by Libba Bray
Here’s a heaping plate of I Hate You. Would you like fries with that?
Staci & Co. change their order four times just to mess with me. They all want Fresh Fruitified Frothies, which are a pain to make. It’s February, girls. Order coffee. I’m at the blender for what seems like hours, developing carpal tunnel syndrome, or aggravating the carpal tunnel syndrome I’ve already brought on by frequent self-abuse, which I suppose I could cut back on. Then again, everyone needs a hobby. The Frothie-making must have been harder than I thought, because when I bring out the tray of drinks, my hands start to twitch and jerk. Every muscle in my arms is break dancing. I can’t hold on to the tray. It goes flying, splattering Staci in blueberry-strawberry-peach soy moo.
Staci lets out a little scream. “You did that on purpose, Cameron Smith.”
“I swear I didn’t,” I say. My left arm is still shaking. I use my right to hold it steady, which makes it look like I’m trying to hug myself.
“He totally did do it on purpose,” one of the wannabes says. She rips four or five eco-friendly napkins from the popup dispenser and hands them to Staci.
“God, he is such a freak,” Staci mutters just loud enough for everyone to hear. Even the ankle-biters in the joint have stopped running around screaming, more interested in the action going on up front.
Mr. Babcock struts around the fry vats, hiking up his pants. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“He threw our Frothies at us.” Staci shows off her wet shirt.
“Cameron? Do you have a problem?” Mr. Babcock says, tearing his eyes away from Staci’s Frothie-drenched chest.
“No. It was an accident. I don’t know what happened. It’s like I lost control of my arms or something and—”
Mr. Babcock holds up his silencing finger. “Never explain or blame, Mr. Smith. Ladies, at Buddha Burger, we take safety seriously. Your meal is on the house. Lena, could you retake these girls’ order?”
Lena doesn’t look up from her graphic novel. “I’m on break. Fifteen minutes. By law.”
Mr. Babcock sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it myself. Cameron, I’m gonna have to ask you to hand in your Buddha badge.”
Every pair of eyes is on me as I hand over my Meditating Buddha Cow pin and hat. Only one person isn’t watching. A bronzy girl with pink hair in the far corner eating a Buddha’s Bounty Hot Fudge Sundae. She’s all lit up from the afternoon sun. And she has wings. No, that’s … ohmygodyes! There they are—white, fluffy, big-assed wings tucked behind her back. No, dude, that can’t be right. People do not have wings.
“Cameron?”
“Huh?” I say, turning back to Mr. Babcock.
“Take your things and leave now. Don’t forget to clock out.”
Staci and crew form a little huddle. They make it seem like they’re trying not to laugh, but really, they’re enjoying the show. And when I turn back to look at the table in the far corner, it’s empty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In Which I Am Subjected to the Slings and Arrows of Dinner with My Family
“I thought maybe we could all go to Luigi’s for an early dinner tonight,” Dad announces. He makes these announcements periodically, the “let’s act like a family” edicts. For all I know, he may make them a lot, but it’s rare that we’re all gathered in the same place at the same time to hear them. We’re like electrons both attracting and repelling each other.
“Sorry, Daddy. I can’t,” Jenna says. She bothers to sound apologetic. “I’m going to the movies with Chet and everybody.”
“What time?” Dad asks.
“Eight o’clock.”
“It’s only five now. You could eat dinner with us and then go.”
Jenna’s mouth falls open. “By myself? I can’t show up by myself. That’s lame. What if they’re late and I’m sitting there all alone looking like a loser, like …”
Cameron, my loser brother.
“Besides, Lisa and Tonya are picking me up at six. We’re meeting the guys for pizza first.”
“Do you need money?” Mom asks.
“Why?” I snap. “She doesn’t actually eat the food. I’m sure she’s got enough for a diet soda.”
Jenna glares at me.
“All right, settle down. Well, guess it’ll just be the three of us, then.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Would it kill you to spend a little time with your family, Cameron?”
I don’t know. Would it kill you to stop doing the nasty with your TA? Why don’t you admit that’s the real reason for this sudden family powwow? You’ve been home late every night for a month. Is Raina on vacation?
