Cameron and the Girls (3 page)

“Who?” I whisper hoarsely.

It's me.

“But who are you?”

I hear a faint giggle.

You are so funny. You know who I am.

“I'm funny?” I don't even feel the rain now, even though it has soaked through me.

It's one of the things I like about you.

“You like me?” I say. No girl, except for Beth, has ever said anything like that. I am tingling now.

Of course I do.

I stick out my tongue and lap at the raindrops like a dog at a water bowl. “What else do you like about me?” I ask.

Well, I like that you're a thinker. That you're not always out throwing baseballs or footballs or spitting on the sidewalk.

“Sometimes I like to throw a football,” I say.

But it's not your whole life, Cameron. You're more than just that one thing. You speak like a much older person. You read up on interesting subjects, like psychology. In fact, you're sort of like a Renaissance man.

This could possibly be the best moment of my entire life, but the front porch light suddenly snaps on and the door is yanked open. My mom is standing there cinching her robe.

“I'm not doing anything,” I quickly say.

She stands quietly, looking old and tired in this moment of silence. I do that to people. If I laid out all the moments of silence I have created for others in my life, they would make a whole long quiet life of their own.

My mom finally says, “This can't be happening again.”

I walk up to the porch and stand in front of her. I've let her down one more time; I can see it in her eyes. It's not what I want to do.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I say.

She steps aside. “Go in and change out of those.”

“Okay,” I say in my obedient voice.

But as I pass her, she adds, “We're going to have to talk about this, Cam.”

Back in my room, I tear off my clothes, dry myself, and slip down under the covers. I shiver until I hear her mount the stairs. Soon, I can feel her in the doorway. I project out my force field to keep her from saying anything or getting too close. She sighs as she picks up my sloppy wet clothes. Maybe there are some things she doesn't want to know for sure because she doesn't come in any farther.

When she's gone, my mind considers what's just happened. With voices, it's a crapshoot. You can't always control what you get. But I've never felt this way from just hearing one of them. As if my blood were juicier than normal. I don't know what her name is, but I think I'll call her The Girl.

In spite of the warm air spilling out of the vent, I'm too psyched to fall back to sleep, and I eventually get up to get ready for school.

A
t
school, there are only two girls in my class. Amy, the little rabbit girl, is always showing her big front teeth as she chatters away. The other one is named Nina. She came a couple of weeks ago and usually keeps to herself. I like her anyway. It's easier to make up stories about girls who keep to themselves, because they don't give themselves away. She has great hair, which is rich and dark and long. It cascades in waves from the top of her head. And she is always swinging it back and forth. Especially when she doesn't know the answer to a question.

I'm not sure what her problem is, but I know she must have one, otherwise she wouldn't be in the EDP. Today I sit in my seat and watch her hair. It moves in a fancy rhythm that makes me think of things better kept inside my head.

Soon she turns and catches me staring at her. My eyes dart to the front of the class, and I pretend I wasn't looking. But I can't help myself and snatch another glance. She's still looking. I try to smile, but the tension in my face won't let me. She shrugs and turns back.

From the front of the class, Mrs. Owens is saying, “If the South had won the Civil War, what do you think the United States would be like today?” She stops and picks up a hanky to wipe her very red nose.

Griffin quickly shoots up his hand. “It would be like no North.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Owens asks.

“Well, I mean it would be all South. There would be, you know, no direction called north. The country would be called the United Southern States of America.”

At first I think Nina is whispering to me, and I turn her way. But she is tracing the picture of George Washington on the front of her history book.

Still, there is a voice.

Cam?

It's The Girl's voice again, soft and sweet. “I'm here,” I stutter in a whisper, which unfortunately draws Griffin's attention. He elbows me.

“Good,” says Mrs. Owens, talking about Griffin's answer.

Don't you want to talk to me, Cam?

“I do,” I say. “I do want to talk to you.”

Griffin elbows me again and it hurts this time. I rub at it, trying to frown him away.

“Does anyone have an idea of what the United States would look like if the South had won the war?” pleads Mrs. Owens.

But no one does, and when class is over, we file down to the cafeteria. I can smell the fish sticks before I go through the door. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see Nina right behind me.

“Why were you staring at me?” she asks.

“I wasn't staring at you,” I say. I want to keep my brain fresh and open for the new voice, and talk is distracting. The crowd of kids pushes us farther into the cafeteria. We bump close, and I feel a tingling in the spot where we touch.

“You were,” she says. “I saw you.”

Griffin wags his tongue at her. “He wants you, that's why,” he says.

“You're disgusting,” says Nina. She looks at me. “I mean him, not you.” Then she hurries to catch up to the line forming by the trays.

After I get my plate, I sit down and roll up one sleeve to look at the spot where Griffin elbowed me. It's made a bright red ring. I rub at it and look around. Nina is sitting by herself. But she disappears when Griffin stands in the way making faces while he balances his tray. I try to laugh but can't.

Cam, I want you to know that I'm here just for you. I think you're a great guy.

“But who are you?” I whisper.

I'm whoever you want me to be. I'm your girlfriend.

And there is a peace to what she says. I feel calmer immediately. Giddy calm. When Griffin finally sits down, I inch away from him.

“Who're you talking to, man?” he asks.

“I don't want to talk right now,” I say. I know it's not good to say that, and I know that keeping to myself is one of my symptoms, but sometimes I just can't stand communicating with anybody. And Griffin has a problem with keeping his mouth shut.

 

After school, on the bus, I'm sitting by myself again, but I'm not feeling all that alone now. Maybe it's the new voice. I jump when Beth taps me on the shoulder.

“Cameron? What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Your lips were moving. Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody. Please shut up.”

But Beth is not satisfied. She kneels beside me. “You'd better start taking those pills again,” she says. She pets my head, but I knock her hand away.

