Camp Ugly: How I Learned to Be Beautiful

By David Warehall

After dedicating decades to transforming ugly women into heavenly creatures Destiny McMillion, known to all as the world's most beautiful woman, announces her retirement. Before stepping away from the limelight she decides to reward the planet's four ugliest girls with the opportunity to benefit from her secret transformational procedure. When Ruth Baumgardener, a 14-year-old girl about to enter high school, wins the Beauty Sweepstakes she believes her life will change for the better only to learn that the price of beauty includes murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imagi-Nation
• Release date: Jul 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997845501

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Camp Ugly: How I Learned to Be Beautiful

Camp Ugly: How I learned to be Beautiful

David Warehall

Copyright © 2016 by David Warehall

All rights reserved.  This book or any portion thereof may not be produced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN: 978-09978455-0-1

Imagi-Nation

48181 Fuller

Chesterfield, MI 48051

Chapter One: The Video

Since today proved the most important day of my life, I made sure I looked my worst.  Not bothering to wash my hair for a few days left it stringier, greasier, and more unkempt than usual.  The brownish red strands lay against my neck like a damp mop that had been used a dozen times too many.  Although my wardrobe contained more hideous outfits than a Salvation Army clearance rack, I settled on a dress I promised never to wear again.  Made of 80% polyester and 20% cotton, but 100% bona fide ugly, the dress not only highlighted my thunder thighs but was tight around my hips, loose around my chest and used a pair of thick linguini straps that dug into my shoulder blades to hold up the monstrosity.  A tent would have fit me better.  Come to think of it, the tent would have displayed a better pattern too (yes, I’m including the bug stains that appear on everyone’s camping abodes).  Splashes of orange and yellow swished across the fabric like overexcited Nike symbols racing around a track while scores of green flowers decorated the front but not the back.  Whenever I looked at the pattern I could not help but think, flowers aren’t green their stems are.  Just like me to criticize the science behind the fashion rather than its obnoxious color scheme.

Glancing into a handheld mirror, I gladly noticed the acne fairy left behind several pink un-pleasantries that made my face look like the BEFORE picture hanging on a dermatologist’s office wall.  That stubborn zit, which reappeared on my chin so often I gave it a name, cooperated with me this morning.  Dirk did me the pleasure of forming a prominent white head that appeared so bloated that a sneeze or a burp would cause it to pop.  Smiling, I checked out my teeth, which were held hostage by steel braces, each tooth restrained by shackles.  The orthodontist said my teeth must endure at least another two years of captivity, meaning I would be a junior in high school before they felt the sweet air of freedom.  My mouth sported enough scrap iron to set off a metal detector at an airport, forcing security to pat me down ensuring I wasn’t a terrorist threat.  However, the only thing terrorizing about me was my appearance, which normally troubled a teenage girl, but not today.  Today, ugly proved a good thing, a great thing, an opportunity to win the lotto and change my quality of life forever.

Ready Ruth? Sathe asked.

I think so.  How do I look? My only friend, which by default made him my best friend, did not answer right away.  Turning away from my mirror, I saw little Sathe standing behind a tripod, the camera ready to start recording.  All sixty inches of him, the last two inches of height aided by the soles of his sneakers, looked so perplexed I thought my appearance petrified him into stone.  Finally, he mumbled something incoherent that would never be mistaken for words, baby’s babble maybe, but never words no matter what language you spoke.

Do I look ugly enough?

You look fine, he said, his tongue finally coming unglued.

I’m not aiming for fine; I’m aiming for the kind of jaw-dropping disgusting that makes the acid in the pit of your stomach curl and worms to burrow into the ground out of fear.  My words fled my lips with such celerity that the human ear struggled detecting the spaces between them.  Accused of talking too fast was a charge in which I admitted guilt.  When I tried to slow down my speech, my head ached as if reducing the speed limit of my brain caused my whole body to tremble and implode.