I could say this out loud, but I don’t.
“I’m really behind on my reading for Spanglish. That Don Quixote is one funny guy. Wouldn’t want to miss a minute of it.”
“You’re reading Don Quixote?” Mom asks. “Did you know Cervantes is considered the first modern novelist?”
“No. Wow. Well. I better hop to.” I disappear upstairs but I can still hear them in the kitchen arguing.
“So, do you want to go to Luigi’s?” Dad asks, sounding irritated.
“Oh, I don’t care,” Mom answers.
“We could get sushi.”
“That would be fine. I could just order a salad.”
“Mary, if you don’t want to eat sushi, just say so.”
“No, no, that’s fine. You know me. I hate to make decisions.”
I know how their evening will go. It’s like a rerun of a show you’ve seen a million times. They’ll end up going to Luigi’s, where they always go, where Dad can hold court and be the big man and Mom can have a hard time deciding what to order until Dad finally orders something for her that she’ll hate and pick at and make him mad. He’ll mutter something about how if she doesn’t like it she doesn’t have to eat it and she’ll make a big show of taking a bite and saying no, no, it’s good, she’s just not all that hungry after all. They’ll exhaust their topics of conversation—his work, her work, us kids—before the appetizers come and spend the rest of the meal in silence, looking for other people they know who could come over and rescue them from each other.
Yeah. Think I’ll be skipping this one, thanks. But apparently, Dad has other ideas. He knocks on my door as he opens it, a habit I find beyond annoying. Really, why bother knocking at all?
“Cameron, get dressed. We’re all going to Luigi’s for dinner.”
“I thought Jenna has that thing?” I sputter. “If Jenna’s not going I should be exempt.”
“This is family,” Dad says. “No one’s exempt.”
Luigi’s is billed as the place “for families and fun!” I have a hard time putting those two things together in the same sentence. Luigi is a nice enough guy—short, balding, originally from New Jersey. His wife, Peri, is a blond Amazon with a thick Texas accent. Unlike my parents, Luigi and Peri are a unit, crazy about each other, and I wonder what that’s like, why some people stay in love and others don’t.
“Hey, y’all! Welcome to Luigi’s,” Peri says, greeting us at the door with laminated menus.
“Well, hey there, Peri. When did you start working the door?” Dad teases, pouring on the charm.
Peri laughs. “I know! Can you believe Lou’s finally lettin’ me play hostess? I’ve only been askin’ fer about a year! Made me take a test and ever’thin’. Can you imagine?”
“Only so I could figure out a way to spend more time with you,” Luigi says, and kisses her cheek.
Peri beams. “Always the romantic.”
“Enjoy your dinner!” Luigi tells us.
Peri leads us past the trompe l’oeil wall made to look like a garden in Italy, and the red and white checkered tablecloths decked out with carnations and bottomless baskets of bread-sticks. I think an alarm goes off if anyone is without a starch product at any time. Peri takes us to a table right by the faux gas fireplace, which flares with this sort of weird blue-orange flame that doesn’t even pretend to look real.
�
��Here you go. Your server will be right with you. Thank you, and enjoy your meal,” she says, like she’s a graduate from a hostessing school.
“Isn’t this nice?” Dad says, opening his menu, blocking us out. Mom does the same. Jenna looks miserable, but she’s too much of a good girl to risk disappointing Dad. That’s why she gave in. She doesn’t have the close personal relationship with his back that I do. I wish I’d taken the time to get high first so I could at least find this all somewhat amusing.
“Who’s got something good to tell us?” Dad says, once the orders have been placed and the overflowing bread basket has been raided. We all need something in our mouths to keep what we want to say from jumping out.
“I’ve got something,” Jenna says, smiling, right on cue. “You know how spring break is coming up? And you know how I’ve always wanted to learn how to ski? Well, Chet’s church group has a ski trip planned, and they have an extra place for me.”
“Church group?” Dad says.
“I don’t know, honey,” Mom jumps in. “Skiing is very expensive.”
“It wouldn’t be that much. They got a great deal, and I could use some of my savings. …”
Oooh, bad move, Jen. Mentioning the use of college funds for anything other than that purpose is an automatic disqualifier, but thank you for playing.
