“I know,” he said. “Crazy Cam and his way-out ideas. But just think of it, Dyl—what if the present, the future and the past are all parallel universes, existing next to each other? And we can turn into waves and slip between them?”
“How would we do that?” I asked.
“With our thoughts,” he said. “We could think ourselves into the future and find out what’s there, maybe even change it. I read somewhere that there might actually be loads of parallel future universes, and by slipping into them with our minds, we can pick which one we want and make it real in this one.”
Again I thought about what I’d been doing before he called. “Huh,” I said.
“Bored?” Cam asked quickly.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “Trying to work it out in my head.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been doing all evening— trying to figure it out. It means anything is possible, y’know. You can create your own future just by thinking it.”
A burst of phone static erupted as he rolled over on his bed and reached for something crinkly. Doritos, probably. Yup—a second later I heard him chomping away. Barbecue flavor, I could almost taste it.
“Hey,” I said, as the Doritos bag crinkled again. “Now that we’re here and focused in
this
universe...”
“Yup,” he said, chomping away. “Here and focused, Dyllie.” “What’s your favorite book?” I asked. “And why wouldn’t you tell me what it was this afternoon?”
There was a pause as Cam swallowed, the glugging sound traveling down his throat. “The guys,” he said finally. “They would’ve called me a fag. It just didn’t fit into the mood of the moment, y’know?”
Fag
, I thought and winced. “Well,” I said, “the mood is now very moody. So tell me, I’m all ears.”
“I read it in grade nine,” Cam said slowly. “In the summer, up at the cabin. It’s a really great book.”
“Out with it,” I said. “The actual title.”
“
The Once and Future King
,” he said quietly. “By T. H. Whyte. Ever read it?”
“Uh-uh,” I said.
“It’s about King Arthur,” said Cam, “and his life as a kid with Merlin. His nickname was Wart, and then he became king and married Guinevere and got to know Lancelot. Lancelot’s the best part, really. No, Arthur is. No, maybe them both.”
On the word “both,” Cam’s voice quavered slightly, and my eyes widened. It sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. Giving a bit of a sigh, he said, “Anyway, I think that’s the title you should put on the guy’s dick. Not
Treasure Island
.”
“
The Once and Future King
?” I said, my eyes widening further. “Isn’t that kind of like calling yourself Dikker?”
“You have to read it, Dyllie,” Cam said earnestly. “It’s not
like that at all. Arthur’s humble, almost like a servant. Yeah,” he said, his voice quickening, “a servant-king. And there’s this scene where Lancelot has to do a miracle to prove he’s pure, only he knows he isn’t because he’s been doing it with Guinevere behind Arthur’s back, and God won’t let him perform the miracle because of that. Only God does let him, and Lancelot heals a man. And then Lancelot bawls his head off, because he knows he’s been forgiven for everything wrong inside him.”
I lay silently, staring at the low glow of my walls in the lamp light. I’d never heard Cam talk like this, so raw, open from the inside out.
“We’re all like that, don’t you think?” he said, rushing on. “Like Lancelot—stuff wrong inside us but still wanting to do miracles. That’s why I think you should put
The Once and Future King
over the guy’s dick. Because that’s where a guy lives, in his dick. It’s his kingdom. If he’s right or wrong in his heart and head, that’s where it’ll show up—in his dick. He’ll be a bad king or a servant-king there. Or a Lancelot, performing miracles.”
“Huh,” I said again, listening to Cam breathe.
“Dyllie,” he asked after a bit. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just thinking about what you said.”
He sighed again, a warm gush of sound. “I’m a bit of a kook, aren’t I?” he muttered.
“You’re the best damn guy on the planet,” I said fiercely. “Len and Gary and the other guys should’ve heard you say this.”
“Maybe,” he said softly. “Sometime when the mood gets moody enough. Read the book though, okay?”
“Yeah, I will,” I said. “I’ll sign it out of the library tomorrow.”
“Great,” he said, and I could hear him smile. “So, what are you going to put over the girl’s...uh, you-know-where?
Sweet Valley High
?”
“And get Ms. Fowler fired?” I said. “No, I was thinking of...”
I paused, my heart thudding slow and deep in my chest.
“Of what?” Cam prodded.
