Donut Days Page 8

  “Can I get your names, please?”

  “I’m Jana,” said the blond. “This is Heidi.”

  “Are you guys from around here?”

  “We go to Carleton College,” Heidi said. “It’s about, what, an hour south?”

  Jana nodded. “We’re sophomores.”

  “Can you tell me a little bit about why you’re here today?”

  “It was our R.A.’s idea,” Heidi said. “He thought it would help us bond. The school year just started and he was trying to get everyone on our floor to gel, and he was like, ‘Let’s go eat some donuts.’” She spoke so quickly, I had to concentrate on the movement of her lips to make sure I was getting all of what she was saying.

  “Yeah,” interjected Jana. “You don’t need much more incentive than that for college kids. Free food rocks!”

  They laughed and I scribbled furiously. Then I looked up. “Sorry, this might be a dumb question, but—your R.A. is a guy?”

  Jana nodded. “Chris Thompson. He’s here too, somewhere. I think he’s from Edina or something.”

  The information was having a hard time penetrating my thick skull. “But how can he be your R.A.?”

  “Oh,” said Heidi like she suddenly understood. “The dorms at Carleton are coed. The rooms are same-sex, but the floors and dorms are most definitely coed.”

  “Yeah,” said Jana. “And lots of the bathrooms are coed too. Most definitely.” They exchanged glances and smiled again.

  Were coed dorms and bathrooms one of the things my dad was worried about when it came to my college education? Did he want to ship me off to a Christian college because he was worried I’d turn into a heathen at a place like Carleton?

  “Do you guys like it there?” I asked.

  “It’s awesome,” said Jana. “Everyone is seriously cool. In the winter you can take trays from the cafeteria and use them to go sledding. And anybody can have a show on KRLX. That’s the college radio station.”

  “We have a show called Pahoehoe Lava,” said Heidi.

  “Come again?”

  “Pahoehoe Lava. We’re geology majors.”

  I guess I didn’t need to ask them how old they thought the earth was.

  “I’m sorry,” said a woman ahead of us, whose butt was as wide as a GaSmart aisle. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. My daughter was a geology major too. She went to Saint Olaf, though, and it’s been a few years now since she graduated.”

  “That’s the college right across the river from us,” explained Heidi.

  “Can I get your name?” I interjected.

  “Connie Belford. I live in Orono.”

  “Can you tell me why you’re at the Crispy Dream camp?”

  Connie smiled. Her face was pudgy and dimpled. “If we make it to the opening, we break the record. It’s thirteen days now. We’ve checked in with a donager every single day we’ve been here and they’ve got us down for all our time. On opening, we’ll have been here fourteen days.”

  Connie was one of the people trying to break the record! Sweet.

  “Fourteen days?” asked Heidi.

  “Some Crispy Dreams give out big prizes if you break the camping record,” I said.

  Connie nodded. “This year, they say they’re going to give the winner an RV. Right now it’s between my husband, Martin, and me, and two brothers from Brainerd. Most of the donagers agree that we were at the camp an hour before the Brainerd brothers and so we should win, but those brothers have been inviting all the donagers to their camp and giving them free beer and chips. So I guess you never know.”

  “What’s a donager?” asked Jana, momentarily removing her glasses so she could polish the lenses.

  Connie scanned the horizon for a second, then pointed to her right. “You see that guy over there? The one wearing the white shirt and white pants?”

  Jana put her glasses back on her face and squinted. “Yeah.”

  “That’s a donager. Stands for ‘donut manager.’ They’re the ones Crispy Dream puts out here to give out free donuts and prizes. They ’re the ones that’ll give away the RV tomorrow. Either to me and Martin or those Brainerd brothers. We’ll see.”

  “I saw the donagers and their stand when I first got here,” I said. “Was it there thirteen days ago when you and your husband showed up?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” said Connie. “The stand was put up just a couple days ago. In our case, you have to register with Crispy Dream corporate if you think you’re going to try and break the record. Then, you’re supposed to call an 800 number to tell them when you arrived at the camp. According to the rules, they’re supposed to send out a donager to confirm your arrival, then send one out at least once a day to make sure you haven’t abandoned your camp.

