The kids from school sit clumped together in the middle rows, even though the rest of the plane is empty. Dan, Chloe, Damien among the other faces.
Nothing outside the windows except black clouds webbed with lightning.
“We have to get off,” Cameron says. The others laugh about something. “Did you guys hear me? It’s not safe!”
“But we’re going to help the poor,” Nicole Steinbach replies without looking at him.
He wants to yell at them about the imminent crash but they start singing “99 Bottles of Beer.” He runs up the aisle, or tries to, toward the cockpit. He has minutes, maybe less, but even at top speed he doesn’t seem to be getting any closer to the door.
The plane tilts hard and Cameron wakes up, gripping the bed. Several seconds tick by before he realizes it’s not tilting. Several more seconds for his heart rate to slow at all. 3:41 a.m.
At 4:01 he gives up on sleep, goes to his desk, and opens his Economics textbook.
The Sunday of the church Halloween party, it’s Claire’s turn to rake leaves in the front yard. Of course there are always more when she does it than when Bryce does. Baloo squirts from pile to pile on the crunchy carpet of orange and brown, making sounds like a duck, trailing stray leaves behind him. Claire sneezes non-stop because of the dust.
When her dad comes home, instead of helping or even offering to hold the garbage bag open, he says, “Missed a spot, kiddo.” Claire throws the bag down, kicks the rake, and storms in after him.
Things go downhill from there. Yelling, vows, the usual business. Her mom says, “You don’t seem like you’re suitable to be around people right now. Maybe you should stay home tonight.”
So Claire locks herself in her room. Not like she even wanted to go the Halloween party in her hobo costume – she’d only agreed in order to make them stop talking about how much time she spends in isolation. She’ll sit in here and entertain herself more than the haunted house would, which is for kids anyway. The snack drawer in her desk has a secret stash of food; she can stay locked away until the next day, no problem. Even longer if she finds someplace to pee.
“I catch the waves down in AF-RI-CA!” she sing-yells along with the radio, hoping to annoy anyone within earshot.
Claire has run away from home twice before:
The first time, she spent an afternoon and most of an evening in her best friend Gina Hawkins’s closet, with a backpack full of books, crossword puzzles, and little peanut butter sandwich crackers. Claire’s mom called and Gina tearfully confessed. Claire never spoke to Gina after that, and even made a point to have a swimming party just to not invite her new non-friend. If they had traded places, Claire never would have told, not even if threatened with a room full of spiders.
The next time she knew better than to count on loyalty. She went to the arroyo and set up camp in the small clearing among the underbrush. The afternoon was bliss; she read and ate donut holes among the trees. Birds came and went, butterflies twirled around her, the occasional lizard. Who needed people?
As darkness blossomed, Claire kept adding layers of clothing until she was wearing three T-shirts and a pair of jeans over her shorts. She focused on reading, ignoring the way the flashlight shivered over the words. When something rustled in the brush, she swept the beam that direction. “I know there’s no such person as Stinky the Rapist!” she called to the foliage.
Finally, to her lasting shame, she packed up and went home, where she locked her door and didn’t speak to anyone for a day.
The next time she runs away, she’ll use the lessons she’s learned. The next time she won’t come back and they won’t find her, either.
* * *
Scott’s neighborhood has the best candy, according to Ricky, so the plan is for Claire to meet them over there for trick or treating on Halloween night.
She planned to wear the hobo costume, but riding her bike in that will be challenging. Besides, what if the guys aren’t wearing costumes at all? She’ll look like a dork. She digs around in her closet and finds a bouncy antenna headband and a green mask. Bug Girl.
“I’m going trick or treating with Meredith,” she announces in the den. Baloo hides under the chair on account of the non-stop doorbell.
Her mom looks over the top of the open newspaper. “You two will be too old for that pretty soon. Enjoy it while you can.”
“Watch out for Clairewolves,” her dad says, the same joke as every Halloween.
“And remember it’s a school night.”
She takes a mini Butterfinger from the bowl by the front door, a flashlight, and a pillowcase. She’s biking down the driveway when a parent herds a group of little kids – ghost, pirate, skeleton – up to the front door.
As she glides down the cul-de-sac: a row of Jack O’ Lanterns on Steve and Bo’s front walk, a Tin Man complete with axe, the
Help Yourself But Don’t Be Greedy
note attached to a bucket of candy on the Cohens’ porch. Before Mrs. Cohen disappeared, she used to make pumpkin-shaped cookies and Rice Krispie treats topped with chocolate sauce.
Right, right, left, right is the way tonight. Laughter and running feet on pavement echo in the darkness all around. Fleeting visions of cowboys, superheroes, what looks like a morbidly obese woman, a devil, that killer with the hockey mask. A front yard with a coffin and eerie music. The smell of vomit from somewhere, in Claire’s nose and then gone with one rotation of the pedals.
