* * *
As soon as I got home I checked on him.
“You okay, Cam?”
He was sitting on his bed, staring into space.
“I wanted to say sorry.”
“For what?” he said. “Implying I was too gay to fight back?”
“I never said that.”
“You called me one-dimensional once. I know what that meant. It was code—for too over-the-top, too flamboyant.”
“That’s not what I meant at all,” I said. “I’m really sorry if it came across that way.”
“Just go, Pops. I’ve been up all night with my own guilt. I don’t need yours too.”
“Guilt?” I said. “Guilt about what?”
Cam shrugged. “Maybe I sent him some kind of signal, without even knowing it.”
“What happened wasn’t about sex,” I said. “It was about power.”
Cam snorted. “Oooh. Listen to you. One minute you’re an ignorant victim blamer and the next you’re an enlightened advocate.”
I sighed. “I never said it was your fault, Cam.”
“Whatever, Pops.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Cam. Please.”
He picked up his phone, stared at the screen.
I wanted to go to him, put my arms around him, and tell him everything would be okay.
“If you want I can help you break the news to Mom or Dad,” I said. “Just let me know.”
He looked up. “Are you kidding me? I’m not telling anyone about this. Ever. And neither are you. Got it?”
The edge on his voice cut me to the core.
“Cam—”
“Promise me, Poppy.”
I’d have done anything to soften that edge. “I promise.”
I looked at him, up and down and all around. “Just so you know,” I said, “I don’t think you’re too anything. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be yourself.”
He fixed his eyes back on his phone. “You can go now.”
My sweet Cam. He was no longer the antidote to sadness—he was the poster boy.
* * *
I walked up and down Elgin feeling not like a chicken but like something less.
A life form at its lowest level.
An organism. No. A microbe.
Microbes caused disease.
Mr. Chen shouted at me from the shop door. “More oomph, Poppy Flower, more oomph!”
Miracle tugged on his shirt. When he bent down she whispered in his ear. A moment later he waved me over.
He looked me up and down. “You always did strike me as a dimwit. Why didn’t you tell me about your brother?”
I glanced at Miracle. “What did she tell you?”
I was scared for her, for what she might have understood from the other night.
He answered as if it were a trick question. “She said your brother was beat up.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “He was.”
“Well, go home,” he said. “Be with him.”
“I think I’d rather work,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
He gave me a questioning look. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
He shrugged. “Well, feel free to spend your shift on the barbershop bench. You do most of the time anyway.”
Miracle sat beside me. Her feet couldn’t reach the ground so she kicked her shoes together to make the soles light up.
“Poppy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to be a chicken when you grow up?”
“Pfssh. No.”
“What do you want to be, then?”
I took the opportunity to try to inspire her. “I want to be like Rosie the Riveter.”
“Does she live on James Street?”
I laughed. “No. She’s not a real person. She’s a—”
“Clown?”
“No.”
“Elephant?”
“No. She’s more of a symbol…an icon.”
“Like the poop emoji?”
Inspiring six-year-olds was hard.
“Basically,” I said, “when I grow up I want to do something badass.”
Miracle hopped up and did a backflip.
“Like that?”
“Jesus, Miracle. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Have you been practicing?” she asked.
“Backflips? No.”
“That’s the only way you’ll get better. I started on a trampoline. Now I can do it on concrete.”
“Hence the heart attack,” I said.
She sat back down.
“Do you know what my mother grew up to be?”
One way or another, she was going to kill me.
“I’m…not sure?”
“She gives massages in her bedroom.”
“Oh. That’s…interesting.”
“She doesn’t have a license though. If you don’t have a license a social worker comes and takes your kids.”
I didn’t know what to say so I put my arm around her and pulled her in close.
“Is giving massages badass?” she asked.
“Um, yeah, sure. I mean, it’s hard work, kneading on people’s backs and stuff.”
“Lewis babysits me when Mama works because having a kid around is not very per-fessional.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see that.”
“Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to be famous someday.”
It took everything in me to keep from saying, No. You won’t.
She hopped up from the bench and took a piece of chalk out of her pocket. She drew a circle on the sidewalk and labeled it Miracle’s stage. She stood in the center and sang about being touched for the very first time. Six years old and singing Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” I actually clutched my feathery heart. I wanted to change her stage to a globe. I’d draw a stick girl underneath, holding it up with two strong arms. I’d say, Look, Miracle. That’s you. You can have it all. At least until the next time it rained.
I went back to the shop.
“Mr. Chen?”
He looked up from the deep-fat fryer. “Yes?”
“You said I could go home. I still don’t want to but there’s somewhere else I need to be. And I want to take Miracle.”
Miracle looked confused but Mr. Chen didn’t hesitate. “Do whatever it is you have to do, Poppy Flower.”
* * *
As we approached the arena Miracle said, “I came here on a field trip. I didn’t fall once. The teacher said I was unnatural.”
