Camouflage (6 page)

“Oh,” he said, feeling stupid. “Where's the librarian?”

“Upstairs, in the children's room. Is there something you want?”

“Well . . . I . . . ah . . .” He meant to ask for
Lord of the Flies
, one of the books on his list. Instead he said, “Do you have a copy of the . . . er . . . Constitution?”

“The
Constitution
?”

“Right.” He saw interest and surprise on her face, as if she was thinking, “What's he doing reading
that
?”

“It's in the next room.” She walked by briskly, almost brushing his arm, and went directly to a shelf of encyclopedias. Kyle followed. She bent and selected a book. “Here. You should find it in this, under Constitution of the United States.”

He took the book and flipped the pages self-consciously. Why had he asked for this? What did he care about the Constitution? Was it because of what his father said on the phone last night about guns? He laid the book on the table and sat down.

“Doing a report?” Verity leaned against a bookshelf, watching him intently.

“No.” He looked up at her, trying to think what to answer, wishing he could find some way to keep her there. She probably thought he was trying to impress her. “Thanks for the help.”

“You're welcome. Put the book back when you're through,” Verity said. “If you need anything else, I'll be at the desk.” She left the room.

He slipped out of the library an hour later without saying good-bye. His head felt fuzzy with all the things he'd tried to understand, things he'd learned about in civics class years ago when it didn't matter and he didn't care. But now—he cared and it mattered because it had something to do with whatever his dad was doing.

“Wait'll you meet the guys,” Hiram said as soon as he settled into the truck and they bumped onto the main road. It was Kyle's dad's last time on the night shift. He'd been glad Kyle had plans for the evening.

“Girls, too. Friday nights we
really
let go! Like to get loaded?” Hiram grinned and turned up the radio so that Kyle's answer was lost in the blast.

Kyle squirmed but grinned back. He'd gotten drunk once and it hadn't taken much to do it. Hiram was older so his friends were probably older, too. How would it look if he didn't drink like the other guys?

“Hey, just noticed! You got a
buzz!
Looks good!” Hiram shouted, slapping the wheel to the rock-country music. “I wondered about you—all that hair—but I figured hey! No way Ed Klinger'd have a fag son.”

Kyle laughed self-consciously, not knowing how to answer. In L.A. gays were no big deal. In fact, there was even a club in school for them. Still, maybe that's how folks talked and felt around here. It would be a long lonely summer if he played holier-than-thou and tried to change their ways. If he was going to have friends, and he surely hoped he would, he better go along with the flow, bite his tongue, and not judge.

“Who are the girls?” he shouted over the music. Somehow, as much as he wished, he was sure Verity wouldn't be one of them.

Hiram laughed. “Wait and see. You'll like them. Especially Marta.”

“Why her?”

“She's hot! We've all had a go with Marta.” He winked at Kyle.

“Oh.” Kyle gulped.

They drove away from town until Hiram pulled off the main road. He followed a dark narrow path between trees and through a streambed to where a half dozen cars were parked in a clearing. “Get the flashlight, will you? It's in the glove compartment.” Hiram switched off the engine.

Kyle reached into the dark compartment and felt around. It was stuffed with papers and half-empty cigarette packs. His hand closed on something hard and cold. A gun! He pulled away fast. Was it legal to carry a gun in a car? It wasn't in L.A.

“Let
me
get it!” Hiram said impatiently. He reached over Kyle and took out a flashlight. “Let's go.”

They made their way past other cars and couples headed, hand in hand, to the middle of the clearing, where a bonfire burned.

“Hey, guys. Listen up!” Hiram called when they reached the fire. “This here's Kyle Klinger, from L.A. Visiting his daddy for the summer, maybe longer, right, Kyle?”

Kyle nodded. He grinned at the boys and girls, most of them with beer cans in hand, and wondered which girl was Marta.

“And, Kyle, these ugly lowlifes,” Hiram announced loudly, “are my good friends—Chuck, Mac, Billy, Tyler, Werner.”

“Hey, man, who's calling me ugly?” someone called out.

“What about
us
?” a girl's voice asked.

