Summer on the Short Bus (17 page)

“What you said sucks, but I bet most people think the same things you did. They just don't admit it because they're too scared. That's what happens when you live in a vacuum and aren't exposed to different kinds of people. You react out of fear, or self-protection or something.”

A sour taste begins welling up in my mouth, as Quinn's bubble-living comments collide with Aidan's obvious wisdom.

“I'm speaking from experience, here,” he continues. “I wasn't lying when I said I was just like you—I was a total dick to people, too. Handicapped people,” he clarifies. “I said really shitty things, made stupid gestures, and then just like that”—he snaps his fingers—“I was one of them. I was the one other people stared at. I was the one whose friends bailed when they realized I couldn't do everything the same way anymore. Everything's different when the shoe's on the other foot.”

“So you're saying I need to play in traffic so I can end up in a wheelchair? That'll help me get over myself ?”

“No, smart ass,” he says. “I'm saying you should be grateful that a summer camp pretty boy helped you figure it out. Bruised egos and broken hearts definitely suck, but I assure you getting hit by an F-150 at forty-five miles an hour is a much harder way to figure it out.”

If I didn't already feel like queen of the bitches, I certainly do
now. He's sitting here without the use of his legs, and
I'm
the one who's whining like a pathetic baby.

“Okay,” I say. “So somehow you've managed to be okay with this crappy hand life has dealt you, but that doesn't explain why you're here. All the other kids seem to have some mental . . .”

“Impairments?”

“Sure. So clearly you're not
impaired
. How did you end up here?”

“My mom and Rainbow did some student teaching together back in the day. She knew about the camp, and when I mentioned I was thinking about majoring in special education, she gave her a call and, voilà. Here I am.”

“Apparently Rainbow knows everybody's parents,” I mumble.

“She knows your folks too?”

“My dad,” I say. “Not to mention a shitload of other personal stuff.”

He cocks his head slightly, confused.

“It's nothing,” I say, shaking off my personal irritations. “So you're a . . . drop-in camper?”

“Right,” he says, completely unaware of how hard I had to search my memory bank to come up with that. “But I don't really think of it as camping. I'm approaching this like I'm an in-the-trenches observer, if that makes any sense.”

“Like an experiment?”

“Eh, more like personal development. I don't think I'll be a
very good teacher if I have any hang-ups about the kids I'm teaching. Sharing my life with them puts us all on the same playing field.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

He reels his head back. “Do you think I like building bird-houses out of Popsicle sticks? I have to check my pride at the door every morning.
Every
morning. But that's kind of the whole point, right? Getting over yourself . . .”

I shake my head. “How can you only be a year older than me and like a thousand times smarter?”

“Trust me, I'm not that smart. I've just had a couple years to adjust to this. You've only had a week.” I feel his hand cover mine; it's calloused but comforting “So what do you think? Are you gonna stick it out the rest of the summer?”

It's crazy how obvious an answer can be when the question is asked by someone other than yourself.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm going to stick around.”

“Cool,” he says. “Everybody deserves a second chance to make things right, Cricket. Even you. And if Quinn doesn't realize that, then he's the jerk.”

“You sound like Fantine.”

“Fantine's a badass.”

“Yeah.” I chuckle. “She is.”

Neither of us says anything for a while. We just sit with his hand covering mine, soaking up the warm day. It's the first time since the blowup with Quinn that I feel the slightest bit good about
myself. It's also the first time since I've been here that I'm not uncomfortable that the person sitting next to me can't walk.

“Cricket,” he says. “If Quinn turns out to be a total dick about this—do I even stand a chance?”

I feel my cheeks flush behind my growing smile. “You'll kick his ass first, right?”

EIGHTEEN

“O
h my God, this shit
is
bananas!” Staring at the tiny screen of my iPhone, Fantine erupts into a fit of laughter while I try to suffocate myself with my pillow. “How did you let them talk you into this?”

“It was Meredith. She wore me down.”

“
You
caved for Meredith?”

“She so played the handicapped card. Can you believe that? She's
all, yooooou wouldn't say noooo to a kid in a wheelchair, wooooooould you?
What else could I do?”

“Well, you could have suggested a different song. Not that I don't love some Gwen Stefani, but ‘Hollaback' is kind of old. Plus it's tough with all that spelling. Do you really think Claire can spell bananas that fast?”

“Of course she can't,” I say. “I tried to convince her but she was dead set on it. Besides, I'm trying to be the new and improved Cricket, remember? I figured I shouldn't push it. I mean, she can't help her condition, right?”

She pauses the video with a tap of her finger and looks over at me. “What condition?”

“Whatever it is that makes her think we're still living in 2008.”

Fantine's eyes grow wide and her mouth falls open just a smidge. “You're kidding, right?”

“About what?”

“Oh my God!” she says, collapsing against her pillow, laughing. “She doesn't have a
condition
, Cricket. The girl's just nuts.”

“Wait . . . what?” I sit up on my bed so I can face her. “She doesn't have some kind of neurological disorder? I mean, beyond the cerebral palsy?”

