Cameron and the Girls (2 page)

While I would like to listen to her soothing voice, another, more soothing one steals into my brain.

Even if you know the instructor is not doing her best work, as her student you must act as if you're learning everything she has to offer. This is essential for one's future. Know what your goal is. Cream rises to the top.

It could become a battle now. I have to pay attention to keep Mrs. Owens in focus at the front of the classroom while The Professor serves up some more interesting conversation in my mind. It's a battle I've waged before. I'm determined to win it this time, but winning it can be tricky.

T
oday,
it's harder for me to wake up. And when I do, it's harder to tell the difference between waking and sleeping. But because I've stopped taking my pills, I have to be as normal as I can be, or somebody's going to notice.

I jump out of bed and run to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door is shut and I can hear water running. I hop from one foot to the other, finally pound on the door.

“In a minute,” Beth says.

But Beth's minutes last longer than anyone else's, and so I have to sprint down the stairs to the bathroom next to my parents' bedroom. Normally, after I go, I sneak back up the stairs and get ready. But this morning, as I reach to flush the toilet, something sweet and unexpected interrupts my routine.

Hello, Cam.

I freeze. There it is again. Clearer this time. It's got a higher pitch than what I'm used to, and the words kind of take their time getting said. And hearing those words is like licking syrup.

“What?” I say. But I get nothing in return. Instead, The Professor cranks up:

In difficult situations, it serves one best to keep one's voice down.

And he's right. “Cameron?” It's my mom outside the bathroom door. I check the mirror: sleepy-looking hair, a little red in my eyes, pale face.

“Good,” I say, and then open the door and step out. Mom stands in her turquoise robe and studies me.

“It's okay,” I say. “Really.”

Before I can walk away, she grabs me by the arm and turns me toward her. She puts her microscope eyes on and makes me squirm.

“Did you take them?” she finally says.

I hate to lie, especially to her. I lick my lips and feel a chill wind on my bare legs. “Course I did,” I say. She lets me go.

Beth and I have to jog to get to the bus on time. In my seat, I try to figure out the other voice. It sounded like a girl, which is unusual because I have never heard from a girl in my life. Maybe it's just a boy with a high voice. No, definitely a girl. Maybe it's someone trying to fool me. There are always other kids out there trying to make a fool of me. It's better not to tell anyone about this in case it's true. But it was definitely a girl.

 

I didn't take my medication again. The previous record was eight straight days before anything happened. Now this is the sixth. I have to do my regular head check. There is a slight buzz in the back of my brain, but it's not bad yet. I can still think over the top of it. I hold my hands out straight in front of me. No tremors, at least none that will attract attention. That's good. I can handle this kind of normal me.

But my mom can be the best detective. Stopping my meds is her worst nightmare because she thinks they're the magic glue that will hold us all together. If she suspects anything at all, she'll go snooping around, and if she finds anything suspicious, then I'm in for it. We'll have that fight we always have where she asks me why I do things like that and I have to answer that I can't help it. But she doesn't accept that answer, and I will have to end up saying, “I hate my life.” Which is true most of the time.

“You don't hate your life,” my mom will struggle to say. “You just think you do.”

“Well, what's reality, then? Is it what I think or what other people think?”

“Talk normally, Cameron,” she will say quietly. “Please.”

But I don't feel like fighting anymore. I don't feel like explaining myself anymore. Is this too much to wish for?

If I take the meds, my life is lonely and awkward and hopeless and other kids are mean to me. But if I don't take them, I get The Professor and now this girl and who knows what other fun and interesting things. It's my own life I have to live. Don't I get to choose?

 

At school, I pound and pound on the back door, but Mrs. Owens doesn't come. All around me, kids are hurrying to get to class on time. I start to feel nervous. I run around toward the front, my backpack thumping against my butt.

I climb the wide concrete steps, arranged in half-moons all the way up. I open one of the big glass and metal doors, and the warm air, full of sweat and testosterone and floor wax, rushes to greet me.

