7. Elouise
Elouise
I jolt into consciousness, my phone alarm blaring two inches from my ear.
Blindly, I reach up to turn off the awful noise, but my arm halts, hitting a barrier.
My body flips into panic mode, the trapped feeling suddenly overwhelming. But flailing only serves to make me feel more enclosed. My brain takes way too long to remember that I’m cocooned in a too small sleeping bag.
The material twists and tightens around me as I try to roll over, and the little reason I have left flees.
Oh my god! Get me out of this cotton coffin!
My phone alarm is getting louder.
Make it stop!
The closest tent is more than twenty feet away, but I don’t want to be the asshole that wakes up a bunch of kids earlier than necessary on what’s supposed to be a fun Spring Break trip.
Biting back a curse, I roll onto my back and try to force myself to calm down.
Wishing I’d stuck with those damn ab workout videos I promised myself I’d do, I use every scrap of core strength that I have, I sit up.
The sleeping bag sits up with me, and the sound of the alarm becomes muffled as the phone slips down the makeshift slide I just created.
“Seriously?!”
Pulling the top edge of the sleeping bag away from my chest, I look down to see a dull glow coming from somewhere near my knees.
I can’t reach it.
I bend my knees – hoping to make the phone slide back towards my butt – just to feel the phone thud against my feet, in the Very Fucking Bottom of the sleeping bag.
It’s like I can feel my blood pressure rising. A combination of rage, annoyance, and sleepiness bubbling in my veins.
I take a slow breath to calm down.
The phone volume ticks up a notch, and it takes every ounce of my control to keep from screaming.
Slowly, I reach for the zipper on my claustrophobic, 25-year-old sleeping bag.
Keeping my calm, I drag it down.
I will not let this day defeat me before 7am.
The zipper jams.
If this were a cartoon, my face would turn bright red and clouds of steam would be whistling from my ears.
I take another slow breath.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I jiggle the zipper.
Nothing.
I try pulling it back up.
Nothing.
I try to yank it down as hard as I can, but the stupid little metal tab just digs into my fingers.
“You piece of shit!” I growl at the turtle grinning up at me.
Not caring about the consequences, I grip the two sides just above the jammed zipper and tear the sides apart like Hulk.
Except the fabric holds. Not a single thread tears.
“What?!”
I yank harder, hunching into it.
But it doesn’t fucking rip !
Rolling onto my stomach, the sleeping bag twisting around my body, I press my face firmly into my pillow and let out a shrill scream while kicking my feet.
My bare toe collides with a cool hard surface, and the alarm goes silent.
I lift my head from the pillow.
Did I really just snooze the alarm with my tantrum?
The silence brings a level of calm back to my little polyester room.
After one more inhale, I put my weight onto my elbows and army crawl forward, worming myself out of the sleeping bag.
Finally free, I ignore the loss of warmth and pull my sleeping bag out of the tangle of blankets. Holding it upside down, I shake it, and my phone finally slides out, screen showing the countdown until the alarm will sound again.
There will be no snoozing for me. One, because I want to hurry up and snag a shower before everyone else is in there. And two, because there’s no amount of money that would get me back into that Teenage Mutant deathtrap right now.
I shift into a sitting position and let out a small groan of pain. My entire body aches. It feels like I slept on a bed of nails.
What adult chooses to vacation like this?!
I rub at a particularly sore spot on my hip.
Two more nights. Just two more nights.
I already sorted out my clothes for today and put them into my backpack.
All of my outfits are going to be pretty much the same.
A pair of black leggings. Thick socks. A thong.
A full coverage sports bra. A tank top. A long-sleeved shirt.
And a zip-up hoodie. Not very stylish, but functional. And that’s the important part.
Pulling my jacket over my pajamas, I make sure my shower stuff is in the bag too and unzip the tent.
A handful of other adults are already milling around, but everyone looks just as exhausted as I feel, so we all just nod our greetings and leave it at that.
Entering the restroom, I hear water running but find that only one of the four shower stalls are in use .
Picking one, I push into the small space and lock the door behind me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a campground shower, but this seems about on par with my memory.
Maybe even a little nicer than I was expecting.
The shower stall is divided up into two sections.
The first is about half the size of a typical toilet stall.
With the door at my back, there’s a small bench on my left and a couple of towel hooks on my right.
Then right in front of me is a thin white shower curtain that stops about a foot above the floor.
With more acrobatics than I’m interested in doing this morning, I eventually strip naked and slip on a pair of cheap flip flops. Under no circumstances am I standing here barefoot.
Shivering, I yank the shower curtain back and step in.
Doing my best to run through my shower routine quickly.
I keep the water temperature just above lukewarm.
I don’t know how the pipes work in this building, but I don’t want to be the person who uses up all the hot water.
Although, after the start of my day, I’m not willing to martyr myself under completely freezing water.
When I’m done rinsing, I turn the handle, stopping the stream of water. I squeeze the excess water out of my hair, pull the curtain open, and stare at the empty towel hooks.
“Oh, fuck me.”
The urge to scream again is back.
“Everything okay in there?” a voice asks from somewhere in the bathroom.
“All good!” I call back, hoping I sound like a sane person. “I’ll be out in a few if you’re waiting.”
Standing naked, the air quickly cooling the water dripping from my body, I look at my backpack, knowing it doesn’t have what I need in it.
I didn’t pack a towel. I know I didn’t. I didn’t even pack a washcloth. I had to use my bare hands to lather the soap on my body.
Shiiiiit!