Dad gives one of those oh-you-silly-girl smiles meant to show his good nature. But since he doesn’t have a good nature, it mostly comes across as assholian. “Those savings are for college.”
“Dad,” Jenna says, exhaling loudly, eyes toward the ceiling.
“No. Now, honey, you know the rule about that.”
“I never get to do anything.”
“You could use my savings,” I say, biting into buttered onion bread. “I don’t think there’s a college that would take me.”
Dad stifles a sigh, tries to put a smile on it. “Well, we’re gonna work on those SATs starting this summer. That way, you’ll be prepared come next year.”
“Here’s hoping,” I say, fingers crossed.
“Top-say eing-bay an erk-jay,” Jenna singsongs in the Pig Latin we used to use as our special twin language. Back when we were pals.
My father takes a belt of his Scotch. “Hope has nothing to do with it, Cameron. It’s hard work. If wishes grew on trees we’d all be rich.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Dad.”
“Neither does a kid with your IQ nearly failing high school,” he says, and there’s nothing smug about it. He really looks pained.
“Did I tell you all that I’m going to be teaching a course on the poetic and prose Eddas next semester?” Mom says, trying to change the subject. “Remember how much you kids loved those Viking sagas when you were little? Odin and Freya, Balder and Frigg.”
Dad’s eyes are still on me, like I’m something he just can’t find a theorem for. “I know you want me to give up on you, Cameron. But I’m just not built that way.”
I could say thanks. The words are on my tongue. But, apparently, I’m not built that way. He’ll make me care and then he’ll give me his back.
“Could you pass the salt?” I say, and I give my spaghetti a dousing, even though it doesn’t need it.
After dinner, we walk along the strip mall. The shops are getting ready to close. People make their last-minute purchases. Mom and Jenna go into the bookstore, while Dad steps into the athletic shoe store three doors down. I stand out on the sidewalk, waiting. Lightning pulses in the distance like cosmic Morse code. Beat-beat, flare.
An old homeless dude in a tinfoil hat pushes a squeaky shopping cart through the mostly empty parking lot, tossing cans in when he finds them. He stops in front of me, nods toward the sky.
“Something’s brewing. Can’t you feel it?”
“Rain,” I answer.
“No, sir. Lot more ’n rain.” He points to his hat. “Better get you one of these.”
“Will do.”
“The world’s going to hell. It’s all gonna end.” He points to his hat again. “Get yourself one of these.”
He fishes a flattened Rad soda can out from under a sewer grate. A truck cuts through the lot, its headlights pushing against the dark. The wind shifts, bringing a faint smell of smoke. The old dude drives his cart down the sidewalk, the wheels shrieking the whole way.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two Weeks Later
Of What Happens When I Punch Chet King in the Stomach and Not Even Intentionally
“Dude, you okay?”
I’m doubled over the bathroom sink, trying to quiet the weirdness in my head. Stoner Kevin’s voice sounds like it’s coming from deep inside a tunnel.
“Seriously, you don’t look so good.”
“I think I ate something bad,” I manage.
Something really bad. Something that might be warping me on a genetic level.
He gives me a knowing grin. “Awww, duuuude! Are you ’shrooming? Oh, man, you are totally taking the Psilocybin Express to Club Mushroom Med, admit it!”
In the bathroom mirror, my face is paler and more gaunt than usual. My eyes are huge and haunted. Under my skin, my nerve endings seem to twitch and burn, smoldering match heads just blown out and wispy with smoke.
“You look wrecked, my man. Why don’t you ditch? Take off, enjoy the ride.”
“Can’t. I’m nearly failing Spanglish. One more absence and I’m gone.”
“Dude. Sucks.”
The bell rings. It clangs in my head like a gong played through a megastack of amps.
“Come on,” Stoner Kevin says. “I’ll sit next to you in class. Help you out.”
“You’re in my Spanglish class?” I ask.
“Uh … yeah.” He grabs my backpack for me.
“The whole year?” I try to picture him in there and can’t.
