Raquel walked through the open foyer and up the stairs to the second level of the building and into a small waiting room. The frosted glass door with the words Dr. Edison painted in garish font clicked behind us with a sense of finality. Thankfully, the waiting room was empty, the table strewn with a mix of Reader’s Digest and Psychology Today magazines, the walls covered with dull landscape paintings. If the doctor let his patients decorate his office, he’d probably be blown away at their originality. But that’s what being original got you these days—a trip to the shrink. While Raquel went to go check in with the receptionist, I sat down and picked up a copy of Reader’s Digest. The “Drama in Real Life” stories were the best.
I only got to read one page on how someone survived a bear attack at Lake Shasta before the receptionist called me in.
“I’ll come back in an hour,” Raquel said, giving me a smile and wave—all for the benefit of the double-chinned receptionist—as I was hustled into a dark office.
Dr. Edison was standing in the middle of the room. He looked like I thought he would—widow’s peak, thinning hair, rectangular glasses that were similar to mine. He also had a steely look of observation that I was sure most psychiatrists had. I was a specimen under the glass, waiting to be examined.
“Have a seat, my boy,” he said, gesturing to a love seat in the corner. I was glad he didn’t make the obvious joke about me looking like a girl, thanks to my shoulder-length hair. Oh right, and the makeshift nail polish.
I smiled uneasily and walked over to the love seat, lowering myself cautiously.
“I guess there’s no room to lie down, is there?” I asked, half-joking.
His thin lips twitched up into a brief smile as he peered over his glasses and sat elegantly in his stiff-backed leather chair. “That’s only in the movies.”
I nodded, swallowing down my uneasiness and watched him as he briefly looked over a file in his hands.
“So you’re Sheriff McQueen’s boy, I see,” he said. It wasn’t accusatory; in fact, there was no emotion in his voice. He could have been reading the back of a cereal box for all I knew. But I bristled anyway. Anytime someone brought up my father it was usually followed by a look of “where did he go wrong?”
Being born an asshole is where he went wrong.
The doctor raised his brow as he studied me. “Camden McQueen. Perhaps we should start by talking about your father. He is the one who called me, after all. He said you needed to get your head on straight. Now, what might he be talking about?”
I sighed. I was already overwhelmed. I let my eyes drift over to the window and the dust motes dancing as the harsh light came streaming in. I felt entranced by them, willing my mind to bring me somewhere else, anywhere but here. It was a coping mechanism that worked. Anytime I was upset or angry, when I felt like the rage inside was going to consume me, I could just get away in my mind. It saved me so many times. I think it was the closest thing I had to hope at the time.
I don’t know how long I sat like that, just staring out the window in my own world, but eventually I heard the doctor’s voice come through, as if in midsentence.
“Self-expression is normal for kids your age—teenagers especially—but I am sure your father has a right to be apprehensive about you.”
I eyed him coldly. “A right?”
He pursed his lips for a second. “Yes, at least in the way he’d figure it. Being…homosexual—”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus Christ, I am not fucking gay. Do you think Marilyn Manson is gay when he’s banging Rose McGowan’s ass all day long?”
“I am not familiar with the personal life of that artist.”
“Okay, let’s take someone like David Bowie then,” I said, leaning forward. “Ziggy Stardust wore makeup, embraced his androgynous look, all for the name of art. Self-expression.”
“David Bowie was a homosexual.”
“David Bowie is bisexual,” I corrected him. Did he really think I couldn’t school him on music? “He’s married to a supermodel, Iman. She’s gorgeous. And black, too. Another reason he’s my hero. My point is just because I dress like this and just because other artists do too, doesn’t mean we’re gay. It doesn’t mean we’re weird. It doesn’t mean we’re a threat to society.”
He barely nods. “So you consider yourself an artist?”
I shrank back in my seat and shrugged. A piece of hair fell in front of my face. “I don’t know. I want to be. I like to draw, to paint. I like to create. I like playing guitar too—hope I can buy one if I save up enough money. I know my dad won’t ever buy me one.”
The doctor tapped his pen three times against his file and then said, “I don’t think your father is against your self-expression the way that you see it. It’s just that in this town, with all the military we have here and the base so close, people aren’t very…accepting toward people like you.”
I raised my brow. “People like me?” For a shrink, he totally lacked tact.
He sighed. “Are you this defensive with everyone?”
I blinked.
He went on and gestured to my clothing. “You’re expressing yourself. I see that. Everyone sees that. But it doesn’t make life easier for you. It gives people the wrong idea.”
“Being gay is the wrong idea?”
“Because you’re not gay, or so you say. If you’re straight and normal, then you should act it. Lose the makeup and the scary clothes and go make proper friendships with people. Start looking at girls. Camden, this is for your own good.”
That little thing called rage? Yeah, it was sneaking up on me again. I had to take in a deep breath and count to ten. Zoning out wasn’t going to help me this time. Ten, nine, eight…
“My own good,” I repeated under my breath. Seven, six, five…
“Yes. Your father told me that you don’t have any friends. That you get beat up. That people are scared of you. You know why this is and yet you choose to self-express yourself this way anyway. The only thing I can think of, if you aren’t gay, is that you want to be hurt. You want people to look at you unfavorably.”
