Burn

by Suzanne Phillips

  “It’s in my PE locker. The new one.”

  Randy nods. “We have it,” he says. “We went through it. The lock isn’t there.”

  “You went through my backpack? You’re not allowed to do that!”

  “It was left at the crime scene and taken as evidence.” Randy pins him with his eyes. “You had a lot of sharp objects in the bag. A razor, a scalpel.”

  Cameron nods. “I thought Patterson was going to be in school.”

  “What we’re you going to do with them?”

  “Protect myself.”

  “You don’t know what happened to your lock?”

  “No. You do,” Cameron guesses.

  “I think it was used to kill Pinon,” Randy says. “A combination lock was found close to his body. There’s a number on it. The coach keeps a list of all lock numbers and combinations.” He pushes aside his notebook. “The number matches your lock.”

  SUNDAY

  4:00AM

  He wakes up out of breath, a fist locked around his throat, and realizes he’s still stuck in his dream. A dream where he died. He knew it was coming and didn’t run. It passed through him, stealing the air from his lungs, silencing the scream that burned his lips.

  Cameron lies still in his bed, eases his fingers from their twisted grip in the sheets, and waits.

  He thinks about all the things he’ll miss. His mother moving around in the kitchen. She hums when she cooks and taps the spoon against the counter keeping time. Robbie’s face. There’s something a little off with having a soft, believing face and a body as big as his. It makes Cameron think there is hope. The view from his bedroom window. Treetops all the way to the lake.

  He draws a breath that stabs him in the chest.

  Cameron realized last night, after talking to Randy, that his life is over. He was right from the beginning, there are no do-overs.

  He slides out of bed, gathers his running clothes, and changes without turning on the light. Robbie is sleeping, the air whistling in his nose. It used to be his brother flopped around in bed, caught up in nightmares that featured their father, painted red, taller than he really is, and swinging hands that were iron mallets or ax blades. But time has been good to his brother. Cameron doubts he’ll ever stop dreaming about his father. He was too old when his mom finally left him; his memory is solid.

  He slips out the door, down the stairs, and through the kitchen. On the deck, with the sun burning the edge of the night sky, he’s able to make out the lighter shadows of chairs and tables, and walks around them. His footsteps stir the gravel in the driveway, but the sound is no louder than a whisper.

  He wonders if, when he dies, he’ll be able to come back, live among his family, unseen but close. The ghost he didn’t want to be.

  The air is cool, cleans out his lungs. He walks until he finds the woods and then uses his hands, in the deeper shadows under the trees, to feel his way to the trail that winds through the park and down to the lake. Owls hoot at one another. He disturbs a flock of bats that squeal and wheel off against the black night. When he reaches the trailhead it’s light enough that he can see the mist of his breath in the air.

  He doesn’t have to speak to his body. His knees lift and his legs follow through like the pistons of a train. He wants to feel the burn in his lungs and the moment of takeoff. He doesn’t let his mind drift to images of him bursting through tape, to the feel of a gold medal around his neck.

  Dreams are a thing of the past.

  He wonders what Pinon dreamed of. Did he want to move the world forward in some way? When he wasn’t jumping at Cameron’s heels or being pushed around between Red Coats like a ball in the paws of a Doberman, or lurking in the showers, he was in class smoking everyone else. He was easily a better math student than Cameron. Was he going to use that to make a dent in the world?

  Cameron doubts it. It takes courage to go the distance. Confidence. Pinon didn’t have it. Not an ounce of it.

  He killed Charlie Pinon. He makes himself hold the thought, just Pinon, pushing Patterson and his flunkies, and his own anger and fear down and out, and seeing only Pinon in his mind. A small kid, like him, with arms thinner than Popsicle sticks. And no friends. Cameron’s breath bottles up in his throat; he runs through it. He wipes the mucus from under his nose, not slowing.

  At the beginning of the year, Cameron felt sorry for Pinon. He even covered for him once, standing in the way of a tide of red while Pinon streaked into the restroom and cowered in a stall, standing up on the toilet and shaking so much the toilet seat clattered. By Christmas, Cameron thought to himself that someone should put the guy out of his misery. It was an idle thought. Not something he ever planned to be a part of. But in the end, Pinon bothered him. Even looking at the guy filled him with anger. Pinon on the outside was what Cameron felt like on the inside: small and weak. He hated looking at the kid and seeing himself. He hated that the Red Coats thought he and Pinon were the same breed of scared.

  Cameron runs through a patch of sunlight. As the trail slopes downward he catches his first glimpse of the lake, the water the color of steel. There are others on the trail now. Bikers pass him, a mother pushing a jog stroller. His eyes focus on a pair of runners ahead; he picks up his pace, lengthening his stride, planning to overtake them, blow past them, run until his heart explodes in his chest.

  SUNDAY

  1:30PM

  “Let’s sit down,” the cop, the one with the tie that’s braided like a noose, says and points to the couch.