  “We called the minute we showed up, and no one else was here. But when the donager finally got here, the Brainerd brothers had pulled in too. They were an hour behind us, but now it looks like they might take the prize from us.”

  “Even though they didn’t call like you did?” Jana asked. “How is that fair?”

  “Is it because the donagers can be bought?” I asked. “I mean, do you think that they could really give that RV to those brothers just because they like them more?”

  Connie’s pudgy face seemed to sag a little. “I don’t like to think that’s the case. I want to believe they’ll do the right thing, but you never know, do you?”

  “Yeah,” said Heidi, twirling the iPod cord around her finger. “Like this one time, my boyfriend and I went into this boutique pet store? And my boyfriend—he’s older and lives in Minneapolis—he totally picked out this dog and put a deposit down on it. It was so cute, it was called a Yorkie-poo—and when we came back an hour later with our car all loaded up from the Pet Supply Mart, the dog was totally gone.”

  Jana looked at Heidi. “Really? You never told me Roy tried to adopt a dog.”

  Heidi nodded. “He did. Just this summer. And the store owner—he just shrugged and said he couldn’t help it, another customer wanted the dog.”

  “Did he give you your deposit back?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Heidi said, “but it wasn’t about that. It was about the dog. We found out later that Rayon Man was the one who took the dog.”

  “Rayon Man? As in the former governor?” I asked. Rayon Man was, in real life, Robert McPatterson. In his late twenties he’d played the comic book character Rayon Man on a long-running TV show. In his late forties, he’d run for governor of Minnesota—and won. He’d served the state for one term, then left, though he still lived in Minneapolis.

  The line inched forward and we finally entered the circulated-air environment of the GaSmart. “It was totally Rayon Man,” said Heidi, shuffling forward a little more, “and that’s my point. I think Rayon Man, because he was governor and a hotshot TV star, is probably just used to getting what he wants, you know? And I think there are a lot of people like that out there. People that just get what they want, all the time, and they don’t care what it costs other people. Rayon Man, those Brainerd guys—I’m just saying they might have a few things in common.”

  Gary O’Connor fits on that list, I thought, clutching my pen and writing so fast, my hand was threatening to cramp up. Maybe this was my Press story. Or part of it, anyway. How maybe everyone, in one way or another, knew someone like Gary O’Connor. Was he one of those Jungian A-things we learned about in psychology? What were they? Oh yeah: Archetypes. Like a witch, or a hero, or a mother—timeless forms that repeated in every culture, in every society, in every mind. Here we were, all of us standing around—Jana and Heidi, who thought lava was cool; Connie, who had camped out for thirteen days in hopes of winning an RV; and me, trying to take a break from Living Word Redeemer—we were all so different, but then again, it seemed like we had all had run-ins with a Gary O’Connor at one time or another.

  I was so busy writing, I barely noticed when the GaSmart bathroom door opened and a tall redhead stepped out. I probably wouldn’t have given
her a second look, except that she bumped into a display of Ricochet energy drinks and sent half of them tumbling onto the ground.

  I glanced up and saw Natalie bent over, picking up cans and trying to shove them back onto the display. Women in line for the GaSmart ladies’ room looked at each other like, Isn’t that too bad, but nobody was helping Nat. She chased rolling cans with her head down, but her skin was scarlet with embarrassment.

  Watching her, I felt like my intestines were migrating to one spot in my gut, which ached to see her in such a mortifying state. Part of me wanted to let her be embarrassed in front of everyone—it would serve her right, after all—but there was a bigger part of me that just couldn’t bear to let that happen.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Jana and Heidi and Connie.

  Stepping out of line, I walked over to the display and started picking up cans. Natalie glanced up at me and paused for a second, but then kept cleaning up. She didn’t say anything to me, and I didn’t say a word to her either, much as I wanted to.

