Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1)

by Yessi Smith

  Without looking at me, Camden takes the note, crumples it into a small ball, and then throws it into his book bag. I glare at him, but then I feel my own lips twitch when I see him bite back a smile.

  After the bell rings, Camden snatches his bag, but he can’t move quickly, which makes it easy for me to follow him. I grab his arm and don’t pull away until he stops and faces me.

  “Lift your shirt,” I demand, using my best no-nonsense voice.

  “You wanna see me naked, huh?” His voice is laced with malice, but his eyes track my face for understanding.

  I’ve come to learn that he’s only mean when things are bad, so I keep my mouth shut and don’t reply.

  Taking his hand in mine, I lead us to the gymnasium. After I make sure no one is around, I lift his shirt and shudder. A quiet cry echoes in my chest when I see the fresh bruises already forming along his stomach and ribs.

  Angry, I ball my hands into fists but force them open so I can continue to inspect him for further injuries.

  “I’m fine, Yan.” He lowers his shirt before I do something stupid, like kiss his bruises.

  “You’re not.” Tears well in the back of my eyes so I blink them back. When I’m certain I won’t cry, I meet his gaze. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “Not a damn thing.” He moves away from me, trying to put distance between us, but I hold on to his hand because someone has to hold on for both of us. “Mind your business.”

  “You are my business.” I keep my voice low but firm, and his eyes soften. “Should we put ice on it?” I ask.

  He shrugs and his eyes dart across the room before they lock back on mine, and he nervously licks his lips.

  “My thigh,” he admits. “I didn’t get a chance to clean it.”

  Holding his hand again, I guide us to the girls’ locker room, understanding what he hasn’t spoken. He’s bleeding, and he must have bandaged it up without cleaning it, because he wouldn’t want to miss any more school.

  Most kids pretend to be sick, so they don’t have to go to school. Camden pretends everything’s okay, so he doesn’t have to miss.

  “How bad is it?” I ask, pursing my lips together into a thin line. The idea of seeing blood hazes my vision, and I hope I won’t get sick and vomit.

  “I got it, Yan. I’ll clean it.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  I bite my inner cheek as our eyes meet again, and he nods his head once before looking back at the floor.

  “He stabbed my thigh. I was using a cutting knife to butter my toast, and he got pissed because I should’ve been using a butter knife. I didn’t get a chance to clean the cut, but I covered it up so I could come to school.”

  “Nerd,” I joke.

  He laughs. “If I hadn’t come to school, I’d have had to wait until tonight to see you. I’d have probably bled to death, waiting for you.”

  “Don’t say that,” I whisper, my heart dropping at his stupid joke. “Besides, I was going to leave after class to check on you.”

  “Don’t ever do that.” He brings his eyes back to me. “Don’t skip school or do anything that could ruin your life because of me.”

  I roll my eyes at him, but my mom’s words about his intensity creep into my mind, and I shudder.

  “Whatever, Cam. Just drop your pants so I can clean your wound.”

  My cheeks flush at the same time that Camden’s cheeks turn a crimson red and we look away from each other as he brings his pants down to his ankles. I take the paper towels from the dispenser and soak them with warm water and soap. We both inhale sharply as I remove his bandage and press the paper towel to his open wound.

  It’s bad. As in he should probably go to the hospital.

  “We have to tell someone, Cam,” I say, already knowing his response.

  “No.” He shakes his head, his eyes narrowing. “I told you, they’ll take me away. I can live with this. But living without you…” The desperation in his voice cuts me, and I bleed right along with him.

  “You can move in with us.”

  He laughs, the sound chilling me.

  “Cam, my parents—”

  “Stop!” he shouts, making me jump. “We’ve talked about this too many times. Don’t you ever get tired? I told you, no. I’m staying with my parents, and you’re keeping your mouth shut.”