  Cameron takes the chair and watches Randy walk around the coffee table, settle into the end of the couch closest to him. The two cops stand a minute longer, both looking at Cameron, silent and accusing.

  Cameron returns their stare. He’s not afraid of them. Name, rank, and serial number.

  “You’re a sophomore at Madison High?”

  “Freshman,” Cameron corrects them, knowing they already know this. It was a lame attempt to challenge his honesty.

  “Freshman.” The cop writes it down in his notebook then asks, “How do you like school?”

  “I don’t,” Cameron admits.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. A lot of kids don’t like school,” Good Cop says.

  Cameron doesn’t respond. He lets the silence build and though his shoulders begin to ache, he knows now is not the time to move them.

  “You have a good man on your side,” Bad Cop says, nodding toward Randy.

  “That’s what he tells me.”

  Cameron’s mom enters the room with a glass of soda on ice and places it in front of Cameron.

  “You might get thirsty,” she says.

  She looks at the cops, her face stiff. She folds her arms over her stomach and seems to grow a few inches.

  “Nothing for us,” Bad Cop says.

  “That’s good, because that’s exactly what you’re getting.”

  She turns to Randy and places a hand on Cameron’s shoulder.

  “Let me know when they get around to asking about the attack on Cameron. The crime against my son,” she repeats and turns back to the cops. “It happened on Tuesday, in the boys’ locker room.”

  “We’re aware of it, ma’am. I believe arrests were made in that case.”

  “Arrested and released,” Cameron’s mom says.

  “That’s the law,” Bad Cop says and tweaks his noose-for-a-tie. “Last I heard, the D.A. plans to take the case to court. You’ll get your justice.”

  His mom knows this. Cameron heard her on the phone, talking to the D.A., twice last week. She doesn’t like the law that allows violent criminals on the street and when the D.A. told her that’s the reality, she hung up on him.

  “The thing I keep asking myself is will Charlie’s parents get justice?” Bad Cop asks.

  His mom’s face turns to stone.

  “You can speak to my son for ten minutes.” She checks her watch. “Not a minute more.”

  She walks out of the room and even Cameron can feel the temperature go up.
This isn’t the first time she’s defended him. Before they left his father, she stood in front of him and Robbie, her skinny hands reaching behind her, pushing at them, trying to get them to run out the door to safety. They never left her.

  “Your mom’s a good one to have in your corner,” Good Cop says.

  “You’re wasting time,” Randy barks.

  “You took a beating last week,” Bad Cop says. “Did it make you mad?”

  “Yeah. I was pretty much pissed off all week after that.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you planned to do something,” Good Cop says.

  “Yeah. I was going to kill Patterson. I wanted to, anyway. But he wasn’t at school.”

  “Want isn’t the same thing as intent,” Randy points out.

  “And intent isn’t commit. We know it,” Good Cop says.

  “We found weapons in your backpack.”

  “I know.”

  “Where did you get the scalpel?”

  “I took it from my mother’s work bag.”

  “She’s a doctor?”

  “No. She works in the lab at the hospital, though.”

  Bad Cop nods. “Straight blade razor. What were you going to do with that?”

  “Ask another question,” Randy says.

  “I want to establish intent.”

  “You already did.”

  “Your teachers say you were angry and non-communicative on Friday,” Good Cop says.

  “Okay.”

  “You agree with that?”

  “I was angry.”

  “How many times do you want him to say it?” Randy asks. “Move on.”

  “You fought with your PE coach?”

  “It wasn’t a fight,” Randy corrects. “It was an argument.”

  “You had an argument with your PE coach on Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it about?”

  “He changed my locker and I didn’t like it.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “I told him I wanted my old locker back.”

  “Did he agree?”

  “He didn’t disagree. He said he was sorry he had acted without asking.”

  “Did you suit up for PE?”

  “Did the coach say I did?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Answer the question, Cameron,” Randy says.

  Cameron sighs. “I suited up for PE on Friday.”

  “You get there on time?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I was talking to the coach. By the time we were done I had two minutes to change.”

  “The coach says you got to the gym when play was already in motion.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you were about ten minutes late?”

  “Maybe five minutes late.”

  “The coach says it was closer to ten.”

  Cameron shrugs.

  “Move on,” Randy says.

  “Why did it take you so long to dress?”

  “I was pretty steamed about the locker change. I guess I sat a while thinking about it.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “That I didn’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted everything back to normal,” Cameron says. “I wanted to forget about everything and no one would let me.”

  “You wanted to forget that Patterson and his friend attacked you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did they touch you? Your genitalia?”

  “That’s it,” Randy says, standing up. “We’re done.”

  “No,” Cameron says, “we’re not done.” He stands up and moves in front of Randy. “They didn’t touch me. I told him that, too.” He jerks his finger at Randy. “And I don’t want anyone thinking they did.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Good Cop says. “They didn’t touch you. Not like we were saying.”

  “No.”

  “It’s just that when a victim puts a lot into denying something happened, it usually means it did.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “We heard different,” Bad Cop says.

