by LJ Evans
I always asked my mama the same question at this point. I asked, “And how’d you know I was a girl?”
Mama would wink at me and lean in real conspiratorial like, her brown eyes twinkling. “Well, that would be Jake again. One day he felt you kicking in my tummy, and he simply said, ‘That baby girl can’t wait to meet me,’ and so we all knew it was true. You were a girl.”
Swear to God that’s what my mama has always told me you said. My parents didn’t even come up with a boy name. I guess you were waiting for me then just like I had to wait for you later. And three years and two weeks after you were born, I came along. Camdyn Marina Swayne. My middle name, Marina, being after your mama.
From that moment in my mama’s stomach, when you said I was waiting to meet you, I was always waiting to meet you. Always waiting for your mosaic eyes to light upon me. It felt like that was the only time I ever was truly alive... when you were watching me.
Some kids do crazy stunts to get their parent’s attention, but the only person whose attention I ever wanted was yours. Did you realize that? Or did you just tolerate the crazy neighbor kid who couldn’t seem to leave your side? I don’t think you minded. I think we were always meant to be together. Remember, I could tell when you were lying.
Anyway, everything I did, from my very first memory, was in order to get you to look at me, laugh at me, or just sit next to me. The first time I actively remember using my wily ways to get your attention must have been right around the same time as the “tree house incident”. We were eating Popsicles out on the steps of your parent’s porch, licking the gooey sweetness faster than a dog at a water bowl, when I realized that you had your eyes on the boys playing football on the street. I knew that as soon as you were done, you were going to be off that step and on the street with them.
Even as young as you were, the boys in the neighborhood loved it when you threw the ball to them. You were destined to have a football in your hands at all times. And, even though later I would be an absolute tomboy, footballs and my hands were always like north poles of magnets trying to come together. That was one game that I just couldn’t ever really play.
At that moment, all I knew was that I didn’t want you out on the street with the boys. I wanted you with me. So, what did I do? Well, I just put my sticky little hand into yours and squeezed so hard that you exclaimed, “Cam!”
That drew our daddies’ attention. My daddy winked at yours and said, “Look at those two stuck like glue. Someday we’ll be griping about the cost of a white wedding!”
Your daddy chuckled, but our mamas, swaying on the porch swing, looked down and saw two dirty, sticky messes and just rolled their eyes. “Don’t be wishing any such thing,” my mama scolded, but my daddy was still grinning.
You pulled me up and said with disgust, “Let’s get another Popsicle.”
But, you know what, you didn’t drop my hand, not even though you were seven and grossed out by girls. Instead, you held it all the way into the house to the freezer where we stood for a long time cooling off before we raided it again with those sticky, dirty hands.
It wasn’t until after eighth grade when your life changed, that you’d say to me, “I’m never getting married or having kids, Cami. I wouldn’t do this to another kid.” And, I’d know that you were serious because you only called me Cami when you really wanted to make sure I was paying attention. And you never, ever called me Camdyn. Only that once. God… Did you realize that? Did you do it on purpose? I’m almost sure you didn’t. It doesn’t matter, I was always Cam. And I liked it that way because I fit in with the boys that way. Cami was a girl name. Cam. Well that was just me. Me with you.
As we grew up, and even after your little sister came along two years after me, it was mostly you and I playing together. You didn’t seem as interested in her. Poor Mia. Mia Andrea Phillips with the Andrea after my mama. Mia was always such a good kid, and later, a good friend to me when you were away.
One of the reasons we were together so much was because your mama looked after me while my mama was working at the hospital and our daddies were at the car dealership. As a website designer, your mama could do her work and bake chocolate chip cookies all at the same time. Even then, your home was my home. Sometimes my memories are so blended together that I can’t remember whose house things happened in.
It didn’t matter to me whose house we were at as long as we were together; which is also probably why I hated school so much, especially before I started kindergarten, because you went away for the majority of the day. I think I was at my worst then. Well… Maybe not. I can think of some times later when I was worse. Your poor mama! Only the good Lord knows how she put up with me as she did. I can remember her chasing me down the block on more than one occasion. When she’d catch me, she’d always say, “Where do you think you’re going young lady?”
I’d look at her as if she was an ogre, and I’d always say, “I’m goin’ with Jake.”
She’d laugh, and pick me up, kicking and screaming. “Someday, young lady, you’ll have another young man you’re following, and all I can say is, have mercy on his soul.”
It’s astounding that Marina and my mama didn’t agree to lock me in a closet during the day. I was bitter, grumpy, and mean. But, once you came home, I was all sweet smiles.
We’d find ourselves on your bed tucked up liked two possums. You’d read me whatever silly book that your first or second grade teacher would send home with you or I’d hold the flash cards up for you to practice your math facts. It didn’t matter to me what I was doing as long as I was doing it with you.
Once you were done with your homework, we’d be out on the street riding our bikes, playing tag, having mud fights, and, basically, finding anything and everything to get us dirty. Now that I’m grown up, and I think of all the wacko’s that live out there preying off young kids, I’m surprised our mamas let us take off like that. But, our community felt safe. Our street felt safe. And when I was with you, I was always safe. Whenever I got hurt, there you were, with an arm around me and that heavenly scent of yours, like warm chocolate cookies and boy. Like home.
