“Eight! That’s it, Cameron.”
It takes a moment for Cameron to absorb the coach’s voice, his words. Eight laps. Half a mile. He wants to know his time. He knows he did better today, much better. Did he break three minutes? For sure. Two-thirty? Probably. Cameron stopped clocking himself months ago, when he realized there was no point. He stopped running for time and just ran when he needed to. When it was life or death if he didn’t.
Cameron slows, stops, and leans back to expand his chest. Gulps air. His face is probably as red as his shirt; it’s definitely covered in sweat. He wipes at it with his shoulder.
“Two-ten.”
“What?” Cameron turns and looks up at the coach, who is peering at his stopwatch.
“Damn, but that’s exactly what it reads. Two-ten.” The coach turns the watch for Cameron to see. “Why aren’t you on the track team?”
Two-ten. Cameron feels like he’s breathing helium.
“Well, Cameron?”
“Grades,” Cameron admits, and pulls in another breath, this one a little deeper as his lungs begin to ease. “I couldn’t get my grades up in time.”
The coach shakes his head. “That’s a damn shame. Are you training on your own? You must be.”
“I run some.” Not as much as he used to.
“Diaz gets plenty of practice.”
Patterson’s voice falls on Cameron like a grenade. He feels the cut of a thousand pieces of shrapnel, especially when Patterson’s words are followed by laughter — Patterson’s and his sidekick’s and a couple other kids walking past who heard and know exactly what Patterson means.
Even the coach picks up on Patterson’s meaning and dismisses the guy. “He lapped you, Patterson. And about twenty others.” The coach turns back to Cameron. “You keep your runs strong and you won’t have to worry about your grade in here.”
Cameron rides the sound of pride in the coach’s voice, feels a smile opening his chest, until reality snags him. He’s going to pay for Patterson’s public humiliation. No doubt about it. He may be standing still, but he is officially on the run now.
“And get a tutor if you need one,” the coach advises. “I want to see you on the track team next year.”
Cameron nods, starts toward the locker room, and then checks himself. Going down there now will mean certain death. Patterson will jump him the minute the door closes behind him. Maybe drag him into the showers fully clothed and drench him. Maybe dunk his head in the toilet bowl. For starters.
Cameron scans the gym for a way out; his eyes catch on the water fountain and he heads for it. He drinks until he’s sure the coach bagged the last of the basketballs they used earlier and picked up the last cone. Then, Cameron follows him down into the locker room.
TUESDAY
12:30PM
“Hey, SciFi! Wait up.”
Cameron dodges around a group of kids and catches up with SciFi, who is barreling down the hall.
“This a fire drill?”
SciFi slows down. “I have long legs,” he explains, “and I really hate walking into class after, well, after this girl is already there.”
“This girl?” Cameron is careful not to laugh at SciFi, but can’t keep his lips from pulling into a smile. “You got a thing for this girl?”
“She has a thing for me,” SciFi corrects.
Cameron watches a tidal wave of red sweep up SciFi’s neck and fill his face.
“Really? How do you know?”
SciFi shrugs. “She leaves me things. Notes. Small things. On my desk if I don’t get there first.”
“Damn.” Cameron never noticed. “Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not polite.”
“Am I talking to you or your mom?”
SciFi thinks about this. “Both.”
“You know I’ll figure it out,” Cameron warns and begins a mental viewing of all the girls in their tech class. There are a lot and he probably skipped a few, but he doesn’t come up with a single girl he wouldn’t want to notice him. “Why do you have a problem with this?”
They turn into the next hall, tech alley, and Cameron jogs ahead and stops in front of SciFi, blocking his way.
“None of the girls in our class are dogs.”
“She’s too aggressive.”
“Really?” Cameron laughs, even though he tries not to. “You’re scared.”
“No, I’m not. What happened to girls waiting until the guy asks her out?”
“Like you’ll ever do that.”
“She could give me a chance.”