She shakes her head.

“So the whole Hannah Montana fixation is just . . . she's just . . .”

“Like I said, she's nuts.” Fantine snorts. “Something really good must have happened to her five years ago because she doesn't want to get herself out of the time warp. But I assure you, there's no condition causing that. It's a straight-up WTF situation when it comes to Meredith and what she likes.”

Feeling every part the idiot, I bury my face in my hands. So much for being enlightened.

“Ooh! This move right here is amazing. Check this out, you
have
to do this one.” I stomp across the short distance to Fantine's bed and collapse down beside her. “See how Gwen does this snake thing against the dashboard?” she says, pointing to the “Hollaback Girl” video she's watched at least a dozen times already. “You totally need to do that. Quinn will go crazy just watching you.”

“I doubt it,” I say, nudging her closer to the wall so we can share her pillow. “Did you see him at the pool tonight? He won't even look at me.” I take out my ponytail, give my head a scratch, and settle further into the pillow. Gwen's voice is starting to give me a headache. “This morning at the craft shed it almost seemed like he was getting over it, but then all of a sudden he just froze up. Like he remembered he hated me.”

“He doesn't hate you,” she says, pausing the music again. “He just doesn't know how to go about forgiving you. Some guys are stupid like that. And from what Colin's told me, Quinn has a particularly hard time letting things go. Besides, I saw you having a pretty good time with Aidan anyway.”

“Please, Aidan's my . . . friend.”

“Friend. Right.”

“He is!” I smack her arm. “We're just friends. Or becoming friends. Besides, he knows how I feel about Quinn.”

“I'm just saying I think he'd be more than happy to take you for a ride on his wheelchair.”

“You're disgusting,” I say. She just laughs. “I can't think about Quinn right now anyway. I've got other things to worry about.”

“Like what?”

“Like how the hell we are going to pull off a three-girl reenactment of
that
.” I point to the frozen image of Gwen on the screen, her washboard abs and bright red lips gleaming under the Hollywood sun. I might as well kill myself now. “The majority of that
video is dancing.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Do you live under a rock? Have you completely forgotten who I've got to work with?”

“Why, Constance, whatever are you talking about?” Her grin borders on that fine line between a smile and all-out hysterics.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about,” I say in a low voice, aware that the subjects in question are asleep in the next room. “Claire can hardly stand up without knocking someone over, and Meredith . . . I mean, seriously. She's in a wheelchair! I don't know about you, but I've never seen someone in a wheelchair dance. I'm telling you, Fantine, the whole thing is going to be a freakin' disaster, and yours truly will be center stage looking like the queen of the freak show. Tell me again why counselors have to participate?”

“That's just how it is. Each counselor performs with their group and then one lucky leader, that'd be you, gets to supervise all the campers in one big group performance. Think of how much fun that's gonna be!”

“This totally sucks,” I say, kicking my heels into the bed. I'm about five seconds away from completely losing it, when I hear a small voice outside the curtain.

“Cricket?”

“Uh . . . yeah?” Fantine and I exchange a glance, scrambling to sit up in the bed. “Who is it?”

Claire's very round, sunburned face appears from a gap in the curtain. “It's me,” she says warily. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I say, motioning her inside. “What's going on?”

She thunders through the doorway, her
Twilight
nightgown trailing behind her. Her hair is matted and her eyes are red.

“Are you okay?”

“I had a bad dream. It scared me.”

Comforting people isn't really my gig, but I remember back to how Carolyn handled these situations when I was little.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I say, patting the foot of the bed. “Sometimes talking about it makes it not so scary.”

“Okay,” she says, and drops down right beside me, forcing me to shift to my right so I'm not crushed.

“What happened?”

“I was at the archery range with James and Shia LaBeouf—”

“Shia LaBeouf ?” I'm not sure how but I manage to stifle my laughter.

She nods. “I like him. He's cute.”

“He totally is,” I say.

“He's super cute.” Fantine nods in agreement.

“Everybody was shooting, but the targets weren't right. They were purple Jell-O, and wherever the arrow landed is how much Jell-O you had to eat.” I cover my mouth trying not to laugh. This sounds more like a Tim Burton movie than a nightmare. “And then Rainbow showed up and she was covered with roly polies. They
were crawling all over her, and she was screaming at all of us. She said we had to eat all the Jell-O or she'd throw us in the roly poly pit. I hate roly polies, Cricket!”

Without hesitation, I put an arm around her shoulder. “It was just a dream,” I say. “Dreams are crazy and stupid sometimes, but they can't hurt you.”

“And neither can roly polies,” Fantine adds.

“Yeah,” I say. “Roly polies are just cute little bugs who curl up into balls when they're scared. They definitely can't hurt you.” Fantine and I exchange another glance, while Claire proceeds to snot all over my shirt.

“Do you think you can go back to bed?” I ask when she's finally stopped snorting.

She nods. “Yeah, I can go to bed. Thanks, Cricket.”

“No problem,” I say. “Good night, Claire.”