“Mom's going to be looking for you,” she says.

“Can't you all just leave me alone?”

“Do you want to hear what Mom asked me or not?”

I consider this for a moment and then nod.

“Good,” she says. “She thinks you're not taking your medication.”

“Good for her.”

“Don't worry,” says Beth, digging into her pocket. She pulls out my meds and holds the little plastic bottle between her thumb and forefinger. “She was looking for it, but I found it before she did.” She tosses it to me. “You might want to hide a few of those before she gets hold of it.”

I jam the bottle in my pocket and then take a peek at Beth. “Thanks,” I say.

“You know you could take those once in a while and still conduct your little scientific—whatever—experiment.”

“You don't understand.”

Beth scrunches up her lips and then raises her eyebrows. “Listen, Cam, you were mumbling to nobody just then. Remember what I said about embarrassing the family?” She stands up and heads back toward her seat, but I yell after her.

“You haven't been talking to me today, have you, Sis?”

She stops and studies me again. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe through telepathy or ESP or something.”

“Geez,” she says, looking around at the kids who heard me ask it. She puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head before finding her seat.

“Well?”

But the conversation is over for her. I have to learn not to push people too far.

I
put
a bunch of pills in my pocket and sneak the bottle back into the upstairs bathroom. And just in time, too, because before it's lights out, Mom comes up and starts rummaging in there. As I slip into bed, I can hear her popping the top off the bottle and shaking it. In another minute she's in my room.

She plants her hand on my forehead and keeps it there. “We should talk about this morning,” she says.

“It's nothing,” I say.

“Cam,” she says evenly. “You could have caught pneumonia out there like that.”

I try to change the subject. “School's hard,” I say. “Mrs. Owens asks hard questions.”

But she shakes her head. “No, it's more than that. I've seen it before. You were talking.”

This is not good. I know that when she starts to ask questions, pretty soon they will all pile up, and before you know it, I'll have an appointment at the doctor.

“Cameron. Please tell me. It sounded like you were maybe talking back to a voice.”

I sit up in my bed. “Mom.”

“I know it makes you mad. But what I saw. What I heard. It makes me think . . .”

I pull my arms out from under the blanket and rest them on the fuzzy top. I take a deep breath and try to clear my brain. It whirls a little, but I still have control. “I have a girlfriend,” I say boldly.

Mom blinks and jerks back as if she's been hit. “No, really, Cam,” she says.

“Really.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“I was practicing talking to her last night.”

She sits down on the edge of my bed. I can tell she wants so much to believe me.

“Is it not okay?” I say.

“No, it's not that, it's just that it's so surprising.”

“Not to me.”

She places a warm hand on mine. “That's wonderful, Cam. Just wonderful.” She pauses and then says, “Is it someone I know?”

I shake my head. “I don't think so. She's new.”

“A new girl,” she says with wonderment. “I see.”

I hope she won't ask more specific questions, and I'm relieved when she stands up again. “Well, that explains a lot.” She kisses me and on her way to the door, stops. “I have a confession to make, Cam. I thought maybe you had stopped taking your meds.”

“Mom.”

“I know, I know. But I'm glad you haven't stopped, and I'm glad you have a girlfriend. But maybe next time you can practice talking to her indoors.”

I hear her cross the hall and say good night to Beth by patting the door a couple of times. I'm not certain she's convinced, but I'm happy she's gone because I need to stretch out my legs and keep them stiff for a while. They creak and pop. My stomach is flip-flopping; I have a headache. I fear I will start to break, but:

Hello, Cam. How's my man today?

It's as if she's been hiding under my bed, waiting for Mom to leave. “Better now,” I say. Her voice once again wraps me in a warm cottony cloud. I wish I could feel her next to me. “Tell me what you look like,” I quickly say.

Why don't you guess?

I close my eyes and try to picture her. A blurry image appears, and I try to bring it into focus. “Short brown hair.”

Good.

“Brown eyes. Red lips. Top one thinner than the bottom one. A smile that makes the sun shine.”

Oh, a poet.

I squirm a little. “Soft delicate fingers like your voice. And smart. Your face looks smart.”

How did you know?

I shrug.

Anything else?

I don't have to think long. “And curvy,” I say. “Your body is curvy.”

Thank you, Cam. That's sweet. And guess what? You're absolutely right about everything.

I can sense my blood pumping all over again. It makes me feel alive.

“Thank you,” I say.

For what?

“Just for being here with me. That's all.”

You're entirely welcome, Cam. I feel love when we're together. I like that.

Her voice is so lush, so nectarish, that I let myself taste it. I sense a strong familiar pulse in my body that feels good. I can go on listening to her forever. And realizing that that's exactly what I want to do, I snuggle down deep in the warm blanket. I let her voice envelop me.

 

Dad's not up yet, so it is just Mom, Beth, and me at the table. Beth and my mom are having another fight. Beth accuses her of being too much of a tyrant and compares our home to Nazi Germany. And that always gets my mother's dander up.

“There is no way on God's green earth that this house is like the Nazis,” she insists. “And I am very offended that you would even say that.”

“Be offended all you want, Mom,” says Beth. “I'm sixteen and I should have rights.”

Mom stretches her hand out, palm up. “I'm going to have to ask for your cell,” she says.

Beth shakes her head and looks like lightning has hit her.

“Now, Beth!” Mom's voice echoes in my head.

Slowly, Beth reaches into her purse and pulls out her bright-pink phone. She stares at it a moment and then tosses it on the table.

Nothing is resolved, and Beth leaves the house in such a huff that I have to run to catch up with her. “Leave me alone,” she says before I can open my mouth. She swings her backpack around so violently that I think she'll slam it into me.