“Oh, yeah. The
pretty
ones are Jane, Marta, and Susan. The one with the big mouth's Marta.” He laughed. “And now, how's about some beer for us, too?”

The girl who had spoken up had long brown hair and a small mouselike face. She wore a tight short skirt and a knit top that left her middle bare. Although she stood arm in arm with one of the guys, Kyle felt her eyes on him. He was glad for the darkness so no one would see him blush.

He moved with Hiram among his friends, trying to keep the names and faces straight. Mostly he listened, because they talked about people they all knew. About local fishing and out-of-season hunting. About gun swap meets coming up and then about something that had happened in Waco, Texas.

“The govamint had no right to go in there!” Hiram said hotly. Waco, Texas? What was that about? Then Kyle remembered a TV special he had seen about a man named David Koresh. Koresh was the religious leader of a kind of commune in Texas. The government said he stored illegal firearms there and went after him. A lot of people died when the commune went up in flames during a raid by government agents.

“The damn feds
killed
them,” Hiram went on, slurring his words. “Blew up innocent people just because they kept weapons to protect themselves!”

The way Kyle remembered, the fire in the fortress started from
inside
, so how could it have been the government's fault? But he didn't speak up. Not with everyone else siding with Hiram.

By midnight Kyle realized he was enjoying himself. He liked some of the guys who hung around him asking about Los Angeles. Had he ever been to Disneyland? Had he ever met any real actors? Did he surf? Were there gangs in his neighborhood?

Hiram set up a firing range, with flashlights set to shine on the beer can targets. Everyone seemed to have a gun and even the girls competed. Laughing and hooting, they shot wildly—not just straight on, but bent over and between their legs, and over their shoulders. Kyle laughed at the antics, half-drunk with the excitement, as well as the beer.

It was very late when someone shouted, “Time! Hit the road!”

Instantly they all raced for their cars.

Hiram yanked at Kyle's arm. “Come on, Klinger, let's go! Last one out's a fairy!” They raced back to the truck. Hiram plugged the keys in the ignition, got the truck going, skidded around, and hauled on down the dirt path, over the creek bed to the main road.

“Whooo-eee!” he screamed, switching off his headlights. He pressed his foot hard on the gas pedal and leaped ahead of the car in front, laughing and cursing. Kyle held tight to his seat, applying an imaginary brake. He'd never been so excited or so scared in his life.

“Didn't I tell you?” Hiram shouted over the horns blowing and radios booming in the quiet night. “Didn't I tell you it'd be a blast? Bet you don't have this much fun in L.A.!”

K
YLE WOKE
the next morning when his father came home. The room was whirling, and his head felt twice its normal size. “Oh, god!” he groaned, rushing to the bathroom to throw up. He swore he'd never touch beer again.

“Rough night?” His father came to the doorway, smoking a cigarette.

Kyle waved him off. The smoke made him even more queasy. “Go away.
Please
!”

“What you need is some black coffee,” his father announced. “Come in the kitchen when you're up to it.”

All Kyle wanted was to crawl back into bed, curl up in a ball, and die.

A few minutes later his father was back, carrying a cup of steaming coffee. “Come on, sit up, son. Drink this. It'll make you feel better.” He sat on the edge of the bed and helped Kyle rise. “Must have been some night!”

Eyes closed, Kyle nodded, focused on the dizziness. He sipped the hot black liquid slowly, burning his lip. But it did help. With each swallow the room settled down and his queasiness eased.

“What time did you get in?”

Kyle took a deep breath. “Three-ish . . .”

“Three o'clock's pretty late to be out, don't you think?” his father asked. “Your mother wouldn't approve.”

“Ummm,” Kyle groaned. With Hiram driving, did he have a choice?

“Earl tells me his boy's got a hollow leg. Can drink a grown man under the table. True?”

“Ummm . . . ,” Kyle moaned.

“I'm glad you're making friends, but don't let others decide what's best for you. March to your own beat, understand?”

“Ummm.” He burped, not really listening.

His father patted Kyle's stubble. “I kind of miss that curly head of hair, but I guess you'll be cooler this way.” He stood up. “Come to the kitchen when you're able.”

