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Authors: Kekla Magoon

Camo Girl (2 page)

BOOK: Camo Girl
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I pretend not to know the secret. That they live there, too, that he sleeps every night in the corner of the stockroom on a nest of paper-towel rolls. Sometimes I try to imagine the magic of living in the world that way—with all-you-can-drink slushies at midnight and an endless supply of toothpaste. I let it be magic because I can't imagine the other part, what it's like to wake every morning and know that in the course of that day your bed will be sold off for parts.

“Check,” he says, and that will be that.

I move my king, because I have no other choice.

Z smiles, swooping through his final move. “Checkmate.”

“Ella, will you two be walking home today?” Mrs. Smithe stands up from her desk, hands on her hips. She's been grading papers, but I guess she's finished and now it's time to go. There's not a lot I like about Mrs. Smithe, but one thing I do like is how it seems to always take her exactly the length of one chess game to finish grading her papers.

“Yes, Mrs. Smithe.”

“Very good. I'd like to close the classroom now, so get along, all right?”

“We're going,” I say, nudging Z. He carefully packs up the chess pieces, murmuring words of comfort, like he's tucking them all into bed.

Z lays the chessmen to sleep in one of his four big tin boxes, now empty of their original Altoids. They're bulky to carry around, but while I've known him, there have always been four boxes, always will be four, unless he finds another object to be fascinated by.

He puts the case in his green backpack. Deep inside, his pencils shift. It sounds like a muffled maraca. One box holds his collection of stubby pencils ground all the way down to the metal before he stops using them and puts them in their box. They rattle when he walks, his backpack thumping on the backs of his knees.

The third holds a variety of small, useful gadgets—magnifying glass, magnets, string—I don't know what all. What he keeps in the fourth box is a secret. Even from me. It's sealed with a row of fat rubber bands.

“A prosperous evening to you, milady,” Z says to Mrs. Smithe. He pauses by her desk to offer a deep bow. She ought to be used to this by now, but still she frowns, every time.

“Good night, kids.”

Mrs. Smithe watches us go, shaking her head with that adult-ish disapproval. Teachers never seem able to accept that Z is reality-challenged. The administration thinks he might be mentally ill, but he's not. And they have no good excuse for putting him in special ed or sending him away, because his behavior in class is perfect, if a bit too formal, and his grades keep him right at the top of the class.

He's a genius, like I said. But most people don't see it because if you don't know him, he just comes across as weird, and most people have a hard time seeing past that.

I brace myself as we enter the schoolyard. Maybe, just maybe, for once, nothing will happen next.

“Hey, C. F. Hey, Freakshow,” Jonathan Hoffman calls. He and his friends laugh. They've just come out of JV basketball team practice. They're bouncing the balls, tugging each others' jerseys, and things like that that look all sorts of cool.

Jonathan tucks the ball up under one arm and saunters toward us. We keep walking, but it's a small school, and a small yard. He slings his arm around my shoulders.

“You take care now,” he says with deeply faked concern. “Don't wander into the desert, okay, Camo-Face? It's getting dark. We might never find you.”

A long time ago I stopped actually hoping that things would ever go my way, but it's still disappointing when they don't.

The chorus of snickers from his teammates is par for the course. I elbow Jonathan hard in the ribs, and he falls away chuckling. I haven't hurt him a bit. I focus all my mental power, willing Z not to do what he's about to. But one thing Z and I don't have is telepathy.

Z waves his hand at Jonathan. “Negatory, old chap,” he says. “No expeditions planned for the evening.”

The basketball guys howl louder, of course.

I want to fall straight through the earth. At times like this, I wish I could take on a little more Z-ness for myself. I wish I could let the stares and the comments roll off my back like he does. He doesn't hear sarcasm, doesn't accept insults as such.

I glance toward the girls on the merry-go-round. They're laughing, too. I try not to wonder at what. Among them is my ex-best-friend-since-kindergarten, Millie Taylor. She
doesn't seem to be laughing. But she's not walking with us either.

The after-school late bus will pull in soon, and I really don't want to end up on it.

“Let's walk,” I say to Z. I know my voice is shaking; I just hope he can't hear it.

