.”
“All right, ladies, I’m sure Bob has already scared the living daylights out of you, but don’t worry, he’s just joking around.”
From the grim frown on his face, Bob does not look like he was joking around.
“To start, my name is Cindy Norcross. I’m a former model and currently a Pilates instructor, wellness coach, and now camp coordinator here at Camp Campbell. I’m so honored and delighted to be working with Bob this summer to help you all grow as young women and unlock your hidden potential.” She walks across the wooden space in front of us, her manicured fingers tented in front of her chest like she’s giving a college lecture. “We know that you’re all here for different reasons.
Maybe some of you want to perform better in the sport you play. Maybe some of you want to finally learn how to run a mile. And maybe some of you are even hoping to find your new besties.”
A couple girls snort at how forced the term sounds coming from her mouth, while all I can think of is how I do not plan on becoming besties with her diabolical daughter.
“Whatever your reasons, we all want you to make the same discovery: you are capable. Anything you put your mind to, with the right help and motivation, you can accomplish, and we are here to help you harness your inner power every step of the way.”
A long pause ensues, and I figure maybe Cindy is expecting us to clap, but most of us stare ahead stone-faced, shifting awkwardly from side to side. Bob clears his throat and takes a step forward on the hardwood floor.
“Thank you, Cindy. That was very powerful.” He hands her the remote, telling her, “I’ll let you finish off the slides.”
“Thanks, Bob. In between your personal training sessions, you’ll also be participating in team challenges once a week, which may range from running a race to completing an obstacle course.”
She flips through a few slides consisting of photos from past team challenges. A couple girls currently wearing designer white sneakers wince at the mud-caked campers on the screen, their arms wrapped around each other for the photo.
They look like they became besties, at least.
“The goal behind these challenges is for you to interact with each other and develop important team-building skills, but rest assured, we will not be tracking your performance. Having fun is our primary goal here at Camp Campbell.”
“Fun,” Martina mumbles, shooting me a look. “Yeah, right.”
I don’t pay attention to the rest of the slides because I’m too focused on staring down Willow’s face, half concealed by Adriana’s perfect side profile. Her cheeks seem puffier than usual, like she’s either been drinking or crying or both.
Wait, why do I even care?
“Now, if you have any questions, this is the time to ask,”
Bob says.
Adriana’s hand shoots up, and I can tell Martina wants to slap her arm back down.
Bob sighs and points to her. “Before you ask anything, please tell me your name.”
“Adriana. Now can I ask?”
“Of course, Adriana,” he answers wryly.
“Do we get to choose our own trainers?”
Martina mutters a curse, covering her face with her palm. I stifle a laugh at her question, wondering how that is her biggest concern with all the torturous exercise awaiting us.
“You don’t, but rest assured, Adriana, everyone who works at this camp is as pleasant as I am.” Bob earns his first collective laugh from us, finally lightening up the stiff air of the room.
“Any other questions? If not, go kick some ass.”
Outside, we stand in a disorganized line again, and I get a better look at everyone. There are sixteen of us in total, and about four seem like they would get along perfectly with Willow, decked out in matching workout sets with styled hair and full faces of makeup at nine in the morning. Some others look like they’d get along better with me, in shorts and baggy sweatshirts bearing those oh-gosh-what-did-we-actually-sign-up-for expressions.
“All right, girls, listen up!” Cindy calls from beside Bob, appearing about half his size from this angle. “This test will start with a simple one-mile run.” Simple?! “Try your best to pace yourselves, as I know this might be new to some of you. We’ll start with some stretches.”
After a long warmup, half the girls hurry to assemble themselves at the beginning of the road, some even fighting for a specific spot. I stay towards the rear of the pack with Martina, knowing the only spot I want is the one as far away from the blond-haired demon as possible, hoping to avoid a repeat of the 5K race that’s part of the reason I’m here in the first place.
