Camo Girl (15 page)

Bailey hides behind popularity, and lies. He's like us, but different. He knows how to be out in the world. He knows how to pretend in a way that makes him likable, not weird.

I see it now, how we're the same. We are all camouflaged.

W
ithout Z's cries, the room is
quiet.

“Do you think he's okay now?” Bailey says.

Z lies curled on the floor. His damp eyelashes rest against his cheeks, as if he's fallen asleep. But he's breathing too hard to be less than awake.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say.

“We gotta try to get out of here.” Bailey gets up and bangs on the metal door.

Tall opens the door. “The cops will be here in a minute,” he says.

“We didn't do anything wrong,” Bailey says.

Tall shrugs. “Doesn't matter. You're
unaccompanied minors, and there's no reason for you to be wandering the Strip alone at night.”

Bailey protests, but Tall is having none of it. Z's quiet now, so he leaves the door to the room open. I lie on the floor beside Z, trying to prepare him for what's about to happen.

“Agent Z,” I whisper. “We've completed stage one of the mission. We've infiltrated the fortress.”

After a moment Z sits up. “Yes, yes,” he says. He slinks along the floor until his back is pressed against the wall. He glances furtively left and right, before reaching for his things.

Z hums quietly to himself, hugging his backpack, his boxes. His world is right again. The walls are back in place and it's business as usual. The only difference is, I can now see how un-right it is. How un-right it has been all along. I take his hand, trying to think of what to say to him. How to tell him that it's time for the game to be over. I let it go on too long. I thought we could handle it, just between us, but we can't. Not anymore.

T
he police station is dingy and gross.
The paint is peeling, and several chairs are broken, and there's a lot of gum stuck to things. Everything about Las Vegas looks sparkly clean on the outside but really isn't when you get right down to it.

We're in major trouble, but we didn't break the law, so we're not under arrest or anything. They let us sit in the waiting room. Our moms are on their way, the desk officer tells us.

We're a little keyed up, so we don't really sit right away. We walk around looking at things on the walls. A poster about how to do CPR. A DARE poster. A row of pamphlets about things like preventing home invasion and how to cope with crime if it happens to you. A dispenser of hand sanitizer.

I'm scrubbing the germs off my hands with a dollop of foam when an older woman, round of body but barely taller than Bailey, whips around the corner and plows straight into me, practically knocking me over. Her purse straps fall off her shoulder into the crook of her arm. A scarf drifts to the floor from somewhere.

“Where did you come from?” she barks at me. “You weren't there a second ago.”

“Uh—,” I say.

“Excuse yourself,” the lady insists. “And watch where you're going, young lady.”

“Uh—” Is it rude to mention that I was standing perfectly still? “You ran into me,” I say, indignant.

The woman fixes hawk eyes upon us, as if we are exactly the sort of young ruffians that populate her worst nightmares.

“Our fault, ma'am,” Bailey rushes to say. “We weren't looking. Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine. But—”

Bailey offers that fabulous grin. “We're here to report a terrible crime,” he says. “We're witnesses, and, well, we're quite upset. We're just not ourselves at the moment. I'm sure you understand.”

The woman smooths her shirt. “Well, yes, I'm sure . . .” She trails off. I'm still impressed that Bailey has the presence
of mind to defuse a weird situation on the spur of the moment.

Z bends over and collects her scarf. He bows courtly as he passes it to her. “A good day to you, milady.”

She straightens her purse and wanders off, muttering something about kids today.

I start to laugh. I can't help it.

We're a ridiculous trio. Z, the pretender. Bailey, the liar. Me, the invisible. The camo-faced girl who no one really sees.

I know it's not really a time for laughing. Bailey glances at me, concerned. I try to explain.

“We—” I'm gasping for breath through my hysterics. “We are such total freaks!”

“Freaks,” Z repeats. “Freaks!” he shouts.

I crack up completely, stumbling toward a row of chairs. I bury my face in my knees until I can breathe again.

