Chapter One
Metamorphosis
“We’re almost there,” Dad says, trying to sound excited as if there is someplace I actually want to be.
I ignore him and watch as seafood restaurants and beachy tourist shops slide by the car window, my arms crossed tight. I haven’t spoken a single word to my dad for the entire three and half hour car ride, and I’m not about to start now just because he is trying to put a positive spin on it. This whole thing isn’t fair and he knows it.
“Baby girl,” he says, shaking his head. “Ignore me all you want. It is not going to change a thing. You did something wrong and now you have to face up to the consequences.”
“Once. I messed up once,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
“Once is all it takes,” he says solemnly. “You don’t realize just how lucky you are. You could have been arrested. Or worse. Two weeks of wilderness camp is a blessing.”
That’s right, there is Metamorphosis Wilderness Camp for Troubled Youths. The only problem is that I’m not a troubled youth. Okay, okay, maybe I procrastinate my chores sometimes . . . and maybe my temper gets the better of me every now and . . . my mouth sometimes too . . . but what kid is perfect? I don’t lie or steal or cheat. In fact, I would argue that I am the very definition of a good kid. I earn (mostly) good grades, and all my teachers like me (well, except for Mr. Eagers, but he hates everyone and everything). None of my friends are troublemakers. I visit my grandmother every day after school. I even have my own pet sitting and dog walking business. Come on, how many middle schoolers do you know that have their own business? And if I’m not in school, walking the neighbors’ dogs, or at Gram’s, I am most likely curled up somewhere with a book. But then I make one single mistake—a big mistake, I could admit that—and suddenly nothing else matters.
Okay, maybe on paper what I did looks pretty bad. Larceny. Malicious destruction of property. But I hadn’t really stolen anything. Mr. Jackson, the super, had his toolbox just sitting in the hall outside his door. I just happened to borrow his crowbar; I never planned on keeping it. Besides, Mr. Jackson hadn’t even been mad about it, not after I gave it back and apologized.
The malicious destruction of property . . . well, that is fairly accurate. But it was well deserved and I’m not sorry for it, not one bit. I’m not about to apologize for it either; I don’t care what Dad does to me.
I had thought Gram had been on my side, that she at least understood. But the next thing I knew, Dad and Gram were sitting me down on the couch.
“I can’t even look at you!” Gram huffed. “This is not the granddaughter I know! You can be angry. You can be furious. But to do what you did . . .” and she shook her head in disgust. “Not okay, Mouse.”
“You need to apologize to—” Dad started.
“No,” I said firmly, crossing my arms.
“You do wrong, you apologize. You know that.”
“Then when are you going to apologize?” I shot back. I told you my mouth gets the better of me sometimes. “You wronged me. You betrayed me! Even Gram said so!”
Dad and Gram exchanged a tense look. I had heard them arguing about everything behind closed doors last night. But the adults weren’t about to be divided.
“I did what I thought was best. It’s what parents do,” Dad said.
I shook my head, grumbling to myself.
“If you’ve got something to say, spit it out,” Gram snapped.
“I’ll just get in more trouble.”
“Now you’re learning,” Gram said.
“You need to learn the gravity of what you’ve done. Being grounded isn’t enough,” Dad said, and that was when he handed me a flimsy, sky-blue pamphlet that read:
Metamorphosis Wilderness Camp for Troubled Youths
Ages 11-14
Let us be the cocoon that transforms your child.
North Manitou Island, Michigan
It had a cheesy picture of an angry-looking caterpillar turning into a happy little butterfly on the cover.
Puke.
“What’s this?”
“You’re headed down a dangerous path, baby girl. You need something to set you right.”
“I messed up one time and you’re going to send me off with a bunch of delinquents?!”
“All it takes is one time. And the fact that you can’t comprehend that or just how lucky you are that you’re not sitting in juvenile detention right now, tells me that we need to do something drastic before you take another step down this path.”
