Burn (13 page)

“Stop. Stop. Stop.” Cameron raised his hands to his face, felt the tears, hot and sticky and
girly,
and curled his fingers, dug them into the skin around his eyes. “It wasn’t sexual assault. They didn’t do that. They didn’t.”

He felt his mother’s small hands on his arms, pulling. Heard her call Randy’s name and then Randy came at him from behind, pried loose Cameron’s hands, and held them to his chest. He couldn’t move. It was as good as wearing a straitjacket.

“They didn’t rape me,” Cameron sobs.

“We know that, Cameron,” Randy said. “Assault isn’t always rape.”

“That’s a lie. Everyone at school knows it’s rape.” He opened his eyes. His mom was standing in front of him, crying, her nose running. She knew. He could see it in her eyes. She knew exactly what it would mean to him if the police called it a sex crime. “Mom. Mom, don’t let him do this. This can’t be me. I want to die.”

“Randy?”

He felt Randy’s shoulders lift. “It’s real clear. The attack meets the criteria for sexual assault.”

“No! Make it go away, Mom. Please.”

“Can we do that?” she asked Randy. “How can we do that?”

“You can drop the charges,” Randy said. “But I don’t think that’s the way to go.”

They argued about it, Randy insisting that Cameron needed to know that Patterson and his stooge were prosecuted. That what happened to Cameron was wrong and society said so, too.

“I can’t be the boy who was raped.”

His mom agreed with him. She promised she’d talk to the D.A.

“He can decide to prosecute without your cooperation,” Randy said.

“But that’s not likely,” his mom pressed. “Is it?”

“You might get him to lessen the charges. Make it aggravated assault,” Randy agreed.

“He didn’t do it, Randy,” his mom continues, pulling Cameron from his memories. “I want you to believe that. I want to hear you say it.”

Randy looks at her a long time, then lets his eyes connect with Cameron’s.

“If the detectives come by in the morning, call me,” he says. “Don’t talk to them without me.”

He didn’t say so, but Cameron can tell Randy isn’t relying on his mother for help. It’s up to Cameron to save himself.

“I remember.”

“I’m going home.”

He leaves through the kitchen door. Cameron listens to his boots on the wood deck, in the gravel driveway, the slam of his car door and then the metallic scratch as the engine turns over. He turns to his mother. He feels a slow burn where his heart should be.

“He never said I did it,” he tells her. “He never came right out and said I did it.”

“But he thinks it,” she insists.

“He’s a cop and all the evidence points to me,” Cameron says. He wants his mother to admit it, that her son is possibly a criminal. He wants to see what she’ll do with it.

“He shouldn’t think it,” she says. “He knows you. He knows
me.
”

“He doesn’t know me that well.”

“Apparently not.”

Silence gathers.

“You won’t ask me if I did it,” he says. “If I started the fire. Why won’t you ask me?”

“I don’t need to. You’re my son.
I
know you.”

Cameron lets his face flood with the certainty of his crime. He wants to be as transparent as a ghost. He wants her to doubt him. He wants her to know. His mother is great at escaping the truth and for once he wants her to face it.

She turns away.

“Ask me, Mom.”

“No.”

“I want you to.”

She looks up from the counter she’s wiping down. She’s tired. Her skin always gets a shade lighter, her eyes darker, when she’s worn out.

“Don’t do this, Cameron,” she says.

“What? Make you face the truth about me? Is that what you don’t want?” he demands. “Could you still love me, Mom?”

“I love you,” she says.

“Ask me.”

“Okay. Did you? Did you start that fire?”

Her hand, still wrapped in the dish towel, trembles.

She already believes it. Part of her, anyway. Most of her refuses to let it be the truth. She’s lived her life that way for as long as he can remember. She knew their father was a bully, a creep, but refused to let that be their reality until it was almost too late. Same thing with Patterson. She had to know that talking to the counselor at school wouldn’t be enough. She had to know that the blood on his shirt the next day was from his nose. She knew that it wasn’t over. And now it’s too late.

“I’m taking the Fifth,” Cameron says.

He leaves her standing at the counter. On his way out of the kitchen he flips the light switch. His last look at her shows half of her aglow from the range light, the other half in darkness, and he thinks that’s about right. That’s his mom.

