The Chrysalis

Chapter 1

Christina Brannigan would have laughed at the empty sheet of college ruled paper if it weren’t so sad. One hour left until eleventh grade became another tumultuous memory in her mental scrapbook, and it had come to this. The one assignment in her educational history that left her stuck and grasping for words was the one in which she had to justify her existence at Riverside High—or in the world for that matter—during the past year.

It was meant to be a simple assignment. A mere summary for the journal that had been a yearlong project in Mrs. Dearborn’s advanced placement English class. Mrs. Dearborn had proven to be big on journals. She said that the daily writing assignments were a tool to help you fulfill your dreams—take charge, chart the progress, all that self-empowerment jazz. This, the final page of the journal, was to be a direct response to the first entry in which Mrs. Dearborn had instructed the class to write about what they hoped to accomplish during the coming two semesters. Christina’s entry, dated September sixth of the previous year, lay tauntingly on the desk in front of her. Christina read it for what seemed like the thousandth time:

"...I want this year to be different. I’m tired of watching life from the sidelines. I know I’m probably supposed to write about how I want to do well in my classes and get good grades, but the truth is, if all I have to show for myself at the end of this year is a report card filled with straight A’s, then for me this year will be a failure. This is the year that I want to rise from my obscure position in the back row of life and do something! A part in the school play would be a good start. Everyone will say ‘Who is that on stage? I don’t think I’ve seen her before,’ and then someone will say ‘Oh, that’s Christina—she usually sits in the back.’ Well, not anymore! At some point after my dramatic debut, I want some cute guy to fall madly in love with me and take me to the prom...in a size five gown!"

Christina had to acknowledge that the intervening pages certainly did document some sort of progress. Her face burned in a wave of embarrassment as she flipped past pages thirty-two through thirty-four which charted in shockingly vivid detail the sudden nosebleed that ruined the drama club audition last October. As page fifty-seven breezed by, she was forced to reflect on the bad choice of working with Miss Kline, the Home Ec. teacher, on the Donut Project— undoubtedly the cause of never getting a size five dress or a prom date.

Christina regretfully noted that about fifteen pounds stood between her and a sideways glance from Kevin Witherspoon—or any other suitable date. Of course, Christina could truthfully report (it was immortalized on page 115) that she had been asked to the prom; however, she didn’t know what was worse: being asked by chess club captain Bernard Flood or not being asked at all.

Christina sighed and resigned herself to the truth: her journal was not a tool of dream fulfillment, but an agent of despair. She picked up her pen and wrote:

"After reviewing the available evidence, the only conclusion I come to is that this year has been a complete failure. My junior year has done nothing but underscore my inability to leave my mark not only on this school, but the world in general. My failure to land a role on a stage as insignificant as Riverside High does not speak well for my future prospects of making any sort of debut on the infinitely larger stage we know as real life. How long do I have to stay backstage, waiting for the role written just for me? Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been permanently cast as stage crew. (Sigh) I guess that’s my cue to pick up my honor roll report card and go home.

Regretfully,

Christina Brannigan."

Christina took her time on the walk home. Kicking a pebble, she mentally chalked her junior year up as a loss. The beginning of the year had shown such promise. Last August, her best friend, Joanie Thompson, got her driver’s license and inherited her brother’s brick red early eighty’s model station wagon. In rural upstate New York, transportation was the difference between a year of after school sitcom reruns and the possibility of employment and a social life.

It wasn’t long before the girls found a job shelving books at the library in town, a decision that quickly seemed to provide an unexpected payoff when Mrs. Travis, the drama instructor, happened to come in on their shift to make thirty copies of the script for Bye, Bye Birdie. Christina and Joanie had exchanged a meaningful glance and flew to the modern drama shelves, quickly checking out the only remaining copy of the script. Further investigation produced the musical score on cassette tape from the Broadway show tune holdings.

The two remaining weeks before school began, Put on a Happy Face sputtered and crackled endlessly from the station wagon’s aged speakers until the left one blew. After that, they turned the volume up full blast and sang twice as loud. Afternoons were spent in Christina’s room running Kim and Rosie’s lines until their voices sounded as rough as the engine of Joanie’s car. For the price of a video game and a quick stop on the way home, Christina’s younger brother Kyle could occasionally be bribed into standing in as Conrad Birdie. They were, without reservation, prepared to take the Riverside High drama scene by storm.

They were prepared for everything but the blood vessel that burst just as Christina stepped up to the microphone to secure a leading role with her well-rehearsed audition. They were prepared for everything but the sudden transfer that caused Joanie’s family to move out of the area later that semester. They were prepared for everything but the junior year that actually happened.

Christina sighed heavily. Her mother was right. Time and again, she shook her head, noting, half in bewilderment and half in amusement, things just happen to you, Christina. Poised, articulate, and self-assured, Mrs. Brannigan was ill-acquainted with the number and variety of details that could go wrong in the course of a day.