“How long has she been writing you love letters?”
SciFi shrugs. “October.”
“October!”
“October twenty-third,” SciFi confirms.
“It’s March,” Cameron informs him. “She’s given you a lot of time. And girls don’t wait anymore. Don’t you keep up with the times?”
SciFi gives him a flat look.
“Okay. Right. You need to start, though. Life isn’t all about science.”
“I haven’t been able to find one thing that doesn’t have some connection to science.”
Cameron has only a moment’s notice — the stiffening of SciFi’s face — before he feels a pair of beefy hands on his back, with such force his breath is pushed from his lungs as he falls forward. Straight into SciFi’s arms.
“Well, lookee here, Cameron Diaz has a boyfriend.”
Patterson’s voice, sharp with this morning’s humiliation, curls around Cameron’s neck as heavy as hands pressing against his throat. As Cameron struggles to catch his breath, his vision begins to bleed red at the edges.
“And it’s the Incredible Hulk,” Murphy, with no mind of his own, chimes in.
Cameron pushes away from SciFi. Sucks in a breath. Watches his lab partner turn to stone. Everything about SciFi freezes, even the anger in his eyes.
He’s taller than Patterson; his shoulders are broader and what he has for muscle is real. Not the pumped-up, weight room variety that makes Patterson look like Godzilla.
“Grady here took advantage of me this morning,” Patterson tells his friend. “Showed me up when I was down. I’m coming off this hamstring pull and Grady ran like a scared little girl, thinking he’s better than the best.”
“You’ll pay for that,” Patterson’s chimp says.
“Yes, you will. You’ll definitely pay for that.”
Then SciFi begins to move. He plows through Patterson and Murphy, using his body to slam them up against the lockers.
It’s that simple. SciFi moves through them and Patterson and Murphy are struggling to keep their feet on the floor, rubbing at their heads where they hit metal.
The whole thing is comical to Cameron, who just stares at the jocks and laughs.
“You’re going to die today, Grady,” Patterson warns, breaking Cameron’s trance.
“Yeah,” Cameron agrees. “If you can catch me.”
He’s still laughing, pushing the fear back, keeping it at arm’s length, when he walks into the classroom. Cameron’s never challenged Patterson before. Never laughed in the other boy’s face. It feels good. He likes it. Could get drunk on it. But it could also get him killed.
“That was incredible, man,” Cameron says, sliding into his chair next to SciFi.
SciFi turns on him. “Incredible? Oh, yeah, I get it. Incredible. Like big and green. The Jolly Green Giant, only meaner. A freak of nature. A failed experiment —”
“Whoa!” Cameron puts his hands up, waving him down. “Poor choice of adjective,” he admits. “How about awesome? Really awesome. I hate Patterson and that chimp he has for a friend.”
Cameron watches the anger seep out of SciFi’s shoulders. His face loosens up, too.
“You just plowed right through them.”
“I’m a pacifist at heart,” SciFi says and smiles. “But I could fight if I had to.”
“I believe you.”
“I don’t like them, either.”
“I wish I had a little of your size,” Cameron says.
“It does have its uses,” SciFi agrees. “The problem is I don’t play sports. Everyone expects me to play football or basketball and they don’t believe it when I tell them I’m no good at it.”
Cameron nods his understanding.
SciFi opens his notebook and slides a piece of paper toward Cameron.
“I think maybe this is just a big joke for her,” SciFi says.
Cameron looks down at the paper. It’s an envelope. Blue with small beakers traced over the front and SciFi’s real name — Elliott — spelled out in fancy script.
“You can open it,” SciFi offers.
“Yeah?”
Cameron picks it up, turns it over. More doodling.
“I don’t know how she knows I have a cat. A Burmese, even.”
SciFi taps the drawing of a cat with skinny, pointed ears.
“Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she has the same kind of cat.”
“They’re not that common.”