“
Foxfire
,” I said and waited. A long pause followed on the other end of the phone.
“That’s about a gang of dykes, isn’t it?” Cam asked finally. “Not all of them,” I said. “The book never says any of them are for sure. And some of them got married. One of them even had kids.”
Another long pause followed. “Someone told me what you said about it in class,” Cam said slowly. “Justice and sex and categories, something like that.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said. My heart was really thudding now. “Don’t you ever feel the walls closing in on you?” I went on quickly. “It’s as if everyone has a personal box inside them labeled ‘This Is What I Am,’ and all they want to do is squish themselves inside it and live there forever. Don’t you ever want to bust out of yourself, and this place and everything around you?”
“Sometimes,” he said quietly. “I guess. It just...didn’t really sound like you.”
“A very moody moment,” I said. “Y’know how it is.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Well, I’m kissing you goodbye now, Dyl. You know what I’ll be thinking about when I hang up.”
“Me too,” I said, giving the phone a big smooch. Hanging up, I turned out the light and lay staring at the darkness. That had been close, telling him about
Foxfire
. I’d thought I was about to have a near-death experience, I really did. But now it was over, and it didn’t sound as if Cam had guessed. So it would probably be all right to use
Foxfire
in the display—sort of like saying it
and not saying it. I could look at it as I passed the display case and get used to it being out in the open, without actually having to tell anyone directly.
Closing my eyes, I let the particles of my brain slide into the long dark waves of sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Over the next few days I collected about a hundred book titles from kids at school, and on Thursday evening I divided the most interesting ones into two lists. Next I laid out two extra-large pieces of bristol board that Ms. Fowler had gotten from the Arts Room, and drew the outlines of a pony-tailed girl and a short-haired boy, standing so they were facing the viewer head-on. After some constructive criticism from Keelie, as in, “That don’t look good, his head’s too big,” I shrank the boy’s head from alien to human size, and cut out the silhouettes. Then I used them to trace a second pair of silhouettes onto newsprint, each of which I cut into thirty outlines of books, both open and closed.
Friday after supper Joc came over to help with the next stage. Hunkered down at the dining room table, we traced the outline of each newsprint-book silhouette onto a colored piece of construction paper and cut it out. As each construction-paper book was finished, I fit it into the original bristol-board silhouette of the girl or boy. It was important they fit exactly, so there wasn’t any bristol board showing.
Mom and Dad were out, burning up the town on one of their “dates,” and Danny was upstairs with Keelie, teaching her a video game on his computer. So other than the fact that Joc had
Alanis Morissette’s
Feast on Scraps
CD blasting from the living room stereo, things were pretty sedate.
“Last one,” she said, as she finished cutting out a green book silhouette. “Good thing, too. I’m getting a blister from these scissors.” With a satisfied grin, she fit the book into the single remaining space in the boy silhouette.
“Give me a sec,” I said. “I’ve got a couple more to do for the girl.”
She waited, fidgeting while I fit the last two books into the girl silhouette, then said, “C’mon, I need a smoke. Your parents aren’t home—let’s go out back.”
“Can’t,” I said quickly. “Keelie’ll see. Her bedroom’s back there.”
“The front, then,” said Joc.
“We’ve got neighbors,” I reminded her. “They get along
very
well with my parents.”
Leaning forward, Joc banged her forehead gently on the table. “Nic fit,” she grumbled. “I’m getting the jitters. It’s been over an hour since my last drag.”
“Near-death experience, I know,” I said. “Okay, let’s go out front, and I’ll sit with you while you smoke.”
“Bless you, sweet one,” said Joc, and we headed out to the front porch where I made sure I was in full view of the neighbors—full
non
-smoking view, that is.
“Oh yeah,” said Joc, lighting up and dragging deeply. “That’s better. Now my brain’s working again.”
She shifted, and the side of her foot bumped mine. Just that little bump, and right away I was swamped by a wave of heat. Then images started popping into my head, but this time I was smart enough to get a grip.
Uh-uh
, I thought.
No way I’m doing the lust thing now. Not with the neighbors watching
.
