When Cameron arrives in the counseling office fifth period, Ms. Langdon grimaces and motions toward Mr. Durry’s door. Things were frosty in Mrs. Gorgon’s class the day after the incident; she let Cameron bathe in the light of her contempt like everyone else. Add to that Rosemary’s painful politeness and English has gone to the bottom of Cameron’s favorite subjects list.
The one benefit that could’ve come from the whole situation – him becoming a campus hero, winning back the girl – didn’t materialize, since the only ones who saw his confrontation were underclassmen not yet well-versed in the art of spreading news.
He sits in Durry’s office; on the desk between them, the ever-present big box of Kleenex. The seat is still warm from the last appointment – probably one of the wrist-cutter girls, or the wastoids flunking all their classes. (How much would someone have to be paid to be a high school counselor? It must be a million bucks a year, at least.) The photo of the little girl, Durry’s daughter, is the big mystery in here, because everyone knows the man is gay. The voice, the walk, the amount of purple he wears – it’s one of those things you just know. There are theories of course: niece, granddaughter, maybe the picture came with the frame. Even though people have sworn they were going to straight-up ask him, they either chickened out or kept the answer to themselves.
“First off, congratulations on the college front,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Be sure to maintain your grades – I’ve heard of schools rescinding their offer when kids go into coasting mode for second semester.”
“Ok.”
“Now then. I heard about what happened in English class,” He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and asks for Cameron’s side of the story. Cameron obliges with an edited version (minus the part about him being a sucker for Rosemary).
“Let me run this up the flagpole: it may be beneficial to your grade in the class to patch this up.” Cameron almost laughs, not at the recommendation, but at the whole situation. At everything that led to him sitting here. “Let’s talk man to man, not counselor to student. Can we do that?”
“Sure.”
“Sometimes in life you have to eat shit. It doesn’t smell good, it doesn’t taste good, but you force it down and move on. This is one of those times. Apologize to her. You’re almost out of here and she’ll be nothing more to you than an
A
on your transcript, and your four-point-oh stays intact. Isn’t that worth it?”
Afterwards, Cameron walks to the English building, to Gordon’s door, looks through the window. She sits at her desk in an empty classroom. If she’d look up he’d go in and get it over with. Instead she jerks her red pen across the unfortunate essay on the desk in front of her, a medieval surgeon, a serial killer. Jackie the Ripper.
He can’t do it.
On his way to the parking lot after school, Cameron sees Zaplin and Claire. Only this time they’re not making out; Zaplin stands in front of her, blocking her from getting around him.
“Hey!” Cameron shouts. Yelling at school is apparently his new thing. “HEY!” This time Zaplin spins around, maybe expecting an A.P. Others slow to a stop all around.
“Cameron, it’s none of your business,” Claire says.
At the same moment, Zaplin: “The hell is your problem?”
“You are,” Cameron answers. This isn’t the ferocious Zaplin, the Indian burn-giver, the toilet dunker; this is a greasy, cigarette-smelling loser yelling at Bryce’s little sister. Cameron is a beast, his fists balls of iron. “Asshole.”
Now is the moment to take a swing, to land the flesh-and-bone warhead at ground zero between Zaplin’s eyes. Now is the moment to avenge –
Zaplin slaps him.
It’s so random, so sudden, that by the time Cameron processes it Zaplin’s walking away. The onlookers disperse, deprived of a real battle. Cameron’s face stings; his pride would, too, if he had any left.
“I told you to mind your own business,” Claire tells him.
The tingling of Cameron’s cheek rages on. “Why are you with him, Claire? Why are you being like this?”
“Like what? You don’t know anything about me. Go drive your big car and hang out with your pretty girlfriend. None of it matters anyways.”
He realizes he’s still holding his cheek long after she’s gone to the parking lot and the bystanders have lost interest.
Claire sits in one of the white puffy chairs in Pastor Gary’s office, having been shuttled there in her mom’s car straight from school. Gary wears a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like he’s some regular guy. He sits in the chair next to her. “Your mother told me about what happened.” His voice the same low, steady volume as always. “I once rode in a police car and I’ll tell you what, I was scared out of my wits.”
“What did you do?” she asks.