The boys on the block came along with us a lot. At least, that’s how I thought of it. Them with us. I think they thought of it as some annoying little brat they had to drag with them. You didn’t. One time Paul Lambert found me tagging after you, and he said, “Cripes, Jake, did you have to bring the baby with you? We’re hunting ‘coons after all!”
And do you remember what you did? You punched him so hard in the gut that he landed in the mud of the creek bed.
Everyone just stared at him and you and me for a long time. Then you turned and headed down the creek, and I followed, but not before sticking my tongue out at Paul. No one ever complained about me again, at least not when I was around. Someday, you’d punch Paul over me again, but for a different reason. I promise. I’ll stay focused and save that story too.
When I finally did get to go to school, I didn’t hate it quite as much because at least we’d walk together and sometimes I’d see you at lunch… and I’d find other ways to be with you. But, still, school was never my favorite place. My poor mama and daddy got called down to the school quite a bit because of my focus issues. And anger issues. Especially if I knew you were outside at recess, and I was still inside.
“Mrs. Morris, I have to go to the bathroom,” I’d say to my first-grade teacher, and she’d size up the desperate nature of my pee need. So I’d squirm and hold my privates as if it was going to burst.
As soon as she relented, I’d be out the door and on the playground finding you. You were usually on the field, throwing a football, or, less frequently, on the basketball court. I’d jump right into the middle of whatever you were doing, and all the fourth-grade boys would roll their eyes, but no one would say anything derogatory. Not after you’d punched your best friend over me.
“Jake, your little friend is here again.” You’d look at me and smile, and I’d feel like I was home.
“What’d you say this time?” you’d ask me, eyes flashing with as much of a smile as your lips.
“Pee break.”
You’d rub my hair and put your arm around my neck and drag me back to class. Sometimes, you’d even grab my hand even with the boys looking on. When you got to my class, you’d look at my pretty first-grade teacher and say with your feather smoothing smile, “So sorry, ma’am. I promise it won’t happen again.”
But Mrs. Morris knew better. I swear sometimes she let me go because she knew I wouldn’t stop until I’d seen you. She may be the only teacher who ever understood that, so, “Thanks Mrs. Morris wherever you are!”
After school, I always went to your house. Some kids remember their mama or daddy helping them to write their name, but for me, it was you. Sometimes, I wonder why you didn’t ever put up a stink about it. Why’d you help the five-year-old neighbor kid long after your own homework should have been done? It’s still an unsolved mystery to me.
Am I painting you like some sort of angelic savior? Probably. But to a kid three years younger than you, you pretty much were. I know. I know. If you were reading this, you’d probably toss something at me, probably a football, and call me a liar because you weren’t perfect. There were lots of times, especially as we got older, that it seemed you were down right mean to me. Cruel. But, I know you didn’t intend it to be that way. It was just more difficult later. There were more expectations of how we should be together. Or not be together.
You’d probably also remind me that I was always the first one to criticize you, the first one to spot your weaknesses and imperfections. I could always tell when your throws were off, or when you’d missed an opening that cost a touchdown, and I’d tell you to your face. Just like I’d tell you, bluntly, that you’d strung the fishing pole wrong or that your hair was too long. I was never afraid to tell you that you were wrong. Or an idiot. Which you could be sometimes.
You hated math facts. You’d get so frustrated while memorizing them that you’d throw the flash cards at me. And what would I do, I’d just pick them up, shove them in your face and say, “Go ahead, be a butthead, doesn’t bother me.” And I’d just wait for you to say the math fact. So, no, you weren’t perfect, but you were mine. At least, that’s how I considered it when we were little.
And even though I hated it when you’d play football because it was a game I didn’t play, I was an unremitting coach and referee when you did play. Do you remember the first time you and Wade, a boy two years older than you, got into it about whether a catch had been made in bounds? You were right in each other’s faces and were a breath away from going to blows when I slammed the ball out of your hands, which wasn’t an easy thing to do, and said, “It was out of bounds, idiot. Third down.”
Wade smirked because I’d called in his favor. Your mosaic eyes regarded me as if you wanted to toss me into the creek, but I cut you off.
“One word, and I’ll kick your ass out of the game,” and I put my hands on my hips daring you to argue with me.
That made you grin, and you ruffled my hair as you walked away, calling back, “Don’t swear!” After that, everyone always listened to the six-year-old referee. I was the official game caller because everyone knew I’d call it fair… even if it was against you.
So, I guess instead of responding with ‘Mary’s Song’, I could tell people all of this. But, who would want to listen to all of that when it’s so much easier to listen to that Taylor Swift song and know just exactly how we knew each other. It doesn’t say it all, but it gets close. And maybe it would have stayed even closer to that if you hadn’t gone ahead and got hormones before I did. In any event, for a long while, we went to school together, did homework together, played together, often ate together, and many, many nights my parents had to come pick me up off your bed where we’d fallen asleep together.
