Camp Kiwi

III. Finding My Own Freedom

"This is disgraceful, you haven't even packed your things?"

I was so shocked by my father's appearance that I hadn't even realized my mother strolled in behind him. The shrillness of her voice made her presence apparent.

"Whatever, I'll just throw everything in now," I moan groggily, sitting up to rub my cloudy eyelids. Melody must have gotten up in the middle of the night to retreat back to her own room since the spot next to me was empty and not mussed with.

Mother snarls, "Enough with the 'whatever's' and lackadaisical attitude. You will be punctual today. No if ands or buts."

Disregarding her, I sprout up from under my covers with a hopeful gleam in my eye as I turn towards my father. "Will you be sending me off, daddy?"

"Your father has to get to the studio now. Say goodbye while I deal with your incredible lack of responsibility," she answers for him. She begins opening my closet doors to throw in what she feels are 'camp appropriate' outfits. I internally groan, for once it would be nice to have a private conversation with the one half of my parental unit that I could actually tolerate. That word must be lost in mother's vocabulary.

Unexpectedly, my father gently tugs at my wrist, pulling me in to his familiar embrace. His warm arms and comforting pine scented cologne tug at my heartstrings.

He faintly whispers in my ear, "I'm sorry, chestnut. Please be good for me over there so you can come home."

I stifle back tears at the use of his nickname for me. He hasn't called me that in over seven years. Even with my heightened emotional turmoil, I still couldn't help but ponder what he had just said. What did he mean, "be good so you can come home?" I was coming home regardless.

Right?

"Okay, we're going to miss the flight. You can change your clothes at the airport bathroom. Let's get going," my mother ordered. Her Chanel number five wafted, lingering in the air after her departure. My gut told me to be exactly one step behind her, today was the last day that she was going to put up with any of my antics.

Before I take off, daddy bids one last goodbye, "Remember to call occasionally. I love you, and so does your mother."

Yeah right, I want to say. I refrain from making the situation worse than it already is. Instead, I muster up a sad excuse for a smile and scurry out the door of what is no longer my home.

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The plane ride was agitating, as most plane rides are, at least I was only stuck in an exit free vicinity with mom for precisely one hundred and twenty minutes. The one thing I achieved during the entire flight was positioning my hair up into a perfect bun on the top of my head, with two small strands hanging free from each side. My face was bare aside from the minimal amount of chap stick I applied, I doubt my mother even bothered to pack my makeup bag. Fine by me, I couldn't be bothered to poke at my face if I was to be woken up at the crack of dawn. And it's not like I had anyone to impress at an all-girls camp anyway.

I was dressed in khaki pants that were cut off at my mid-thigh, revealing only the word 'find' in my tattoo. Engulfing it was a large paint palate and a small pointe shoe, reminding me of my "invalid" hopes and dreams. On my top, I wore a black tank top with a light black and red colored flannel thrown over my shoulders. God forbid we show any kind of skin, despite it being over eighty degrees outside.

Once we were situated in the rental car, it would only be a fifteen-minute drive until we reached Camp Bullshit. Since ten of those minutes have already been spent in silence, I assume that my mother won't be having any last words for me before our grand departure.

Like most things, however, I was wrong. When she takes the exit off of the interstate, she pipes up, "Now, you have everything right? Toothbrush, shower stuff, enough clothing variety?"

I sniffed air in and out of my nostrils to create an obnoxious effect. "I don't know mother, you packed my bag."

"You didn't double check it?" She sounded appalled, like I had just committed a first-degree crime.

Never once had I given a second thought to my image. I applied light makeup once in a while, that was usually only when I had somewhere important to be. I was blessed with clear skin, manageable hair, and above average natural good looks. I don't understand why girls constantly try and make a big fuss over what they wear, if you're ugly you're probably going to be ugly with or without the aid of designer jeans and a low-cut shirt.

"Fuck's sake, when have I ever complained about that shit? I don't care," I emphasized, trying to let out every curse in the book before I would go three glorious months without hearing her belligerent disciplines.

Instead of screaming at me until her throat was hoarse, she glanced my way with a frightening glare and then turned her attention back to the road. In a whisper through her clenched teeth she said, "Oh Good Lord above help you."

"God or Jesus or whatever can't help me, mommy dearest."

I rested my temple along the glass window and allowed myself to feel all of the bumps underneath while the car accelerated. Maybe if I'm lucky it will knock me out and I won't have to deal with the remainder of this painful ride.

"You better pray that somebody does. I don't even know what to do with you anymore, Cheyenne." Her teeth were so tightly gritted together that the words came out more hostile than I'm sure she had intended.

"Why do you have to do something with me? Why can't you just accept that I'm my own goddamn person and I'm never, never going to be like Melody?"

The sound of the precious lord's name in vain only caused her to shake her head harder. At last, the big wooden sign with the dreaded "Camp Kiwi" was in my line of sight as the smooth concrete beneath us turned into unsteady gravel.

"Maybe you should follow some of her footsteps. Melody never landed up on the cover of Seventeen for her degrading drunken behavior with your father's client," she sneers.

I tried my best to repress my giggles and I failed miserably. She was referring to the time that I snuck out on a Thursday night to meet up with these five guys from a new up and coming boy band. Daddy was trying to get their big break in the industry, I think I did all of the hard work for him. The press was having a field day when "Record Producer Bobby Bryant's daughter out for joy ride with rising stars," hit the headlines. I was reveling in my five minutes of fame while my parents were making arrangements to send me away.

The car stopped abruptly, my mother hitting the break much harder than she needed to. It caused me to jolt up from my lazy position and I unfastened my seatbelt as fast as I could.

She didn't bother putting the car in park as she muttered, "We're here. Get out."

I squinted, "Gladly."