Camo Girl (8 page)

I
trudge home well before sunset. once, z and
I lost track of time reading the encyclopedias and I forgot to go home in time for dinner. Grammie showed up at the library at six thirty, stamping her feet and swinging her elbows, basically hopping mad and worried. I wouldn't have thought her hair could get any bigger, but that day it was like a mushroom cloud. I'd rather not go through that again.

I round onto my block, and there's Bailey. Spinning and jumping around in my driveway with the basketball.

Oh, no.

Oh, god.

I race toward him.

“What gives?” Bailey bounces the ball at me and I catch it. “I've been here like an hour.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “It was kind of an emergency.” I've really done it now. I shove the ball back to him. Hard. But who I'm mad at is me.

Bounce. “You totally disappeared after school.”

Shove. “I'm sorry. Really.”

We send the ball back and forth, a nonsensical little battle. Then it stops. The moment of silence opens wide.

“No big deal, I guess.” Bailey rolls the ball between his hands. “Is he okay?”

I drop my book bag in the grass. “Do you want to play ball, or what?”

I can't talk to Bailey about Z. I wouldn't know where to begin. And even if I could, would he really care, in the end?

Bailey spins the ball up on his fingers. “Yeah, that's why I came.”

“So let's do it.”

He checks to me. Dribble, dribble, block, shoot. We don't have to say anything much beyond “Your ball,” “I'll get it,” and “Nice shot.” I like these moments, being together, all close, without having to work on what to say or not to.

We try keeping score, which is kind of a train wreck because in only ten minutes it's already like 30 to 3. Between plays, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, like he's trying to figure me out. I figure he can see me looking back.

We take a water break at 80 to 11. I think he's actually going easy on me.

“If I get to a hundred before you get to fifteen, I win,” he says.

I laugh. A little too hard. “I'm really giving you a run for your money.”

It all seems worth it when he smiles. “For sure.”

At 99 to 14, I can no longer tell if he's rigging it, though he's suspect. I have control of the ball. He steps back, allowing me my final shot.

“I'm glad you did come,” he says suddenly.

“I was always going to come,” I lie. “I just didn't expect it to take me so long.” Maybe it's not even a lie. After all, I live here.

“So, he's okay, your friend?”

I take a moment to aim, shoot. “Everything's relative,” I say. The ball wobbles against the rim for a while before falling out.

“I hear that.” Bailey retrieves the ball, smiles at me. He barely glances at the basket as he makes his shot.

I applaud. “Surprise! You win.”

He grins. “Close game, though.” In a manner of speaking.

I hold out a pretend microphone, “We're live with Bailey James, after his stunning upset victory over Ella Cartwright. How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” he says, not really playing along. “It's gotta be dinnertime.”

My microphone hand falls to my side, all awkward. “Oh, right.” Things had been looking up, but now we're back. Leave it to me to mistake a dorky impulse for something cool and funny.

“I'm sorry I was late,” I say.

“It's cool. We can try again tomorrow.”

He doesn't say it like a question but it is. One big question mark hanging over us, over me.

“Why don't I leave this here,” he adds, extending the basketball to me. We're arms-plus-arms' length apart. I'd have to reach out and take it. But I can't.

I see it really clearly now. The line. What happened just now, and yesterday, and the day before with Bailey, that's not me. This is me. The line makes me tell small lies, like saying I'm sorry when what I really am is embarrassed, confused. If I had it to do over, I'd still run after Z.

Z's my first priority. He has to be. He needs me. And I need him.

There's a circle drawn around me, and only Z knows the way in.

I
didn't take the basketball. bailey gave it
to me.

I just stood there, and he kind of stared at me, then said, “Okay?” as he bounced it to me. I caught it, but that's all.

Now it's Saturday. I wake up and run downstairs. The basketball is still there, where I left it, rolled into the corner of the front porch. I don't know what happens next.

