Camo Girl (3 page)

I try to look on the bright side: Mom comes home tonight.

A bowl of shredded wheat and half a grapefruit are waiting for me. When Grammie's not looking, I sprinkle extra sugar on both. Mom prefers the fake stuff, but she hides it when she's away so that Grammie doesn't ditch it. Grammie tried to ban it from the house at first, insisting that it's going to cause me to grow a second head one day,
but Mom says Grammie really hates it because her first name is Splenda and she's radically pissed that they stole it.

“Five minutes, kiddo,” she says. “Get a move on.”

But I don't. Clearing my plate takes all of ten seconds. There's no big rush. Anyway, I don't care about getting to the bus stop early anymore.

My ex-BFF Millie and I now have a fifteen-minute friendship. It starts at about 7:40 when we wait at the bus stop together. We share a seat on the bus and look over our homework together. It ends at about 7:55, when we get off the bus and Z is there waiting for me.

That's when Millie runs off to be with her new friends, and we all pretend like it's no big deal. We used to hang out after school, the three of us. Now, well, I don't really know what Millie does with her time.

She's waiting already at the corner between our houses. Her golden hair is tied in a ponytail at the base of her neck. I stuff back my disappointment. Today is not the day.

“Hi, Ella.”

“Hi, Millie.”

She's still a nice girl, but we used to braid our hair the same way every day. We would decide the night before what color ribbons we were going to wear so that we could match.

“What did you get for number sixteen?” she says, holding her math homework out to me.

“That's what I got,” I say, glancing at the page.

The other sixth-grade girls wear their hair down, or in a ponytail. I can't do that. My hair swells into a big puffball if it's not braided, and it's not like I don't have enough problems as it is. Anyway, I like braids. I liked Millie's especially, because her hair goes halfway down her back, and they were like gold silken ropes that would glide through my fingers. Amazing and smooth.

“Did you know,” she says, “Rick Small and I are going together.”

“Where?”

She blushes. “You know. Just
going
.”

“Oh. That's great.”

Millie likes braids, too. She always thought it was impressive that mine could stay in place even without a ribbon. One time she even said she wished her hair could do that, though I can't imagine why.

“Cass passed a note in third period yesterday, and he checked yes.”

“Well, then, he's not as dumb as he looks.”

“He is cute, isn't he?”

I hold back an eye roll. The bus rumbles up the street. Millie slides her fingers through her ponytail, staring at the
curb and maybe thinking about Rick Small, he of the big chin and tiny brain. I would have passed the note if she had asked me.

Do you like Millie Taylor? __ Yes __ No __ Maybe

Right now I'm leaning toward a big fat NO.

Still, every morning I pack an extra pair of ribbons in my bag that match mine. We don't make the plan anymore, so when she changes her hair back, how else will she know what color to use? I come ready, but I'll never tell her this until the day she shows up with braids.

I
n the long run, it's hard to pick out one
day from the next. When it's happening, it seems like each day is worse than the last and will never, ever end.

I climb off the bus behind Millie, who jets off before I can even say bye, and Z's always waiting for me. He comes to school early because he gets to eat the free breakfast they provide for poor kids. Afterward he usually hovers by the corner of the building, trying not to get noticed by anyone very big. Usually this works out, because Jonathan Hoffman's mother drives Jonathan to school, and he tends to arrive at the very last minute.

Today Z's sitting at the corner there, hunched under his backpack, looking small and reading a book while nibbling on a biscuit the size of his fist.

“I had two,” he says,
giving me a guilty glance over his glasses.

“It's okay.” I sit down beside him, not caring that he didn't save me a biscuit. He's really very sweet about things like this. Maybe that's how I justify not telling anyone about the things he takes.

I would be allowed to eat the free breakfast too, but Mom says we don't need handouts. At least, not anymore. One year, the year Daddy got sick, which was most of second grade and part of third, I had to take the school breakfast. Every morning that year Mom shook her finger in my face and said, “Tell them thank you, and don't get used to it.”