Sathe looked up at me with that strange smirk of his, which suggested that I embodied the feminine version of Lex Luthor— half-crazy and half-genius.  You’re funny, was all he could say.

I positioned myself on the back deck so none of my features hid in the confines of shadow.  The sun revealed my face and figure, which resembled the shape of a pear.  I wanted to make sure Destiny McMillion noticed how my lack of height did not mesh well with my abundance of girth.  No girl wanted to be short but being short and fat equaled a societal death sentence.  Okay.  Am I centered?

Sathe looked at the display monitor on the back of his camera and proceeded to zoom out and then tilt the lens.  His straight black Indian hair covered his cinnamon colored skin as he meticulously tried to arrive at the proper angle.  His attention to detail made him the perfect person to film my presentation.  Do you want all those electric wires in the shot?  Wouldn’t those trees offer a better background?

Glancing behind me, I saw black cables of various thicknesses crisscrossing the sky connecting from wooden pole to house back to wooden pole.  The maze of wire draped over my backyard like a net, prohibiting anything from flying away.  My backyard, which lacked space, fenced in my world and dreams with old wooden planks that begged for a coat of stain decades ago.  Hardly any grass sprout from the ground too small to even accommodate a swing set.  Instead, a single maple tree monopolized the area and somehow pierced through the barrier of cables, the squirrels monitoring the classic clash between nature and man’s industry.

I’m not looking for better.  Worse wins the prize.  Remember that, I said.

In that case, I’m ready when you are.

Running my hands through my red hair, I felt the oils and the grime.  Perfect, I thought.  Or was it?  Were there more deserving girls out there?  Girls whose ugliness was more shameful, more depressing?  Perhaps.  At least I was not deformed with elephant man’s disease or a victim of a house fire, yet I knew with absolute certainty that I was ugly.  Ugly enough though? Destiny McMillion would be the judge and the only evidence supporting my claim would be my video presentation.  Taking a deep breath, I realized what it felt like to be one of those cruel jocks with the game on the line.  Pictures of Dominick Panzler animated in my head.  With a sigh, I saw him standing at the free throw line, looking like a Greek God, sweat dribbling down his Adonis-like physique, before he sunk a basket to win the 8th grade league championship.  Snapping me from my trance, Sathe looked up at me, his face turning serious because he knew how much this video meant to me.  Ready?

I’m ready for my close-up Mr. De Mills.

Huh?

Just an old movie reference.

Oh, that again.  Here we go. On the count of three…two…one…

Chapter Two: Ruth Baumgardener

My parents were named Ronald and Clare Baumgardener.  I said were because they no longer walked among the living.  Being scuba enthusiasts, they took a vacation to Perth, Australia to dive among the sharks.  Unfortunately for my mom and dad, they happened to delve the deep when a particular great white found himself in a nasty, cantankerous mood, not to mention extraordinarily hungry.  After eating my dad, he topped off his meal by consuming my mom for dessert.  The incident was headline news across the globe and turned their only child, me, Ruth Baumgardener, into an orphan.

My grandparents on my mom’s side, Phyllis and Bill, adopted me and raised me the best they could even though they were older than the invention of television.  Days before my fifth birthday Phyllis died in her sleep (my guess: she dreamed about great white sharks), which left me with Grandpa Bill.  Due to his age and cataracts, most of the household chores became my responsibility, meaning instead of an adult taking care of a child, a kindergartener just a year removed from pooping her pants rose to become the woman of the domain.  Despite his demands that he could see perfectly well and that the lights were simply not bright enough, Grandpa Bill’s eyesight became so bad the state of Michigan considered him legally blind.  This meant he lost his ability to drive.  With no car to take me to see the world, let alone the community around me, I remained inside the last bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac and assumed the role of mother even though I had never had one to teacher me how.  I helped Grandpa Bill to his bed and cooked him Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner.  We spent most of our evenings watching Turner Classics and although my grandpa could barely see, he loved hearing the voices of James Cagney, Bette Davis, and Humphrey Bogart.  So, instead of soaking up cartoons on Nickelodeon, Disney, or the Cartoon Network, I spent my formidable youth with actors and actresses who will forever be remembered in black and white.