“And you think I should be sent away too?” I demanded from my grandmother.
Meeting my stare head on, she said, “I do.”
“Fine!” I threw the pamphlet down and ran to my bedroom, slamming the door, and flopped on my bed. Hot, angry tears stung my eyes. I could deal with being sent away with a bunch of losers, even if wasn’t fair. What really hurt was the fact that I loved the outdoors. It was kind of my and Dad’s thing. We watched all those reality survival shows together and learned how to build shelters and makes snares and identify edible plants. We didn’t get to put our skills to use very often, but we did go on one big camping trip every summer. Last year, it was Copper Harbor in the Upper Peninsula. And the year before that, Sleeping Bear Dunes. Now, Dad was turning something I love into a punishment. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to forgive him.
When I don’t respond, Dad sighs and glances at me. “I’m doing my best, Remy. And this is what I think is best for you.”
There are those words again. What I think is best. I am so sick of hearing that. As if those five words could excuse anything.
“Your best isn’t good enough,” I spit, not looking at him. I know that is harsh, but sending me away because of one mistake is awfully harsh too.
Suddenly Lake Michigan opens up in front of us with its endless greens and blues, sparkling under the morning sun. I sit forward, my anger forgotten for a moment. I love the water. The shifting color of it, the sounds of it, the scent of it, the way it moves, rising and falling like a breath . . . it is almost magical.
Dad slows the car and turns into the parking lot of the Leland Harbor. I step out of the air conditioned car and into the heat and humidity. It’s like stepping into a sauna. I peel off my favorite purple hoodie, tie it around my waist, and look around. The marina is buzzing with people. Boats bob next to the docks and dot the lake.
A large white tent stands at edge of the parking lot, a blue Metamorphosis Wilderness Camp banner strung across it. A white folding table is set up beneath the tent, piled high with freeze-dried food kits; three blue tarps are laid out in front of it. A handful of adults wear head-to-toe khaki as if they are about to head out on safari.
Dad pulls my hiking backpack from backseat, and we approach the tent.
“Hi folks,” a young, skinny white guy greets us. “I’m Noah, a certified Metamorphosis youth counselor and expert wilderness guide,” he says, extending his hand.
“Dante LeRoux. My daughter, Remy,” Dad says, shaking the man’s hand.
“Remy,” he says to himself, looking down at his clipboard. “There you are! Let’s get you processed.” He picks up a second clipboard with a bunch of papers and hands it to Dad. “Just some last minute waivers for Dad to sign.” Then he turns to me with his big, fake smile. “We have you down as a small, but I think an extra small will fit better.” And he tosses me a blue T-shirt that read Metamorphosis in white with lots of white butterflies flitting across it. “Go ahead, try it on.”
I pull the t-shirt on over my yellow Earth Day tank top. The blue clashes loudly with my army green shorts.
“I knew it! A perfect fit! So once a blue tarp opens up, I’ll need you to unpack your backpack and lay out all the contents on the tarp.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“To make sure you’re not trying to sneak in any contraband.”
“Contraband?” Dad asks, looking up from all his forms.
“Electronics. Alcohol. Drugs. Weapons. That sort of thing.” Seeing the concern on Dad’s face, he quickly adds, “We also have you lay everything out so we can make sure your pack is correctly packed. Oh! It looks like one is opening up!”
The boy at the middle tarp crams his rain cover into the top of his pack and zips it up. He has cornrows, big brown eyes, and a mouth full of braces. He stands a bit taller than me and is bone skinny. He practically swims in his clothes—basketball shorts and black T-shirt that reads:
Become a Witter
Because Witters Ain’t Quitters
Witter Gyms
Detroit, MI
And there are a pair of gold boxing gloves on it.
Standing next to him is a large, muscular man wearing the same T-shirt, except his shirt was stretched tight across his chest. He has a shaved head and well-groomed black beard.
“Is that R.J. Witter? The boxer?” Dad asks Noah in an awed whisper.