When his dad left the room, Kyle lay back and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately and didn't wake until after noon. He staggered into the kitchen and found two slices of hard dry toast and a pot of coffee waiting for him. Propped against the sugar bowl was a note. “Call your mother. I'll be back by four. Stick around—I'm going to need you. And stay away from the liquor cabinet. Ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha,” Kyle said aloud. And then he wondered why his mom wanted him to phone again.

As his mind cleared he thought about the night before. Small-town life wasn't all that much different from the big city after all. At the parties he went to at home, guys and girls drank, too. Some even smoked pot. They made out in corners of the living room or in bedrooms, rather than in the bushes. They didn't race their cars with the lights off like last night, because in L.A. you'd never get away with it. So they cruised instead. The big difference between L.A. and here, he decided, were the guns. Here,
everyone
seemed to own one, not just the bad guys. You'd think that where there was practically no crime they wouldn't need them.

Kyle dialed home as soon as he felt himself again. “Hi, Mom. What's up? How's everything?”

“Hi, honey!” His mother sounded breathless and happy. “Everything's fine, very fine! I called because we wanted you to be the first to know. Brian and I are getting married! We've set a wedding date. December fifteenth!”

“Bully for you.” Kyle felt a pain, like a knife stab, in his chest.

“Don't be that way, Kyle! Be happy for me. And for you, too. Brian really likes you. He'll try to be a good father.”

“I don't
need
a good father. I
have
one, Mom, and he's pretty terrific! I don't know what you've got against him!”

His mother didn't answer. Brian was probably standing nearby, ready to take the phone and hear the congratulations. Well, tough.

“How has your week been?” his mother asked, all her enthusiasm gone.

“Great. I've made some friends. Dad bought me a bike until I learn how to drive a stick shift. He's got a dog and a horse and—” He paused, uncertain if he should tell about the guns. Why not? Let Brian squirm a little. Big Shot liked to talk about police routine and cases that made
him
look like a hero. Let him know that he, Kyle, had not only held a gun, but was also a pretty good shot.

“Let me speak with your father!” his mother said as soon as he told her.

“He's not here, Mom, and anyway, it won't matter what you say.”

“Oh yes, it will! I
am
your mother. I have primary custody.”

“Cool it, Mom. It's no big deal, honest.” He began to worry. Maybe he'd been a little too cocky, but she'd
made
him want to hurt her because of her news about Brian. He should have guessed her reaction, though. She always said, “There'd be a whole lot less crime if there were fewer people who owned guns.”

“Congratulations, about Brian.” He forced the words out in the silence that followed. “I guess he's okay. I hope he makes you happy.”

“Thanks, darling. Do you want to say hello to him?”

“Sure.” It was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Hi, Kyle. How's it going? What's this I hear about you learning to shoot?”

So, he
had
been listening! Well, he'd rub it in a bit then. “Yeah. I got to shoot a Remington .22 and Dad's teaching me all about guns.”

“That's great,” Brian said. “When you get back maybe we can go to a firing range. Practice together.”

“Really?”

Sure.

“Cool!”

“And listen, Kyle. If you want an ear, for any reason at all, I'm here.”

He grimaced at the phone. Why would he need Brian when he had his dad? “Thanks,” he said, “and congratulations. I hope you and Mom will be very happy.”

He washed his breakfast dishes, gazing out the window toward the small woods and stream out back.
What a place to live
, he thought. No smog. No smell of car exhaust. No noise of traffic passing. Just a pretty view, sweet-smelling air, and birds peeping in the tree near the picnic table. He wiped his hands and thought of Mom and Brian. Things would be very different when he went home. Brian would always be there, between him and his mother. Maybe he should think more about staying here with Dad. Last night showed him he could have a lot of friends.

Prince began barking. He put down the dish towel and went outside. “Quiet, Prince!” he ordered, grabbing the dog's collar. He looked down the road to see who was coming. A girl—on a bike.
Verity?
he thought with a stir of excitement. No.
Marta!
The girl from last night, the one Hiram said all the guys had had a “go at.” He began to sweat.