FRIDAY

8:35AM

Cameron’s mom insists on parking the minivan in the school lot and walking him into the principal’s office.

“No way!” Cameron protests. “I’m not walking into school with my mommy.”

“Then walk ahead of me,” she offers. “I’m talking to Mr. Vega first thing. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until I hear what I need to hear.”

“What’s that?” Cameron asks, keeping a space of three feet between them, looking around him at the groups of kids. No one seems to notice him. Yet.

“That those boys aren’t in school today. I won’t be happy until I hear that they’re never returning.”

“They have to go to school, Mom. It’s the law.”

“But they don’t have to go to
this
school,” she says.

The halls are musty and damp. Too many bodies, too little air. Cameron increases his pace, wants to shake his mom loose, wants to go looking for Patterson, find him before the asshole finds Cameron. His blood throbs through his veins. He flexes his fingers. He’s primed. He’s ready. He’ll take Patterson so fast the guy won’t have a chance. He presses his hand against the outside of his pocket, traces the shape of the pocketknife, and feels his breath change. It becomes as fast and shallow as when he’s running.

“Wait up.”

His mother’s heels click against the linoleum as she rushes to catch up. They’re not even close to the office when he sees Vega’s dark head turn toward them. Recognition plays with his face, makes it look happy to see them and sorry for it at the same time.

Vega extends his hand to Cameron’s mother, but she ignores it.

“I’m dropping Cameron off for school,” she tells the principal. “Those boys aren’t here?”

“No. We’ve given them a formal suspension of five days. Like I told you, there’ll be a hearing. That’ll help us determine the next step.”

His mother nods.

Five days. That means Patterson and Murphy won’t be back until Wednesday. Cameron will have to wait. He doesn’t like that. His veins are swollen with anger.

“I’m holding you personally responsible for my son’s safety,” his mom tells the principal.

“You have my guarantee,” Vega promises and places a cool hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “I’m real sorry about what happened here Wednesday,” he says to Cameron. “We’re taking care of that. All you need to do is think about academics. And maybe you’d like to talk to Mr. Elwood?”

“No,” Cameron says. “I’m okay.”

“Well, I’ll go now,” his mom says.

She doesn’t move, though, and stares at Cameron a long time. He starts to worry she’s going to do something he’ll regret. Like cry. Or try to kiss him goodbye. He takes a step back and she raises her hand in a small wave.

“Goodbye,” she says.

“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Grady,” the principal says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Cameron turns his back and moves into the crowd of kids, feeling like an ant in an ant farm. The halls aren’t big enough and there are too many kids. He feels hot. Feels nerves pull tight inside him so that he’s walking on his toes, though he tries not to. He lets himself be pulled upstream until he reaches his history class.

Even Hart is nice to him. Cameron doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the way the other kids look at him, either. He stares at the whiteboard where Hart is writing dates and events, but feels the burn of eyes resting on his skin, wants so badly to turn and flip everyone off. Thinks Eddie would do it, no problem.

Cameron shifts in his seat, just enough so he can see Eddie Fain at his desk. The kid is drawing on his arm. That’s one of Eddie’s great talents. If he could get his mind straightened out, art school would be a slam dunk.

Hart walks away from the whiteboard with the suggestion that they use every available minute if they don’t want the assignment to become homework.

Cameron opens his textbook. He scans the board for a page number, finds it, and paws through early American government until he arrives at a two-page spread of the justice system. Who does what, checks and balances . . . and then he loses focus. Feels the stares again, like his skin is about to blister, but when he finally gives in to the need and turns, he finds that most of the heads are down, looking at their books, or looking at the board.

He feels the seat next to him fill up. It’s Eddie. He has a smile on his face that looks like pure vengeance. He rolls his arm over so Cameron can see the drawing. Patterson’s face, two-dimensional and so lifelike it’s frightening. Inserted in his mouth is a phallus, unmistakable, and when Eddie flexes his arm, Patterson’s mouth moves so that it looks like he’s sucking dick.

Cameron laughs aloud. It’s so funny. So perfect.

“I’m making flyers, too,” he says. “Going to paper the school with them.”

“Mr. Fain, this isn’t a group assignment,” Mr. Hart says.

Eddie returns to his seat. He doesn’t open his book and spends the rest of class either playing with his live art or staring out the window.