  “That’s a lie.” Cameron’s hands curl into fists. “And you better stop saying it.”

  “Enough,” Randy says. He puts a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “They’re trying to upset you, Cameron. It’s what they want.”

  “Did you know Charlie Pinon?” Bad Cop asks.

  “We’re done,” Randy repeats.

  “I’ll answer that,” Cameron says. “Yes. I knew him.”

  “Some of the boys in your PE class say Pinon hid in the showers,” Good Cop says. “Did you ever see him do this?”

  “He did it all the time. He watched us dress.”

  “You think Pinon was gay?”

  “He was a perv.”

  “Was he hiding in the showers the day Patterson attacked you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Was he there on Friday?”

  “Probably.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t look for him,” Cameron says.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Maybe I saw him. I had my mind on other things.”

  “He was in there the day Patterson beat on you,” Good Cop says. “You know how we know?”

  Cameron shrugs. “You’re going to tell me.”

  “He told the principal all about it. Us, too. On Wednesday, when you were AWOL.”

  Pinon told. He waited, watching, never ducking back behind the shower wall, not missing a moment of the show. Pinon watched him like it was some kind of porno horror movie, then he ran through the halls, bleating like a scared sheep. And he told.

  Too little, too late.

  “Your coach says Pinon hid in the showers because he was no good at sports. He got harassed a lot by the jocks in the class. But never by you.”

  “So I guess he wasn’t really a perv,” Good Cop says.

  “He watched,” Cameron says. “I saw him watching.”

  “When Patterson had you down?”

  “That’s right. He watched and did nothing about it.”

  “Maybe he was as scared as you.”

  “He lived his whole life scared.”

  “And that’s no way to live, is it?”

  “I’ve been living scared all year,” Cameron says.

  “And that’s why you decided to kill Patterson? Is it why you killed Pinon? Because he was part of the whole thing, too?”

  Randy moves so that he stands in front of Cameron, blocking the cops and their questions. “This is over. You’re going to leave now. If you want to talk to him again it’ll be with his attorney present.”

  The cops stand up.

  “You can’t make people forget, so you take them out of the game? Is that right, Cameron?”

  “Out,” Randy says, taking a step toward Bad Cop.

  “It’s my last question. Will you answer it, Cameron?”

  Randy keeps moving, herding the cops to the front door.

  Cameron feels like he’s inside a toaster, his skin burning. He doesn’t care that they figured him out; he’s pissed that they think the whole thing was his fault. The tone of Bad Cop’s voice, the way he made it heavy with sarcasm, makes it clear he thinks Cameron is the bad guy and that his way of making it all stop was a bad decision, a fool’s decision. Like it never would have worked.

  Cameron lets the truth settle on his face. Lets the cops see it. Yeah, he did it. It was the only thing left to do.

  “Now that’s a real shame,” Good Cop says, reading Cameron’s expression like his face is a map. He pulls out a small plastic box and holds it up. “We need his fingerprints, Randy.”

  “You have a warrant?”

  “You’re going to make us get a warrant?” Bad Cop asks, like maybe Randy is joking.

  “We’re doing this by the book,” Randy s
ays. “He answered your questions in good faith, but it’s clear you have an agenda.”

  “You knew that coming in.”

  “I thought so,” Randy agrees. “Get a warrant.”

  “You know that will happen.”

  “I know.”

  SUNDAY

  5:40PM

  Cameron’s attorney is short and about as thick around as the trunk of a redwood. His hair is shaved on the sides with a clump of curls on top that tumble over his forehead and into his eyes. He pushes at it a lot and Cameron wonders why he doesn’t get it cut. His arms are solid, even through his suit jacket, his triceps so puffed up they make his shoulders look too close to his ears. The guy lifts weights. He has to. There’s no other natural explanation for the thick muscles that wrap around his body. Cameron is wondering if the guy uses steroids when his thoughts are interrupted.

  “Look, you’re going to have to talk to me,” Mr. Jeffries says. “I’m your attorney and everything you say is in confidence.” Then he throws his hands up like he’s trying to stop traffic. “But I don’t want to know if you did it. I don’t want to know if you didn’t. I’m not a priest. You can take that up with the clergy.”

  “You defend the innocent and the guilty?” Cameron says.

  “That’s right,” Jeffries says. “I’m equal opportunity. That’s how this lawyer business works. Answer my questions and feel free not to add anything.”

  “What was your question?”

  “How well did you know Charlie Pinon?”

  “Not well.”

  “You weren’t friends?”

  “No.”

  “You had PE class together and what else?”

  “Spanish and math.”

  “You ever interact with him in any of those classes?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t like him.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a sissy.”

  “A sissy?”

  “Yeah. He cried a lot. Whenever the Red Coats picked on him he teared up like a girl and ran to the office.”

  “Who are the Red Coats?”

  “The jocks. They wear their red letter jackets and hunt us in the halls.”

  “You included?” Jeffries asks. “Were you one of the hunted?”

  Cameron shrugs. “I guess so.”