Four, three, two…
“Can you imagine how your life would change if you just acted…normal?”
One…
I breathed out through my nose in a sharp burst and looked at him with a wry smile on my face. “If I acted normal, no one would talk about me. And everyone would be happy. Except for me.”
He studied me for a long time before he said, “Do you think of yourself as a martyr, Camden? Do you feel like you’re not done making your point?”
“There’s always a point to be made,” I said with a shake of my head. And if I didn’t make a point—about life, about everything—then no one ever would. Not in this close-minded, ignorant town of dust and decay.
The rest of the session was complete nonsense as well. The more that Dr. Edison talked, the more I realized he wasn’t here to help me—if I even needed help. He wanted to help my father and the town and the overall look of things. He wanted to stop looking at me. He wanted me to go away and come back as somebody else.
That wasn’t going to happen.
When it was all over, I got up and thanked him for his time. It was the polite thing to do and made me look better. Sometimes being nice was the best ammo of all.
I was at the door when he called out to me, “One day, Camden, you’ll leave this town and wish you did something nice for the people in it. Maybe even for your own family. There are other lives out there other than your own. Sometimes we need to make sacrifices in order to keep loved ones happy, even if we don’t think they deserve it.”
I didn’t turn to look at him. I ignored his words, letting them roll off me like drops of oil, and stepped out into the receptionist’s area. There was a lanky woman with blonde eighties hair sitting in the corner pretending to read a magazine. In reality, she was eyeing me with disdain. My stepmother wasn’t anywhere.
I looked at the receptionist. “Um, have you seen…”
&nb
sp; She jerked her head toward the exit. “Your stepmother called and said she’s running late and for you to wait for her outside.” She didn’t even look at me, just called the other woman over instead.
I exhaled and headed out of the medical building and back into the inferno. The sun was high in the sky now, searing my pants to my legs in seconds. I shielded my eyes from the glare and looked around. The van wasn’t in the parking lot. I guess Raquel and my father fucked off somewhere. Too bad it was too hot out to even think about walking back home by myself.
I sat down on the curb and waited. A few cars puttered past on the main road, the dust rising like sandy plumes behind them. There was something pretty about that and had I been in a better mood, or at least had my sketchbook on me, I would have tried to capture that in colored pencil. Pen was too blunt for something that ethereal.
Then I saw something even more poetic: the silhouette of a girl walking through the dust clouds along the sidewalk. I couldn’t see her face, just her shape, though I could tell she was small and walked with a pronounced limp. She turned in my direction and headed toward me. As soon as the dust cleared, she stopped and looked around as if she were lost.
Wow. She was pretty. Very pretty. She looked about my age, too. She had long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, big dark eyes, a round face, and pouty lips. I’d never seen her before—I would know if I had. I knew every girl in town—from afar, of course. No girls ever talked to me. But I kept all their names and images in my head, using the prettiest ones when I was spanking it in the shower.
But unlike a lot of the girls in Palm Valley, this one wasn’t showing a lot of skin. You get used to it in this heat, seeing your classmates walking around in cut-offs and bikini tops that only the coolest girls could fill out. This girl already stood out by wearing flared jeans, Doc Martens boots and a T-shirt. She must have been boiling hot, just as I was.
She started walking toward the building, but stopped as soon as she saw me.
My first instinct was to smile at her. It made most girls turn and run away.
But then she started walking again, slower this time and with deliberation. She was trying to control her limp, her focus now dead ahead, not letting her eyes waver to me. I couldn’t tell if it was because I weirded her out or if she was self-conscious. Maybe both.
She was just a few feet away, refusing to look at me, when I said, “If you’re looking for the psychiatrist, he’s upstairs.”
The girl stopped and looked at me, a mix of shock and fear on her face. Up close she was even prettier, with a smattering of freckles across her petite nose. She filled out her jeans and black shirt pretty well too. I adjusted myself and prayed I wouldn’t get another inappropriate boner, though at least there’d be a reason for it this time.
I kept my face deadpan. Might as well give her another reason to be turned off. “I mean, I’d know, I was just at the shrink. Guess my father thinks I’m a bit nuts.”
She looked me up and down, her face relaxing slightly though she still looked puzzled. Finally she said, “I’m looking for a pharmacy.”
I squinted up at her. “You’re not from here, are you? I mean, this town?”
She shook her head. She looked really uncomfortable.
“Aren’t you hot in those jeans and boots?” I asked.
Her face immediately went red and I knew I struck a nerve. But instead of feeling proactive, like I’d shut her down before she had a chance to shut me down, I just felt bad.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly and got to my feet. “I’m not one to talk.” I towered over her, awkwardly adjusting my pants and rattling my wallet chain, but to her credit she still stood there and folded her tanned arms across her chest. Her T-shirt was an aged looking Metallica Master of Puppets. I nodded at it. “Cool shirt. Do you like Metallica or did you pick that up at a thrift store?”