Christina stopped, as she often did, to look at the yellow and black striped monarch caterpillars that could predictably be found devouring milkweed along the dirt road that would eventually narrow to become her driveway. A fourth grade science fair project on butterflies had led to an inescapable fascination with the insect. Christina had transformed her brother’s old fish tank into a caterpillar habitat and watched, day after day, as it went about the seemingly endless and tiresome business of consuming as much milkweed as Christina supplied. Then, the unaltering routine ended as the caterpillar retreated inside the chrysalis it had quietly formed around itself. The creature remained in its self-imposed holding pattern until some outwardly imperceptible metamorphosis occurred and the butterfly struggled from its boundaries. Some miracle within the chrysalis had transformed the creature from worm to limitless radiance on wings. Now, with the reminder of a lackluster school year still fresh on her mind, a part of her could not help but envy the brightly colored insects.

Before ascending the porch steps, Christina reached into the mailbox and pulled out the usual assortment of junk mail, college brochures (they start rolling in early when your name is engraved permanently on the honor roll), and, although she nearly missed it, the most predictable envelope of all. It was from Aunt Meg, and Christina didn’t even need to open it to know what it said. It was her standing invitation for Christina to spend the summer with her at Camp Edson.

The Camp Edson question had been posed annually for the past four years. As much as Christina truly loved and admired Aunt Meg, she knew that they were very different people. Athletic and vivacious, Meg Wilson thrived in the adventure-filled camp atmosphere, confidently rising to the challenges of managing the activities of nearly one hundred young, disadvantaged campers and a couple dozen teenaged staff members. Christina, however, could not begin to imagine where she would fit in. Not exactly the picture of physical fitness, she couldn’t see herself being much help with sports. Meg always said the cook was shorthanded, and the Donut Project had certainly given Christina ample kitchen experience, but she wasn’t about to make that mistake again. No, Camp Edson was definitely an opportunity that Christina would let pass.

The sound of the phone ringing inside caused Christina to quicken her step. Tossing the mail onto the bureau inside the door, Christina slid into the kitchen and grabbed the phone just before the machine picked up.

Christina. The nasal voice on the other end was vaguely familiar in an uncomfortable way that the next sentence would clarify. This is Marcie Flood, Bernard’s sister. I’m calling because Bernard had a wonderful idea that I’m just sure you’ll love.

Like a hole in my head, Christina’s thoughts screamed.

About two weeks ago, I started working at the new bakery in town. Business is better than we thought...

Why in the world do I care? Christina’s thoughts continued.

...Bernard is even the new dishwasher, but we still need some help with the morning donuts.

Christina’s stomach sank to her feet. She knew where this was going.

...boss wants experience. She put special emphasis on the word. Bernard immediately said he knew the perfect person...

The image of Bernard’s acne-spangled face sprang to mind. I’m going to be sick Christina silently acknowledged.

...with all your work on the Donut Project...

Meg’s letter popped into Christina’s head. Listen, Marcie, thanks for thinking of me, but I probably won’t be here this summer. I just got an important job offer in the mail that I’m seriously considering.

Oh. All right. Marcie’s voice fell flat. Hey, that’s great. Well, call me if it doesn’t work out, OK?

Sure thing, Marcie. Christina hung up and groaned, wondering what excuse she’d give when she ran into Marcie or Bernard later in the summer. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and wandered back to the front porch. On the way out, she picked Aunt Meg’s letter up off the bureau. Might as well read it. Maybe there’s some news for Mom. Sometimes Meg included interesting pictures. It was worth a look.

Christina scanned over the first three paragraphs. What are you doing this summer? We could sure use your help here at Camp Edson—the usual. The fourth paragraph, however, suddenly seemed to be flashing neon.

"This year, I’d like to offer more activities than in years past. I’d like to incorporate more arts and crafts and maybe even some drama. How about it, Christina? Here’s your chance to break into the drama world after all. Please give it some thought. Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

Love, Meg."

Christina sat back and closed her eyes. Images jumbled together in a gruesome kaleidoscope. Donuts. Bernard’s bespectacled face. The tag in her jeans with the two digit number. Her hair— still short at the top. Was she hiding under a rock when everyone else grew theirs out? The pages from her English journal. An imagined Christina with toned muscles and hair all one length. A tiny chrysalis. An airborne monarch.

An unexpected excitement suddenly began somewhere in her stomach and quickly overcame her. Her junior year may have been a flop, but her senior year would be a different story. This would be the summer that would change everything. Christina ran inside, slamming the screen door behind her.

Chapter 2

OK, Christina, bring the oar in. This looks like the perfect place to stop. Meg said with satisfaction. Christina gently pulled the oar up from the water and laid it on the floor of the rowboat. The still waters and pleasantly cool evening air combined with a wonderfully indescribable summer-in-the-country scent—part freshly mowed grass, part wild flower, part mystery—made the perfect setting for Christina and Meg’s first dinner together on Lake Edson.