  Frustrated, I turn away from him to get more paper towels, and I bat my eyes several times to keep the tears away. I bend down, making it easier for me to have access to his cut and press the towels against his thigh. After a hesitant glance in his direction, I bandage it up again. I’m about to suggest we go to the hospital when our PE coach walks in and starts yelling at us. She advances toward us and separates us, giving Camden just enough time to pull up his pants before she can see his stab wound.

  “What were you thinking?” My mom’s disappointment is reflected in my dad’s eyes.

  “I wasn’t,” I reply, my stomach dropping as a blush creeps up my neck.

  Unable to tell anyone what really happened, I let my parents think the worst. My PE coach caught me between Camden’s legs while he stood there with his pants down. My parents think what everyone else thought when the rumors ran wild throughout the school.

  Two weeks of suspension isn’t that bad though. Neither is being grounded for three months. What’s bad is that my parents no longer trust Camden or me, which means I can’t see him anymore—except at night when he climbs through my window and into my room.

  I crawl into bed with the memory of Camden and I being ushered into the principal’s office while the girls in the school laughed and called me names, and the boys cheered and congratulated Camden with slaps on his back. Thankfully, our coach had a firm grip on his shoulder, so he couldn’t attack any of those boys. I should’ve let Camden hold my hand when he went to grab it, but shame washed over me in that moment, and I moved away.

  It was the only time I’d ever moved away from him, and I know it’s changed us forever. He wouldn’t even look at me after that.

  I lie in bed, awake, until two a.m., when I realize Camden’s not coming. He’s never not come, no matter what.

  Fear grips me, threatening to choke the breath out of my lungs, and I finally run into my parents’ room and wake them. Through tear-stained cheeks, I tell them everything.

  I share Camden’s story. Our story.

  Neither of my parents says anything, but just as I’m finishing, my dad stops pacing the room and goes to his closet where he comes back with a gun in his hand. I step away from him and run into my mom.

  “Stay here,” my dad orders.

  But my mom and I follow him.

  Not able to match his speed, my mom and I run a few feet behind my dad. I don’t see my dad go to their front door because my focus is on Camden’s bedroom window. When I get to it, I push it upward, but it doesn’t budge. My fists bang on his window in desperation, and I call out his name. My mom moves me aside as my dad shouts obscenities at Camden’s dad. With my heart in my throat, I watch my mom hit Camden’s window with her elbow. She then reaches into the room through the small shattered hole, unlocks the window, and pushes it up.

  My mom helps me climb into the still room, and I hear her call 911 as I go to Camden’s bed where I find his lifeless bloody body. I brush his hair back and hear him groan, so I carefully ease myself into his bed and lie down next to him. Without opening his eyes, he reaches for me and tries to move his body closer to mine.

  “You’re gonna be okay, Cam,” I whisper repeatedly to him while I continue to comb my fingers through his hair.

  His labored breaths fall on my cheek, but I to try to soothe him, even after I hear the sirens approaching.

  EIGHT

  YANELYS

  TWELVE YEARS OLD

  My mom and I rode with Camden in the ambulance, but the EMTs made me sit in the front seat while my mom sat with him in the back. My heart, already broken, broke a little more when the doctors and nurses wheeled him away from me and led my mom
and me to a waiting room where we’ve been sitting for close to an hour.

  I wish my dad were here. He’s good at making me feel better. Not that my mom isn’t, but my dad’s better. And since he’s a firefighter and works with paramedics, he knows a lot of the people in the emergency room, and he’d have had answers by now. But he had to stay at Camden’s house to talk to the police.

  I let the tears fall down my face, hoping Camden can feel them and know I haven’t left him. My mom takes me in her arms, and I crawl into her lap, needing to feel like her little girl, being comforted and taken care of.

  In my mom’s arms, I close my eyes and reach for the quietest corner of my mind. I think about Camden, needing to believe that the harder I think about him, the more likely he’ll be okay. Images of his bruised body torture me. I hate leaving Camden in the hands of fate. I mean, it’s not like fate has been good to him so far.

