His face lit up. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. He gazed at the kitchen. “Right this way, Cam—”
In less than a second, I brought out my foot and kicked it hard into his back, sending him sprawling forward and landing on his face. Mila and Olive barely had the chance to scream by the time I was out the front door, into my car, and speeding down the street.
I was outta there.
****
“You’re late,” Anjolie said, tossing me a stack of cash. Her silvery blond curls glinted in the dim lighting of the dark room.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I responded, waving my hand in her direction. She was lucky I was even there. “What’s on the agenda tonight?” I asked with a grin, coming to stand in front of her and the huge pile of cash scattered on the table between us. “Steal some cars? Can some bad guys? What’s the deal?”
She smirked, apparently amused by my excited questions. I watched as she continued to separate the dollar bills into stacks, binding them with paper bands. “Not tonight, Cam,” she responded, her thin fingers leafing through a stack of ones. “Tonight you’re counting money.” Her large, silver eyes looked up and met mine with a smile, a flash of amusement in them.
“Oh, come on!” I groaned, slamming my hands down onto the table. The cash ruffled noisily in response. “You know how much I hate counting money!” Counting money had to be the single most boring task anybody on the planet could do. Especially if the cash wasn't necessarily for you. I stared grotesquely at the large pile of money, knowing that it would take all night to get these things counted and separated.
“Sorry, Blondie,” Anjolie said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her grin, “The king wants his money tonight. No crazed adventures for you.” She flicked her hand through her hair, sending the long curls flying over her shoulder. I don’t know, but something about that gesture always seemed to send tingles up my spine. Ever since we met, her subtle gestures just made me feel all funny. “Besides,” she said, interrupting my thoughts, “you had your fun last night.”
The brief memory of me partying happily in the club as well as getting arrested by the po-po flashed into my mind. If you asked me, my night wasn’t all that fun.
She placed a stack of money into the half-empty bag on the table, grabbed her own bag, and walked around the table to me, her footsteps echoing out all over the dark, empty warehouse. “Count the cash and you’ll be free to do whatever.” Her eyes met mine menacingly. “Just get it done.”
I rolled my eyes, angry that my plans for tonight were going south. Once again, I felt my temper flare. But this time, I didn’t have to bother holding it in. “Oh, and where are you going, hmm?” I asked, annoyance in my voice. “My house? You seemed right at home over there last night.”
Anjolie froze, turning around slowly to face me. I could see now that she was wearing a plain white tee and a flowy, gray skirt that skimmed just barely mid-thigh. I couldn’t help but take in those mile-long legs. Anjolie may be feisty, but she was pretty hot. “I wasn’t there for you,” she said softly, her voice just barely a whisper.
That snapped me out of my perverted thoughts. “What are you talking about?” I asked incredulously. “Who else could you be there for? My dad? Mila?”
“Cameron.” The name tore through my brain, ripping a path towards my heart.
“Cameron?” I asked with utter confusion. Oh no. Not this again. I stepped around the table and went to join her by the doorway. “Why does everybody keep talking about this guy? Who is—?”
Anjolie shoved me away forcefully, yet her arms remained tucked at her sides. It only took me a second to realize that she was using her mind powers. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know who he is!” she snapped, crossing her arms and jutting out her hip. “You’d have to be brain-dead to think you were the only one contained in that body of yours.”
I stared at her, knowing I couldn’t answer. She had hit my sorest spot.
Through my saddened state, I heard her walk up to me. “Come on, Cam,” she said, her voice softer now. It was probably because she’d seen how fast my face had fallen. “You wake up at apparently 7:00 p.m. — I found that out the hard way — you don’t go to school, you commit felonies, and you have powers,” Anjolie listed, peering into my eyes. “What do you think happens to you in the day? Your body just lays there?”