I stand and get my bearings. I can't seem to remember how to get to Mrs. Owens's room from here. Kids bump into me and cuss me out as they pass. Down one hallway is a sea of bobbing heads. Down the other way, the same.

Two girls dressed all in black approach me. I try to look away, but they're like rattlesnakes and I'm their kangaroo rat. They walk around my body, checking me up and down. Even their lipstick is black.

“You new?” they ask in unison.

“I don't know the way,” I blurt out. Girls make me feel like crying and touching myself at the same time. My heart beats like a wild snare drum.

“Oh baby,” one of the girls says, drawing close. She takes me by the collar of my shirt and pulls me tight into her face. I can smell her smoky breath. “Do I turn you on?” she asks.

In a way, she does, but I say no quickly and watch her smile go south, her cheeks tighten. A devilish sneer takes shape on her black lips.

“Hey, you're a nut boy, aren't you?” she says.

Before I can answer, she shoves me backwards, and the momentum drives me into two other kids, who in turn shove me away. I bounce like a pinball for a while until I slam against the hard tiled wall.

From there I watch the kids thin out. Then the bell rings and only hollow footsteps echo down the hall. Now I can't quite keep the tears away, and I feel those traitors pooling in my eyes. I mourn in the hallway, remembering how open and fun life was before I was old enough for school. How I could run fast and jump high and everybody clapped.

Soon, Mrs. Johnson, the school secretary, sticks her head out of the office. She spies me and hurries over.

“What's the matter, Cam?” she asks.

But I can only shake my head. The words lodge in my throat, and besides, they aren't the kind of words Mrs. Johnson is looking for.

“I can't find my room,” I finally manage to stutter.

“Ah, boy-o,” she says, taking me by the arm. “I've had days like that.”

As I follow her down the hall, The Professor says:

With such a minor injury from that last shove, the head generally stops throbbing in a few minutes. Shirts should be tucked in. Zippers zipped. All prepared for class. It's been said that schizophreniform disorder differs from other schizophrenic disorders in the length and severity of the episodes. It can begin at a very young age and end abruptly, never to return, before adulthood.

In spite of the hopeful news from The Professor, I have just about come to the conclusion that adulthood is a long way away and I may never be able to mingle again with normal kids.

 

Mrs. Owens is sick and we have a substitute teacher, Mr. Frye. He is tall and clean, wears a dark blue suit. On his face, a short goatee fences his mouth. When Mrs. Johnson brings me in, Mr. Frye is standing at the front of the class with his arms folded. In one of his hands he carries a stopwatch and he glances at it from time to time. The room is deathly quiet. I can see that Griffin's face is red and he holds one of his legs still while the other bounces up and down. The captive leg is like a hobbled pony just dying to rear back and kick out.

Mrs. Johnson says, “I found this one—”

But Mr. Frye puts up his hand to stop her. He says, “Five, four, three, two, one.” All around the room, the students let out their breath. Griffin's leg bounces high and hits the underside of his desk. Slowly, Mr. Frye turns toward Mrs. Johnson. “Now, what were you saying?”

Mrs. Johnson harrumphs and places me in front of her. “One of yours,” she says, then turns tail and leaves the room.

“Another one?” he says. “Well, find your seat and let's get going. You won't have the benefit of our breathing and quiet exercise because you're late, but see to it that you don't get disruptive.”

Mr. Frye gives us a reading assignment and then sits down at the desk. There are four manila folders in front of him, and he picks one up, pulls out a few pages, and starts to read. Every once in a while, he shoots his head up and looks intently at a student. One time, he looks at me.

He closes the folder and gets up, walking slowly around the room. He dawdles behind kids who act as if they are reading the assignment. He finally stops behind me and then drops to his haunches. “Just so you know,” he whispers, leaning in. “My brother had what you have as a kid, and now it's smooth sailing for him. Owns his own house. Has a boat. Two kids.”

