6:59 (14 page)
Authors: Nonye Acholonu,Kelechi Acholonu
****
When the door finally cracked open again, I couldn't be happier to see another face. However, this face belonged to Anjolie. But, hey, it was still a face.
She walked in, running a hand through thick curls, dark circles underneath gray eyes, elbow bleeding. She sighed heavily and dropped a large black duffel bag onto the metal table I was occupying. Her white shirt and skirt had dirt stains running up the front and were torn up the side.
“Yo,” I said, after adding the last dollar bill onto the table. “What happened to you? Get in a fight with a blender?” I couldn't suppress my laugh.
Anjolie glared at me, plopping heavily down onto the mangled metal chair. She reached into her bag and pulled out dressing for her elbow wound. “More like a
vehicle
,” she said as she tore the wrap in two with her teeth. She pulled out some weird spray stuff and squirted it onto her elbow, wincing when the substance made contact. “I had to grab some money from this rich guy who lives a few miles away from here because the idiot that was
supposed
to do this job flaked on me.”
“Let me guess,” I said, bundling up the stacks of money, “the rich guy sent his guards after you?”
She pulled the wrap around her elbow tightly. “He sent his guards alright,” she muttered. “They all decided to hop into their black cars and chase after me. I got hit four times and partially run over. This explains the skid mark.” She pointed at the long tire track up the back of her white shirt.
I finished bundling the money and set the stacks aside. “How'd you get away?”
“I fought the first four guards and stole one of the cars,” she explained, picking up the stacks of money. “Then I ran the car off the side of a cliff and jumped out the window before it made contact with the water. They didn't see me roll away, those idiots.”
“Nice,” I said, nodding. Then I looked at my watch. I had less than an hour to get home. Great. “I have to go,” I said, standing up.
Anjolie nodded, stuffing the money into the duffel bag already filled with money. “Alright, I just need to get this stuff to the Boss and then run home to change and get to school.”
“You gonna have enough time?” I asked. From what I've heard, school starts sometime after seven.
Anjolie shrugged. “I don't have a choice,” she mumbled, hoisting the duffel bag over her slender shoulders. “I have a long walk ahead of me.”
Cameron
“Once again, Dad, I'm so so so so sorry,” I said, my hands clasped together in front of me as I stared, apologetically, into my father's face.
He was lying on the couch, clutching ice to his lower back as he struggled to sip his lemonade. “And once again, son,” he said, smiling, “it wasn't your fault.” He tried to pat my back comfortingly but the motion just caused him more pain.
I knew it was my fault.
Cam's
actions were
always
my fault. Now my dad was stuck lying here in pain while I was left to go about my day like I had nothing to do with it. But
I
was the one that hurt him. Even if I were schizophrenic, I still had to take responsibilities for my own actions. “It was my fault, Dad,” I retorted, standing up and running a frustrated hand through my hair. “I'll get help, I promise.”
“
You
,” he said, sticking a finger at me, “just go to school. Mila's here. She'll help me out. What's important is that you get your education.” He finished up his drink and placed it on the table next to his propped up legs. “You in the running for valedictorian yet?” he asked.
I shrugged, pulling my backpack over my shoulder. “We haven't found out yet but I'm seriously banking on it, Dad.”
Dad nodded. “Get out there and go be⦠well,
smart
.” He chuckled.
I said goodbye to Mila and him and ran out the door, already ten minutes late to school. Hopping into my car, I pulled out of the driveway and powered out of my neighborhood, all while trying to finish my math homework.
Thankfully completing it without dying, I shoved it into my backpack when I pulled up to a red light. As I sat at the light, my eyes fell on a flash of white-blonde, curly hair. I immediately recognized the hair as Anjolie's. She was on the sidewalk, walking briskly to school. Her backpack was swung over her shoulder and she was wearing a white sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. Her black sneakers were worn and tearing.
When the light turned green, I pushed through the intersection and pulled up to the side of the road just behind her.
“Hey, Anjolie,” I said, sticking my head out of the window. “Do you want a ride?”
Anjolie spun around, her hair flipping to the side. When she saw me, her face lit up and she jogged over. “Thanks, Cameron,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. “I can't afford to be late again.”
“Me neither,” I said and pressed my foot down on the accelerator.