“Yes. His son will be with us for the trip.”
“I saw him fight when I was in college. Light on his feet and quick with his hands. He was incredible,” Dad says, geeking out a bit. “I probably shouldn’t ask for his autograph.”
“Probably not,” I say with a hard edge to my voice. How embarrassing would that be? Hi, my daughter’s a delinquent too! Can I have your autograph?
“What am I supposed to do without my iPad?” the Witter boy whines.
“You’re not going on vacation, boy. You’re not going to have time to be bored,” his dad says and picks up his son’s backpack.
“Don’t forget your Metamorphosis shirt!” a woman with strawberry blond hair chirps, holding out a blue t-shirt.
“I’m not wearing something with butterflies on it,” the boy says. “No way.”
“You will do everything these fine people tell you. Take the shirt,” his dad says through gritted teeth.
The boy rips the shirt out of the woman’s hand and follows his father to the docks where two other boys wait, both wearing their Metamorphosis shirts. One is on the portly side with a mop of golden curls and bright blue eyes. He wears khaki cargo shorts and beat-up hiking boots. Atop his curly locks sits a boonie hat with the sides snapped up and few fishing lures pinned to it. He stands between two adults who are without a doubt his parents. Both tall and large and blue-eyed. The dad wears a John Deer hat. They all look so . . . cheerful as they chat, you’d think Blondie was going off to a regular camp, not one for troubled kids.
The other boy has overgrown dark hair, hipster glasses, and lanky limbs. He stands tall and awkward in his jeans and t-shirt, but hunched as if not only wanting to hide his towering height but disappear completely. His eyes are a bit red, from crying or allergies, I couldn’t guess, though he certainly doesn’t look happy to be here. Next to him stands a short, birdlike woman with the same dark hair and glasses.
I take the boxer’s kid’s place on the center tarp. To one side is a girl who looks to be a couple of years older than me. She has on ripped, black skinny jeans and a cold-shoulder shirt, black with a picture of David Bowie on it. The tips of her dark hair have been haphazardly dipped in green dye, and thick, dark eyeliner make her green eyes glow like a cat’s. I watch as she pulls out one book after another and lays them on the tarp. A fellow bookworm. Maybe I will be able to make a friend on this trip after all. But then the girl feels my stare, looks up, and instead of smiling, she snarls at me.
I drop my eyes. Scratch that idea.
Discreetly, I glance at the girl to the other side. Just by looking at her, I know she is part of the popular clique at her middle school. She has long, beautiful chestnut hair that looks as if she has come straight from the salon; pretty, up-tilted eyes; and lips shellacked with lip gloss. She wears pink shorts, white tank top that has a big glittery heart on it, and a flowy, fringed vest thingy over it.
Both her parents accompany her. Her dad is white with a big belly and no hair. Her mom is Asian with a pixie cut and diamond studs in her ears.
“You are not taking my phone!” the girl declares, clutching the device to her chest.
“There’s no cell signal or wifi on the island,” the Metamorphosis counselor tells her patiently.
“I need it for pictures then! I’m not giving up my phone!”
“Emmy, hand it over,” her mother says strictly.
“If there’s no signal or wifi, what’s the harm in me having it?” she demands.
“It’s the rules,” her father says with a faint Polish accent and holds out his hand.
She glares at him and slaps the phone into his hand. “I’m never forgiving you. Either of you,” she says, aiming another hateful glare at her mother.
“Finish packing,” her dad says.
The girl lets out a grunt of frustration then does as told. She finally takes noticed of me, and with a critical eye I feel her look me over. My dark brown complexion, the goddess braids hanging over my shoulders, and my mismatched clothes. She looks away with an air of dismissal. Well, I don’t want to be friends with some snot-nose mean-girl anyway.
I look away and begin laying out everything in my backpack for the counselor to see.