Now we have Daddy's life insurance, plus Mom got her job with the train company, and Grammie moved in, so we're okay.

Z licks crumbs from the creases of his hand, not okay.

The days do blur together, but every once in a while something happens that stands out. We're in math class, the period right before lunch. My desk is at the edge of the classroom, unfortunately close to Jonathan Hoffman, who likes to lodge small objects in my hair when no one but his friends are looking. He's gotten very good, and I don't always notice, until I see Brandon or Martin or Will across the way, turning purple from trying not to
laugh out loud. Then I have to decide—leave it there, not knowing what or where it is, or run my hand over the back of my head to remove the paper clip/penny/gum/gum wrapper/spitwad/you-name-it, and let them know they've got to me. Or, worse, reach for it and not be able to find it because it slipped in between the seam of my braids, or is something piecewise and subversive like eraser dust that I'll need a mirror and tweezers to remove, which is their favorite victory of all.

I grip the edges of my desk. Today we're so far, so good. Brandon and Martin are only folding notebook paper into tiny triangles and flicking them across my desk at each other. I can deal with this, no problem. Though I will never understand how they actually get away with it. Can't Miss Miller hear the tiny, repetitive
whoosh
es and
thunk
s? Why doesn't she ever turn around at the moment when they're making their victorious gorilla faces at each other, with two fists in the air?

Any field-goal attempts that don't make it across my desk, I confiscate. Occasionally a bad punt skitters to a stop on my algebra notes, and I grab it. They hate this, but so far they're not clever enough to try to use it against me. They interpret it as acceptable losses, not an escalation of tension. They will not negotiate for the safe return of their prisoners of war.

I've caught five already.
Flick. Skid. Grab.
Make that six. Brandon curses and tears out a new sheet. I smile to myself. Mom says not to worry. Smart people always win in the end. I bend closer over my notes.

That's when I feel the first tug. Jonathan's fingers on the bottom of my braid. My stomach clenches. What will it be today?

As it turns out, today it will be nothing. As it turns out, today is a day of small miracles.

A noise behind all of us causes Miss Miller to turn away from the chalkboard midsentence. Jonathan releases my hair at once. Brandon sits up straight, fumbling for his neglected pencil.

“Ah, hello, there,” Miss Miller says brightly, raising her attention to the doorway at the back of the classroom. She extends her hand, motioning someone forward. “Class, meet our newest addition. He's just moved here. Bailey James.”

The next five minutes pass in an absurd slow motion. For real. I mean, Zachariah tends to be the dramatic one, embellishing our daily life with Shakespearean enthusiasm. I just let things happen as they will. Not today. Today the world tilts, and when it rights itself—if it rights itself at all—I am left standing askew.

I
turn my head along with everyone else to
get an eyeful of the new kid. Bailey James. At first glance, I blink hard in his direction.

I'm floored.

He's tall, wearing a Utah Jazz jersey over a T-shirt and jeans. And he's black! Deep copper-skinned, big-lipped, flat-nosed black! And gorgeous.

I quickly look away. But I can't help it. My gaze is drawn back as he waves at the room.

“Hi, everyone.”

“Hi,” they chorus. Me, I'm speechless. Bailey James. I say his name in my mind a few times. First to myself, then as if to others:
Yeah, Bailey James. You know, the other black kid.

The other black kid.

Bailey James is looking around the room. I haven't had
time to worry what he'll think. I'm too shocked, too busy looking, to try to hide my face. His glance lands on me, moves on. Returns. Moves on. Returns. My heart is all but leaping.

Then his face breaks. Bailey James smiles at me. Actually smiles. Then he gives this little nod as if to say,
Yeah, I'm here. You're not alone
.

I lay my head on the desk, in case I start to cry.

I
try not to think about certain things very
often. Some are real things, like how very skinny Daddy got right before the end, or how much money Grammie has lost in the casino over the years, or how much I miss Mom when she's away. Some are made-up things, like what it would be like to have a big brother who could beat up Jonathan Hoffman and five of his friends all at once, or what if Grammie really hit the jackpot and we got rich overnight.

