The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (reading fiction .TXT) 📗

thin and pretty and nervous. Around us, Dyson freely worried over his body out loud. He gasped at the hefty portions of food we received—How could anyone eat this much?—and refused the most dangerous foods—mozzarella sticks, fried chicken wings—with brusque I really shouldn’ts. My suitemates loved having him there. They loved the humiliating childhood stories he told about me; they loved his enthusiastic celebrity impressions. He never creeped on anyone, never extended a hand where it wasn’t invited.

I think your friend passed out over the stall, said one of my suitemates. Chunks of pizza floated in the bowl of the toilet. His fingers were slimy. I slapped his cheeks, but he wouldn’t wake up. Shallow breaths slipped through his lips. His chest was rising and falling, rising and falling, as paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher. A new pill he took to lose weight clashed with a new pill he took to clear up his acne. His heart was too weak to purge.

I lost my scholarship for sneaking a boy onto the women’s floor without permission and transferred to a state school in New Jersey—close to the city, too far away to repair my relationship with my mother. Around this time, I began working at Gravee. Dyson spent two weeks in a facility, bankrupting his mother. He exhausted me with apologies—though I was the one who felt responsible. I never told him this. I was too ashamed to admit my culpability.

After college, he moved to L.A. I stayed in Jersey, close to the city. He and I spoke on the phone every night after I got off my shifts. Our conversations served as a kind of therapy—he talked me through shitty relationships; I encouraged him to keep going out for roles. His living so far away put me on edge. I felt responsible for his well-being, and though he assured me he was healthier and eating consistently, I feared some bombed audition in the future might cause him to relapse. He did not do well on his own. He flourished best beneath the burning eye of guidance. After all, he’d thrived under my direction in high school, when he needed to take off the weight. And in an effort to keep him healthier, safe, I outlined for him the lifestyle regimen that would later grow into ABANDON. Dyson followed it out of deference and guilt. He still regretted costing me my scholarship, though I’d long ago forgiven him. The loss was an appropriate punishment for failing to confront him when I had the chance.

Often, my coworkers at Gravee asked what products I used on my face. Nothing, I told them.

There has to be something, they’d tell me.

My system is nothing, I’d say. Then I told them what my mother told me.

Is that from a program? they’d ask. Because I’m looking for a new program.

I needed the money. Who didn’t need money? And plenty of people far duller than me were cashing in on beauty tutorials. Starting a regimen was one of the last remaining ways to make good money, to be your own boss—to help people, to share what I knew with the world. And I knew far more than most skin-care influencers—though influencer was not yet a word anyone used. It was merely an idea buried in ice, waiting for its prison to melt.

My first dozen videos averaged around twenty-five views. They struggled to find the right viewers. They made me no money, attracted no sponsors. There was no money in debunking products—no matter how much I knew. The money, I realized, was in stories. Successful influencers all had origin stories. They had been summoned to beauty, to skin care, to exercise regimens and enema teas, by the hand of divine coincidence or heartbreak or trauma.

My thirteenth video was the first to catch on.

I’ve never told you this, I said to my camera, because, admittedly, I thought you might think less of me if ABANDON wasn’t all about me. But I need to tell you the truth: I didn’t start this regimen for me. I started it because of a friend. My best friend. He nearly died using products I pushed him to use—the same products so many other “experts” on here are promoting—products I foolishly thought would help him lose weight and clear up his skin. And after he recovered—thank god—I swore to myself I would make it up to him. I promised to create a program that would allow him to enhance his self-esteem and appearance safely. And that is how I came up with ABANDON. That is why this regimen means so much to me. And that’s why I’m sharing ABANDON with you. Because I care about you. I want you to give up on everything hurting you. I want you to thrive. I want you to be happy and beautiful and, most of all, I want you to be safe.

III.

thirteen

I KNOW WHAT’S been said about us. I’ve watched the documentaries and read the exposés claiming to know what happened the day the men arrived at the camp. However, very little of what was reported—and it would not be a stretch to say none of what appeared in print or film or public debates—offers an accurate portrait of the arrival. This doesn’t surprise me. I understand the deep human need to identify villains, but there were no villains that day. Only accidents made by good people doing their best. That type of story doesn’t make anyone click, though, so Dyson and I were made into villains.

The problem was simple: The barn’s generator ran out of gas overnight. Dyson was late to pick up the men at the airport and, rather than check the generator, as he did most mornings, he hurried the bus onto the road. By the time I made it to the clearing, later that morning, I had no way of knowing how long the power had been out.