Cameron and the Girls Page 2

  I climb the wide concrete steps, arranged in half-moons all the way up. I open one of the big glass and metal doors, and the warm air, full of sweat and testosterone and floor wax, rushes to greet me.

  I stand and get my bearings. I can’t seem to remember how to get to Mrs. Owens’s room from here. Kids bump into me and cuss me out as they pass. Down one hallway is a sea of bobbing heads. Down the other way, the same.

  Two girls dressed all in black approach me. I try to look away, but they’re like rattlesnakes and I’m their kangaroo rat. They walk around my body, checking me up and down. Even their lipstick is black.

  “You new?” they ask in unison.

  “I don’t know the way,” I blurt out. Girls make me feel like crying and touching myself at the same time. My heart beats like a wild snare drum.

  “Oh baby,” one of the girls says, drawing close. She takes me by the collar of my shirt and pulls me tight into her face. I can smell her smoky breath. “Do I turn you on?” she asks.

  In a way, she does, but I say no quickly and watch her smile go south, her cheeks tighten. A devilish sneer takes shape on her black lips.

  “Hey, you’re a nut boy, aren’t you?” she says.

  Before I can answer, she shoves me backwards, and the momentum drives me into two other kids, who in turn shove me away. I bounce like a pinball for a while until I slam against the hard tiled wall.

  From there I watch the kids thin out. Then the bell rings and only hollow footsteps echo down the hall. Now I can’t quite keep the tears away, and I feel those traitors pooling in my eyes. I mourn in the hallway, remembering how open and fun life was before I was old enough for school. How I could run fast and jump high and everybody clapped.

  Soon, Mrs. Johnson, the school secretary, sticks her head out of the office. She spies me and hurries over.

  “What’s the matter, Cam?” she asks.

  But I can only shake my head. The words lodge in my throat, and besides, they aren’t the kind of words Mrs. Johnson is looking for.

  “I can’t find my room,” I finally manage to stutter.

  “Ah, boy-o,” she says, taking me by the arm. “I’ve had days like that.”

  As I follow her down the hall, The Professor says:

  With such a minor injury from that last shove, the head generally stops throbbing in a few minutes. Shirts should be tucked in. Zippers zipped. All prepared for class. It’s been said that schizophreniform disorder differs from other schizophrenic disorders in the length and severity of the episodes. It can begin at a very young age and end abruptly, never to return, before adulthood.

  In spite of the hopeful news from The Professor, I have just about come to the conclusion that adulthood is a long way away and I may never be able to mingle again with normal kids.

  Mrs. Owens is sick and we have a substitute teacher, Mr. Frye. He is tall and clean, wears a dark blue suit. On his face, a short goatee fences his mouth. When Mrs. Johnson brings me in, Mr. Frye is standing at the front of the class with his arms folded. In one of his hands he carries a stopwatch and he glances at it from time to time. The room is deathly quiet. I can see that Griffin’s face is red and he holds one of his legs still while the other bounces up and down. The captive leg is like a hobbled pony just dying to rear back and kick out.

  Mrs. Johnson says, “I found this one—”

  But Mr. Frye puts up his hand to stop her. He says, “Five, four, three, two, one.” All around the room, the students let out their breath. Griffin’s leg bounces high and hits the underside of his desk. Slowly, Mr. Frye turns toward Mrs. Johnson. “Now, what were you saying?”

  Mrs. Johnson harrumphs and places me in front of her. “One of yours,” she says, then turns tail and leaves the room.

  “Another one?” he says. “Well, find your seat and let’s get going. You won’t have the benefit of our breathing and quiet exercise because you’re late, but see to it that you don’t get disruptive.”

  Mr. Frye gives us a reading assignment and then sits down at the desk. There are four manila folders in front of him, and he picks one up, pulls out a few pages, and starts to read. Every once in a while, he shoots his head up and looks intently at a student. One time, he looks at me.

  He closes the folder and gets up, walking slowly around the room. He dawdles behind kids who act as if they are reading the assignment. He finally stops behind me and then drops to his haunches. “Just so you know,” he whispers, leaning in. “My brother had what you have as a kid, and now it’s smooth sailing for him. Owns his own house. Has a boat. Two kids.”

  I wonder why strangers do that with me. Like receptionists at the doctor’s office. Clerks at the Safeway. As if I’m in a minority group that everybody’s dying to identify with.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I whisper.

  Mr. Frye nods and stands up. He starts to walk off and I think I’m home free.

  But not yet. “Well, if you ever want to, you could talk to me.”

  I don’t like this stranger so close and ask if I can use the bathroom. Once there, I look in the big mirror and watch myself take long, easy breaths. “There must be a reason for all this,” I say. I splash water on my face and then collect some in my two cupped palms. It shimmers in the light. From the side, I think I can see an image, a picture of somebody, but I’m not sure. I tilt my head as I hear the door open behind me. The picture in the water is a girl. From behind, I hear a girl’s voice.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I whirl around, and there is a girl I recognize from the regular classes.

  “You retard,” she says. “Get out before I call somebody.”