Some kids run away from a smashed pumpkin on the sidewalk.
Claire steers with one hand, uses the other to shine the flashlight toward movement on either side of her. Up ahead, six guys in black, shoving and laughing. She pulls up alongside them.
“So where’s all the good candy?” she asks.
They stop and stare at her from behind their six identical Ronald Reagan masks. They’re not carrying any trick or treat bags.
“Oh, sorry.” Claire backs her bike away.
“Don’t go,” one of them says, muffled. “We’ll show you where the good candy is.”
He walks to her left while another moves to her right – flanking, it’s called in snowball wars. She keeps moving backward, loses her grip on the flashlight; it smashes to the street and rolls away, highlighting all the shoes as it goes.
They promise her candy and other wonders, stick with us, a Halloween you won’t forget.
She pedals shakily as they advance, finally gets going. A band of evil presidents stalking the streets on All Hallows Eve. She rounds a corner, past Ronald McDonald and Alice from Wonderland. Jumps off a curb, the shockwave from her butt up to her skull. She still hears footsteps but doesn’t dare turn around to see if it’s the Reagans.
The tears must be because she’s winded. Only a stupid baby would be crying otherwise.
When she’s pedaled far enough, she puts the kickstand down and sits on the sidewalk. She makes a mental calm-down list like Dr. Pederson taught her. This time,
Twilight Zone
episodes: the one with the guy who loves to read books, the one with the tiny astronauts in the woman’s attic, the one with the ventriloquist dummy, the one where Earth is falling into the sun…
Breathe. Breathe.
The pillowcase dangles from her handlebar like a surrender flag.
* * *
On the kitchen phone the next night:
Meredith says, “‘Cancer: Seeking pleasure isn’t always selfish. The thing you do for the sheer joy of it also happens to spread joy to others.’”
“Ha. I’ll let you know when I do something for the sheer joy of it,” Claire says, sipping milk from a Pac-Man glass.
“‘Sagittarius: Expressing yourself openly and having the courage to act on your convictions are gifts to use in this confidence-building transit.’”
“What’s going on over there?” Claire asks.
“My recital’s next week, so I just finished my
one hour
of piano practice tonight. Pat’s being a real slave driver.”
“My dad’s been making all these suggestions for things we can do together as a family. He’s seriously weirding me out.”
“Random. Y’know, today in P.E. I had to pick a softball team and I
did
act on my convictions and express myself openly. Horoscope is right once again.”
Claire gets the coffee ice cream from the freezer; someone’s eaten around the edges, leaving an island in the center.
Meredith says, “J.V. transferred down into my math class. Guess he’s not a genius after all.”
“Whoever said he was?” Claire hacks at the ice cream with one of the big spoons.
“Remember when he was in typing class with us? At least we don’t have to that anymore. Oh, guess what Sharon did to her hair!”
“They’re totally yelling at me to get off the phone.”
“Maybe your dad has a new idea for a family activity.”
“Ok, bye.” Claire hangs up as her mom walks into the kitchen.
“How’s Meredith?” her mom asks.
“How d’you know I was talking to her?”
“Because I haven’t heard about any friends at your new school.”
“I have friends.”
Her mom gets a spoon from the drawer and dips into the ice cream, carefully maneuvering around Claire’s.
“I thought only uncivilized people eat out of the carton,” Claire says.
“There’s an old saying: you can’t fight city hall.” Her mom takes another bite. “You should invite Meredith over – we haven’t seen her in a while.”
“She’s busy practicing for her piano recital.”
“Good for her! I wish you and your brother had stuck with music. Think of what a good flute player you could be by now.”
When her mom leaves the kitchen, Claire sneaks the ice cream up to her room, where she eats in bed while starting
To Kill a Mockingbird
for English class. Baloo hovers next to her, tail up like an antenna, licking the spoon whenever it’s offered.
Packing up at the end of Mrs. Gordon’s English class is a delicate operation, to be conducted out of the teacher’s sight and hearing, because everyone knows well her feelings on the sound of zippers during her class time.
If one person is guilty: “We’ll be spending some extra time together today, people, thanks to Mr. Foug.” Or McAllister, Arlowe, Yates. Mrs. Gordon never lets the target of her scorn remain a mystery.
If more than one: “You’ve all earned a bonus homework assignment” (which she apparently makes up on the spot, requiring all the pre-zippers to unzip and write her instructions down). The trick that these repeat offenders can’t seem to grasp is to wait until the announcements at the end of the period. Today, while the voice on the loudspeaker talks about the Peace Club meeting in Mr. Hagen’s room, and the deadline for dropping a class, Cameron zips up slowly.