When did I first realize I was ugly?  After watching Ernest Borgnine in Marty, I became acutely aware of the importance of beauty.  When Marty pleaded with his aunt, tears streaming down his eyes, You don’t like her.  My mother don’t like her.  She’s a dog.  And I’m a fat, ugly man, I questioned my own sense of loneliness and level of attractiveness.  I wondered if I too was a dog, a fat and ugly person.  That is my earliest memory of looking into a mirror and studying my face, really studying my face.  My teeth were crowded.  Freckles littered my skin.  My hair looked like a rat’s nest.  Instead of resembling Judy Garland or Shirley Temple or even Darla Hood, I looked dirty and unwanted, even worse than Besty Blair, who played Angie in Marty.  To add kerosene to the growing fire, Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein aired at 6:00 p.m. and I remembered crying during the scene when the monster peered into a pool of water and realized for the first time that he was not like the other people who populated the world.  That very night Ted Turner cemented my self-image, making sure I knew my place in the world—an ugly girl.

My name didn’t inspire any hope either.  Ruth Baumgardener.  I googled my last name and the first thing that popped up was a tavern in Wisconsin known world-wide for their cheese curds.  Cheese curds was not exactly the sort of thing that made a girl feel pretty.  It just made me more conscientious of the rolls over my hips and the blubber closing around my belly button.  For a German chef or mid-western dairy farmer, Baumgardener proved ideal, but a girl resented her name being associated with cheese and sausage.  If that was not bad enough, my parents (before being eaten by sharks) named me after my dad’s mother.  Nice gesture but that nice gesture turned out to be a curse.  Ruth?  Here was what people thought about when they heard those four letters strung together.

1)     Babe Ruth.  Perhaps the best baseball player to don a cap or swing a bat, he represented an icon in the sports’ world, but he also swung a bat between his legs.  Girls wanted to be identified with famous, glamorous women, not fat drunk men who hit home runs.

2)     Baby Ruth.  If people didn’t think about the Sultan of Swat, they associated my name with a chocolate bar.  The last time I checked not too many beauty queens or princesses owned names such as Snickers, Milky Way, or Butterfinger.

3)     Dr. Ruth.  The little German woman was a psychologist who became famous for ushering sexual awareness to the world.  I admired any woman who used her brain instead of her boobs to become successful, but somehow she morphed into a comic character the public used to parody a dirty old lady with a naughty mind.

None of these proved positive word connotations.  My favorite all-time Ruth, Ruth Elizabeth Davis, disliked her name too.  When she moved to Hollywood in the 1930’s she became a movie star, but refused to use the name appearing on her birth certificate.  Even she realized that Ruth lacked spice and sex-appeal; that it failed to dazzle when lit up in marquee lights.  Too clinical, Ruth Davis chose a different name so when she accepted her Academy Award for her role in Dangerous, it was as Bette Davis.

As a child, being Ruth Baumgardener was not an easy go.  Kindergarten through third grade proved tolerable.  Sure I dealt with the occasional fat comment but I kept to myself, did everything my teachers asked, and looked forward to learning something new every day.  When I entered fifth grade, the environment changed.  The cruel boys who picked on each other, and had up till then left me alone, began to attack like starving wolves.

Imagine playing doctor with Ruth.

Hey Ruth, how many Baby Ruths have you eaten today?

Fat!

Buck teeth!

I don’t want to be in her group!