I had once believed just that. But that was before I caught on. I mean, I wasn’t in any of my dad’s photo albums — well, I wasn’t, but Cameron was. I didn’t go to school, yet I knew all the school subjects as if I had learned them myself. Also, I always had new clothes that I would never buy, my dad and everyone else kept calling me Cameron, my license said Cameron, my room was always in order even if I had trashed it the night before, I was amazingly competent with the piano and guitar, and my hair was never gelled. All of the evidence was there. I just didn’t want to accept it.
“Face it,” Anjolie said, slapping me out of my pity-fest, “you’re just one-half of a body and you’re going to have to accept it.” She was speaking the hard truth; this body contained two souls, and we were just going to have to deal with it. “And, as one of the Gray Eyes, you have a duty to uphold during the night, so get to it.”
Seeming content with herself, Anjolie smirked again and spun on her heels, headed for the door again. But I wasn’t finished with her yet. “So, you and Cameron,” I said, causing her to turn and look at me again. “You two becoming some sort of item?” I wasn’t prying or anything — I was just curious.
“No,” was her terse response as she opened the door and left, leaving me staring in utter perplexity.
****
When the door finally cracked open again, I couldn’t be happier to see another face. However, this face belonged to Anjolie. But, hey, it was still a face.
She walked in, running a hand through thick curls, dark circles underneath gray eyes, elbow bleeding. She sighed heavily and dropped a large black duffel bag onto the metal table I was occupying. Her white shirt and skirt had dirt stains running up the front and were torn up the side.
“Yo,” I said, after adding the last dollar bill onto the table. “What happened to you? Get in a fight with a blender?” I couldn’t suppress my laugh.
Anjolie glared at me, plopping heavily down onto the mangled metal chair. She reached into her bag and pulled out dressing for her elbow wound. “More like a vehicle,” she said as she tore the wrap in two with her teeth. She pulled out some weird spray stuff and squirted it onto her elbow, wincing when the substance made contact. “I had to grab some money from this rich guy who lives a few miles away from here because the idiot that was supposed to do this job flaked on me.”
“Let me guess,” I said, bundling up the stacks of money, “the rich guy sent his guards after you?”
She pulled the wrap around her elbow tightly. “He sent his guards alright,” she muttered. “They all decided to hop into their black cars and chase after me. I got hit four times and partially run over. This explains the skid mark.” She pointed at the long tire track up the back of her white shirt.
I finished bundling the money and set the stacks aside. “How’d you get away?”
“I fought the first four guards and stole one of the cars,” she explained, picking up the stacks of money. “Then I ran the car off the side of a cliff and jumped out the window before it made contact with the water. They didn’t see me roll away, those idiots.”
“Nice,” I said, nodding. Then I looked at my watch. I had less than an hour to get home. Great. “I have to go,” I said, standing up.
Anjolie nodded, stuffing the money into the duffel bag already filled with money. “Alright, I just need to get this stuff to the Boss and then run home to change and get to school.”
“You gonna have enough time?” I asked. From what I’ve heard, school starts sometime after seven.
Anjolie shrugged. “I don’t have a choice,” she mumbled, hoisting the duffel bag over her slender shoulders. “I have a long walk ahead of me.”
<
br /> Chapter Twenty Five
Cameron
“Once again, Dad, I’m so so so so sorry,” I said, my hands clasped together in front of me as I stared, apologetically, into my father’s face.
He was lying on the couch, clutching ice to his lower back as he struggled to sip his lemonade. “And once again, son,” he said, smiling, “it wasn’t your fault.” He tried to pat my back comfortingly but the motion just caused him more pain.
I knew it was my fault. Cam’s actions were always my fault. Now my dad was stuck lying here in pain while I was left to go about my day like I had nothing to do with it. But I was the one that hurt him. Even if I were schizophrenic, I still had to take responsibilities for my own actions. “It was my fault, Dad,” I retorted, standing up and running a frustrated hand through my hair. “I’ll get help, I promise.”
“You,” he said, sticking a finger at me, “just go to school. Mila’s here. She’ll help me out. What’s important is that you get your education.” He finished up his drink and placed it on the table next to his propped up legs. “You in the running for valedictorian yet?” he asked.
