Camo Girl (7 page)

No one is looking at me. Kurt methodically folds his place mat into a paper football. Millie pretends to read her place mat, but I can tell she's hiding a smile, possibly because she's sitting right next to Rick. Rick and Kelly fight over the sixth and final glass of water, sending most of it splashing across the table. Cass rolls her eyes and throws both of our napkins into the fray. Bailey turns his head toward me and grins. It feels right, so I smile. But I still feel like I'm waiting, like there will be some great moment of realization when they all see me as one of them or else point me out as the poser I am.

I've infiltrated.
The thought goes through my head quickly, and it makes me giggle a little. Cass glances at me and shrugs her shoulders like,
What?

I shrug too, searching for a plausible excuse. Finally I lean over and whisper, “Bailey's . . . cute.”

Cass giggles. She whispers back, “Yeah.”

I giggle again, 'cause it's allowed, and Cass can't read my mind. I've infiltrated the popular people. In a weird way, Z would be proud.

We step outside the soda shop, and the most amazing thing happens. Bailey slings his arm around my shoulders, all casual. “Give you a ride home?” he says.

A thousand yeses bubble up in my throat, get caught.

Out of nowhere, Z is there. Watching us. Tears rolling down his fragile cheeks.

I
've made a mistake, a terrible mistake.

The soda shop is right across the street from the library. Z stands on the library side of things, down at the curb, glaring at us. From this distance, he looks so small. No jacket, no backpack. Just his ratty T-shirt and jeans.

How long he's been watching us, there's no way to know. Or what he's thinking.

Our eyes meet. He takes fleeting steps backward until his back is pressed against the outside wall. He sidles around the corner, almost out of sight.

I shrug out from under Bailey's arm. “I can't,” I say. “There's something I've gotta do.”

“Oh.” He digs his hands deep into his pockets, stares at
me. I don't think he noticed Z, so he'll think I'm ditching him, but what else can I do?

“I want to,” I whisper. “I just can't.”

“Okay,” he says. “Hey, let's go somewhere else after school tomorrow. Just you and me.”

My heart flutters. “Okay.”

Bailey turns to catch up with the others, who've moved on down the street. All except for Millie, who lingers, looking after Z. And Rick, who lingers, looking after Millie.

I meet her eyes, but I don't know what I'm telling her, or what she's asking. It's been a long time since we could read each other's thoughts. I don't know what it means, her hesitation. It can't have very much to do with loyalty.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, because maybe she just wants to be let off the hook, and anyway, I'm not about to ask her for anything. Not anymore.

A
s soon as millie and rick turn their
backs, I go after Z. I tail him all the way around the building and back into the library.

He stalks through the children's section and into the boys' bathroom before I can catch up.

I see what's happening. He's trying to be artful. I go someplace that he can't; he goes someplace that I can't.

So I wait.

I sink onto the hall carpet, rest my head on my knees. He has to come out eventually. I don't know what I'll say to him; I really don't. I hope he saw that I was with Millie, at least. I'm the one in the middle, the one who's supposed to hold us together, like I promised him I would. Maybe he'll believe that I'm trying to put us back the way we were.

We used to be neighbors, the three of us. Millie on the
corner, me next door, and Z the house after that. One big backyard, no fences. It feels like such a long time ago, but I remember. There were nights when Mom and Daddy would put out the grill, and they'd have Z's parents and Millie's parents over while we played. We'd camp out in Millie's tree house, run through my sprinkler, or ride Z's tire swing until we fell over, dizzy. A few summers ago, before everything changed, we all three spit in a bowl, then we pricked our fingers and dripped blood in it and wrote out the words
Best Friends Forever
and signed our names with a paintbrush.

Now, it's like we draw a line around ourselves: No trespassing. Millie put up glass and Z put up bricks and I put up brown paper, which seems like it'd be easy to tear, but it isn't.

“What are you dooooing?”

I lift my head. A four- or five-year-old kid stands in front of me, with Kool-Aid lips and touseled hair.

“Whatever I want.”

He reaches out his grubby hands, as if to touch my face. I flinch away.

“You're weird.”

Now, there's a revelation. “Will you tell the other boy in there that I said to come out please?”

He stares at me.

“You have to pee, right?” I snap.

Nodding, he uses his whole body weight to lever open the door. A few minutes later he comes back, skipping by me without so much as a glance.

“Hey, did you tell him?”

He gazes at me, indignant. “No one's in there. I went all by myself.”

“W
ell, aren't we moody tonight,”
Grammie says.

I pick at my mashed potatoes, glaring at her. “Leave me alone.” This day has been a total mess. I'm so ready to call it a wrap.

“Okay, so . . . I guess dinner's over.” Mom says. “Clear your plate.”

“Whatever.” I start to get up.

Grammie waves a fork at me. “You'd better get out of that funk, little missy. This here's a happy homestead.”

“Yeah, well, the freak is feeling funky tonight.”

Mom silences Grammie with a Look. “Honey, you know how I feel about you saying things like that.”

I grab my plate and glass and make a break for it.

In the kitchen, Mom takes me by the shoulders. “Hey, where's my girl?” She
wraps the end of my braid around her fingers. “It's my last night home this week. I'd like to spend it with you.”

I let her hug me without saying anything. Everything that comes to mind is mean. I don't want her to go, and that's the least of my problems.

Slinking back toward the living room, I meet Grammie on the warpath.

“Ella Baker,” she says, raising her eyebrows at me.