Every time he lets Rosemary get away, he’s consumed by his failure until the next day, when it happens all over again.
The bell
woooooots
and he gets out one step behind her, pulling on his coat while he walks. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Going to Katrina’s birthday party,” she tells him, like he asked if winter is cold. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
Katrina = Katrina Kingsley, a solid 8 out of 10. She could be a 9 with her flirting and tight outfits, but a point gets subtracted for the way she continually chomps her gum in class, openmouthed like some barnyard animal.
Cameron wonders how a new girl at school could have already infiltrated Katrina’s inner circle.
He also has zero desire to attend a party in honor of Katrina.
“I was planning to, yeah,” he says.
“Brilliant. See you then.” And she strides away.
He watches the way she walks, the way the fall light hits her hair, and he’s once again looking into the past.
Cameron normally counts on downtime in the counseling office to get his homework done. Today he should be reading
Oedipus Rex
or translating some Latin, but besides filing and call slips, there’s the matter of Rosemary. He’s attracted to her, interested in her, but hasn’t decided yet if he’s taking the big step up to actually
liking
her.
Cameron slips folders alphabetically back into the tall file cabinets. Working in the counseling office means access to these, with every student’s history inside. Most dull, some not. He’s seen things here and there even without meaning to:
Nora S. has gray teeth because she vomits after every meal and has no enamel left.
Logan T. got expelled from two previous schools for violence before coming here.
Gwen W. cuts herself, but you wouldn’t need to look in a file to know that – just look at her arms.
One drawer down, the
V
’s. So easy to open it and find Rosemary’s file. It’s only fair that he knows if she has any dark secrets before proceeding. Just a quick peek. No harm, no one will know. Ms. Langdon laughs on the phone. The counselors are all in their offices.
He opens the drawer.
* * *
When Saturday night rolls around, Cameron struggles with what to wear. The sweater he chooses first has a too-wide collar, which makes his head and neck look like a lollipop. He tries a button-up shirt underneath (after subjecting it to his best quick ironing job) but then feels like he’s going to church. Plus, too many layers will make him sweat and he isn’t going to carry a spray can of Right Guard.
If things don’t work out with Rosemary tonight, Cameron plans to call Anna. He’d called once before, but she wasn’t home and he declined the woman’s offer to take a message.
What about just the button-up shirt? Dorky. He’s seen guys wearing them untucked, so he tries that. Blech. He settles on the T-shirt and jeans he was wearing originally.
Cameron opens the front door as his mom’s date is about to knock. He looks normal enough, except for the long bead necklace. “
Namaste
. My name’s Reed.”
“Um, yeah, Namaste to you too,” Cameron replies as Bryce walks up the driveway.
Cameron parks around the corner from Katrina’s house, says to Bryce, “Tell me what you think when you meet Rosemary.” What he really wants to see is the look on Bryce’s face, the amazement at the resemblance.
Bryce opens his wallet and takes out two condoms. “Want one?” he asks. “I splurged on the most expensive kind. Lambskin.”
Cameron waves it off. “I don’t wanna jinx anything.”
The boys survey the party scene from the doorway. The house could hold maybe thirty people comfortably; at least fifty drink from cans and dance. Music by Men At Work blasts. Cameron scans the living room for Rosemary but sees only bouncing heads. Even in their limited party experience, he and Bryce both know standing here too long will lead to them being spotted as crashers.
“When in doubt, find the drinks,” Bryce says. They head into the avocado-colored kitchen, no less crowded, the center of attention being the birthday girl herself. She sits on the counter in a belly shirt and short shorts, smacking her gum and telling a story to an audience of football players and cheerleaders.
“And then I’m all, ‘You are
so
busted!’”
Bryce opens the fridge. Cans of Coors and more cans of Coors. Cameron’s heart sinks.
Bryce asks, “Hey, Katrina, can we have a beer?”
She stops mid-sentence and looks at them, as does the rest of the kitchen. “Oh, hey, Cameron. You can have one.” Looking right at Bryce she adds, “Beers are only for people who paid. There’s soda, but don’t have more than one or my dad will be pissed.”
Cameron takes a beer, Bryce takes a can of Shasta, and they beat a hasty retreat. “Man, how much free pizza do you give out at work?” Bryce asks. In a high-pitched female voice: “Oh,
you
can have a beer, Cameron.
Hee-hee-hee
.”
“Here,” Cameron says, trading cans.
“Do you see her?”
“I don’t think so, but it’s hard to tell with all that hair bouncing around.”
Bryce says, “Divide and conquer time. Good luck, Red Leader.”
They circle the perimeter of the party in opposite directions, accompanied by the song about a land down under.