Z sets off, backpack thumping on his knees. Not quite soon enough, we're out of sight of the school.

“Milady,” he says in his serious voice.

“Sir?”

“Life is too short for such a frown.”

See, it's not that Z doesn't know what's going on. It's not that he doesn't know what's real and what's not. It's just that he can't stop pretending that the world is a better place than it actually is. If that makes him sick, then I wanna get me some of that flu.

“Yeah, I know.” I give him a good grin and try to shake off what the other kids think. None of this is his fault.

Life with Z is not easy, but without him it'd be just me. Alone.

CHAPTER 3

Z
walks the curb like a balance beam.
He's found a mangled piece of metal in the gutter, and he brandishes it like a sword. He darts forward, backpack thumping, then stops suddenly, raising his arms in triumph. He looks proudly over his shoulder, and I know enough to clap. He's jousting. And, naturally, he won.

Soon enough, we come to the corner where we part ways. I live to the left. Z heads to the right, into town.

Z lowers his sword and puts out his hand. “Will you be joining me, milady?”

He likes to go to the public library after school to wait for his mom. It's like heaven for him. He dives into a book and won't come up for air for hours. Lately, the best for him are Camelot-type legends of brave knights and fair ladies.
He also likes sci-fi space adventures and anything involving espionage. On any given day, he shows up at school acting like a knight, an astronaut, or a spy. Who knows what he'll fix on next.

Sometimes I go with him, and other times we play at my house. Today I'm too wrung out for any of it.

“It's casino day,” I say, which is convenient because it means I need to go and check on Grammie.

Zachariah nods sagely. “I'll leave you to it, then,” he says, offering the slightest formal bow. “Milady.”

The house is dim, not a lamp lit. I don't like the feel of it. I snap on the kitchen light and look toward the living room. Grammie is sprawled on the couch with her arm covering her eyes. I swallow hard. This can only mean one thing: a bad day downtown.

“Grammie?”

“Ella? Hi, sugar.” She lies motionless. A bad, bad day.
Join the club, Grammie.

I flop onto the couch opposite her. Maybe she's hit on something that makes the icky feelings go away. I sprawl and cover my eyes. It's warm. It's dark. But I can still see everything. Hear everything. Feel everything.

I sit up. “What's for dinner?” One of the things Grammie and I do together that's kind of fun is cook. She's
got loads of recipes stored up in her brain. Doesn't even matter what's there in the kitchen. Grammie can whip up something out of nothing in no time at all. Egg roll spaghetti, taco lasagna, bean dip surprise. We've had a thousand and one whacked-out, spur-of-the-moment meals, never to be heard of again.

“Oh, what does it matter?” she moans.

“Well, I'm hungry, so . . .”

With that, Grammie snaps to. She's off the sofa like a shot. “Well, of course you are, kiddo. Me too, now's you mention it.”

We troop into the kitchen. My stomach is clenched, like it's storing up for one big growl. I grab a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl.

Grammie and I consider the options, our stocking feet side by side on the tile. We peer into the pantry, stare into the fridge, survey the countertops for anything inspiring.

“Pizza or Chinese?” Grammie says finally.

“I feel more like pizza.”

“Good. Peel me a ten-spot off the wad and make the call.”

I order us a large cheese with sausage. We know from experience exactly how much to order so we can thrust a single bill at the delivery guy, tip included, and not have to mess with change. We hate asking for change because we don't like to
look chintzy, if we can help it. And let's face it, sometimes we can't. But food delivery shouldn't be one of those times.

The pizza is guaranteed to come in thirty minutes or it's free, so Grammie sets the oven timer. We've never won this game, but it passes the time.

“I think today's the day,” I say. Something eventually has to fall in my favor. It's just the odds.

“Nah,” Grammie says. “I say he makes it just in time. Winner pays, loser pours.”

We shake hands. Then we sit across from each other at the table with plates, napkins, cups, and a bottle of raspberry seltzer all ready and waiting.

“How much?” I ask.

“Seventy-two dollars down.” Grammie sighs. “Slots and roulette.”