The guys settle on either side of me. I sense them there, Bailey on my left, Z on my right. After a minute Bailey puts his hand on my back, and that's how I can tell that we do know each other, a little. It's how I can tell he knows that laughing is what I have to do right now to get through it.

When I've got my breath back, I hug Z with one arm. “We're going to fix it,” I tell him. I plop a tiny kiss on his cheek, which he rubs away automatically with the back of his hand. I know he hears me.

I catch Bailey's eye and try to put away the part of me that's embarrassed. It doesn't quite work. My face goes warm.

“Can I—” Bailey stops. “Can I have one too?”

There's this quiet moment of us looking at each other, then we both lean in. My heart races and I hold my breath as our lips touch, just a little. We pull back right away, and open our eyes. Bailey smiles, but I don't know if I did the kiss right, and my mouth wants to go again. In the movies they press all up against each other, so I try that the second time, and my nose flattens onto his cheek. It's not terrible.

“Freaks,” Z murmurs again, out of nowhere. We back away.

I'm not sure I want to look at him now, but Bailey just shrugs. Grins. “What happens in Vegas . . . ,” he murmurs.

Smiling, too, I stick out my hand and we shake on it.

B
ailey's mom reaches us first.
“Grounded beyond grounded, mister,” Mrs. James says, even as she grabs Bailey and hugs him, prodding him all over to be sure he's still in one piece.

Mom and Lynn aren't far behind. We don't really do grounding in my house, but I can tell by the expression on Mom's face that I'm in for a long, firm talking-to. Bailey got the better end of that deal, as far as I'm concerned. At least when you're grounded they basically leave you alone.

Lynn is super lenient with Z, if you ask me, but then again, he's not really in a position to appreciate punishment. She just scoops him into her arms and whispers, “Don't scare me like that. Don't go away, okay?” He wraps his skinny arms around her neck and doesn't let go for a long time.

Mom and Mrs. James shake hands, meeting for the first time. “Roberta James,” Bailey's mom says.

“Of course. Keisha Cartwright,” Mom says. They shake their heads about us and our antics, teaming up against us.

It's totally weird. Bailey and I glance at each other. I wonder if he's feeling the same as me—like something special's suddenly over. Our secret little life.

Mom goes to the counter to talk to the police officers who brought us over from the casino. Mrs. James pulls out her car keys and hands them to Bailey. “Go wait for me in the car.”

Bailey tosses me a last, desperate glance before heading for the door, a condemned man.

“It was all my idea,” I tell Mrs. James, because it looks like Bailey's about to be in a lot of trouble.

Mrs. James smiles. She smooths back my hair on one side, kind of the way my mom does sometimes. “You're a sweet girl, Ella. And you clearly care a lot about your friends. But let me tell you something, okay?” she says. “You have to stop feeling responsible for other people's actions. Let Bailey take care of Bailey, and you just take care of you.”

I nod as if I understand. I guess she's right. Bailey figured out The Mirage, so it was partly his idea. And anyway, he didn't have to come along. That's for sure.

I follow Mrs. James to the desk, where I lean against Mom, up under her arm, while she fills out some paperwork so we can go home.

In the car, Mom cries behind the wheel for the second time today. We don't even make it out of the station parking lot. Lynn reaches across the console for her hand.

“I'm sorry, Lynn,” Mom says. “I can't believe I didn't see it. It's so hard not being here.”

The lesson of the day is: Z is not okay. The thing I knew deep down is on the surface now, with no place to hide.

I look at him across the backseat. His boxes are neatly packed away, but he holds his backpack on his lap. He gazes out the window, and I wonder if he's trying to make sense of things or if he's already put it away in his mind.

I tug on the strap of my seat belt for no good reason. Just for something to do.

After a minute Mom and Lynn shake off the tears and we go. They talk quietly in the front seat, in the grown-up way, but I listen. I listen, because Mom has a plan.

Tonight, Z will sleep at Millie's house, in the spare bedroom. We don't have one ourselves, so Mom's already called Mrs. Taylor to make it okay. In the morning Mom and Lynn will take Z to a meeting with a doctor who Mom says maybe can help him. The bad news is, he might have
to go away after that. He needs a place to live, Mom says, wherever that is, as hard as it will be for all of us. For Lynn. For Z. For me.