The camp had a list of things kids were required to bring like a tent, sleeping bag, bear canister, and such. Then there are things we could bring if we want to carry the extra weight, like books, travel board games, journals, fishing poles, hammocks . . .
“What’s this?” Noah asks.
“It’s my Swiss Army Knife.”
“We don’t allow weapons.”
“Come on,” Dad says. “It has like 30-some tools on it.” Dad had bought me the fanciest one they had for my last birthday.
“It could also be used to hurt someone. But I’ll compromise with you. I will keep it on me and you can ask to use it. Okay?”
“Sure you just don’t want to play with it?” I shoot back. If Dad is going to treat me like a delinquent, I am going to act like one.
Before Dad could scold me, the lady with the strawberry blonde hair comes over carrying a bunch of freeze-dried meal kits and oatmeal packets.
“Here you go! That is food for three days and two liters of water for today. We will restock your water every day and your food every three days,” Strawberry says in a bubbly voice. “Any questions?”
“No,” I say, then look over what I’d be eating for the foreseeable future. Aside from the apple-cinnamon oatmeal, there are biscuits and gravy, beans and rice, and oh! My favorite: chicken fajitas! Though I never had freeze-dried chicken fajitas before. With my luck it’ll be completely gross.
“It looks like you’re in good shape!” Noah says, giving my belongings a final lookover. “Let’s start repacking. Soft gear like your tent and sleeping bag and clothing should go on the bottom. You’ll find that it will create a sort of shock absorption system for your back. Next—”
But I don’t need to be told how to organize my backpack. I have done this before. First the soft stuff that you wouldn’t need until you had to make camp, then the bear canister and food. And at the top, your jacket, poncho, first aid kit, basically anything you might need easy access to. Things like snacks, sunglasses, and sunscreen go into side pockets for easy reach.
“Bravo! Someone knows a thing or two about hiking!” Noah exclaims.
I ignore him.
As I trade my flip flops for hiking boots, a vintage pickup truck pulls up. I watch as an elderly man with white hair and matching mustache climbs out along with a kid. I’m not sure if the kid is a girl or boy. They have shaggy, short hair that has been dyed to a bright platinum blond; thick, dark eyebrows, and very tan skin as if they spend most of their time outdoors. They are dressed in red shorts that came to the knee and a blue button-down shirt with lots of little white stars on it, the sleeves rolled up. Under their right eye is a bruise half healed, all yellow and green.
The old man hauls a very old, beat-up hiking backpack out of the bed of the trunk, says something to the kid, then gets back into the truck and drives off. I watch as the kid takes a deep breath, hikes the pack on their shoulders, and walks over as if they don’t have a care in the world.
“Lennon Tate reporting for wilderness camp,” they say with a wry twist of a smile and a small salute.
“Hello Lennon, I’m Noah. Your grandfather faxed over all your waivers last night, though I was hoping to get a word in with him.”
“Grandpop is a busy and important man,” they mock.
“Ah,” Noah says, not knowing quite how to respond. “Well, let’s have you unpack your bag.”
Lennon does as told. I couldn’t help noticing that they are missing a lot of stuff on Metamorphosis’s list, not to mention a lot of important stuff. The tent is old and patched. They have no sleeping mat. No toilet supplies like a trowel and wipes. No bear canister. No sunscreen or bug spray or flashlight. And no hiking boots. Just the red Converse high tops they have on that are covered in doodles. What kind of grandfather sends their grandkid on a hike without hiking boots or the equipment they need?
Noah notices the missing supplies too. “It looks like your grandfather overlooked a few of the essentials. Let’s see what we can scrounge up.”
“My grandfather overlooks nothing,” they say with a smile.
“My dad always makes me take two tubes of sunscreen. You can have one if you’d like,” I offer.
The kid looks over at me and with the same wry smile says, “Thank you.”