  For crying out loud, what are you doing here with Molly?

  What is going on with us?

  Is this it? Are we ever going to be friends again?

  It wasn’t long before we had almost all the cans back on the display case. I put the last Ricochet on the shelf slowly, afraid of what would happen when the task was done. I straightened and looked at her. Her mouth was open just a little and her skin was still pink from the fiasco.

  “Thanks,” she said. She was cool when she said it. Not warm and friendly, but not an ice witch either.

  “No problem,” I said, trying to be cool too.

  There was an awkward moment of silence during which we both wiped the film from the dirty Ricochet cans on our jeans.

  “I should probably go,” Natalie said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “You lost your place in line,” said Natalie. She was actually concerned about it, which was nice.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “There are Porta Potties up at the camp.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “and I bet there are some redneck truckers up at the camp too, but I wouldn’t want to go near them either.” She laughed at her own joke. I would have laughed too, except my heart felt like it was bursting through my rib cage and I thought it might come exploding out of my chest if I so much as giggled.

  “Yeah,” I said instead.

  “Okay then,” said Nat.

  She turned to go and I felt sick, like all the things I wanted to say to her were in a queasy mass at the bottom of my gut. I puked up the only words I could think of: “You must be pretty happy.”

  Nat turned around. “Huh?”

  “I mean about the board. I thought you’d have heard that they ’re supposed to make a decision about my mom soon.”

  Nat’s green eyes went round, like she was shocked that I was crazy enough to bring all this up in the middle of a GaSmart in the middle of a donut camp. But I felt like I had to say it, like I was one of those captured soldiers in the old war movies my dad was always watching. They’d all come to this point in the film where they had to take some kind of drastic action—like attempt a risky escape or cut off a limb—or else they ’d be stuck in their situation forever. It was balls-out, all or nothing.

  “Yeah, I heard about the board,” Nat said slowly, her eyes readjusting to their normal size. Only her pupils gave her away—they darted back and forth across my face as if she was trying to figure out what I was getting at.

  “If my mom’s no longer pastor, you think you’ll celebrate?” I asked. “Maybe here at the camp with Molly?”

  It was a harsh thing to say, but I wanted her to know I knew she was at the camp with Molly. Her new best friend.

  There was a pause that was probably only a half second, but it felt like the time it took for God to create the earth. Then Nat opened her mouth. “I can’t believe I almost forgot why we were fighting. Now I remember.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Funny you have such a selective memory.”

  Nat huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, just that you can remember why we’re fighting, but you can’t seem to remember what a great pastor my mom is and how much good she’s done for you and your ungrateful family.”

  Nat’s head twitched and her eyes glossed with hurt. “That’s not fair. I do think your mom’s a good pastor, Em. It’s just that—”

  “Just that what?” The question came from Molly, who had approached us from behind the pretzel display, unnoticed.

  Nat inserted herself between us. “Just that Emma helped me pick up a display of Ricochet cans,” she said. “Can you stand that I just knocked them over in front of everyone? I’m so embarrassed.”

  Molly shrugged. “Sounds like you.”

  “I have to go,” I mumbled.

  “Really?” Molly asked, too sweetly. “Where?”

  “Where you’re not welcome,” I said. I started walking away, but Molly wasn’t done.

  “Nat told me about your Paul Bunyan scholarship,” she said. “And I thought you’d want to know I’m trying for it too, even though I don’t really need it like you. But I did find the perfect story.”

  My heart cracked at the idea of Nat telling Molly how much I needed the Press money, but even still, the associate editor in me wanted to know what Molly ’s story was. “Yeah?”

  Molly was standing with her hands on her hips, her fake hair slung over one shoulder. “Yep. It’s about this family that lets women preach when they’re not supposed to. Then their daughter goes to a campout, eats too many donuts, and has to go on Jenny Craig for six months. The whole thing is called . . . what’s the word? Oh yes, a tragedy.”

