Free Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) by Jenny Ruden

advantage.”
    Her beautiful smile only underscored how idiotic she looked standing in the center of our room with a fishbowl. This was no Carolina Chicken bucket either—the jar looked official, a glittering one like in the commercial. “The Forgiveness Diet says inspiration is important for weight loss.”
    â€œI tried that diet,” I blurted. “How long before it works?”
    Hollywood rolled her eyes. Evidently she was asked this question a lot.
    â€œThe entire city of Los Angeles is on that diet. It will work if you work it. I’m already down eighteen pounds.”
    Eighteen pounds! Where was my eighteen pounds? Maybe I did it wrong. No question this girl followed the directions. I bet Hollywood had even bought the book!
    â€œHave you?” I started. “Um. Like the stuff you put in a jar. The directions said …” This was ridiculous. I could barely speak a sentence. Oh, forget it. “How long did it take for the diet to kick in, Hollywood?”
    Cambridge sat up in bed. Her legs dangled to my left. “Don’t tell me you actually think it’ll work.”
    â€œWell …,” I replied. “No?”
    â€œIt totally works,” snapped Hollywood. “My father endorsed it.”
    Cambridge laughed. “My father endorses a lot of bullshit too. That doesn’t make it effective.”
    Hollywood’s neck turned pink. Then red. Less than two minutes, and we’d already pissed her off. “How do you know it doesn’t work, Cambridge,” Hollywood asked. Each word was like a slap to the face. Have. You. Tried . It?
    â€œPlease,” Cambridge returned. “I’m not that dumb.”
    Liliana, picking at her nail polish nervously, interrupted, “The chick who won American Envy last season went on the diet. She lost ten pounds in two weeks. My brother saw her on a commercial. He said she looked like she could use a feeding tube.”
    Last year’s American Envy winner was a bit of a sore spot back home because she’d beat out The Levitator.
    Hollywood sighed. “She lost twenty-five pounds on The Forgiveness Diet, not ten. And your brother’s wrong—she looks great.”
    IMHO, last year’s winner, didn’t really need a diet at all. It was Eugene Gold, the meanest judge, who brought much media focus to the singer’s butt, which he’d termed harpoonable .
    â€œWhat about you, Santa Fe?” asked Hollywood. “Have you tried the diet?”
    Our roommate flicked a layer of nail polish into the radiator vent. “I think I’ll try it tomorrow,” she said. She lowered her chin and stuck out her tongue in order to sample the cotton candy looped around her neck. “Tomorrow is a much better day for forgiveness.”
    This not-so-secretive lick did not go unobserved by Hollywood. In fact, Hollywood was now examining Liliana like a menu written in a foreign language. Her petite nose crinkled. “Is that candy around your neck? You brought cotton candy to a weight loss camp?”
    Liliana let go a whistle. “Now how did that—”
    â€œBut why?” Hollywood asked. “Don’t you want to lose weight?” She looked from Liliana to Cambridge, then her eyes settled on me. “Don’t you want to lose weight?”
    This was a fantastic question that none of us attempted to answer.
    â€œDon’t you?”
    In the silence that followed, I waited for Hollywood to draw a chalk line between us. Not that she needed to. It was très obvious that our team was a tad divided. Just in time to even the score, Atlanta, the girl with the giant Bumpit in her hair, walked in.
    â€œThey brought in CANDY?!” Atlanta balked, her hair jolting.
    â€œMy brother did it,” Liliana confessed. “Gabriel gave me the candy. You can throw it out. No big deal.”
    Hollywood softened—a little. “Your brother’s stupid,” she said.