It wobbles a little when the wind blows. Just a little. But I step outside to get it, bring it inside where it's safe. There's bound to be a good spot for it in the garage somewhere.

I don't know what it means to have a basketball that belongs to Bailey but lives here. Is he trying to make an every-day plan?

I have every-day plans already, and they're with Z. I don't see how I can do both.

There's an empty spot on the tool shelf, between the box of nails and the pile of sandpaper. I slide the basketball into place, study it. It sits there, listing forward a bit, like it's not sure it wants to stay.

I pat its rough burnt-orange skin. At least we agree on something.

I didn't take the basketball. Bailey gave it to me, and when he figures that out, he might just come back long enough to take it away.

B
ailey rides his dirt bike over the
lawn, instead of coming down the street and up the driveway. This is called a hypotenuse, which we learned yesterday in math.

“It's a good thing you don't have a driver's license,” I say. “Lawns everywhere, beware.”

He grins, hopping off the seat and leaning the handlebars down onto the grass. “Efficiency.”

It's Saturday afternoon. He's wearing a New York Knicks jersey.

I come off the porch and head for the side of the garage, carrying my small bag of trash. He can't know I was waiting. Hoping.

He pokes around a bit, looking, then fetches the
basketball from my garage. “You got a bike?” he asks. “There's someplace I want to show you.”

“What?”

“Oh, no. I'm not telling.”

He sticks the ball under his arm, hopping back on his bike. I yell to Grammie that I'm going for a ride, and we take off down the street. Bailey rides hard, glancing back at me occasionally, but every time I'm right there, keeping up. This, I know how to do.

We make a wide left turn beyond the edge of our subdivision. The desert stretches out all around us, and Bailey leads me down a well-trampled path of scrub dirt, every rut of which is all too familiar. I know where we're going. I slow my riding.

I brake, nearly toppling over. “Wait,” I say. “I don't want to.”

Bailey circles around me. “What? Don't want to what?”

“Can we go back? Please?”

“Naw, man. This is so cool.”

He's excited, thinks he's discovered something. My old worn-out world is brand-new to him. He grins, and I do what I can to smile back. He's excited, and maybe it's just for today. Someday, this place we're going will be old to him, and me along with it. Maybe this is all I get.

“Okay,” I say.

“Yes.” He rides on eagerly. I follow. I only have him for a little while longer. He's the kind of boy for whom there's always something new. I don't know how I know this about him, but I feel how true it is.

The sky stretches out, and the world drops away in front of us. The mesa in the late afternoon light takes my breath away. It always has.

I've only ever been here with my dad.

I let my bike fall over and I step to the edge, where a thick ridge of rocks rises up, just before the cliff that falls into the desert below. I turn my face to the billowing clouds.
Hi, Daddy.

When I come around again, Bailey's taking in the sights, and I'm one of them. “You've been here before.” He doesn't seem disappointed.

“Yeah.”

“I don't know much about you,” he says thoughtfully.

My pulse speeds up. Why? “I don't know much about you either.”

Bailey shrugs. “You know I can handle a ball. That's pretty much all there is.”

I sit on the rocks with my legs dangling toward him. It is a beautiful spot. I don't want to be sad here, now, but I am.

“I thought you were a Utah Jazz fan,” I say.

“No, sorry.” He lies flat on the ground, nearby. “Are you? I didn't think you had a team.”

“I don't. You wore it to school a few times, so I thought . . . you know.”

“Utah's the closest team to here,” he explains. “I figured most kids would be for Utah. Or Phoenix. I have a Suns jersey, too.”

“So, you're really a Knicks fan?”

“No.” Bailey grins. “Don't try to guess my team. I have all the shirts.”

Bailey James, man of mystery.

“Where did you live before?”

“Delaware. Before that, Pensacola. Before that, um, Seattle?”

“Wow.”

“I'm used to being the new kid,” he says, tossing the ball up and catching it. “We move around a lot.”