As we drove, Anjolie sat there smoothing out her hair and shifting positions over and over again. Her leg was fidgeting and her fingers were locked together so tightly, her knuckles turned white.
“Are you okay, Anjolie?” I asked when we pulled up to another red light. I desperately checked the time. Five minutes until school started.
Anjolie whipped her head around and smiled at me nervously. “I'm fine,” she said, a little too rushed to sound normal. Her hand went up to casually swipe hair over her forehead â but not before I saw the gash on her hairline.
“Whoa! Anjolie, what happened?” I asked, gaping at the wound. It looked deep and severely painful. How she was able to just sit there nonchalantly without screaming out in pain was beyond me.
Anjolie shrugged her shoulders. “Iâit was just some weird accident with⦠with the shower curtain. It fell down this morning and hit my head. Stupid shower curtain.” She brushed more hair over her forehead to shield the wound completely.
“Did you get it looked at?” I asked as we drove on.
“I will,” she said succinctly and with a definite don't-ask-me-about-it-again tone.
I decided to take the hint and not press her about it.
We got to school a minute before the bell rang. Anjolie and I sprinted to class, running our separate ways. I managed to get into homeroom right when the bell rang.
“Cameron, almost late
again
,” Armando said to me as I slid into the seat next to him in the back row.
I just shook my head, looking away from him. Right now, I had no reason to be mad at him. His claiming that I was schizophrenic wasn't done maliciously â I knew â but for some reason, I was peeved. Maybe it was because he'd told my friends and family about it before me or maybe because he'd been hanging out with me when I didn't know it â frankly, I just knew I had nothing to say to him.
But he had tons to say to me.
“So Homecoming is coming up,” he said, turning and facing me in his desk. “I'm pretty excited for the whole thing if you ask me. Tuxes, dresses, limos, the works. Can't wait.” He ran his hand through his shiny black hair and drummed his pens on the table. “Mr. Fuller said he has an idea for what to do for the Homecoming Court Presentation. He wants us to meet him in the music room after school today. You in?”
I clenched my hand, feeling unbelievably angry again. Why? I had no idea. But I knew I'd felt this way when I found out about not having any of Olive's classes and that resulted in me cutting myself with my locker. Were these weird spurts of anger coming from my schizophrenic side or something?
“Cameron? You in?” Armando asked again.
“How long have you known?” I asked, unable to hold my anger in any longer.
Armando flinched backwards, looking at me strangely. “Whoa, Cameron, what's with the whole I'm-a-monster glare?”
“How long have you known?” I asked, trying to calm myself.
“About what?”
“About my condition!”
Armando stared at me for a quiet second. Then he sighed and looked down. “Since the night we were watching the football game. I forgot something and came back to get it. By then you were already⦠changed.”
I sighed heavily and placed my head in my hands, willing myself to calm down. This sudden anger was
not
me. This had to be coming from my other side. I tangled my fingers in my hair and took deep breaths, feeling myself calm down some.
This was not the time and place to get angry, Cameron
, I thought to myself as my breathing slowed. Control your other side.
When I finally looked up, I was somewhat calm. Armando was still staring at me with his huge amber eyes. “You okay, Cameron?” he asked with a soft voice.
I nodded my head fervently. “I'm fine, totally fine,” I said, willing my words to be true. I took another breath and forced a half-smile. “So I'm a schizophrenic now, huh?” I said with a weak chuckle.
Armando frowned at me. “Well⦠I meanâ¦
kind of
,” he said finally, stretching his long arms over his head. He dropped them heavily at his sides.
“What do you mean by âkind of'?” I asked. Now it was my turn to stare at him quizzically.
Armando scratched his head, seeming to form the words carefully in his head but having a hard time doing it. “I mean, it's hard to explain,” he said finally. “Can I tell you about it later?” he asked with a hopeful expression on his brown face.
“Tell me about
what
?” What was he implying? That I wasn't schizophrenic? What could he possibly mean by â
kind of
'? These were need-to-know questions!
The bell rang suddenly and I almost screamed in frustration.
****
After school, the six Homecoming nominees sat awkwardly in the Music Room waiting for further instruction. When Armando had walked in he'd told me that he'd explain everything to me soon enough and that it wasn't something to fret about.