I shrugged, pulling my backpack over my shoulder. “We haven’t found out yet but I’m seriously banking on it, Dad.”
Dad nodded. “Get out there and go be… well, smart.” He chuckled.
I said goodbye to Mila and him and ran out the door, already ten minutes late to school. Hopping into my car, I pulled out of the driveway and powered out of my neighborhood, all while trying to finish my math homework.
Thankfully completing it without dying, I shoved it into my backpack when I pulled up to a red light. As I sat at the light, my eyes fell on a flash of white-blonde, curly hair. I immediately recognized the hair as Anjolie’s. She was on the sidewalk, walking briskly to school. Her backpack was swung over her shoulder and she was wearing a white sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. Her black sneakers were worn and tearing.
When the light turned green, I pushed through the intersection and pulled up to the side of the road just behind her.
“Hey, Anjolie,” I said, sticking my head out of the window. “Do you want a ride?”
Anjolie spun around, her hair flipping to the side. When she saw me, her face lit up and she jogged over. “Thanks, Cameron,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. “I can’t afford to be late again.”
“Me neither,” I said and pressed my foot down on the accelerator.
As we drove, Anjolie sat there smoothing out her hair and shifting positions over and over again. Her leg was fidgeting and her fingers were locked together so tightly, her knuckles turned white.
“Are you okay, Anjolie?” I asked when we pulled up to another red light. I desperately checked the time. Five minutes until school started.
Anjolie whipped her head around and smiled at me nervously. “I’m fine,” she said, a little too rushed to sound normal. Her hand went up to casually swipe hair over her forehead — but not before I saw the gash on her hairline.
“Whoa! Anjolie, what happened?” I asked, gaping at the wound. It looked deep and severely painful. How she was able to just sit there nonchalantly without screaming out in pain was beyond me.
Anjolie shrugged her shoulders. “I—it was just some weird accident with… with the shower curtain. It fell down this morning and hit my head. Stupid shower curtain.” She brushed more hair over her forehead to shield the wound completely.
“Did you get it looked at?” I asked as we drove on.
“I will,” she said succinctly and with a definite don’t-ask-me-about-it-again tone.
I decided to take the hint and not press her about it.
We got to school a minute before the bell rang. Anjolie and I sprinted to class, running our separate ways. I managed to get into homeroom right when the bell rang.
“Cameron, almost late again,” Armando said to me as I slid into the seat next to him in the back row.
I just shook my head, looking away from him. Right now, I had no reason to be mad at him. His claiming that I was schizophrenic wasn’t done maliciously — I knew — but for some reason, I was peeved. Maybe it was because he’d told my friends and family about it before me or maybe because he’d been hanging out with me when I didn’t know it — frankly, I just knew I had nothing to say to him.
But he had tons to say to me.
“So Homecoming is coming up,” he said, turning and facing me in his desk. “I’m pretty excited for the whole thing if you ask me. Tuxes, dresses, limos, the works. Can’t wait.” He ran his hand through his shiny black hair and drummed his pens on the table. “Mr. Fuller said he has an idea for what to do for the Homecoming Court Presentation. He wants us to meet him in the music room after school today. You in?”
I clenched my hand, feeling unbelievably angry again. Why? I had no idea. But I knew I’d felt this way when I found out about not having any of Olive’s classes and that resulted in me cutting myself with my locker. Were these weird spurts of anger coming from my schizophrenic side or something?
“Cameron? You in?” Armando asked again.
“How long have you known?” I asked, unable to hold my anger in any longer.
Armando flinched backwards, looking at me strangely. “Whoa, Cameron, what’s with the whole I’m-a-monster glare?”
“How long have you known?” I asked, trying to calm myself.
“About what?”
“About my condition!”
Armando stared at me for a quiet second. Then he sighed and looked down. “Since the night we were watching the football game. I forgot something and came back to get it. By then you were already… changed.”