I can't imagine it. I never remember living anywhere but in this house in this town. Every inch of this place is part of my story.

“How come?”

“Military brat.” He shrugs. “You get used to it.”

“So, you might be leaving?” I felt it. I did.

His expression goes funny. “Naw. Probably not for a while this time.”

“Your dad or your mom?” I say.

“It's just my mom.”

“Oh. She's in the military?”

“No.” Bailey catches the ball, holds it. “I don't like to talk about my dad,” he says.

“Me either,” I whisper.

For a long moment we rest there, locked in something silent but strong, held fast by whatever sadness is hanging over us. I don't know about his dad, and he doesn't know about mine, but there's a second where it's like we do know. The line we draw around ourselves sort of breaks open. For a moment, we're a figure eight. Everything else is outside, and it's just us. In.

S
unday morning i fix my own bowl of
cereal for breakfast. The house is quiet, which is odd because Grammie's not the type to sleep in. I knock on her bedroom door, but she's not there. I find her in the garage, tinkering under the hood of the car.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, we need an oil change,” she says, showing me the fresh line on the wiped-clean dipstick. “You wanna ride into town with me? Need to stop at the Walmart, too.”

“Yeah?” I say, hesitant. That's where Z's mom works.

Grammie fixes on me with hawk eyes. “Your new friend coming to play today?”

“No.” Bailey says he has something to do on Sundays. A family thing.

“Well, then, let's go, kiddo.” Grammie swats at my behind with the grease rag until I hop into the backseat.

Fine.

There's one of three places where I can always find Z. The games and puzzles section, the snack bar, or automotive.

Today he's in automotive. I almost don't notice him. He's sitting on the floor, staring at the tall piles of tires, holding one of his boxes in his hand. Box 4. The special box. The secret box.

He has a small satchel beside him, smaller than his school bag, no doubt for the rest of his boxes.

“Hi,” I say.

Z flinches, startled. He clutches the box to his chest, like armor.

“Milady,” he murmurs.

I fold my legs beneath me, across from him. “Zachariah.”

He slides the loose box back in the bag with the others. “Ellie-nor.”

We look at each other. It's one of those moments where we're both trying to make sense of things. And probably coming up with different answers, which isn't how it used to be. One plus one doesn't always equal two, for whatever reason.

“We missed some games this week. Do you want to make them up?” I say.

Z fingers the edges of his bag. He says nothing but reaches in and extracts the box of chessmen. He knows which box it is by feel, even though they're basically identical.

He lays it between us.

“Okay,” I say. This is good. I draw a makeshift chessboard on some computer paper out of Z's bag.

If we don't talk, things seem to be how they always were. We move the chessmen up and over. Z wriggles his fingers with dramatic flair.

I play along, try not to think about what's wrong with this picture. How I have to remind myself not to say anything, because anything I say will make Z upset. I try not to think that it's wrong, all wrong. I should be able to talk to my best friend, real words, not part of the game.

“Your move, milady.”

“Sorry, sir.” I hop a knight.

He grins, pushing up his glasses. I'm about to lose gloriously, and Z is approaching glee. I realize I've missed seeing his face light up over the small things that make him happy.

“Checkmate!” he cries.

“You got me good,” I say, groaning dramatically. He laughs.

I start resetting the board. Z joins me in lining the little men up again, but when everything's set, he pauses.

“Milady, shall we consider a feast before battle?”

“Okay,” I say. “What do you want?”

He considers. “Pop-Tarts.”

“You wanna get them, or should I?”

“Milady must away to our rationed stores. I shall guard the soldiers,” he says, stroking his king's shoulder lovingly.

I roll my eyes. “Well-laid, sir.”

The grocery section is about as far on the other side of the store as you can get from automotive. I leave Z, walking the big center aisle that runs the width of the store. My sneakers glide over a slick spot on the floor, giving me a little dance-shimmer effect. Which I decide to try again. And again, as I make my way toward the snack aisle.