“Both,” she said, raising her chin. Her eyes darted to the building. “So is there a pharmacy in there?”
“Yep,” I said. “What are you looking for?”
She gave me a look that said it was none of my business.
I raised my hands in apology. “Sorry. Just trying to make conversation. Usually I have about two seconds before someone throws a lame insult in my face. You’re breaking a record here.”
She sucked on her bottom lip—completely adorable. I had the sudden urge to do the same thing.
“Did you really see the psychiatrist?” she asked, still appraising me.
I looked down at my clothes and back up again. “Look at me. Don’t I look like I need to see a shrink?”
She smiled but shook her head. “No. I like the Deftones,” she said, nodding at my patch. “I have all their albums.”
No way. No way this cool pretty chick in the Metallica shirt would also like one of my favorite, more obscure bands. I was pretty sure my mouth was open so I quickly tried to fill it with words.
“Uh, oh really? Cool. Have you seen them live?”
“No…I’ve never been to a concert. How about you? You look like you go to a lot.”
I laughed, trying to figure out if she was insulting me or not. Her face was still guarded, yet sweet, and I decided she was being genuine…which was rare around me. “No, I’ve never seen them live. I took the bus out to Palm Springs when I heard Queens of the Stone Age was playing at a small bar there. Course, they wouldn’t let me in, I was only ten at the time, but I saw Josh Homme from far away.”
I wondered if she knew who the singer/guitarist was but she just said, “Was he tall?”
“Yeah, he was tall.” Even though our conversation must have sounded pretty stilted and lame to anyone listening, I felt like I was having the best talk of my life. “All the girls were throwing themselves at him,” I added, trying to appeal to her even more.
She shrugged. “I don’t like redheads much but he’s good on guitar.” Her eyes drifted to the building. “Are you busy or do you want to help me with something?”
“I’ll help you,” I said a little too quickly. I winced at my own overenthusiasm but she just nodded at me with a straight face.
“Good,” she said. She started walking toward the building, her movements stiff. She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Come on.”
I looked back to the road, wondering if my dad was going to kill me if I wasn’t waiting by the curb. Then I decided that for this girl, death was worth it.
I followed her into the building, the smell of strawberries and vanilla wafting behind her. I tried not to stare at her ass as it wiggled in her jeans, but I caught a few glances while I could. Who knew if I’d ever be this close to a girl again? To be honest, I was surprised that not only was she cool as hell, but she was actually still talking to me. There had to be a catch…
As soon as we were in the mall-like foyer and spotted the small pharmacy shop—the type filled with canes and footbaths and gauze, not fun stuff like Sharpies and Super Soakers—I tried to make conversation.
“So where did you move here from?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Out East, the South, whatever,” she said and then stopped suddenly. I nearly ran into her and stopped myself just in time. I’m sure the last thing she wanted was a sweaty Camden all up against her.
She smiled like she was about to let me in on the world’s biggest secret. I felt like my breath was being leached from my lungs.
“You go talk to the clerk and distract him,” she said, her voice low and hushed.
“What?”
She frowned, her smile becoming wry and twisted. “Come on. Be a pal.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “I just don’t understand. You want me to distract Mr. Sirk, the guy behind the counter? Distract him from what?”
“Haven’t you ever shoplifted before?”
I was taken aback and laughed. “No.” Her mouth turned into a tight line. Oh my god, I thought she’d been joking. “You’re serious.”
“Man, you guys in this town are no fun,” she said and quickly turned
to the store.
I reached out, grabbed her elbow, and dropped it as soon as I felt awkward, which was pretty much right away. “No, no. I mean. Yeah. This town is no fun. But I’ll help you. I’ve just never done it before.” For obvious reasons, too. I mean, one was that everyone watched me like a hawk anyway. I looked like I played Troublemaking Teen Number One in a Lifetime movie. Two was the fact that my dad was the sheriff.
Although the fact that I’d be helping this girl steal something—commit a crime—did make me feel like I was sticking it to my dad a bit.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
She raised a thin brow. “Why?”
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Well I figure if I’m going to be your accomplice, I might as well know your name. Bonnie and Clyde knew each other’s names.”
“They knew a lot more than that,” she said and I could have sworn another shade of crimson dotted the center of her cheeks. “My name’s Ellie.”
“Camden,” I said. I stuck out my hand then thought better of it. Then I raised it again because I’d already gone too far. I stared at it dumbly, like it was stuck in greeting limbo.
Luckily, Ellie was a good sport and she shook my hand anyway. Her grip was strong, surprising. Most girls my age shook hands like everyone had some disease—or maybe that’s just the way they were with me. But there was a strange sort of confidence in her handshake just as there was a strange sort of vulnerability in her eyes. She was already an enigma to me.
“Camden,” she said slowly, as if my name felt good on her tongue. “Isn’t that a town?”
I nodded. “I can be a lot of things.”
“So can I.” She looked to the store and back again, a grin making her cheeks pop. “So you’ll be the fall guy? I mean, you’ll distract him?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt. “What are you stealing?”
All the Love in the World: A Holiday Anthology Page 29