You know that other country song by Tim McGraw, the one about the boy asking the daddy not to take the girl? Well, I guess that could have been us too.
I'm only me when I'm with you
“And sometimes we don't say a thing;
just listen to the crickets sing.
Everything I need is right here by my side.”
-Swift, Orrall, Angelo
So once people realize we’ve known each other since we were babies, the next question is usually something like, “But when did the two of you really, you know, hook up.” And that is a much harder question to answer because whether we were out at the lake listening to crickets, or in the treehouse counting stars, we were always together. All I ever needed was you. You at my side. Even when you drove me crazy, like you were prone to do, I never wanted to be without you. It always felt like I wasn’t quite myself until somehow our day brought us right next to each other again.
I guess the easier question to answer goes something like this, “When weren’t you together?” That question I can answer with one God forsaken word. Hormones. That’s when we weren’t together. When hormones kicked in, wouldn’t you agree? Your hormones first. Mine later. I swear those pesky little things are both the best and worst of people.
I first noticed yours on the way home from the creek one spring day. You and Paul were sniggering about balls. You both were having laughing fits over it, and the worms we’d just spent the afternoon catching were spilling out of our pails like escapees from the apple basket. I didn’t like you messing with the bait we’d just spent hours collecting, so I punched you hard in the arm.
“Geez, Cam. That hurt.” But you didn’t punch back. You never did.
Paul sniggered again, “At least it wasn’t in the balls.”
And you were both in fits of boy laughter all over, worms escaping over the sides of the cans and all.
That night, as mama came in to say goodnight and tuck me in the best I’d let her, I asked, “Mama, what the heck is wrong with Jake these days? He keeps talking about balls and nuts and looking at girls all funny.”
My mama stared at me like I had four heads. And because she did that a lot, I didn’t really think anything about it. She started to say something. Stopped. Started again. It was like she was the catfish we’d caught that night, trying to breathe air when it never knew how.
Finally, mama burst out with that one word. “Hormones!” and when I looked puzzled, mama just kept on going. “All that’s wrong with Jake is a good, old-fashioned case of adolescent hormones!”
With mama working at the hospital, I thought hormones were a disease. “How do we fix it?” I asked calmly. This gave my mama a good chuckle. She never answered me. Just shook her head and left the room. It took me a while before I realized what she’d meant. But, come to find out, part of your problem was a disease, we just didn’t know that right away, did we? So, I guess for now, we’ll blame it all on the hormones.
Those annoying little critters were definitely in the air the summer before you entered eighth grade. That was the summer the pool at the high school had been finished, and it was the new place to hang out if you were under fourteen. That first day we rode our bikes there, my mama loaded up that stupid pink backpack my grandmother bought me with water, snacks, sun screen, blah-blah, and made me take it with me! A PINK backpack! I still shiver at the thought.
The pink backpack was my grandmother’s lame attempt to make me into a girlie girl. I bet you’d think that was funny now. Someone trying to turn Cam into a girl. Well. Maybe you wouldn’t laugh now. But, going into eighth grade, the thought of me being a girlie girl would have made you pee your pants. Somehow my grandmother had got the idea that because I was going into fifth grade, I would suddenly have a desire for skirts, fancy shoes, and boobs. I didn’t want any of that. I didn’t want anything that was going to slow me down from keeping up with you and, at that point, that was tennis shoes, shorts, t-shirts, and messy brown pony tails.
So, what did I do when mama handed me that pink backpack full of supplies? Well, I stomped my foot and threw this huge tantrum. “I’ll just take my old backpack.�
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“That revolting, wet-rat smelling thing with holes? I threw it away!” mama responded calmly.
“Well, I’m not taking that P-I-N-K one!” I stomped again with my hands on my hip. She met my furious look with a tranquil one of her own. She was used to my fits of anger, but she had her hands on her hips too, so I knew she meant business as much as I did.
“If you don’t take it, you don’t go,” she replied and left it on the floor by my feet. She knew I’d take it because she knew there was no way I was letting you go to the pool without me.
I sighed deeply, grabbed it, and headed out the door where I promptly got a little of my normal Cam revenge by dragging it through the dirt down our drive way. I knew that when we came home, my mama was going to be as mad as a hive of bees that’s been poked at, but I didn’t care. At least this way it had lost some of its pink sheen. My poor mama… I really wasn’t an easy child, was I?
Where was I? Oh yeah, pool. I met you at your porch and was ready to punch you if you said something about the P-I-N-K backpack, but you didn’t really notice. Instead, we grabbed our bikes, rode to the pool, paid our two dollars, and entered a brand-new world. There were kids from our school all over the place. Most, parent free, like us.
“No Blake. No Wade,” I said in disgust. And you didn’t disagree. We knew where they were. They were at the lake. The brand new high school pool might entice wanna be teenagers, but all the cool high school kids still hung out at the lake. And that’s where we really wanted to be.
You shrugged and tousled my hair, “At least it’s somewhere wet. And. No parents.”