“My friends and I thought it would be funny to set off some firecrackers in our neighbor’s barn. He was a mean ol’ guy, always yelling at us if we even set one foot on his property to fetch a ball or something. Mr. Levi. So we snuck in at night and piled ‘em all right in the middle, figuring he’d hear it and come running with his shotgun. What d’you think happened?”
“It’s your story.”
“Fire. His horses went crazy and broke out. The whole barn went up, you could probably see it from three towns over. When the police found the used-up firecrackers, they came and rounded us up, took us down the station. That black and white car drove slow right through the middle of town so everyone saw me in the back. My daddy let me sit in jail for a whole day before he came and got me out. Scariest day of my life.”
When he isn’t talking, Claire listens to the absolute silence of the room. Silent enough she can hear her own heartbeat. She’s never been this close to Gary before, the way he’s leaning toward her. His cheeks are gouged with old acne scars.
“After that we spent every weekend for two months rebuilding Mr. Levi’s barn. I was so grateful not to have to go back to jail I would’ve rebuilt the whole house if I’d been told to. I knew God had seen my actions, but I also knew He had seen into my heart.” He pauses. “What would God see in your heart, Claire?”
Is he equating stealing hair dye with burning down a barn?
“You caused your family a lot of pain,” he says. He takes her hand in his, like a whale swallowing a little fish. “I know you’re confused, sweetie, but you have people all around who love you and want to help, if only you’ll let them. You also have the biggest cheerleader of all watching out for you – you know who that is, don’tcha?”
She knows what he wants to hear. If she says that word, that syllable, she may be free to go.
“I don’t think I believe in God” is what comes out.
He keeps ahold of her hand. “Why would you say that?”
“I cut an article out of the newspaper,” she says, “About a little baby born without a brain. It lived for a few minutes, long enough for its parents to meet it, then died. I keep imagining that tiny baby – it didn’t do anything to deserve that. What d’you think God would say if you asked Him why?”
“Claire, terrible things happen all around us, every day. There isn’t always an explanation. We all have to remember that this world of pain and suffering is only temporary, and we have to trust that He will make it all right in the end.”
“Then why don’t we all just kill ourselves if the next life is so much better?”
“Because He gave each of us the precious gift of life, and it’s for Him to take away when the time comes.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, Heaven’s not going anywhere.”
“Bullshit.” The room goes even quieter in the next moments, like neither of them is sure she said the word. A minute ago, an expression of doubt. Now, there’s no turning back.
“Claire. I do not appreciate that kind – ”
“Bull. Shit.” Saying it to an adult makes her tongue feel electric, like anything could come out next. “I don’t know if you really believe what you’re telling me or if you say it because it’s your job and all. Like all those stories in Sunday school about how God loves us. Did He love that little baby? Did He love that two-year-old girl in Las Cruces who died from… what’s it called… leukemia? How about the girl who went to build houses for poor people and got killed in a plane crash? If that girl had like stayed home and partied and had sex, she’d still be alive, y’know?”
Color blooms under his acne scars. Claire sits on her hands but can still feel them shake.
“We’re all alone. It’s, like, so obvious. The world is a messed up place and you either have good luck or you’re screwed.”
Gary swallows twice before talking. “I see that you have a lot of pain in your heart, and you’re speaking from that pain. This isn’t the Claire I’ve known here at church.” He closes his eyes. “O, Lord, I ask that you guide this young lady – ”
“Stop it.” She stands, backs away from him toward the door. “You’re talking to no one. You can waste your time, but I don’t have to stay here anymore.” She half expects him to come toward her and… what? Chain her in the church dungeon? He stays seated.
She and her mom drive home as the after-work traffic thickens on the roads. Claire tries to count how many days she has left – not in the school year, but until she turns eighteen and can get out. Bryce is so lucky, except that UNM won’t be far enough away for Claire. She needs a place where she can go and never come back.
She’s gotten to sixty-eight days when they pull into the empty parking lot of Sunset Mesa elementary school. Across the street is Kim’s Tae Kwon Do, where she once sat on the floor and watched Bryce break a board with his foot; he seemed like the coolest brother in the whole world back then.
Her mom takes a Kleenex from her purse. “I don’t want things to be this way in our family,” she says, wiping her nose. “This is silly.”
Upcoming events on the school sign: BOOK FAIR; KINDERGARTEN GRADUATION; FIFTH GRADE GRADUATION.
“All I want,” she goes on in a shaky voice, “Is for you kids to have a better life than what your father and I have had. Right now I’m at the end of my rope trying to keep things together.”