  “He’s in God’s hands,” my mom says, correcting my thoughts.

  Her words sooth me like a balm to my soul and I feel better knowing that because God doesn’t let bad things happen. People do that all on their own, but God fixes things. He fixes people. He brings them together, like He did with Camden and me.

  “Let’s pray,” she says.

  With my head tucked under her chin, she begins to say “The Lord’s Prayer” in Spanish.

  With each word whispered from my mom’s lips, my stomach muscles begin to loosen, and my tears stop. Just as she is halfway through the prayer, my dad opens the door to the waiting room with a doctor and two nurses behind him. I move my bottom, trying to get off my mom, but she holds me tighter. My dad stops at the door and bows his head while my mom finishes her prayer.

  “Dad?” I whisper when I hear the word Amen.

  His head snaps to me. He runs his hands over his face and rubs his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. After a long sigh, he walks over and sits down next to us while the doctor and nurses talk among themselves by the doorway.

  “Yanelys,” he says softly.

  I look down while my heart thunders in my chest. My parents only use my full name when they’re upset.

  “If you had told us before…” He trails off and looks at my mom.

  My throat closes when he doesn’t continue talking. “Please, Daddy. Please tell me Cam’s not dead.” With my words hanging in the air, I can’t control the flow of tears or the hiccups choking me with every second that ticks by.

  “He’s gonna be okay.” From his chair, my dad takes my hand and brings me to him for a tight hug.

  I bury my face into his neck, but when he pulls me away, I look him in the eyes, giving him my full attention.

  “But, baby girl, you can’t keep these types of things from us. He could have died.”

  “Santiago,” my mom warns.

  My dad doesn’t look at her. “You know that, right?”

  “Yes.” I nod my head as fresh tears start to roll down my face even faster. “But I promised…” I look from my dad to my mom, not wanting them to be angry with me. “He said if I told, the police would take him away.”

  “They won’t.” My dad looks at my mom. “Cam is going to come live with us.”

  “Santiago,” my mom says again, her voice dripping with uncertainty.

  Her concern barely registers as I reach around my dad’s neck for another hug.

  “After everything he’s lived through, Carmen”—my dad shakes his head—“he can’t live with strangers.” His voice is sad without even a hint of the strength I normally hear behind it.

  “Of course not,” my mom agrees, which only makes me sob even more.

  In all the things Camden has been wrong about, this is the worst. My not telling almost cost him his life. And in the end, he was wrong. The police won’t be taking him away. He’ll be coming home where he belongs.

  “How bad is he?” My mom wants to know.

  I step away from my dad’s embrace, so I can pay better attention.

  My dad sighs again and looks at the doctor he came in with, who’s now standing by the door by himself.

  “I’m Dr. Mursuli.” The doctor extends his hand toward my mom.

  She stands up to shake it. He then does the same to me, and after a moment’s hesitation, I also shake his hand.

  “Per Santiago’s request, I’ll be treating Camden during his stay at the hospital. The majority of his assault took place on his face and chest, which resulted in a dislocated jaw and a broken nose. His eyes are swollen and bruised, but he’ll be okay. Those are just the minor injuries.”

  My mom takes in a sharp breath. “There are worse ones?”

  Dr. Mursuli nods his head and looks at the clipboard in his hand. “He’s suffered a concussion, and he has been in and out of consciousness since he arrived. He also has three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and some internal bleeding.”

  The doctor looks at all of us to make sure we understand, but I can’t listen anymore. I move away from them and stare at the vending machine, not wanting anything from there but needing some space.

  What’s happened has changed Camden and me. Another scar on top of all the others scars we’ve received every time Camden’s parents hit him. It’ll be up to me to help us move past it. I just hope I’m strong enough for him. For both of us, really.

  Lost in thought, I startle when my mom puts her hand on my shoulder, but I smile when she finally utters the words I’ve been waiting for. We can go see Camden. He’s still asleep, or unconscious, but relief fills me, knowing I get to see him.