  I realize I’m in the girls’ bathroom. The shame runs up my windpipe. “Sorry,” I mumble, and I run around her and out into the hall.

  I want to go home, but it is only the start of the school day, and if I do, my parents will wonder why. The school will wonder why. There will be questions that I can’t answer. Better to pull myself together and act as if everything is just fine. That’s what they want, after all. That everything be just fine.

  Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

  I last the day with no more stupid mistakes. Mr. Frye can’t really give us new lessons, so there is a lot of reading to do. I’m a pretty good reader. As a matter of fact, I’m good at most things. Except for team sports and anything that has to do with a partner. I generally get a three in “Works Well with Others.” A three means I don’t get along very well at all.

  I run from the bus stop, ignoring Beth and the drizzle. I know the way so well that I can turn my face up to the sky and feel what probably no one else can feel: the clouds shining down on me. Dr. Simons once said that everyone else should be so lucky to see the things that only I can see.

  But I hate that the substitute talked to me, and thinking that makes the cloud shine go away. If people say your life is confidential, then it should be confidential. But how can it be if any old substitute can come in and read about me from a big manila envelope? It’s not fair because I don’t even get a chance to prove myself, and I’m sure I look way too crazy on paper.

  But things are changing. I can feel something good creeping up.

  “Wish me luck,” I whisper to no one in particular.

  Good luck, I hear.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  And people say I don’t communicate well.

  Four

  I wake up warm because the vent in the wall in my room is throwing out heat in waves. It is still dark and I can hear soft rain against the window. I would like to snuggle down and go back to sleep, but I feel tense. I stretch the muscles in my back and legs until they hurt. Physical pain sometimes postpones the mental.

  But one thing I have learned is that the mental always comes. First, there is a stab somewhere in my mind, as if somebody were slitting my thinking with a sharp knife. With my eyes closed, I can actually visualize words bisecting and falling away. The good- says goodbye to the -ness. But it’s hard to tolera
te this progression of weirdness for very long, so I slide out of bed and get dressed.

  There are secret ways to get out of the house without my parents’ knowledge. The best one is in the living room near the fireplace. It’s a built-in wood box that connects through the wall to the wide front porch. On the other side is a box that looks the same. Someone on the porch can throw fireplace logs into the box, and they will roll inside, where someone else can lift them out and throw them on the fire.

  Since it’s late in the season, the wood box is nearly empty. I squeeze down into this coffin and then wriggle across to the other side. Like a vampire, I crawl out and stand shivering on the porch. It is dark all around except for the headlights of a lone car way down on the highway near the bus stop. I love this time all by myself. No one to watch me shake the way I am shaking now. The tension pushes me off the porch. I stand on the grass. The rain is coming down even harder and I soak it up.

  Behind me, the ghostly light of day is starting to creep over the hills, but it is still too dark to see well. I turn around and around, making myself dizzy. On about my tenth turn, I hear this:

  Hello, Cam.

  I turn my head sharply; my heartbeat picks up.

  “Who?” I whisper hoarsely.

  It’s me.

  “But who are you?”

  I hear a faint giggle.

  You are so funny. You know who I am.

  “I’m funny?” I don’t even feel the rain now, even though it has soaked through me.

  It’s one of the things I like about you.

  “You like me?” I say. No girl, except for Beth, has ever said anything like that. I am tingling now.

  Of course I do.

  I stick out my tongue and lap at the raindrops like a dog at a water bowl. “What else do you like about me?” I ask.

  Well, I like that you’re a thinker. That you’re not always out throwing baseballs or footballs or spitting on the sidewalk.

  “Sometimes I like to throw a football,” I say.

  But it’s not your whole life, Cameron. You’re more than just that one thing. You speak like a much older person. You read up on interesting subjects, like psychology. In fact, you’re sort of like a Renaissance man.

  This could possibly be the best moment of my entire life, but the front porch light suddenly snaps on and the door is yanked open. My mom is standing there cinching her robe.

  “I’m not doing anything,” I quickly say.

  She stands quietly, looking old and tired in this moment of silence. I do that to people. If I laid out all the moments of silence I have created for others in my life, they would make a whole long quiet life of their own.

  My mom finally says, “This can’t be happening again.”

  I walk up to the porch and stand in front of her. I’ve let her down one more time; I can see it in her eyes. It’s not what I want to do.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say.

  She steps aside. “Go in and change out of those.”

  “Okay,” I say in my obedient voice.

  But as I pass her, she adds, “We’re going to have to talk about this, Cam.”

  Back in my room, I tear off my clothes, dry myself, and slip down under the covers. I shiver until I hear her mount the stairs. Soon, I can feel her in the doorway. I project out my force field to keep her from saying anything or getting too close. She sighs as she picks up my sloppy wet clothes. Maybe there are some things she doesn’t want to know for sure because she doesn’t come in any farther.

  When she’s gone, my mind considers what’s just happened. With voices, it’s a crapshoot. You can’t always control what you get. But I’ve never felt this way from just hearing one of them. As if my blood were juicier than normal. I don’t know what her name is, but I think I’ll call her The Girl.