I join the other kids and parents gathered by dock as the staff squares Lennon away. Blondie is still talking quietly with his parents. The tall kid’s mom is discreetly crying and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue while her son just looks down at his feet. Emmy has her arms crossed and is pretending her parents don’t exist.
The green-haired girl’s dad has joined her. He is fit, tan, and handsome with thick salt and pepper hair. He keeps looking at his watch.
“You can just leave, you know. I don’t need you here,” she tells him.
“No. I can wait,” he insists, yet seconds later his eyes strayed to his watch yet again.
Dad and I just stand awkwardly next to each other.
Finally Lennon joins us along with Noah and Strawberry.
“Parents, it is time to say goodbye! Hopefully in two weeks you’ll be saying hello to brand new kids!” Noah exclaims.
I’m pretty sure every single kid here just rolled their eyes in unison.
“You got your Epi-pen?” Mr. Witter asks his son.
“Yes,” he says sullenly, pulling the anaphylactic shock medicine out of his pocket.
“Always keep it on you. Not buried in your backpack. On your person, understand?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he says annoyed, stuffing the Epi-pen back into his pocket.
“Come here,” his dad says then pulls him into a hug.
“We’ll see you right back here in two weeks,” Emmy’s dad says. “I bet by then you won’t even want your phone back.”
“Sure Dad,” she says and hugs him. When she pulls away, she has a satisfied smirk on her over-glossed lips.
“Well, um, have a good trip. Take what you learn to heart,” green-haired girl’s dad says.
“Totally,” she says, rolling her eyes.
Blondie hugs both his parents tight.
The tall kid awkwardly hugs his mom, who is now openly crying. “It’ll all be okay, you’ll see,” she tells him.
Dad turns to me. “I think these two weeks will be good for you. I love you.”
I remain stiff in his arms as he hugs me goodbye. I still refuse to speak to him. I can feel the hurt and sadness my silence causes him, but I don’t care; I am still furious at him.
“Do good, baby girl.” And with that he leaves.
Soon it is just us seven kids and Noah and Strawberry on the dock.
“My name is Noah and this is Stacy, for anyone of you we haven’t met. We will be your counselors and guides on this therapeutic adventure! Why don’t we go around and everybody introduces themselves and say a little something about themselves?!”
He smiles at the group, but not a single kid pipes up. In fact, we all suddenly find the boards of the dock quite interesting.
“Sammy, why don’t you start us off!” Noah says, volunteering the blond kid.
“I’m Sam Weston. I’m thirteen and I like football and hockey.”
“Oink, oink,” the Witter boy snickers under his breath. I throw him a dirty look. I have no patience for bullies.
“Nice to meet you, Sam! Ian, you’re next and we’ll just keep going around.”
“I’m Ian Becker. I’m eleven and I like videogames,” he mumbles, looking down at the ground. Eleven and the tallest kid here. He’ll be the size of a NBA basketball player by the time he finishes high school.
“I’m Emmy Kowal-Yang, I’m thirteen, and I’m from Grand Rapids,” the girl with the perfect hair says in a bored, annoyed tone. Her eyes say, And I don’t want to be here with all you losers.
“I’m Lennon. I’ve been on this planet for twelve years. I love kittens and hope to end world hunger someday,” they say with a pageant queen wave.
Witter looks at us as if he is better than us. “I’m Reginald Jordan Witter the Third, but you all can all me Jordan,” he says as if that was some kind of honor. “My pop is the heavyweight champion R.J. Witter and CEO of Witter Gyms.” His eyes go to the blond boy. “We give discounts to those in need.”
Blondie clenches his fists at his side but doesn’t rise to the bait.
“I’m Daisy Domingo,” the girl with the green hair says and stares down Noah, daring him to try to get more information out of her. The counselor just nods to me.
“I’m Remy LeRoux. I’m twelve, and I’m from Lansing.”
“All right! If you haven’t put on your Metamorphosis shirt yet, put it on now. Grab your packs and board the ferry. Your adventure to a better self is about to begin!”
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