When the bell rings Cameron’s paper is blank and Hart is standing over him.

“Why don’t you hold onto that,” Hart suggests and hands him a piece of lined paper with something written on it. “I saw you were having trouble concentrating,” he says, “so I copied the terms from the board for you. Maybe you can work on that at home and turn it in on Monday?”

Cameron accepts the paper, slips it into his notebook.

“I’ve forgiven the quiz from yesterday,” Hart continues. “No need for you to make that up.”

Hart’s voice has the irritating effect of making Cameron feel like his skin is splitting open. Cameron tunes him out, rises from his desk, and walks through the door, sure Hart is still talking.

English is a total bust. Cowan heard about the photos and moved Cameron’s seat. First row, first desk. He’s right next to the door and spends the entire hour watching the hall. He doesn’t even pretend to read and she doesn’t push him. They’re twenty minutes into class when she asks him to step out of the room with her. He doesn’t budge.

“Do you want to see the nurse?” she offers.

“I’m not sick,” he points out.

“No, you’re not.” She lifts her hands, tucks them behind her. “Well, if you need anything . . .”

When the bell rings, Cameron is the first person out of the room. The halls are congested. He pushes through the kids; some move aside.

The locker room is full of guys, pulling shirts over their heads, tying shoelaces. Cameron doesn’t remember ever entering early enough to walk into a flurry of elbows.

“Grady!” The coach’s voice booms out across the rows of lockers.

Cameron feels his spine straighten so much it nearly cracks. He stops for a moment, like he grew roots, then pushes himself forward. Finds his locker. Spins the dial on his combination lock.

“Hey, Grady.” The coach is standing beside him. “My office.”

“No, thanks,” Cameron says. Spins to the next number. The lock feels heavy in his hand. Cool. A dead weight that could do some damage. Why didn’t he think to grab it when Patterson was all over him?

“It’s not an invitation,” the coach says.

Cameron spins to the final number and pulls on the lock. Nothing.

“Listen, Cameron,” the coach starts and Cameron feels his skin pucker. He hates the way the teachers are his friends now. Hates that it makes him feel like a sorrier piece of shit than he was on Tuesday. “I moved your locker.”

Cameron finally turns, looks the coach in the eye.

“Why?” he demands.

“You want to talk about it in my office?”

“No. I want to talk about it right here.”

The coach nods. He looks over Cameron’s head. “You boys clear out.”

Cameron doesn’t turn around. He hears locker doors slam shut, scrambling feet. Feels the warmth of too-close bodies give way to a cool absence.

The coach looks right at Cameron and says, “Scene of the crime. I thought you wouldn’t want to come back here.”

“Well, I do.”

“My mistake.” The coach lifts his arms until his hands are on his hips, looks at Cameron a bit longer.

“Forget it,” Cameron says. “You can’t win this one. I’ve had a lot of practice.” His father was king of the one-minute meltdown. Cameron had learned from the best.

He puts his hands on his hips and pushes his chin forward and up.

“I’m not trying to win anything, Cameron.” The coach steps back. “People been staring at you all morning?”

“Mostly teachers.”

“Yeah, well, we’re sorry about what happened. I’m real sorry. It happened right here under my nose. I feel a lot of responsibility for that.”

Cameron shifts his shoulders, tries to loosen the tension. “Where are my clothes?”

“I put them in locker seventy. Two rows over.” He checks his watch. “Join us when you’re ready.”

Cameron finds the locker, pops the combo, and holds the lock in his hand. Titanium. They put that in the knees of professional football players. It’s that strong. That indestructible.

He sits down on the bench, curls his fingers over the lock, wishes he had knocked Patterson’s head in with it. Feels the anger of missed opportunity slam in his veins so that his blood actually hurts with the knowledge that he had his chance and blew it.

He reaches for his gym uniform, sees again the dark spot growing across Patterson’s back. He’s dreaming it was a bullet that put it there when he looks over toward the showers. A movement. Darkness. A dark head. He’s back in the moment again, Pervert Pinon peering over the half wall, watching him. He thinks he could crush the kid’s head between his hands. Thinks he could flatten his head, until everything Pinon is comes oozing out. Cameron’s guts twist painfully. Not because the image of a dead Pinon scares him, but because he feels it like a first breath. New life. His life.