  When we get to Camden’s room, the police stop my dad to ask him more questions—something about holding Camden’s parents at gunpoint—but my thoughts only circle around Camden, and although I hope my dad isn’t in trouble, I leave him to defend himself.

  On weighted legs, I walk slowly into Camden’s room. I go to his bed and sit on the chair next to it. Ignoring a beeping machine next to us, I take his hand in mine and swallow hard when I see him on oxygen. I squeeze my hand around his once to let him know I’m there, and then I take in his bruised face. Beneath the swelling and angry bruises, there’s a cut that goes through his top lip to his bottom lip. The gauze over his nose doesn’t hide the swelling, and there’s still dried blood under his bottom lip.

  Too scared to brush away the hair from over his eyes, I squeeze his hand again and quietly cry while my mom stands beside me with her hand on my shoulder.

  My mom and I stay in Camden’s room as day breaks while my dad stays in the waiting room after seeing Camden for a few minutes. A nurse tried to argue that I should leave, too, but my parents argued right back until she gave up. It’s not like I would have left anyway.

  I’m right where I need to be.

  I know that to be truer than anything else when, just after ten a.m., Camden finally opens his eyes and sees me. Sunlight shines through the open blinds, slivers of rays dancing on Camden’s bed.

  “Yan,” he whispers, squeezing my hand that’s still holding his. His beautiful face softens beneath the ugly scars.

  He looks down when I try to meet his eyes, so I do the only thing I know that will make him feel better. While my parents nap on the bed the nurse brought my mom a few hours ago, I crawl into Camden’s bed, careful not to touch his chest or any of the IV lines. Once I settle beside him, he inches closer to me and turns to face me, wincing as the pain radiates throughout his body.

  “I knew you’d save me,” he whispers, his breath falling on my cheek.

  For the first three days in the hospital, Camden and I are questioned by the police and the hospital social workers. They separate us, asking both of us about details neither of us wants to answer. When we are separated, my dad stays with Camden, and my mom takes me to the cafeteria. From the look on my mom’s face, I know she isn’t happy. When she starts to voice her concerns about Camden moving in with us, shock makes me clench my hands into fists.

  I get that we’re young, and I know most kids our age don’t act like us. Boys want to hang
out with other boys while girls want to play with other girls. But that’s not us. Whether we like it or not, Camden’s parents made us who we are. His parents brought us together and made us grow up faster than any of the other kids we know. I’m the one Camden reaches for, so I reach back as often as possible because I know how alone he always feels, how unwanted he thinks he is.

  I explain that to my mom, but her deep sigh and wrinkled forehead let me know that she doesn’t understand.

  On the fourteenth day, my parents and I arrive at the hospital just after nine a.m., only to find Camden’s room empty.

  In that moment, despair conquers all of my thoughts, grasping on to me so that I can’t move. My dad lied to me. He said they wouldn’t take Camden away, and they did. Even though my mom reassures me that he’s okay, I can’t be sure until I see him. We haven’t even met the social worker who was assigned to him and took him to the group home, even after my parents had told everyone—the police, doctors, hospital social workers—they wanted to be his guardian.

  Camden’s right. People go about their business, unaffected by your wants. They only do as much as they have to, nothing more.

  And no one had to make sure Camden came home with us. They didn’t care about what he wanted.

  He’s nothing more than another job. Another voiceless face.

  Walking into the group home fills me with dread. Dread of the sad stories that fill the place. Dread of the bland walls waiting for me inside. Dread for the boy I love who now has to live within these walls, full of secrets and shame no one wants revealed.

  After meeting Camden’s social worker, I follow her instructions to get to Camden’s room while my parents go with her to meet with the woman who runs the home. I hesitate by his door, but then I remind myself that it’s Camden.

  Life around us might change. But we’ll always be us.

  I walk through his open door with a big smile on my face, and I find him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.