Fiction: Riding The Bus to Camp with Gary Roxer

I should never have had 36C breasts at age nine. It was a burden I was not equipped  to bear. I hid them to the best of my ability.  If the temperature hit 90, I would not take off my jacket. Under it was a monstrosity that grew by itself while I watched.  It was ironic that I, who had been so burdened by a sexuality that was not my own, became a freak of nature.

I was a normal nine year old except for swelling breasts and a sadness that clung to me  like  cloying perfume, such that your head and stomach hurt. Such was I, as I headed off for day camp every day in the early morning and was deposited back at my house in the early evening.

I learned to swim. I got the Most Improved Medal for swimming. That is the medal they give to the   ersatz sportsman who needs something during the awards ceremony. I never liked sports anyway, unless I could do them alone.

Gary Roxer was the  last thing I needed on the bus ride home when we were the  only two people left. He would find the seat next to mine and stare .He was the only kid on the bus who had facial hair. Between the facial hair, which spouted with no order, and the way he looked at me, I wanted to scream  but there was no help on the bus or anywhere.

The same summer of  breasts and Gary Roxer was the summer of the Mother’s Helper, who taught me about sex. She was a sixteen year old wild child. I was an innocent who wanted to play with Barbies  and have tea parties with my ersatz china doll dishes .Sherry would take me for long walks to the candy store  and tell me me the facts of life.

The penny candy store which displayed outdoor banners  of brightly colored candy. Each banner had hundred of dots which were made of sugar so you could even buy a banner and eat it. Sometimes, we would stop at the outdoor cafe and get hamburgers. It was next to the ocean and altogether magical except for Sherry’s stories about what boys do to you.

When I look at my camp picture, I look like  a cherub faced chub. I think  anxiety sent me to the food  cabinet and it continues to this day, except now I can barely eat.

I told my mother about Sherry but my mother said I was making it up so Sherry was my caretaker for the summer.

That summer was when I developed the phobia of throwing up. One kid at camp wanted to show off how he could  eat the most spaghetti. Lunch was the highlight of my camp day because I hated sports and would not take off my jacket unless I had to go swimming. The camp  had good food.

I was not at the table of the marathon spaghetti eater. However, I heard it and  saw the sequelae  out of the corner of my eye. The sound was awful as the  red spaghetti flew out of his mouth. He ran to the locker room where the scene continued. I remember the  color, the sound  and the whole cafeteria staring in horror.

From then on, I was afraid it would happen to me. I was afraid that I would lose control and the hate and pain would mix together into a  glop  that would  come out my mouth like tomato  red spaghetti.

I tried to  ward of illness by touching things three times in a row and saying a silent prayer. I could tell you the details of every kid who got sick in school from kindergarten  to  junior high school, when most kids had the sense to go to the bathroom.

Charles Means ate his crayons in first grade and threw them up on the rug of the teacher’s reading circle. Gail Hannon threw up in junior high during Health Class that they had in the dark cafeteria that looked like it was an underground bunker and had the same cold, clammy feel.

My cousin, Nancy, told me about Rhonda, who went on a trip to the New York City with her and two popular  girls. Nancy was a popular girl, too. Nancy was accepted by them because she was beautiful  but the other girl, Rhonda, was not. Rhonda hung on the fringes like a dog wanting  the odd piece of food that fell from the table.

Rhonda started throwing up. The  two  girls ran away screaming but Nancy put her hand on Rhonda’s shoulder. Nancy beat up the neighborhood bully for me, too. Nancy understood loyalty.

Nancy did not know that Rhonda’s story would become part of my archives . I could not afford what happened to Rhonda happening to me because I had too many secrets stuffed neatly. I am not neat in my actual  life. In fact I am a mess  but my  secrets are folded and piled like  shirts in a fine clothing store. They can make a hundred shirts go into a small space just because they know how to fold.