“Dude. Yeah.” Kevin shakes his head, laughs. “Whole year. Don’t you remember?”
No. I don’t.
“Yeah. Just messing with you,” I say, and let Stoner Kevin lead the way to class, because I’m having trouble remembering that, too.
“You should have all read the assigned chapters in Don Quixote over the weekend. Remember this will be on the state SPEW test,” Mr. Glass says, erasing the blackboard and writing the word THEME in the center. He underlines it just in case we missed it. “Who would like to start today’s discussion?”
“Can’t be a discussion if we’re just supposed to spit back what the state’s looking for on the SPEW,” the Goth girl behind me snipes.
Mr. Glass scans the room, seeking out those who are friendly to his “let’s get jazzed about forced reading” rap. He knows to overlook me. The weird muscle twitches in my leg haven’t stopped. And from the corner of my eye, I think I see flames licking at the walls. When I turn my head, they’re sucked back in. It’s the lack of sleep, I tell myself. Unless I get good and wasted, I can’t manage more than an hour or two. I’m so exhausted I’m seeing shit.
“Anybody?” Mrs. Rector asks when no one answers Glass’s prompt. “Miss Rodriguez?”
Our future valedictorian doesn’t disappoint. “Sampson Carrasco comes up with a way to trick Don Quixote into accepting his life and his place in society and, eventually, his death.”
“Yes, very good, and how does he do that? Remember—you must cite examples from the text. That’s what you’ll do on the test. Don’t overthink it—too much thinking will kill you on the SPEW test.”
“Well, instead of telling him that he’s crazy or he can’t do this, he can’t do that, he encourages him to go on all these adventures. But Sampson disguises himself and goes along.”
“Yes. And why does he do that … Mr. King?”
“Me? Aw, I’m sorry, Mr. Glass. I didn’t read it.”
“Why not, Mr. King?”
“I object on religious grounds.”
Mr. Glass rolls his eyes as Chet’s football buddies snicker. My head feels like it could explode. Like I need to scream or hit somebody. And just like that, my lef
t arm gets a rogue message and jerks out.
Mr. Glass squints in my direction. “Yes, Mr. …” He has to consult his class roster to remember who I am. “Smith? You must have had something you wanted to add?”
“No. I …” The buzzing in my ears is getting worse. “Stop it!”
The football guys start humming the annoying theme song from a classic sci-fi show. A fresh wave of laughter travels over the class and Mrs. Rector has to shush them; it’s all like a detonation to my ears. Press my palms to my head. Stop, stop, stop.
“Come on, Mr. Smith. Venture out of your shell.” Yeah, fuck you, too, Mr. Glass. Man, my head. “Why does Sampson Carrasco travel with Don Quixote in disguise? To trick him?” Stop. Please. “To lure him? To help him? Why …”
“Because …” The buzzing inside me is so intense I can’t take it anymore. “Because … fuck off!”
Mrs. Rector’s mouth hangs open. Mr. Glass, for once, is speechless. Somebody gasps, “Oh my God.”
Mr. Glass’s mouth snaps back into a tight line. “Mr. Smith, you will leave the classroom.”
“I’m sorry, I … aaaaahhhh!” My body’s on fire with pain. “Goddammit!”
Mrs. Rector points to the door with dramatic flair. “Leave. My. Classroom. Now.”
“It’s okay, Señora Rector,” Stoner Kevin says. “Cameron’s cool. He just ate some wicked mushrooms, that’s all.”
Yeah, thanks for that, Kev. I try to grab my backpack, but it’s like my muscles are from another planet, jerking and twitching in a bad robot dance that gets more snickering from the class.
Mrs. Rector’s voice takes on that I’m-above-it-all tone. “I’ve had quite enough. Could someone please escort Mr. Smith to Principal Hendricks’s office?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Rector.” Chet King gets out of his seat and towers over me. “Come on, bro. You’re not being funny anymore.”
On an ordinary day I would hate Chet King both for his prison guard stance and for calling me “bro.” But this is not an ordinary day, and all I can feel is totally freaked out that my body isn’t getting any of my brain’s frantic commands to move. His hand lands on my arm, and it’s like a burn.