The End of the World (10 page)

“I broke my nail!” she wails.

This is about a heck of a lot more than a broken fingernail. Or a chipped plate. Or a stubbed toe. Or Pete’s mayonnaise-on-Club-cracker—his latest, and especially disgusting—food fetish that he just dropped upside down on a pile of kitchen floor litter that Shaye has swept up, but not yet thrown away.

“All that drama for a broken fingernail?” The words are out before I suspect they’re the wrong thing to say. Her hand slams on the kitchen counter, a sure-fire way to break yet another nail and really get her day spinning south in a wind-tunnel toward hell. “I’d hate to see what happens if you get—say—an eyelash in your eye. Oh, the injustice of it all.”

Her slit-eyed death stare gives me the feeling I’ve gone too far. “You know what, Cameron? I don’t need your criticism. So starting now, do me a favor and leave me alone.”

Shaye stomps off, leaving me in the kitchen with two kids and one nearly-empty jar of mayonnaise. Pete wants more crackers, after all. Not a minute will go by without him asking for one. I know this now like I know my middle name is Jude and the Beatles wrote a song about it.

And that fleeting thought has me missing Mrs. Miller again. I haven’t thought of her all week, the longest I’ve gone since I showed up on this doorstep nearly twelve weeks ago. The sadness that washes over me isn’t welcome any more than my sarcasm toward Shaye was necessary. I look in the direction she disappeared. I know why she’s upset; I know why she spends her days in a constant state of shaking hands and barely contained tears.

I know.

But I do the only thing that seems appropriate right now…the only thing a kid my age who feels like a man but knows he’s a few added brain cells and inches of growth away from actually being one…can do. I whip up four more crackers, hand them to Pete, check on Alan—currently playing on the floor with two metal spoons and a package of twist ties—and search the drawers for a pen and a piece of paper. I find a pale yellow grocery list attached to a magnetic pad.

I write a note. Despite a recent discovery that I have a minor talent for writing—at least according to Shaye, who rather enjoys the stupid nursery rhyme sing-alongs I make up off-the-cuff during bath time to get the kids to cooperate faster—there’s nothing eloquent or even pretty about what I say. Just a simple note with simple instructions that I hope Shaye will follow.

I fold it in half and slip it under her door, careful not to linger too long, careful not to pay attention to the rapid succession of muted sniffles I hear coming from the other side. She’s crying. She’s crying again. The sound breaks my already cracked heart in half.

Hopefully in three short hours, I’ll be able to gather up some of her pieces and put them back together. Since I met her, it’s all I’ve wanted to do.

Until then, I head back downstairs. There are children to watch and chores to complete. A half-hour later when everything is done, I scoop up both boys, give them a bath, and settle them into bed.

And then I wait.

*

Shaye

Meet me at
the end of the world
.

I toss aside my worn copy of
Tiger Eyes
that I never returned to the school library last year, then sit up on my bed with Maria sleeping in the pack-n-play at my feet and reread the note Cameron slipped under my door nearly three hours ago. I almost left it on the floor, knowing it was a peace offering but not especially interested in his version of white-flag waving.

Cameron forgot my birthday.

I’m used to the rest of the house forgetting—heck, I’m used to the entire
world
forgetting since I haven’t celebrated a birthday at all in three years and endured only a passing mention of it in the years prior. But I honestly thought this year would be different.

Which makes me the most pathetic loser alive.

Seventeen. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl who is one hundred percent pissed that a boy I’ve known only a handful of weeks didn’t remember my birthday. Ridiculous. More than a little embarrassing. Something that would make even the most unpopular girl in school who couldn’t get a date to prom give me a great big eye roll and finger-down-the-throat gesture. But Cameron is smart and Cameron is good with numbers and if anyone has a knack for keeping track of things—from Pete’s latest obsession to Maria’s bedtime routine to what particular pair of kitchen spoons Alan likes to play with—it’s Cameron.

And Cameron forgot my birthday.

Even though I told him the date on the first day he moved in.

And I know how obsessed he is with numbers.

And now he wants me to meet him at the dock where I’ll spend too many minutes pretending that my heart isn’t bruised at least a little by a kid who doesn’t even realize it.

I bring the note to my face again, skimming the parts where he gives me the time and the best way to sneak out to keep anyone from noticing. I glance at the clock, knowing his plan won’t work even though it’s already worked a half-dozen times since that first night when he found me crying by the dock, so I really have no excuse for not going.

I still haven’t gotten over the fact that he found me. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that I was happy about it. That I’m
still
happy about it, despite my current state of mind.

I glance at the clock on my bedside table. It’s now or never. By this time Cameron is already there, sitting with his feet dangling over the edge…trying not to get spooked because he’s still a little afraid of the dark…probably saving the planet from a Styrofoam cup keeping time with a flock of ducks swimming toward the shore. That boy is more environmentally conscious than the EPA, but at least he backs up his talk with some action, no matter how insignificant it might seem to an outsider who might see him as nothing more than an over-zealous kid with slightly wacky ideals.

And that kid is waiting for me now.

Without giving myself another second to analyze the situation, I throw on a Tulsa Drillers sweatshirt I picked up at Goodwill and a pair of fake gray Uggs I bought a couple years back at Wal-Mart and tiptoe downstairs, careful to avoid the third step and the creak it makes when a foot is planted near the right side. I skip that step altogether and ease my way out the front door.