It was nearly impossible to believe that only three days had passed since Christina had announced at the dinner table that she had decided to go to Camp Edson. From the time the barbecued spare ribs and blueberry pie had been cleared from the table, to the instant Christina’s father tossed her two oversized duffel bags into the back of their jeep, Christina hadn’t had a moment to reconsider her decision. Thoughts of donuts, Bernard, or Marcie immediately put the brakes on any second thoughts that did manage to materialize between hasty trips to Wal-Mart and telephone calls to and from Aunt Meg. When she actually arrived at camp, things hadn’t slowed down a bit. Meg had greeted her in paint-splattered overalls and a dripping roller in hand. Within minutes, Christina found herself dodging the vivid orange paint that seemed to spray from the roller with a vengeance at every pass over the walls of the arts and crafts cabin. Christina was relieved when Meg finally suggested the picnic on the lake. It was the first time she’d actually sat down in days.

The boat swayed gently as Meg slowly slid to the floor and carefully spread a yellow checked tablecloth over the board in the center of the boat which, under normal circumstances, served as a seat for the oarsman. Meg wasted no time covering the table with an array of unusual and interesting items she pulled from a wicker picnic basket: triangular strawberry cream cheese sandwiches on honey wheat bread, a small bowl of fresh fruit, scones with strawberry jam, and a thermos of hot spiced tea. Christina smiled; this was the reason she enjoyed being with her aunt so much: nothing was ever normal—it was better.

Remembering why she came here, Christina avoided the warm sweet-smelling scones and grabbed a cluster of green grapes from the fruit basket. She accepted the mug of fragrant spiced tea that Meg passed to her and leaned back against the life vest she propped up behind her. Holding the mug in both hands, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Dinner should always be like this, she said, smiling.

Enjoy it while you can Christina. Next week at this time we’ll be dining with one-hundred excited campers and their overworked counselors. Meg tucked a strand of her shoulder length auburn hair behind her ear and tipped the thermos to fill her own mug with tea.

Maybe that will be fun, too, Christina said hopefully.

Depends on how you look at it.

What do you mean?

Why did you come? Meg asked, instead of answered.

Christina’s eyes narrowed over top of the mug she pressed against her chin. She thought for a long moment before confessing. I wanted to change, she finally answered softly.

Then you will.

How do you know?

People tend to do what they want to do—if you want to change, then you will.

Seeing Christina’s puzzled frown, Meg raised her eyebrows knowingly. It’s not hard to lose weight here.

How did you know...

You’re only eating the grapes. Meg’s forehead wrinkled as she shook her head and smiled at Christina. Christina sighed and then smiled. She could never keep anything from Meg.

It’s not just that—I want to grow my hair out, too.

Then we won’t cut it, Meg shrugged casually. It’s guaranteed to grow."

You make everything seem easy.

The things you think you want are easy. Meg’s green eyes seemed to flash some hidden insight that totally escaped Christina.

What do you mean? Christina asked for the second time that evening.

You want more than you think, Meg answered.

But what does that m... Christina’s sentence was cut short by the static squelch of Michael’s voice coming over Meg’s walkie-talkie.

Meg excused herself by extending a finger toward Christina while she raised the walkie-talkie to her face to answer her husband. Go ahead.

Christina only caught a few phrases of whatever message Michael had for Meg, but gathered that it had to do with a majorly technical detail about some problem or other with the camp finances. Meg’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she listened, frowning occasionally, before seeming to dismiss the entire thing with a wave of her hand. Or perhaps she was just shooing a mosquito away, Christina couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, she signed off with Michael, and handed an oar to Christina. Sorry, Christina, she apologized, just a couple calls I need to make. Christina sighed inwardly. Dinner on Lake Edson—and their conversation—had come to a sudden conclusion.

Christina found herself pondering the unfinished conversation she had with her aunt as she arranged her things in the guest bedroom of Meg’s spacious log home. Although the beautiful log walls, colorful quilts, and large overstuffed chair invited her to stay, she knew that once camp officially began, she’d be moving out of the comfortable room. The rest of Camp Edson was about a three-minute drive down the dirt road that wrapped around the lake, and Christina’s summer would be spent at the lodge and on the playing field with people she had not yet met.

Once her bags were emptied and nested in the back of the walk-in closet, Christina curled up on the plump green and white checked chair near the window. She had no idea what Meg was getting at when she said Christina wanted more than she thought she did. To Christina, it was simple: she had three months here at Camp Edson to remake herself. After she lost that troublesome fifteen pounds, grew out the front of her hair so she could wear one of those popular all-one-length styles, and spent the check she’d earn this summer on some trendy clothes to show off her new figure, she’d be set. Meg even said herself that it wouldn’t be hard. Deciding that she must be making too much out of a simple comment, Christina got up from the cozy chair and walked to the kitchen.

Michael was sitting at the table, poking through the leftovers in the wicker basket while they discussed some project they were working on for the first week of camp. In everything, Meg and Michael were true partners. Michael was making some sort of remark about how glad he was that Christina’s diet