“I think you mean a natural,” I said. “That means you’re really good at something.”
I put my hand on the door handle. My heart started to beat double time.
“Although, if you think about it, unnatural would work too. I mean, it’s natural for little kids to fall when they’re new to skating, so not falling could be considered pretty unnatural, I guess.”
Miracle squinted through the glass. “Are we going in or what?”
I could see Eddie behind the front desk. He waved us in. “Here to watch the game?”
I felt a tingle of excitement. “There’s a game today?”
He looked at the clock. “Right after practice.”
I squeezed Miracle’s hand. “You’re in luck.”
* * *
Eve shrieked when she saw me. “Poppy!”
Within seconds I was surrounded in a group hug.
“Ouch,” said Eve. “Jesus Christ.”
It was Miracle, forcing her way through the huddle.
Eve rubbed her hip. “Someone get this girl a pair of skates. She’d make an awesome jammer.”
The girls were in full bout makeup—Wanda Onda Warpath had painted a Ziggy Stardust–inspired lightning bolt across her eye, and Katniss Evermean had transformed her face into a sugar skull. Miracle looked at them in awe.
Eve said, “You guys here to watch the game?”
I grinned. “We are now.”
They did all the u
sual drills—starts and stops, one-foot glides, double-knee falls. I stole a sideways glance at Miracle. She was entranced.
I leaned in. “So? What do you think?”
She pointed at Bashin’ Robbins’s legs. “I want tights with holes all over them, just like hers.”
I tried not to let my disapproval show.
A few minutes later, Eve appeared with Miracle-sized skates.
“Hey, kid,” she said. “Want to give it a go?”
Miracle nodded. “Can I have makeup too?”
While the new girl, Miss Fortune, painted rainbows on her cheeks, Miracle reached out and stroked Eve’s hot-pink satin hot pants. “I like your underwear.”
I thrust a mouthguard into Miracle’s mouth. “They’re not underwear,” I said. “They’re shorts.”
The safety gear made Miracle look tiny. I hoped she’d be okay.
Eve took her onto the rink. Miracle skated once around the track, then popped her mouthguard out. “Look, Poppy! I’m unnatural.”
I watched like a proud mama.
Eve gave Miracle the helmet cover with the star designation. “You’re the jammer now,” she said. “You have to bust through the pack. Just like you did with the group hug.”
They began skating around the track, the pack at the front, Miracle at the back. The blockers left plenty of gaps, which Miracle skated through low and fast. When she made it to the other side she pumped her arms like a bodybuilder.
She was the VIP of everything.
When the Iron Maidens arrived, Miracle and I found a spot on the bleachers. We stayed for the whole bout.
Halfway through the game, Miracle said she wanted muscles like Intoxiskate. My heart swelled.
When the Brawlipops won, Miracle said it was the best day of her life and I thought, Wow, it doesn’t take much.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A week went by. Cam wouldn’t talk. My loudmouthed, confident brother…mute. He told our parents he had the flu. They believed him. Every time I went to his room he pretended to sleep. I said, “You have to talk to me sometime.”
I wanted to help him, to be his support. But he wanted nothing to do with me.
I guess I was his bad outweighing the good.
Maybe it was time to tip the scales.
* * *
I spent twenty minutes warming up, swinging my arm, rehearsing my line. I’d never given anyone a knuckle sandwich before.
I could see him through the window, adding the finishing touches to a client’s hair.
When the last customer left the shop I walked in like I owned the place.
Fabian came toward me. He had a black eye, a swollen nose, and some scrapes on the bottom of his chin.
Cam had fought back.
“Sorry, we’re closed.”
I’d had it all planned. I was going to ask if he was hungry. And if he said yes—and surely he would have as it was the end of his shift—I was going to say, Here, have a knuckle sandwich.
But a knuckle sandwich seemed lame now—now that Cam had given him a three-course meal.
“Can I help you?” he said.
I looked at his hands. I wanted to break his fingers.
He had a turned-up nose. He was a pig. A nasty, horrible, deviant pig. And pigs loved to eat.
“I was just wondering,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
He looked into my eyes. “Are you on something?”
I made a fist.
“You’re not planning on hitting me, are you?”
He had a smirk on his face that needed wiping off. I pulled my arm back and punched him across the chin.
“That was for my brother.”
I took off running. I couldn’t wait to get home. Cam would see me sweaty and shaking and out of breath and he’d know—I would do anything for him. We could even do away with the pinkie promises because my word was so solid it didn’t need gimmicks.
I crept into the house and snuck up the stairs. He was sitting at his vanity, staring into the mirror.
“Guess what?”
“What?”
I showed him my knuckles. He stared at them blankly.
“I punched the bastard,” I said. “I went to Bliss and I punched him. Right in the face.”
He looked back at the mirror.