“Then how come it's hard to explain?” I had asked him in a hushed tone.
“It's just really technical, that's all. I'll tell you when we finish up here,” he'd said, and the conversation was dropped.
After aimless conversation about the upcoming football game and lunchroom food, Mr. Fuller walked in and placed his papers onto a nearby desk. “Hi, nominees,” he said in his sing-song voice, clapping his hands flamboyantly. “Are we ready to rehearse the Presentation?”
“What are we doing for it?” Armando asked, flinging his arm around Hudson's shoulders. “Are we making a movie like last year's nominees did? That was cool.”
“And pretty funny,” I added, remembering last year's Homecoming rendition of that movie
Prom Night
. They'd gotten fake blood, ripped dresses, creepy music, and everything else involved in filming a mock-horror flick. They'd also made it pretty funny and really entertaining. I hoped we'd be able to hold a candle up to their performance.
But Mr. Fuller shook his head, his earrings flapping from side to side. “No, no, no, students,” he said with a sneaky grin. “We're doing something better!” He picked up the papers he'd been holding and began handing them out. “We're going to sing!”
“What?” Armando and I cried, almost jumping up from our seats. “We're going to sing?” Armando asked, horrified.
Mr. Fuller nodded his head happily. “You must!” he sang out, running his hands over the piano keys. “No one has sung before! We need to showcase the music department!” Mr. Fuller seemed to end all his sentences with exclamation points.
“That sounds like fun!” Tanya said with a wide smile on her tan face. She stood up happily, her light brown hair staying in place. “I love singing!”
Of course she would. Tanya has been our lead chorale singer since freshman year. Her voice was probably the best female voice in all of California. She'd definitely jump at the chance of singing in front of our class. And Dave, her boyfriend, would love it, too.
“Let's do it!” Dave said, grabbing his girlfriend around the waist. If Tanya's voice was the best female voice, Dave's voice was the best
male
voice. Also in chorale, the two of them loved to boast about how wonderful their voices were. If we ended up singing for the performance, then they were a shoe-in to win.
“I can't sing for my life!” Armando objected, the slight trace of Spanish accent creeping into his voice. “This isn't fair!”
Mr. Fuller frowned heavily but only for a second as if mocking him. Then his face brightened. “Who all can sing in here?” he asked, clapping his hands for the millionth time. I swear, if he clapped again, I would freak.
Dave, Tanya, and Hudson raised their hands happily. Armando, Anjolie, and I sat there staring at Mr. Fuller expectantly.
Mr. Fuller shook his head, wagging his finger at Anjolie. “No, Miss Rivers,” he said in a chastising tone. “Every female should know how to sing!”
“Well, I guess I'm not female,” she said flatly.
The rest of us laughed at her joke but Mr. Fuller just gave her the stink eye, apparently not favoring her response. “Can you do
anything
musical?” His voice was almost desperate. “Can
any
of you do anything musical?” His eyes landed on me.
“Cameron can,” Hudson said, pointing at me and smiling.
Thanks, Hudson.
Mr. Fuller's already large eyes ballooned in size. “
Really
?” he asked, his voice painfully spirited.
I shrugged. There was no getting out of this. “Yeah, I play the piano and some guitar,” I said as nonchalantly as possible. I didn't want to play in front of our class. That was so embarrassing! I had to make it seem as though I was mediocre.
“Come,” Mr. Fuller said, grabbing me by the arm. “Come play for us.” He ushered me to the grand piano, willing me to take a seat.
I sat down reluctantly, dreading every minute of this. What if I messed up? Then I'd not only look stupid in front of everyone here, but I'd also embarrass myself in front of the senior class. Why couldn't we just film something? That way, if I messed up, we could just film over it.
“What do I play?” I asked, nerves making my hands shake. I quickly shook them out and smiled hesitantly.
Mr. Fuller placed the sheet music in front of me. “How about the standard
Good King Wenceslas
? Can you play that, Cameron?”
Of
course
I could play that. That was the first song I'd ever learned to play. I could probably play the stupid song in my sleep. Flexing my fingers, I lightly placed them on the keys and began to play without even looking at the sheet music in front of me.
After I'd finished, Mr. Fuller nodded. “Good, all pianists should be familiar with that piece,” he said ruffling through his sheet music. He fingered a few sheets of paper before placing new ones in front of me. “Play
Fur Elise
.”