Or what it would be like if there was another black kid in school.

For the rest of the period I avoid looking toward Bailey James, who Miss Miller assigns to the empty seat way across the room from me. When the bell rings, I grab
up my books to make a break for the cafeteria. I make it all of two steps before I find myself staring at the words “Utah Jazz.”

Swallowing hard, I look up. Bailey James has come all the way across the room and is standing in front of me.

“Hi,” he says.

I stare up into his face. “Hi.”

It cannot be me speaking. My voice is locked, behind the huge knot in my throat.

And that's the end of it. Jonathan Hoffman swoops in, slinging his arm around Bailey's shoulder. “Hey, man. Welcome to Caldera. You going to go out for basketball? I'm on JV.”

Jonathan steers Bailey away from me, into the center of his group. Jonathan, staking his claim.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bailey says. “I play.”

He does not look back. Jonathan's friends crowd around him, and their conversation quickly morphs into gibberish talk about balls and stats until they fade into the hallway.

I am shattered, speechless. Whatever was about to happen, however small, is finished. My eyes burn. Hatred for Jonathan Hoffman threatens to drown me. These boys have everything, take everything. I don't know how
they do it. I don't know what more they want. But I'm sure they'll get it.

“Ella,” Miss Miller says. “Are you going to lunch?”

Garnering a smile for her, I put one foot in front of the other.

Z
goes straight to the library after
school. I don't let him entertain other options; I just want to go home. I run most of the way there.

Bursting in the door, I shout, “Mommy?”

She's sitting on the couch in Daddy's big red tube socks, flannel pants, and a tank top, sealing envelopes of our bills and watching
General Hospital
.

“Hey, baby.” She reaches out her arms to me and I fly into her lap. She hugs me so tight and I try not to take any deep breaths so she won't let up. If I never move, it'll be okay.

“You're getting too big, missy.” She groans, patting my side to end the hug. I move but curl up on the couch with my head against her. She rubs my back and my shoulder and kisses my cheek.

“I saved you the stamps,” she says, stroking the edge of my hair. I like to peel the stamps and stick them. Return address labels, too.

“I'll do them,” I say, but for now my eyes are closed.

“Tell me what's new, Ella,” she says, muting the television. “I don't like missing half of your week.”

Mom works for the train company as a steward on the long-distance passenger trains. She wears a blue uniform with red pinstripes. Las Vegas to Chicago takes two days each way, with three days off in between. That means she's gone four days a week, and home for only three. But that's how we pay all the bills. It's also why Grammie has to live here, to help take care of me.

“Where's Grammie?”

“I sent her shopping,” Mom says. “She was only too happy to go.”

I smile to myself. I'll bet she wanted to go, just to get away. Sometimes Mom and Grammie don't get along very well. I'm not supposed to know it when they fight, but I don't know who they think they're fooling. Grammie said once that they're both trying to love me enough to make up for Daddy being gone, and all that love can make a house get hot. I'm not sure that's what she meant to say, because she tried to take it back after she said it, but maybe it's a little bit true.

“She had the coupons out this morning,” I say.

Mom squeezes my shoulder. “Lasagna bake for dinner, okay?”

I burrow against her stomach. The good me would protest. Lasagna bake is a lot of work—it takes a whole hour and a half. I know she's tired since it's the first day home, but I do love lasagna bake.

“Okay.”

“You didn't tell me what's new,” Mom reminds me.

My happy place is suddenly not so happy. I sit up. “Nothing's new. School. Homework. Same old, same old.”

Mom studies my face. She knows what I look like, and she loves me anyway. Then again, she kind of has to. She's stuck with me.

“Same old, same old, huh?”

“Yeah.” I don't think this constitutes lying, even though I could say other things.
There's a new boy in school, and he's black. His name is Bailey James, and he looked at me. He came over to me and said hi, and we almost talked.