“Did you hear me?” I said.
“Yeah. I heard you.”
“And?”
He picked up one of his lipsticks and dropped it in the trash. “You think one little punch makes everything better?”
“No, I just thought—”
He threw in his mascara too. “He didn’t steal my granola bar, Pops.”
I moved the trash can away from him. “Why are you throwing your makeup away?”
“Because I don’t feel like myself anymore.”
“Maybe we can put it in a box,” I said. “Until you’re ready to wear it again.”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t need your meaningless advice, Poppy.”
I sat on the edge of his bed, wished I could reach out and touch him. I wished I had a magic wand that would make everything better.
I traced my finger along the striped pattern of his bedspread. “I saw Fabian’s face,” I said. “Looks like you gave him a good beating.”
“Good thing,” he said. “Otherwise someone might think I just let it happen.”
I sighed. “I said I was sorry. Can’t we just move on?”
He stared at his reflection in the mirror.
“It’s like being inside a big block of ice,” he said. “You just stand there, frozen in fear, wishing you could escape, but you can’t.”
My poor Cam.
I looked at my knuckles. “I just wanted you to know…I’d do anything for you.”
He looked up. “Can you turn back time?”
“No—”
“Then you’re basically useless.”
“Cam—”
“I’m going to bed now, Poppy.”
I looked at his alarm clock. “It’s not even nine o’clock.”
He turned to face me. “I know how to tell time.”
His face was like stone. He stared at me till I shut the door.
* * *
I went to the living room. I started with “I have something to tell you” and ended with “Maybe you should call the police.” I used the word assault and let them fill in the blanks. I broke my parents’ hearts and stole their souls. Dad pulled me tight to his chest. He smelled like I remembered, like the air in the kitchen at Christmas, all cinnamon-y and good.
I asked if I could stay the night with friends. They said yes. Then they looked at each other with eyes that were lost and headed up to see Cam.
* * *
I went straight to the bridge. They were all there.
“I told my parents about Cam.”
“How’d they take it?” asked Lewis.
“They’re devastated.”
Buck rubbed my back. “Well, it probably didn’t come as a complete shocker.”
I twisted away from him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he said, “it’s a well-known fact that gay men are way more promiscuous than straight guys.”
There was a stunned silence.
I stood up. “Screw you, Buck.”
He chased me up the embankment. “Poppy, stop.”
I turned to face him. “Can we ever spend time together without you saying something stupid?”
“What did I say?”
“First of all, Cam is not a man, he’s a boy. And he was assaulted. And second of all, your ‘well-known fact,’ as you call it, is a load of crap.”
“I’m sorry, Pidge.”
“You’re always sorry.”
“I say things I don’t mean. I don’t know why.”
“I don’t either. All I know is I’m sick of it.”
“What can I do to make it better?”
“Take a vow of silence?”
He zipped his lips. I didn’t laugh.
Maybe that’s all I deserved anyway.
“I still have the key to Isaac’s,” he said.
I took his hand. “Let’s go.”
He kept the conversation light. He listed all the chocolate bars he missed from back home—Wispas, Yorkies, Curly Wurlys, Flakes. I asked him if he ate fish and chips every night and he said yes, at the top of Big Ben. When we got to the apartment he tucked me into bed. He ran downstairs to the bistro and brought back hot chocolate and donuts. Lady and the Tramp appeared on the flat-screen TV. We sang the Siamese-cat song even though it felt racist, and then he said, “Good night, Pidge” and turned out the light. He was ninety percent asshole and ten percent hero. He was chocolate during a diet. He was like a last meal on death row—indulgent, delicious, irrelevant.
I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Tell me it’ll be okay.”
He was the king of bullshit.
“It’ll be okay, love.”
I closed my eyes. My dreams were of Cam.
* * *
When I got home the next morning there was a police cruiser outside. I stood in the hallway and listened. Miracle was wrong. The cops did care. They told Cam he was brave and that he wasn’t alone. They said he had nothing to feel ashamed about, that it wasn’t his fault.
When the cops left I went to his room. “I know that was hard,” I said, “but this is good, right? Fabian will get arrested. And you’ll get support.”
He looked up. “This is good.” He said it two, three, four times, as if he were rehearsing a line for a play, ingraining it in his memory. He started laughing. He was wearing grey track pants and a hoodie, like he was some kind of prisoner. He was almost unrecognizable. I read once that happy tears and sad tears looked different under a microscope. Cam might have been laughing, but I figured what was running down his face had the molecular structure of sadness.
He wiped his eyes. “Thanks, Poppy. That was hysterical. I can always count on you for a laugh.”
I was still in the doorway. I moved closer, even though I was scared. Of him. Of the way he was staring at me. Of the way he was squeezing the four fingers of his right hand with the four fingers of his left. Be careful with that pinkie, I thought. That pinkie is mine.
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