Claire has the sense of the car getting smaller heartbeat by heartbeat, like soon they’ll be so close to each other they’ll be touching. Like the car will squish them into one person.
Her mom blows her nose again. “If you’re not careful, you make certain choices that you can’t go back from.”
The quiet afterwards is long enough that Claire steals a glance over, to make sure her mom is still awake. She is – she stares out the windshield, toward the portables where Claire’s dad came for career day and told the class about working as an airline pilot and passed out little gold wings to every kid.
There seems something more to be said here, hanging in the car with them. But neither of them knows what.
The day Cameron gets slapped by Zaplin is the day Bryce sees the
Star Trek
episode title he’s been waiting for: “Arena.” He says, “Yes!” aloud. Bryce has the house to himself and watches in bliss as Captain Kirk goes hand-to-hand with the man-sized lizard creature.
The day of the Gorn is the day Bryce gets two envelopes in the mail.
The first envelope contains an autographed photo of Heather Locklear, with a typed, official-looking note inviting him to join her fan club. Alas, no response to his invitation.
The second envelope is from the Art Institute of Chicago.
Dear Bryce. Happy to offer. Obvious talent. Welcome.
Wait, what? Double check to make sure it’s legit and not some clever joke (though he can’t think of anyone who could execute a clever joke). Real. All real.
He looks up at the ceiling and says, “Thank you.”
The day of the Gorn and the mail is the day Bryce shares his good news at dinner. “I applied to the Art Institute of Chicago and I got accepted for the fall.”
Claire shifts Hamburger Helper around on her plate. His parents look at each other, then at him. “Where did this idea come from?” his dad asks.
“Art’s been my favorite thing for years, Dad. You know that.”
“Which is why you’ll look into a minor in art,” his mom says.
“Why minor in it when I could study it full time?”
“So all those other schools we applied to were just a waste of time and money.” The way his dad words it isn’t a question.
“Don’t you guys care what I want?”
“We care that you don’t throw your life away,” his mom replies. “There’s a difference between a hobby and something you can make a career out of.”
His dad says, “UNM is a good school. I would’ve been proud to go there.”
“I’m not you!” Bryce screeches like a girl. He goes downstairs and gets in bed, clothes still on. They wouldn’t have acted that way if he had cancer – oh, the looks on their faces. He almost wishes he had the chance to ambush them with the news.
He pulls the covers all the way up to make a cave, a cocoon, an escape pod.
Cameron shows up to work the Friday night shift, still replaying the Zaplin incident in his head. He shouldn’t have backed down; he should’ve fought back. But fighting Zaplin wouldn’t be the same as yelling at golden-haired Mrs. Gordon.
Victor’s first words upon seeing him in the kitchen: “Dayummmm, I heard Ricky kicked someone’s ass at school.”
“It wasn’t an ass kicking, it was a slap.”
A typical busy Friday night means Cameron needs Victor in the kitchen and can’t assign him some shit detail like rearranging the freezer. They stand side-by-side on the pizza assembly line, Victor humming “Another One Bites the Dust” or saying, “Pow!” as he sprinkles on toppings.
The clicking of the order tickets, the distant music, Victor’s chatter – it all becomes a symphony to make Cameron’s eyeballs throb. How does it happen that Dakota is gone while douchebags like Zaplin and Victor get to go on living? She was worth more than both of those guys combined, plus any kids and grandkids they’ll ever have (God help us).
“Sorry, my boss is here tonight,” Cameron lies when Nate Gardner and his friends come in looking for complimentary pizza or tokens. “Actually, that’s not true – I’m just tired of you guys coming in to mooch. We’re not even friends at school. You only talk to me so I’ll give you stuff for free.” They seem to have trouble processing this, so he adds, “If you’re not gonna pay for your food, leave.”
They do, right as a bald guy comes up to get his hot dog, looks at it and says, “That’s it?”
Cameron almost shouts, “This is a pizza restaurant! If you want a hot dog, go to Wienerschnitzel!”
After that, even though none of the toppings need to be refilled, he steps inside the freezer, shuts the door behind him, and sits next to the crates of shredded cheese. Life might not be so bad as an Eskimo.
When Cameron gets up a little after 11:00 on Saturday morning, he can’t remember dreaming. Finally a night without a plane crash.