Cameron wanders out to the cluttered, frigid garage, to see a group game in progress in the back of a pickup truck. Diana McDonald turns when the door slams. “Hi, Cameron!” she bubbles, then tells everyone, “He works at Chuck E. Cheese.”
The red haired guy from marching band, for some reason wearing Ray Bans in here, asks, “Are you the mouse?”
“The mouse is a robot. I work in the kitchen.” Cameron wants to add
moron
to the end of the sentence.
“He totally makes good pizza,” Diana says.
One of the wrestling team Neanderthals cuts in with, “Screw the pizza. Can we get free tokens, bro?”
“If my manager’s not there.”
With no more room in the truck, Cameron stands on the side and watches them toss coins while trying not to stare down at Diana’s impressive cleavage. Eventually he says, “I need to go get another drink,” though no one asked.
Inside, he finds a strategic vantage point against the wall at the foot of the stairs. He can see the whole living room to his left, the kitchen to his right. He bops his head to the music. To any observer, he hopefully resembles someone having a decent time at a party. Plenty of big hair and more bouncing heads.
No Rosemary.
He hasn’t checked upstairs yet. Maybe there’s a secret room for the cool people. Susannah Kramer sits at the foot of the staircase, drinking beer through a bendy straw; they’ve never been friendly so he can get past her with just a “Hey.” Two doors at the end of the hall. If there is a secret cool room, it’s really quiet.
He pushes open the closer door, on to darkness. A disembodied voice mumbles something.
“What?” Cameron asks the shadows.
“Close the bloody door,” comes the agonized reply.
“Rosemary?” Oh no, she’s in here making out with someone. Or worse. He needs to turn and leave this very second. “It’s me, Cameron.”
“Oh, how lovely you found me like this.” Her voice clearer now. “Would you pretty please close the door?”
He does so, the music instantly becoming a distant beat. They’re alone in a dark room. If he’d dared to fantasize about tonight (which he had, but only a little) he wouldn’t have had the nerve to even include this scene. “Are you ok?”
“I’ve got a bad headache. I need to lay here and hope it doesn’t turn into a migraine.”
He almost says
lie here
but catches himself.
The faint moonlight through the blinds is enough that he can see the shape of her, a dark smear against a ghostly white bedspread. “Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, stay. I feel like what’s-his-name in the bell tower, lurking up here. The Phantom of the Opera.”
“I think that’s the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” he says.
“Right. I defer to your superior knowledge of monsters.”
He smiles, then shuts it off in case she can see his teeth.
“Well, that’s giving me the creeps, you watching me from over there. Come sit down.”
He sits on the edge of the bed; half an inch forward and he’d be on the floor. It might be better this way, he thinks, not being able to see her. He sips his Shasta, now almost flat, desperate for something smooth to say. “How often do you get headaches?”
“This is my first in a while. I’d forgotten how bloody awful they can be.” He can see the pale oval of her face now. “My mum gets migraines. Sometimes has to stay in bed all day.”
Cameron nods as if she can see. His knowledge of headaches is as limited as his knowledge of how to make small talk at a party – maybe moreso – which presents a significant challenge at this moment. “Well, you’re not missing much,” he says. “A lot of drunk people dancing.”
“Who did you come with?” she asks.
Is she trying to find out if he brought a date? That would mean she’s interested. Or maybe simply marking time until her headache is gone and she can move on to the actual entertaining people here.
“My friend Bryce.”
He listens to a few verses of the song from downstairs until he wonders if she’s fallen asleep on him. What a triumph that would be. He could talk about school, about his mission to get straight
A
’s this semester so he can get accepted at a good California school. No, too risky – he’ll either come off as bragging or nerdy. Or worse, both.
He goes with the main thing they have in common, “So… Mrs. Gordon.”
She doesn’t hear or doesn’t want to talk about that, because she tells him about her new baby sister and the way her mother showers the baby with attention like Rosemary isn’t even there. “And Samantha had to be an accident, right? I mean, who plans to have a baby when their only other child is about to turn eighteen?”
This leads to her dad’s new job here that made her leave her friends behind overseas. How he’s a supporter of Maggie Thatcher and the arguments they have at supper. Cameron leans back while she speaks about all the ways the U.K. is being ruined and the race to nuclear war, and his hand touches her foot. She doesn’t pull away. His enjoyment the whole time is tempered by the issue of his bulging bladder.
Never pass up an opportunity to pee
.
You don’t know when you’ll have another
.
She says, “The only reason I’m taking Mrs. Gordon’s class is because my dad thinks I’m stupid. If I get an
A
’s in an honors program I can tell him to sod off.”
When Cameron looked inside her file – briefly, before his conscience made him close it – her schedule card showed five honors classes, the type of load normally only attempted by ambitious fools like himself.
“Oh, but I’ve been running on this whole time,” she says. “Tell me something about you.”