I shake my head. “Gotta learn to lay off the roulette.”

“Don't I know it, baby.” Grammie smacks the table. “Don't I know it.” Then it's like she just snaps out of the funk.“What's up with you?” she says, squinting. “You're looking like a barrel of fantastic yourself.”

“I'm fine.”

Grammie clucks her tongue the way only old people can. “Fine's no good.” She's on her feet now, coming around the table. Zeroing in. She grabs my face.

I try to get away. “Don't look at me.”

“Where am I supposed to look?”

I lick her hand. For lack of anything else to do, hoping she'll be grossed out.

Grammie just laughs. “Huh. I wiped your bottom, missy. You think you can scare me off with a little saliva?” But she lets me go.

I hide my face in my arms. “Well, it was worth a try.”

Grammie smooths her hand down the part between my braids. She rubs my neck. “Don't let them get to you.”

I roll my head to the side. “Who?”

My innocent expression needs some work, apparently. Grammie shoots me a knowing look. “Whoever's getting to you.”

“I'm fine, Grammie.”

“Oh, you're just asking for the hair, now.” Grammie has a fantastic head of bushy white hair, and she will shake it in my face to make a point from time to time.

She grabs my shoulders with both hands and lets it fly. I slam my eyes shut. It's like being whacked with a feather duster, and she smells like Pert Plus. Strands fly up my nose and into my mouth, but by the time she's done, I'm laughing.

Still, I've never been so glad to hear the doorbell ring.
It chimes at the exact same moment the egg timer goes off. Grammie snatches up the money and marches to the door.

I lose my bets.

CHAPTER 4

I
dread this part of the day. it's early morning
and I'm still in bed, but I've been awake long enough that I have to pee. It's time to get ready for school. Covers off, feet on the cool ground, scurry to the bathroom. Eyes on the floor all the way.

I can pee with my eyes closed. I'm not super proud of that or anything; I'm just stating a fact. I can do most bathroom things with my eyes closed. Wash my hands, wash my face, brush my teeth, floss. I can comb and braid my hair by feel.

After the fact, I can't be sure. Did I get all the drool stains from the corner of my mouth? Any leftover eye crust? A stowaway piece of spinach in my teeth? A flyaway chunk of hair?

I have to open my eyes. Just for a second, just to check. Just long enough to ruin my day.

Eyes closed, I flush the toilet and glide my way to the sink. The faucet handle is where it always is. So is the soap. I wash my hands and face, then grab for my toothbrush.

Eyes closed, I fumble for the toothpaste. It's not there. I pat around the counter. My chest seems to fill with steam as I come up empty, again and again.

Grammie's onto me now. She keeps moving things. Not just a little, but someplace ridiculous, so I'll be forced to look before I find it.

I lean against the counter, hating her.

Twice now I've covered the bathroom mirror with brown paper, but Grammie won't let me keep it up. She spreads her tiny toes on the tile and stretches up to tear it down, piece by piece. I don't like the way she looks at me after the fact. Like I'm not good enough, or brave enough, to see the truth when it's in front of my face.

She doesn't understand.

I open my eyes, glancing everywhere but straight in front of me. The toothpaste is planted nose down in the Kleenex box. Gee, why didn't I think of that?

When I'm done brushing, there's nothing left to do but check my work.
Eyes, teeth, hair. Fine? Good.

I close my eyes again, but not for long. The damage is done. The girl in the mirror looks back at me. Curious. Sad. Ugly.

I get why people stare. It's like the train wreck: You don't really want to look, and you know you shouldn't, but you just can't help it.

I take a deep breath as I step into the hallway.

There are these moments, see, when I'm far away from anything reflective, when I'm caught up in whatever I'm caught up in, and I feel myself smile, and I imagine someone seeing me and liking what they see.

CHAPTER 5

W
hen it's just the two of us,
Grammie listens to NPR morning talk radio. I try to tune out the yammering as I drag my backpack into the kitchen and slump at the table. Grammie's sitting with a short stack of cash, a tall pile of coupons, and the shopping list, muttering, “Another day, another dollar.”

BOOK: Camo Girl
3.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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