I follow the path now slightly worn by our footsteps, dodging trees, the shed, and the occasional pothole on my way toward the water. My feet feel like rocks and my heart feels like mud and my head feels like sand as my jumbled thoughts shift back and forth in my mind. I want to see Cameron because he is my friend, but my friend forgot my birthday and he’s the last person I feel like seeing, and all those mixed-up emotions are sending an ache through me from head to toe and making each step I take seem harder and harder and harder.

I do see him a few seconds later. He’s waiting for me by the water, just like I thought he would be. But my muddled mind can’t process it, because what I see doesn’t make sense.

His hands are on fire.

Shaye

I
rush toward
him—heart pounding, pulse racing, something that feels a lot like a handful of rusty nails lodged inside my throat. For me, fear presents itself this way—in sharp objects and jagged gashes and broken bones. But just like that, I stop with a jerk a few steps in and the fear dissipates, because that’s what fear does when it’s knocked backwards and replaced by another emotion entirely. My second and third and fourth thoughts slam into each other and play a violent game of rugby in my gut.

I’m shocked.

I’m surprised.

I’m elated.

And that’s when I start to cry.

Cameron is holding a birthday cake lit up with seventeen rainbow-colored candles.

“You’re late,” he says. “I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Two more and I was prepared to pitch this thing into the water. You’re an okay chick and all, but not worth getting my fingers charred down to stubs. I rather like my hands, small as they might be.”

I laugh the kind of watery laugh that occurs when tears collide with happiness and plop myself down beside him. The sides of our legs touch because I’m filled with a sudden need to physically feel another person for just a moment; an aftereffect of feeling alone and abandoned all day, I guess. Not that it matters now.

“Where did you get that?” I ask.

“I made it.”

My smile fades a bit as my eyebrow goes up. “You did not make that.” It’s too pretty. It’s too pretty and too perfect and too intricate and Cameron can barely spread mayonnaise on a cracker without getting half of it on his hand.

“I might have made it.”

I bump his arm with my own. “You could write about making it. You could definitely talk about making it. But you did
not
make it.”

“Fine. I bought it at Kroger’s yesterday afternoon with the money I have stashed in my room. Don’t ask me where I keep it, because I’ll never tell.” He sends me a lopsided grin that sets everything to rights about today. This kid is my friend. A real friend. The kind of friend you know in your core you’ll never let go. I’ve never had one of those.

“I don’t care where you keep it. I only care about this.” Unable to resist, I stick out a finger and swipe it along the edges of the curly white frosting that lines the corners of the most delicious yellow cake I’ve ever seen. The words
Happy Birthday Shay
are written in pale blue along the top—they forgot the E—and seventeen candles blaze in the darkness like a beacon calling me to eat it and eat it now.

“Did you bring forks? Plates?” I ask.

In response, Cameron brings the cake closer to my face. “Blow out the candles, and I’ll tell you.” When I take a deep breath and pucker my lips, he stops me. “Don’t forget the wish. It’s all ruined without the wish.”

I’m not exactly sure if this is accurate and wishes have never come true for me before, but I decide to believe him. After all, he’s given me cake. He’s given me friendship. But more than that, he’s given me a reason to get up tomorrow morning.

So I make a wish. One that I’m certain will go with me to my grave—hopefully later rather than sooner.

And under a sky that suddenly seems lit up by a million stars and one half moon that I swear has a smile on its face, I blow. And we eat.

The celebration lasts all of fifteen minutes, but it’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.

*

Cameron

“What’d you wish
for?”

“I can’t tell you that. Then it won’t come true.”

I breathe a laugh and scramble for a lie as we slowly make our way back to the house. Ever since she made that wish, I’ve wanted her to tell me. One way or another, I’m going to find out.

“That’s a myth. According to ancient custom, you’re supposed to tell one person your wish so that they can also wish for it. That, in turn, doubles your chances of it actually coming true.”

Shaye throws me a disgusted look. “Did you just come up with that, or has it been cooking in your mind for a while now?”

“Just now. I thought it was pretty good if you want my opinion.”

“I don’t.” She sighs. “But since you gave me a cake…”

I smile to myself, knowing I’ve won.

“For a long time, all I’ve wanted is to live in my own apartment in Tulsa, somewhere in the Brookside area. I want a cat, a sofa with a pull-out bed, and a bedroom with a purple bedspread.” She shrugs. “Dumb, but it’s what I want.”

I just look at her. It wasn’t what I expected. It’s even better.

“I’m more of a Utica guy myself,” I say.

She grins at me, the moonlight dancing across her amused expression. “How do you know about Utica?”

I force myself to look away. Shaye is pretty…much prettier than she realizes.

“My mom took me there once. There was this little white candy shop in the middle of the square. She bought me two chocolate bunnies and a bag of Jelly Belly’s and I ate every single one of them on the drive home, then felt sick the rest of the day. I haven’t been back since, but I think about it a lot.”

She smiles. “I remember that place. The candy at that store is almost as good as the cake you just gave me.”

The cake. And all at once my mind is back there at the dock, at the cake currently bobbing its way along the surface of the water. My stomach plunges into my legs.