School became my personal Purgatory, where elevation to a higher plane appeared to be for others, not myself.  In sixth grade, Debbie Hartl grew boobs and matters worsened.  Never would I have predicted that one girl moving from a trainer to a B cup (I swear to this day she wore push-ups) would cause my world to darken.  From my perspective it looked like boys realizing for the first time their purpose in life meant fighting each other for the one pretty girl in the room while the remainder of us waited for them to finish butting their horns into each other like rams on the cliff’s edge.  They acted like complete imbeciles, lowering their maturity level below the sewer and their intellect to zero (Kelvin that is).  Just as order needed chaos to exist and Heaven required its murky reflection of Hell, beauty could not be fully appreciated without ugliness.  The sixth grade boys were quick to define ugly, using me as its pronunciation, word of origin, and definition.  My name became synonymous with what boys did not want and the girls followed their lead, preferring to disassociate themselves from me.  Certain girls, in hopes of currying favor from the boys’ club, attacked me with a viciousness that stripped away layers of my ego.  Jennifer LeWard and Kate Speaker would peek over at me, whisper something barely audible and then giggle, making sure I saw them.  While I stood in line for lunch, Lisa O’Grady would whisper behind my back, Damn it, I’m behind Ruth.  There’s not going to be anything left to eat.  Debbie Hartl, who let me borrow her crayons in third grade, suddenly pretended I did not even exist, no longer greeting me in the morning.  The worst was when Nellie Pitts snapped a picture of me sitting on the toilet and put it on Facebook.  Soon the entire school was in on the joke, saying they had to take a Ruth instead of taking a crap.  It was humiliating and after enduring four torturous days, I went to the principal’s office, hoping justice would be levied.  Nellie was suspended but the damage had been done.

The next two years, I tried to fit in.  I joined the Junior Honor Society, the Chess Club, and Science Olympiad only to learn later that I distanced myself further because I took part in the dorky clubs.  Placing 2nd in the state science competition for my ability to trace electrical currents back to their source won me a $500 scholarship along with a brand new nickname, fat and nerdy.  I tried to ignore the name calling and just concentrate on my school work.  When my middle school years came to an end, I hoped I would at least have the last laugh.

Grandpa Bill rarely left the house, his health shackling him to the couch more securely than any manacle ever could.  Yet, when he learned that my school held an assembly to honor the best students, he found a way to put on his only suit and comb his grey hair in the same manner that appeared in his wedding photograph that still stood on the mantle.  He crept down the hall, using his cane to aid his ailing legs as well as his eyes.

Grandpa Bill, where are you going?

"Don’t you have an award ceremony tonight?’

Yes, but…

But nothing.  It is not every day that the girl in my life gets named McKinley Middle School’s Most Outstanding Student of the Year.

Female of the year, I corrected.

We both know they have to give an award to the boys just to be politically correct.

I giggled.  Grandpa’s eyes looked just over my left shoulder, the pupils landing nowhere in particular as he smiled, showing off his false teeth.  I’d hate for you to go and not win.  There are a lot of girls who deserve the award.

How many girls got straight A’s in all subjects, every quarter?

A few actually.

Yeah but who won the state science fair?

I came in second.

Same difference.  So tell me who is McKinley’s superstar?

Grandpa Bill.

I can’t hear you.  What’s this girl’s name?

Shaking my head, I humored my grandfather.  Me.

What’s her name? Grandpa Bill demanded.

Ruth Baumgardener.

So you’re the only girl to get perfect marks all year long, placed second at the state science fair, and ran the school store.

Which earned a profit for the first time in a decade I might add.

Sounds like you’re all but assured the title of Bestest Student on the Planet.  I may be old and blind but I’m not missing something like that.  You just wouldn’t mind helping the old man down the street?  It would be an absolute honor to honor you.

A tear swelled in my eye as I reached out and offered my arm to Grandpa Bill.  He waved his hand absently in front of mine, at first grabbing air, until he found my wrist.  Luckily I lived within walking distance of Rosedale High, my school next year.  As we shuffled down the sidewalk, I could not help but notice how my grandpa labored, each step becoming an arduous chore.  I knew better than to suggest he return home.  He wanted to share in my big day and to be perfectly honest; I wanted him there as well.  During the Science Olympiad State Finals, the other winning contestants were greeted by family and friends when accepting their awards.  When I heard my name called I approached the podium to the sound of silence eventually interrupted by a smattering of polite applause from strangers.  With a bowed head, embarrassed to be at such an important event without family representation, I accepted my second place prize in silence.  Today would be different.  Having Grandpa Bill there would make my victory that much sweeter.