  In spite of the warm air spilling out of the vent, I’m too psyched to fall back to sleep, and I eventually get up to get ready for school.

  Five

  At school, there are only two girls in my class. Amy, the little rabbit girl, is always showing her big front teeth as she chatters away. The other one is named Nina. She came a couple of weeks ago and usually keeps to herself. I like her anyway. It’s easier to make up stories about girls who keep to themselves, because they don’t give themselves away. She has great hair, which is rich and dark and long. It cascades in waves from the top of her head. And she is always swinging it back and forth. Especially when she doesn’t know the answer to a question.

  I’m not sure what her problem is, but I know she must have one, otherwise she wouldn’t be in the EDP. Today I sit in my seat and watch her hair. It moves in a fancy rhythm that makes me think of things better kept inside my head.

  Soon she turns and catches me staring at her. My eyes dart to the front of the class, and I pretend I wasn’t looking. But I can’t help myself and snatch another glance. She’s still looking. I try to smile, but the tension in my face won’t let me. She shrugs and turns back.

  From the front of the class, Mrs. Owens is saying, “If the South had won the Civil War, what do you think the United States would be like today?” She stops and picks up a hanky to wipe her very red nose.

  Griffin quickly shoots up his hand. “It would be like no North.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Owens asks.

  “Well, I mean it would be all South. There would be, you know, no direction called north. The country would be called the United Southern States of America.”

  At first I think Nina is whispering to me, and I turn her way. But she is tracing the picture of George Washington on the front of her history book.

  Still, there is a voice.

  Cam?

  It’s The Girl’s voice again, soft and sweet. “I’m here,” I stutter in a whisper, which unfortunately draws Griffin’s attention. He elbows me.

  “Good,” says Mrs. Owens, talking about Griffin’s answer.

  Don’t you want to talk to me, Cam?

  “I do,” I say. “I do want to talk to you.”

  Griffin elbows me again and it hurts this time. I rub at it, trying to frown him away.

  “Does anyone have an idea of what the United States would look like if the South had won the war?” pleads Mrs. Owens.

  But no one does, and when class is over, we file down to the cafeteria. I can smell the fish sticks before I go through the door. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see Nina right behind me.

  “Why were you staring at me?” she asks.

  “I wasn’t staring at you,” I say. I want to keep my brain fresh and open for the new voice, and talk is distracting. The crowd of kids pushes us farther into the cafeteria. We bump close, and I feel a tingling in the spot where we touch.

  “You were,” she says. “I saw you.”

  Griffin wags his tongue at her. “He wants you, that’s why,” he says.

  “You’re disgusting,” says Nina. She looks at me. “I mean him, not you.” Then she hurries to catch up to the line forming by the trays.

  After I get my plate, I sit down and roll up one sleeve to look at the spot where Griffin elbowed me. It’s made a bright red ring. I rub at it and look around. Nina is sitting by herself. But she disappears when Griffin stands in the way making faces while he balances his tray. I try to laugh but can’t.

  Cam, I want you to know that I’m here just for you. I think you’re a great guy.

  “But who are you?” I whisper.

  I’m whoever you want me to be. I’m your girlfriend.

  And there is a peace to what she says. I feel calmer immediately. Giddy calm. When Griffin finally sits down, I inch away from him.

  “Who’re you talking to, man?” he asks.

  “I don’t want to talk right now,” I say. I know it’s not good to say that, and I know that keeping to myself is one of my symptoms, but sometimes I just can’t stand communicating with anybody. And Griffin has a problem with keeping his mouth shut.

  After school, on the bus, I’m sitting by
myself again, but I’m not feeling all that alone now. Maybe it’s the new voice. I jump when Beth taps me on the shoulder.

  “Cameron? What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Your lips were moving. Who were you talking to?”

  “Nobody. Please shut up.”

  But Beth is not satisfied. She kneels beside me. “You’d better start taking those pills again,” she says. She pets my head, but I knock her hand away.

  “Mom’s going to be looking for you,” she says.

  “Can’t you all just leave me alone?”

  “Do you want to hear what Mom asked me or not?”

  I consider this for a moment and then nod.

  “Good,” she says. “She thinks you’re not taking your medication.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Beth, digging into her pocket. She pulls out my meds and holds the little plastic bottle between her thumb and forefinger. “She was looking for it, but I found it before she did.” She tosses it to me. “You might want to hide a few of those before she gets hold of it.”

  I jam the bottle in my pocket and then take a peek at Beth. “Thanks,” I say.

  “You know you could take those once in a while and still conduct your little scientific—whatever—experiment.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  Beth scrunches up her lips and then raises her eyebrows. “Listen, Cam, you were mumbling to nobody just then. Remember what I said about embarrassing the family?” She stands up and heads back toward her seat, but I yell after her.

  “You haven’t been talking to me today, have you, Sis?”

  She stops and studies me again. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe through telepathy or ESP or something.”

  “Geez,” she says, looking around at the kids who heard me ask it. She puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head before finding her seat.

  “Well?”

  But the conversation is over for her. I have to learn not to push people too far.