I wonder why strangers do that with me. Like receptionists at the doctor's office. Clerks at the Safeway. As if I'm in a minority group that everybody's dying to identify with.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I whisper.

Mr. Frye nods and stands up. He starts to walk off and I think I'm home free.

But not yet. “Well, if you ever want to, you could talk to me.”

I don't like this stranger so close and ask if I can use the bathroom. Once there, I look in the big mirror and watch myself take long, easy breaths. “There must be a reason for all this,” I say. I splash water on my face and then collect some in my two cupped palms. It shimmers in the light. From the side, I think I can see an image, a picture of somebody, but I'm not sure. I tilt my head as I hear the door open behind me. The picture in the water is a girl. From behind, I hear a girl's voice.

“What are you doing in here?”

I whirl around, and there is a girl I recognize from the regular classes.

“You retard,” she says. “Get out before I call somebody.”

I realize I'm in the girls' bathroom. The shame runs up my windpipe. “Sorry,” I mumble, and I run around her and out into the hall.

I want to go home, but it is only the start of the school day, and if I do, my parents will wonder why. The school will wonder why. There will be questions that I can't answer. Better to pull myself together and act as if everything is just fine. That's what they want, after all. That everything be just fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

 

I last the day with no more stupid mistakes. Mr. Frye can't really give us new lessons, so there is a lot of reading to do. I'm a pretty good reader. As a matter of fact, I'm good at most things. Except for team sports and anything that has to do with a partner. I generally get a three in “Works Well with Others.” A three means I don't get along very well at all.

I run from the bus stop, ignoring Beth and the drizzle. I know the way so well that I can turn my face up to the sky and feel what probably no one else can feel: the clouds shining down on me. Dr. Simons once said that everyone else should be so lucky to see the things that only I can see.

But I hate that the substitute talked to me, and thinking that makes the cloud shine go away. If people say your life is confidential, then it should be confidential. But how can it be if any old substitute can come in and read about me from a big manila envelope? It's not fair because I don't even get a chance to prove myself, and I'm sure I look way too crazy on paper.

But things are changing. I can feel something good creeping up.

“Wish me luck,” I whisper to no one in particular.

Good luck,
I hear.

“Thanks,” I say.

And people say I don't communicate well.

I
wake
up warm because the vent in the wall in my room is throwing out heat in waves. It is still dark and I can hear soft rain against the window. I would like to snuggle down and go back to sleep, but I feel tense. I stretch the muscles in my back and legs until they hurt. Physical pain sometimes postpones the mental.

But one thing I have learned is that the mental always comes. First, there is a stab somewhere in my mind, as if somebody were slitting my thinking with a sharp knife. With my eyes closed, I can actually visualize words bisecting and falling away. The
good-
says goodbye to the
-ness.
But it's hard to tolerate this progression of weirdness for very long, so I slide out of bed and get dressed.

There are secret ways to get out of the house without my parents' knowledge. The best one is in the living room near the fireplace. It's a built-in wood box that connects through the wall to the wide front porch. On the other side is a box that looks the same. Someone on the porch can throw fireplace logs into the box, and they will roll inside, where someone else can lift them out and throw them on the fire.

Since it's late in the season, the wood box is nearly empty. I squeeze down into this coffin and then wriggle across to the other side. Like a vampire, I crawl out and stand shivering on the porch. It is dark all around except for the headlights of a lone car way down on the highway near the bus stop. I love this time all by myself. No one to watch me shake the way I am shaking now. The tension pushes me off the porch. I stand on the grass. The rain is coming down even harder and I soak it up.

Behind me, the ghostly light of day is starting to creep over the hills, but it is still too dark to see well. I turn around and around, making myself dizzy. On about my tenth turn, I hear this:

Hello, Cam.

I turn my head sharply; my heartbeat picks up.