Not seeing another choice, I pull my sleep-shirt free from my pile of discarded clothes and use it as a makeshift towel. Makeshift is the keyword, because all fabrics are not created equal. I don’t know what this shirt is made of, but it appears to stop absorbing when my body is only about 80% dry.
Giving up, I drop the wet shirt onto the bench and start to get dressed.
I get my thong on. No problem. Then I start on the leggings.
Leggings are great, because when they’re made correctly, they can keep everything in place.
I’ve never had a small stature, and my extra rounded curves need all the added control they can get.
But pulling on skintight leggings when your body is still 20% damp is tantamount to being forced to watch your parent’s sex tape.
Something no human should have to endure.
I yank. And tug. And shimmy. And feel everything jiggle.
I jump and silently curse while I pull some more.
Inch by inch, they creep up my thighs.
The room is still cold, but now it’s mixed with an uncomfortable level of humidity, and all this struggling is making me start to sweat. Which ohmygod only adds to the problem!
Clenching my teeth, screaming in my head, I give one final jerk, at the same time that I jump, and my leggings slide into place.
I make a silent promise to myself that I won’t drink anything today, so I won’t have to pee and therefore won’t have to take these off.
Then I reach for my sports bra and almost cry.
“I’m fine.” I whisper the mantra to myself, as I put my arms through and pull the bra over my head.
The material does that special Sports Bra Trick where the material rolls into a tight twist, wedging itself into my armpits and above my boobs.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
More sweat forms on my back and I contort myself, bending my arms in ways they don’t want to bend, grasping for the bottom band stuck high across my back.
“I’m fine.” I’m not as quiet this time, but I don’t even care anymore if someone overhears me.
My fingertips catch the band, and ignoring the spasm that’s starting in my arm, I get a hold of the material and tug.
I twist and bend and clench my teeth .
An eternity later, with a final snap of elastic, it’s in place.
Reaching a hand down the front of the bra, I pull each boob up so they’re nestled nicely in their spandex cage.
Feeling like an overstuffedsausage, I slap on some deodorant, tug on my layers of shirts and escape the shower stall.
Beelining it back to my tent, I’m able to avoid eye contact and make it inside without incident.
Happy that Rebecca is still nowhere to be seen, I collapse onto the floor. I need a moment alone to work on finding my Zen.
I allow myself two minutes of wallowing, then I comb through my hair and fashion it into two long braids, draping one over each shoulder. Knowing I can’t walk around in this weather with uncovered damp hair, I find my purple knit hat and put it on.
Using my phone in place of a mirror, I smooth some concealer over the dark stains under my eyes. I’m not trying to impress anyone; I just don’t want to look like a total hot mess. Swiping on a little mascara, I decide that’s as good as it’s gonna get.
I’m tempted to lay down, but I know if I fall back asleep, I’ll just hate myself for it when I’m forced awake by Mr. Olson’s freaking whistle.
Back outside, I make my way towards the fire pit. There’s no bonfire going, but…
Oh sweet baby Jesus, do I smell coffee?
Following my nose, I find one of the dads with a pot of hot water, metal cups, and instant coffee.
With blessedly few words, he pours me a cup of life-juice and I take it over to an empty picnic table.
Sipping the coffee, I feel the stress of my morning slip away.
This is pretty okay.
The sun is out and already making me warm enough I can leave my jacket open. There are birds chirping in the trees around us and the kids all look wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to see what today will bring.
I smile into my cup. This might not be so bad actually.
A body sits down next to me. “Hey, roomie.”
I grin over at Rebecca, “Well, good morning. Did you have a nice night?”
She smirks, “Oh, I had a very nice night. He might not look like much, but Coach has hidden talents.”
I choke. First, I’ve never heard anyone refer to Gym Teacher Bob as Coach before. Second, that’s about the last person I would have assumed she’d be with.
“But enough about me,” Rebecca tips her head, indicating for me to look across the way. “Have you seen the survivalist guy yet?”
I shake my head, fine with the change of topic, “Why, is he hot?”
She lets out a groan, “So fucking hot. That man could survival me any day of the week.”
“What does that even mean?” I laugh, surreptitiously look around for this mystery man. “Do you know where they found him?”
She shrugs, “I heard someone say he’s from Darling Lake. But who knows if that’s true.”
Between two clusters of people, I catch a glimpse of a tall figure wearing a backpack, but I can’t tell if it’s the newcomer Rebecca’s talking about or just one of the dads.
The sound of a whistle announces the start of the day, and we get up to gather round the empty firepit where Mr. Olson is standing.
He waits for us all to settle, hushing a few of the kids, before he starts, “Good morning!”
There’s a mumbled chorus of “good morning” in response.
“So glad we all survived our first night in the woods,” he chuckles, and I’ve never wanted to throat punch someone more in my life.
“If you didn’t have breakfast already, we have granola bars over there,” he points to a table, “you can eat while our special guest tells us what he has in store for us today.” Mr. Olson clasps his hands.
“So, without further ado, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Stoleman.”
Stoleman?
The collective gaze of the crowd turns my way, and a prickle of unease crawls up my neck.
Slowly, I turn around, gaze locking on a man’s profile as he walks past me, towards the front of the group.
No .
The sun sneaks through the trees, highlighting the chocolaty brown locks mussed around the man’s head.
It can’t be.
His facial hair is the same rich color as his hair, and it’s almost thick enough to be considered a beard. Like maybe he shaved it yesterday. Or the day before.
Reaching Mr. Olson’s side, the man stops and turns to face everyone.
“Please,” his voice is clear, and deep, and I feel it resonate in my bones, “call me Beckett.”