“You know, maybe she’s a lot more like you than you think,” Cameron says. “Same cat. She’s into science, too. Who knows what else.” Cameron hands the envelope back to SciFi. “You better open it, though.”
SciFi taps the envelope against the table.
“It’ll be a mushy card. A lot of them have butterflies or kittens on them.”
“What does she write in them?”
“Her phone number.”
“You’re a fool.”
“Yeah.”
SciFi tears open the envelope and pulls out the card. The front is a picture of a woman in a bikini holding two furry kittens. A third is tumbling out of her beach bag.
“Wow,” Cameron breathes. “No butterflies.”
“No,” SciFi squeaks and opens the card. A lock of scented hair falls to the table.
Cameron realizes he’s not breathing. “Double damn.” He leans closer and reads the girl’s name at the bottom of the card: Carly.
Call me, and until you do keep this close, Carly.
Cameron slowly rotates on his stool. The bell hasn’t rung yet. Not every seat is filled, so it’s easy to pick her out. Especially since the hair she tucked into the card is a dark, dark brown and most of the girls in the class are blondes. When Cameron’s eyes fall on her she looks away.
Not bad. Small. Half the size of SciFi and even Cameron is bigger than that. But she has great hair; it goes all the way to her waist. And freckles.
“She’s cute,” Cameron says and turns back to SciFi.
“That’s the problem. She’s cute. Cuddly cute, you know? She’s about the right size for you.”
Cameron takes the hit but shrugs it off.
“I’m going to let that slide,” he says. “And do you a favor.”
Cameron starts to get up but SciFi grabs his arm and when Cameron looks in the guy’s eyes the lids are peeled back in horror.
“Sit down.”
Cameron does. “Relax. I’m just kidding. But you really need to move on this, man.”
“You think this is for real?”
“You know, for a smart guy you’re really dumb. It’s for real and I think maybe this is your last chance.” He looks at the card, lying facedown in front of them. But he remembers the picture and the words the girl wrote. “It doesn’t get any more real.”
SciFi nods. “Okay. Fine. I’ll call her. It won’t kill me to call her. Unless she laughs at me. Hangs up on me . . .”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Maybe not right away,” SciFi agrees. “But at some point she’ll decide I’m not what she wants after all. That’s how it works with humans. Life is great until it’s over.”
Cameron laughs; feels it all the way through.
“Now I’m glad I took this home last night,” he says, rummaging through his backpack and pulling out the wooden model of their automobile. He pulls out the tires, some paints, and arranges them on the table.
“You got a lot done.” SciFi picks up the fully assembled model. “We just need to pop on the tires.”
“And paint it,” Cameron agrees. “Hey, a deal is a deal. You’re definitely amusing.”
“And I’m going to pass this class.”
Friendships are built on less, Cameron thinks.
TUESDAY
3:05PM
“Cameron? ¿Puedes venir a mi escritorio, por favor?”
Cameron sits motionless, trying to figure out exactly what Mrs. Marino just said to him. He knows she’s asking for something; her voice lifted at the end the way questions do. He tries to remember if there was homework the night before and decides that by now she should know better than to expect him to have it. He looks at the other kids in his group, hoping one of them will translate for him. Nope. He doesn’t blame them. He’s given them exactly nothing in the forty minutes they’ve been working on the travel brochure they were assigned.
“I didn’t do the homework,” he offers and makes sure it sounds like an apology.
Some of the kids laugh. The girl sitting closest to him says, “We didn’t have homework last night.”
“Cameron, come up to my desk, please.”
Cameron is slow to get out of his seat. He doesn’t like being called out in front of his classmates. As he moves to the front of the room he feels their eyes on him, knows they’re going to be listening. His shoulders get tense, work up until they’re at his ears.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not working with your group,” she says.
“I know. I’ll try harder.” Cameron is turning away from her when she continues.
“It’s not just today. You’ve turned in two assignments in the last three weeks, which has been pretty much the norm for you this semester. You’re failing this class.”