I close my eyes and lean back. Mom knows what to do. Mom can help. Maybe I won't have to work so hard, worry so hard. I hold the seat belt strap, certain it's all that's holding me down. I feel so light. Something huge has been lifted off me, and it's going to be okay.

G
rammie springs out of her chair to
greet us. “Well, that was quite a stunt you pulled, missy.” She flaps her arms a bit and ends up hugging me.

“Hey,” I say. “If you're going to get in trouble, you might as well do it big.”

Grammie chuckles. “Well, this was a whopper. And you must be starving.”

Now that you mention it . . .

We sit down to eat, one of Grammie's crazy concoctions. Let's call it Casserole X.

After dinner we retreat to the living room to let things settle. Grammie puts the news on low, and I sprawl on the floor and pull out my homework. I've almost finished social studies when the TV suddenly goes silent. I glance up.

“Come here,” Mom says from the couch. “Right this minute.”

Uh-oh. It's time for the talking-to. Mom's face is so stiff that I go to her. I'm much too big for lap sitting, but she drags me onto her anyway, hugging me like there's no tomorrow.

“It was a good thing you did,” she says. “Really brave, going after him like that.”

“But you're still in trouble,” Grammie pipes up from her chair.

Mom kisses my face. “Yes, you are.” She gets all serious on me and pushes her forehead against mine. “Do you know you can talk to us?” she whispers. “About anything. Anything you're ever worried about, even just a little?”

“Yes,” I say, because I do know, but everyone makes mistakes. I thought I was protecting Z. Helping him. I thought it was the right thing to do.

“Well, good,” Grammie says. “But that's beside the point.” She slams her recliner closed, and juts a finger at me. “Under no circumstances whatsoever do you run off to Vegas with a boy. Any boy. Ever. Is that clear?”

“Geez, Grammie. We didn't get married,” I grumble. “We just held hands.”

“Lordy Lou,” Grammie shrieks. “Keisha, we've got to move!”

Mom laughs, and for a second I'm convinced I'm getting off easy. Then they lay it on me. A long list of chores and a suspension of my allowance. Apparently noble intentions don't count for much around here.

I
'm all ready for bed when i glance out the
window, purely by accident. Then I look again, to be sure I'm seeing what I see. Millie and Z, making their way toward the tree house.

I can't help myself. I slide into a pair of shoes and before I know it, I'm gliding across the grass. I reach them just as Z disappears over the ledge into the tree house. Millie and I meet at the base of the rope ladder.

“What are you doing?” I snap. It's just the backyard. The tree house. So why does it feel like trouble? Like a violation of
us
. “Is he okay?”

“He wouldn't stop looking out the window at it,” Millie says. “So, I thought . . .” She fingers the hem of her pajama top and gazes uncertainly at me.

“Oh. That's good,” I say, relaxing somewhat. “You did the right thing.”

Then there's a moment when we're both just standing there, realizing something. We're each wearing the pink and purple polka-dot pajamas we bought last year so we could match at slumber parties. Funny how I forgot we did that.

We look at each other and smile. For the first time in a long time, we know what the other's thinking.

“Now what?” Millie says.

“Now I go up to sit with him. You can go back to bed.” I put my feet on the bottom rope rung. But Millie doesn't leave. “Or you can come up,” I offer. It's her tree house, after all.

Millie smiles again. Her hair is loosely braided on either side of head. It's not a friend thing. It's because she sleeps on her back and it feels comfortable. I know that in the morning she'll brush it out into a glossy ponytail that I can never copy, but right now I feel good. Because all I can think is,
I know you on the inside.

We climb. Z sits in the tree house center, drumming on a pillow with his fists. “Ellie-nor,” he murmurs.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to him. “It's late.”

He doesn't answer, but I know the tree house has
always been a favorite place for him. A safe place, where no one goes but us. He drums hard, the way he always does something with his hands when he's nervous or excited or worried.