“Grammie—” I'm not in the mood for this game.

“Ella Baker!” she insists.

“Namesake number one,” I mumble. “Civil rights activist. Registered black voters in the Jim Crow South at great personal risk.”

“Thank you. Ella Fitzgerald.”

“Namesake number two. Jazz singer of the Harlem Renaissance. Beautiful voice, beautiful person.”

“Ella Cartwright.”

I stand quiet. Grammie gazes at me pointedly.

“That one's me.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

I all but choke on the words. “I'm named for great and beautiful women; I am a great and beautiful woman.”

Grammie nods triumphantly. “You are indeed. Now, was that so hard?”

Yes. “I'm going to bed.”

“Brush your teeth,” Grammie calls after me.

The lights are on in the bathroom. It's no more horrible than ever, but no less.

Mom's face appears in the mirror, over my own. She's so pretty. Her dark, smooth skin is flawless. I see her, but I don't see where I came from.

We look at each other. Then we look just at me.

“Would you believe I forget sometimes?” I whisper.

Mom strokes my hair. “Honey.”

It's true. Like today. I was sitting by the bathroom, waiting for Z, and my mind was on everything but how I look. The little boy staring at me brought it all back. The forgetting makes me free, for a moment, but it isn't worth it in the end. If I could just know it all the time, it wouldn't come back like that, and surprise me.

“I'm a freak.”

Mom hugs me from behind. “Anyone who can see will see you beautiful.”

I close my eyes and try to make it true, just for a second.

Z
doesn't show up for school the next
day. I get off the bus in the morning, and no one is waiting. All day, I'm sick with worry. Worse, I'm all alone.

Z doesn't skip school. He just doesn't. When he's sick, he comes anyway, and they let him lie in the nurse's office all day.

After school I leave the building at a dead run.

I race in through the library doors. Mrs. Baskin, the afternoon librarian, is sitting at the checkout desk reading a thick paperback.

I slap my hands on the desk and lean in. “Please tell me he's here.”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

Mrs. Baskin gives me a pointed look. “Where do you think?”

“It's not my fault,” I blurt.

Mrs. Baskin slides a bookmark into her book. “What happened, Ella?”

There's no time to explain.

I find Z lying on the floor beneath shelf 327.12 (spy books), balancing a thick tome over his face. He's cleared the shelf and scattered all the books around him.
Burn Before
Reading. A Century of Spies.
The Know How Book of Codes
,
Secret Agents
&
Spies
. The Art of War.

One look and I know. It's bad, really bad. Worse than I thought.

“Go away. I'm undercover,” he says.

“As what? A bookend?” I wave my hand at the large pile of books beside him.

He lowers
The Encyclopedia of Espionage
long enough to glare at me.

“Z, come on. What's wrong?”

“Sometimes you just need a day off,” he says in a dull voice. He's repeating something I told him once. Grammie lets me take the occasional mental health day, but Z has always found this objectionable.

“I was worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself,” he says, rolling away from me. “Solo mission.”

Sighing, I plop down beside his head. He fingers the spines of the books, pretending not to see me.

“I looked for you yesterday. To say I was sorry.” Part of me isn't really sorry, though. I had a fun time with Bailey, and it wasn't planned. It wasn't how it must have looked to Z. Who still refuses to look at me.

“I said I'm sorry, okay?” I snap at him. It's not fair to be mad, but I am. I was really worried, and now it turns out he's fine—just staging a protest. But Z's always been there for me, in his way, and there's a lot to be said for that kind of loyalty.

I try to be there for him, too. On his sad days. Like he was for me.

The saddest day for Z was about a year ago, when his dad left. Right after that, they lost their house. I went over that day to help him pack his room. I came in and found him sitting on the bare mattress, clutching the Altoids box, the fourth and most secret box with all its rubber bands in place. He was crying.

I took one look at the room and knew this was a desperate situation. His things were scattered around in disarray, open boxes everywhere waiting to be filled. I wanted to cry too, because everything looked hopeless and torn. But I knew what I had to do.

“Sir Zachariah,” I said. He raised his chin to look at me. The tears dripped off it like drops from a leaky faucet.

“Milady Ellie-nor,” he murmured. I wasn't sure, but his eyes seemed to brighten. He dried his cheeks on his T-shirt sleeves.

So I garnered my best Lady Eleanor face. I brandished my imaginary sword and leaped around the room, vanquishing all kinds of foes into cardboard boxes. For a while Z just sat there watching my antics.

There wasn't much left, truth be told. Some toys and clothes and small random objects, things that he wouldn't be able to keep in his new life anyway, as it turned out. Apparently his dad had taken away some of his furniture and things and already sold them. I found out he even took away their real chess set, with the tall ceramic pieces and carved wooden board, which is why Z later made his own.

Later, I heard Mom and Grammie talking about it. Mom said when Z's dad lost his job, he went into Las Vegas to try to win some money. He never came back.

Neither did Z. His sad day became a sad week, sad month, sad year. At the rate he's going, maybe a sad forever. Or maybe he's simply got everything figured out. The hard things just keep adding up, and it's easier to try to be someone else.

I lie on my back beside him, filling up the aisle. He
turns the pages silently for a long time. When he scrunches toward me so that his back is up against my side, I know we're going to be okay.

I know him so well. I know what a good heart he has. He's always there for me and we'll always have each other, and I know, I know, all of those things are more important than anything else.