This is not news to him. He has a hard enough time in English class, getting by with a D; Spanish is more work and he just doesn’t have it in him. His mind drifts in class. Sometimes he thinks about what it would be like if he had never left Syracuse, but then he’d still be living with his dad and that was no good.
“What can I do?”
“Participate. Turn in some work.” Her face gets soft. “You had a B the end of the first marking period. A C for your fall semester grade. You’ve been going downhill. What’s up?”
“I’m not good with languages,” he offers.
“Stay after school,” she says. “I’ll help you.”
Cameron nods, knowing he won’t make it. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t hang around after school. The place is crawling with jocks, with Patterson and his posse.
Mrs. Marino picks up a piece of paper. “This is your progress report. I want you to have your mom or dad look at it and sign it.” She folds it and tucks it into an envelope. “I want it back tomorrow,” she warns. “Signed. Or I’ll have to ask for a parent conference.”
“Okay.” Cameron folds the envelope and stuffs it into his back pocket. He waits, just in case she has more to say.
“You can go back to your group now.”
Cameron turns and notices that just about everyone is so absorbed in their work that they didn’t hear Mrs. Marino’s broadcast of his grade. Everyone but Steve. He’s looking at Cameron with a big frown creasing his forehead. The whole room is between them and Cameron doesn’t know what to do. This is the first time since the bathroom wall incident that Steve’s let on he knows Cameron is alive. Probably a mistake. Probably someone is standing behind Cameron, someone Steve can see.
Cameron resists the urge to turn and look and just shuffles back to his seat. He leans toward the others in his group, gets the page number they’re on, and opens his book.
“Here. You can work on the captions.” The girl next to him offers Cameron a folded sheet of construction paper. There are sketches on it of the ocean, a bull fight, a city with tall buildings. “One sentence describing each picture. Write it in pencil, though, okay? I’ll check the
translation.”
She smiles at him and Cameron feels his face burn. He’s starting to think he likes it a lot better being invisible. He doesn’t like anyone feeling sorry for him. He doesn’t like thinking he’s someone who needs it.
Cameron takes the paper. He’s going to tell her he doesn’t have a pencil, that he’ll have to do the work in permanent marker, when the seat beside him fills up with a new body.
“Look, I just have one thing to say so you better listen.” It’s Steve. His voice is low and about as friendly as the roar of a caged lion. Cameron feels his heart rate pick up. His whole body kicks into overdrive. “Patterson is pissed. He’s talked to all of us — the football team. You are so dead. Your friend, too. Don’t stay after school. If I were you I’d leave now. Try to make it home before he picks up your scent.”
That’s it. End of message.
Steve gets up and strolls over to the pencil sharpener. Cameron stares at his back, the bright red of his jock jacket, seeing the darkened splotch he saw that morning on Patterson. Seeing it and wishing he could do something about it. Put a silver bullet into the heart of it.
“You okay?”
The girl again.
“You’re really pale. Mrs. Marino will probably believe you’re sick,” she offers.
“I’m not sick,” Cameron says. And he’s not going to run. Not without finding SciFi first. Even he doesn’t stand a chance against the entire football team.
Cameron looks at the girl next to him. Really looks at her, so long she shifts in her seat and then shrugs her shoulders and looks down at her work. Too bad the only reason she’s talking to him is because she thinks he needs help.
“Pretend.” The advice comes from the only other guy in the group. One of those chess club geeks. Like SciFi. So maybe the guy’s not so bad. “Patterson’s a dick,” he says. “But he’s got the whole pack with him. There’s no fighting that.”
Cameron lets that sink in. The whole football team. They’ll tear him apart. SciFi, too. Anger makes Cameron’s temperature soar. He feels like he’s on fire, without the good stuff. No physical pain, no place for the anger to bleed out of him. He wishes he could strike a match, breathe in the sulphur, let it burn his nose and throat.
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