  For a second I actually expected the GaSmart walls to start bending and wobbling, like I was in some kind of universe warp. Because how was it even possible that Molly was the one slamming me when it was her dad who was causing all the trouble to begin with? What’s more, Nat, who was biting her nails and staring at the Ricochet cans, was clearly not going to stick up for me at the GaSmart—not even a little bit. Again.

  “I’ve got a story too, Molly,” I said, adjusting my knit bag over my shoulder. “It’s about a local rich man who thought he’d pull a fast one over on the church by selling them polluted land. You know anything about that one?”

  Molly’s small lips looked like they were suddenly stapled together. Nat too got a surprised look on her face like she just ate one of Mr. McDaniel’s spicy sausage biscuits at a church prayer breakfast—the kind topped with jalapeños.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Molly said tersely.

  “Yeah? Well, then maybe your dad could give a prophecy about how people get rich, even when they screw people over.”

  Molly shrugged like she didn’t care. “I can’t help what God’s will is. And neither can you.” She turned toward the GaSmart door and Nat followed. “Have fun at the camp, goiter,” Molly said as she pushed the door open.

  Before I could get out a comeback, Molly and Natalie were gone. Crap, why did I always let Molly get the last word in? For crying out loud.

  I licked my lips self-consciously, aware that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth. How had I looked, fighting a battle with Molly when I’d just gotten out of bed? Probably pretty pathetic. And I doubted I’d look much better for the rest of the day, now that I’d lost my place in the GaSmart line. Connie and Jana and Heidi had already peed and gone, so there was no way I could ask them to let me in again. I’d have to get ready in a Porta Potti.

  Not wanting to put off the inevitable, I made my way toward the edge of camp, where the blue plastic structures stood like stinky idols. While I walked, I thought about a show I’d seen on the Sci Fi Channel, Ghost Hunters, about these guys who are plumbers by day and paranormal experts at night. And they go into all these houses where people think they’ve had encounters with spirits, but a lot of time the Ghost Hunters can show them the real reasons behind the so-called experiences. It’s everything from pain
t fumes to leaky pipes to drafty windows.

  “Most of the time it’s not a haunting,” one of the Ghost Hunter guys, Jason, had said.

  And that got me thinking right then that maybe the most complicated and scary things in life are really about something a lot more simple. Like, maybe the reason Molly hated me so much right now wasn’t one hundred percent because of her dad, or women in the church, or any of it. After all, Nat and I were always doing stuff without her, and we never bothered to hide the fact that we were best friends and she was just a friend. Maybe Molly had just gotten so sick of me and Nat always being so tight that when she finally saw a way to elbow in, she’d done it.

  And maybe the reason I hated Molly right back wasn’t totally because of her dad either. Maybe a big part of it was because Molly was smart and rich and good at a lot of things and never really had to just plain work like I did. Which really pissed me off, because with me, if I didn’t completely work my ass off, there would be consequences. I wouldn’t get into college, and then I wouldn’t get a decent job, and then I’d be stuck in Birch Lake forever, probably cleaning Living Word Redeemer’s toilets because God knows I’d never be qualified to do anything else there.

  I almost got a headache thinking about it all again, but then I got mad too. I got mad at Living Word Redeemer and the O’Connors, and Nat and Christians, and I was so frustrated about all of it, I looked around for something to kick—a pop can, a rock, anything. But the only things nearby were tents and grass. So instead, I bolted, full speed, toward the Porta Potties, sprinting like the devil himself was after me.

  Because if I didn’t run, then I was going to start screaming my damn head off.

  Chapter Twelve

  After holding my breath for way too long in the smelly Porta Potti, I stepped out and breathed in fresh air until I was light-headed.

  I’d managed to do a passable job getting ready. Not great, but it would do. I had a small mirror in my bag, and when I pulled it out, I could tell that my bangs were in a straight line. Hair had survived the night intact, and that was a definite plus.