I sighed heavily and placed my head in my hands, willing myself to calm down. This sudden anger was not me. This had to be coming from my other side. I tangled my fingers in my hair and took deep breaths, feeling myself calm down some. This was not the time and place to get angry, Cameron, I thought to myself as my breathing slowed. Control your other side.
When I finally looked up, I was somewhat calm. Armando was still staring at me with his huge amber eyes. “You okay, Cameron?” he asked with a soft voice.
I nodded my head fervently. “I’m fine, totally fine,” I said, willing my words to be true. I took another breath and forced a half-smile. “So I’m a schizophrenic now, huh?” I said with a weak chuckle.
Armando frowned at me. “Well… I mean… kind of,” he said finally, stretching his long arms over his head. He dropped them heavily at his sides.
“What do you mean by ‘kind of’?” I asked. Now it was my turn to stare at him quizzically.
Armando scratched his head, seeming to form the words carefully in his head but having a hard time doing it. “I mean, it’s hard to explain,” he said finally. “Can I tell you about it later?” he asked with a hopeful expression on his brown face.
“Tell me about what?” What was he implying? That I wasn’t schizophrenic? What could he possibly mean by ‘kind of’? These were need-to-know questions!
The bell rang suddenly and I almost screamed in frustration.
****
After school, the six Homecoming nominees sat awkwardly in the Music Room waiting for further instruction. When Armando had walked in he’d told me that he’d explain everything to me soon enough and that it wasn’t something to fret about.
“Then how come it’s hard to explain?” I had asked him in a hushed tone.
“It’s just really technical, that’s all. I’ll tell you when we finish up here,” he’d said, and the conversation was dropped.
After aimless conversation about the upcoming football game and lunchroom food, Mr. Fuller walked in and placed his papers onto a nearby desk. “Hi, nominees,” he said in his sing-song voice, clapping his hands flamboyantly. “Are we ready to rehearse the Presentation?”
“What are we doing for it?” Armando asked, flinging his arm around Hudson’s shoulders. “Are we making a movie like last year’s nominees did? That was cool.”
&nbs
p; “And pretty funny,” I added, remembering last year’s Homecoming rendition of that movie Prom Night. They’d gotten fake blood, ripped dresses, creepy music, and everything else involved in filming a mock-horror flick. They’d also made it pretty funny and really entertaining. I hoped we’d be able to hold a candle up to their performance.
But Mr. Fuller shook his head, his earrings flapping from side to side. “No, no, no, students,” he said with a sneaky grin. “We’re doing something better!” He picked up the papers he’d been holding and began handing them out. “We’re going to sing!”
“What?” Armando and I cried, almost jumping up from our seats. “We’re going to sing?” Armando asked, horrified.
Mr. Fuller nodded his head happily. “You must!” he sang out, running his hands over the piano keys. “No one has sung before! We need to showcase the music department!” Mr. Fuller seemed to end all his sentences with exclamation points.
“That sounds like fun!” Tanya said with a wide smile on her tan face. She stood up happily, her light brown hair staying in place. “I love singing!”
Of course she would. Tanya has been our lead chorale singer since freshman year. Her voice was probably the best female voice in all of California. She’d definitely jump at the chance of singing in front of our class. And Dave, her boyfriend, would love it, too.
“Let’s do it!” Dave said, grabbing his girlfriend around the waist. If Tanya’s voice was the best female voice, Dave’s voice was the best male voice. Also in chorale, the two of them loved to boast about how wonderful their voices were. If we ended up singing for the performance, then they were a shoe-in to win.
“I can’t sing for my life!” Armando objected, the slight trace of Spanish accent creeping into his voice. “This isn’t fair!”
Mr. Fuller frowned heavily but only for a second as if mocking him. Then his face brightened. “Who all can sing in here?” he asked, clapping his hands for the millionth time. I swear, if he clapped again, I would freak.
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