Even before he finished talking, I was already playing as if it were my job. I pressed on the keys without hesitation, following the notes with my eyes. It was as if my fingers were the music and the piano keys were their voices. Even with a crappy song, I loved the feel of playing.
“
My
,” Mr. Fuller gasped, placing his hand over his heart, his eyes wide. “I didn't know you were
this
good, Mr. Sloane.” He fingered through the sheet music once again, searching for another song. “How long have you been playing?”
“Too long,” I said remembering that every single day of my life I'd played the piano for at least an hour. It wasn't because I had to and it wasn't just because it looked good on college apps â it was because I needed to. It was the only way I could really express myself being so shy and everything. It was the only way I could be bold.
Mr. Fuller found the song he was looking for and replaced the previous sheet music with this song. “Now, this is a tiny bit tricky. I've only recently mastered it and that was due to over forty years of practice.” He pointed at the sheet music. “Can you play the third movement of Beethoven's
Moonlight Sonata
?”
For some reason, I knew he was going to challenge me with this specific piece. I've only had the chance to look at it a couple weeks ago. I stared at the piano keys and began to play, my eyes darting between the keys and the sheet music.
Again, my fingers glided over the keys like waves on rocks. Music shot out from every key like lightning and I feared that the music wouldn't keep up with how fast my fingers were moving. I played the entire song, only managing to flub once halfway through. I desperately hoped that no one noticed.
“Cameron Sloane,” Mr. Fuller gasped. “You amaze me.”
I felt a blush creep up into my cheeks when everyone else in the room applauded my playing. I sat there awkwardly, smiling from ear to ear. Anjolie had her eyes on me, her mouth dropped open in awe.
“Since when do
you
play the piano, Cameron?” Dave asked, sweeping his hand through his thick brown hair. The look on his face was the total opposite of impressed. He looked more annoyed than surprised at my skills.
I shrugged and opened my mouth to answer, but Armando beat him to it. “Does it matter, Dave? You know he's gonna win now, right?” he said, flashing me a thumbs up.
Dave shook his head, brushing off the comment. “He's too shy to win. The only reason he was voted in was because he got hot.”
Whoa. Okay so
that
came out of nowhere. How was I supposed to respond to that? I honestly had no idea why they voted me in. I liked to think it was because I was opening up, but given my near anxiety attack when playing the piano in front of everyone, I couldn't be too sure about that.
“Wow, Dave,” Anjolie piped up, glaring at him. “Do I sense some jealousy?”
Dave just looked away, avoiding her piercing gray eyes. “I'm not jealous of Cameron. Get real.”
“Sure,” Anjolie said, getting up and joining me on the piano bench. “That's why you're gonna throw the âgood looks' card out, huh? Please, Dave, there's no winning against Cameron.”
“Anjolie, why don't
you
shut up?” Tanya piped up, flipping her picture-perfect hair over her shoulder. “No one knows why you were voted in, so I'd suggest you'd keep your opinion to yourself.”
“That's a lie,” Armando said, flicking his gaze on Tanya. “
Everyone
knows why she was nominated.”
“Why, because she's hot?” Tanya said in a dumb voice, rolling her large green eyes and plopping down next to Dave. She and Dave snickered at each other, baring evil grins.
“
Yeah
,” I said, shooting them an equally dirty look. These two had no right to say what they were saying. Who did they think they were? “She's definitely hot. And she's incredibly smart. She's funny and she's goal-driven. And unlike the two of you, people actually
like
her.” I smiled at Anjolie. She smiled back, brushing her hair over her eyes as she tried to hide her blush. “If anyone was gonna win, it would be her.”
“We'll see,” Tanya murmured shrugging her pointy shoulders.
As an uncomfortable silence fell over the six of us, all of our gazes focused on Mr. Fuller. He stood there nodding his head in delight. When he noticed all of us staring at him, he cleared his throat. “My apologies, students,” he said, gathering his papers. “Gotta love drama, right?” he straightened up and clapped his hands together. “I have decided on the parts. Dave, Tanya, and the beautiful Hudson will accompany each other in vocals. Cameron of course will assist on the piano. And Armando and Anjolie â figure something out. Dismissed.”