Carefully I edged my foot away. Joc didn’t seem to notice. “Mmmm,” I said, taking a dramatic sniff of the smoke coiling off the tip of her cigarette. “Problem is, now
I’m
getting a nic fit. I was fine until you lit up.”
“Near-death experience, I know,” Joc grinned unsympathetically. Holding out her cigarette, she cooed, “Live a little, Dyllie. Have a drag on me.”
“Uh-uh,” I said, frantically waving the cigarette away in case the neighbors had their eyes peeled. “Mom would absolutely kill me if she found out.”
“You worry too much about what your parents think,” said Joc, taking another blissful drag. “They’re not going to disown you if you smoke one cigarette.”
“I know,” I said. “They’d get mad, though.
Really
mad. But it’s more than that. They’d be...I dunno...disappointed. I mean, they want me to be healthy, right? I figure—I like smoking, so I’ll keep it to a minor hobby. Y’know, every now and then, when I get desperate. Like Mom says, it’s really just sucking in toxic waste. And she also told me that in ten years none of the major companies will be hiring smokers because it hikes up their employee benefits costs.”
“Oh yeah,” said Joc, tapping off some ash. “Yeah, I guess, if you want to think that way—twenty years down the line.” She paused, considering. “Yeah, I can see it—twenty years from now, you and Cam, both working for major corporations and set up in a ritzy split-level with three or four kids.”
“Supreme bliss,” I said casually, trying to ignore the kick of unease in my gut. “And what about you? What do you see yourself doing in twenty years? Besides spending half your time getting chemo treatments, that is?”
Joc sat silently for a moment, studying the curl of smoke coming off her cigarette. “Probably working at a race track
somewhere,” she said finally. “Or doing environmental stuff like Greenpeace. Or...” Turning to me, she grinned. “Maybe I’ll be a two pack-a-day librarian like my mom.”
“Yeah right,” I grinned. “Exactly like your mom.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” said Joc. “She’s done some pretty interesting things. She told me about some protest stuff she did in the eighties, down in the States. Even got arrested for climbing onto a nuclear silo once with a nun.”
“A nun?” I demanded, staring at her.
“Yup,” said Joc. “Some of those nuns are pretty lively.” She grinned slyly. “I bet some of them even smoke. That’s what I’ll be—a nun who sneaks onto American military bases and climbs onto nuclear silos. And I promise I’ll send you and Cam and your four kids postcards—”
“Hey, maybe not
four
kids,” I said abruptly, cutting her off. “And, anyway, how do you know I’ll end up with Cam?”
“Oh, you will,” Joc said immediately. “You’re that kind of person, Dyl—the marrying kind. It’s weird, in a way, that we’ve been friends for so long, seeing how we’re so different.”
Again, I felt an uneasy kick in my gut. “How are we different?” I demanded.
Joc shrugged. “You’re smarter than me, for starters,” she said. “And moodier, deeper inside yourself. Cam likes that about you—you two belong together, and he knows it. And me...well, you know me. Crazy.” Staring across the street, she snorted softly. “My entire goal in life is to become a stable citizen.”
The uneasy kick in my gut was quickly morphing into an uneasy sinkhole. I mean, I’d never thought about it before, really—how different we were and what that might mean for our friendship after high school.
“What about Dikker?” I asked, my voice suddenly hoarse. Again, Joc shrugged. “He wants to be an actor,” she said in
disgust. “Actors spend their lives
faking
things. How much time would you want to spend with a professional faker?”
Leaning forward, she butted out her cigarette on the front walk, then slid the unsmoked part into her purse. “C’mon,” she said. “Dikker’s picking me up when he gets off work, and we’ve still got to write titles on all those book outlines we cut out.”
We went inside and got back to work, Joc following a master plan I’d drawn up for the boy silhouette while I wrote out titles for the girl.
Feast on Scraps
had finished while we were outside so the room was quiet, with just the squeak of magic markers as we wrote. Abruptly, three-quarters of the way through the job it hit me—Joc hadn’t said anything for over five minutes. That was not like her. In fact, it was very much not like her.
Suspicion slammed into me. Reaching for her stack of completed book silhouettes, I sifted through them.
“Joc!” I yelped, horrified. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Don’t take a hairy,” she said, grinning at me. “I got bored writing down the titles you gave me, so I made up some of my own.”