Chapter Three: Red Carpet

We arrived just in time.  Looking up at the high school, I marveled at how much bigger it was compared to McKinley Middle, which held their end of the year ceremony at the big boys’ house.  Bricks and windows stretched for an eighth of a mile and unlike my middle school, a second story hovered over me.  The place appeared colossal and although freshman classes did not start for another ten weeks, I could not help but worry that I would never make it to my second hour class on time, let alone find it.  Walking through the doors I felt like Bette Davis waltzing across the red carpet during the Academy Awards.  Sure my hips belonged on a triceratops instead of a girl and only a whale matched my blubber to muscle body ratio, but I still felt like a million dollars because tonight I walked home with the grand prize in hand.

Instead of paparazzi capturing the moment, the parents who smoked loitered near the entrance polluting the air as the rest of us hurried inside to find a seat.  When I stepped inside the Big House for the first time I could not help but notice the high ceiling, glass walls leading to the principal’s office and the banners advertising the past year’s performance of Beauty and the Beast.  Mr. Kirsk, McKinley’s favorite math teacher, welcomed us and opened the door to the auditorium.  Bright lights already illuminated the front stage while guests filled rows upon rows of violet cushioned seats to near capacity.  The seats nearest to the stage were reserved for the students and parents gobbled up the remainder.  I made sure my grandpa found a seat (the handicap section affording him a great view of the stage, which mattered little due to his blindness) before rushing off to find my assigned seat.  When I sat down, I heard a few high pitched giggles.  With my peripheral vision I witnessed Jennifer LeWard, Kate Speaker and their leader Debbie Hartl snickering amongst themselves.  Jennifer and Kate were carbon copies of each other in attitude and appearance.  In addition to over using the word like, they were tall, thin, blonde, and loved showing off their girls.  Sathe called them The Twins for different reasons than I did.  Today they wore matching hair styles and sleek dresses that required them to constantly pull the hems down over their thighs so their underwear didn’t show.  The leader of the club, Debbie Hartl, pretended she already matured into a woman at the age of thirteen.  A rumor circulated last week that she ordered a long island ice tea at Ruby Tuesday’s and didn’t even get carded.  I believed it.  She was as tall as Mrs. Holland, wore clothes that none of the teachers could afford and styled her hair just like the movie stars.  However, I was most envious of her skin.  There was not a single blemish on her face.  Her cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose appeared soft, subtle and supple.  Tonight, I did not need clairvoyance to hear what they were saying.

OMG, like look at that dress.

"Where did she get it?

Like out of a trash can.

Looking down at my dress, I saw orange and yellow swirls around a garden of green flowers.  A week earlier I had fallen in love with it upon sight.  Knowing I would need a dress for tonight’s award ceremony, I bought it at Mrs. Digby’s garage sale for the paltry sum of $3, which I deemed a highway robbery.  Never owning a dress before, I marveled at the fabric and the pattern and felt beautiful when sliding into it.  I wanted to look pretty when stepping onto the stage in front of my peers but as the girls laughed behind my back, I found myself trying to cover the dress up with my hands, wishing I had a coat to put over it.  The prospect of being ridiculed by the entire 8th grade for my poor fashion sense caused sweat to bubble along my brow.  My only defense: knowing none of the girls would laugh at me when I won Female Student of the Year.

The ceremony went smoothly, the McKinley staff trying to race along to the end.  They passed out awards like adults distributing Halloween Candy on October 31st.  Every student seemed to get recognized for something.  Even Kyle Putnick received an award for being on the wrestling team even though he quit after two practices.  It would have made more sense to award the human irritant for being tardy to every class and serving more detentions than all the other students in the school combined.  The staff handed out awards in alphabetical order, meaning I was one of the first to accept a certificate, which recognized me for being in the top 5% in all of