The End of the World (14 page)

Look where that got him.

Look where that got all of us.

Cameron

“I
t’s been almost
two weeks. Stop ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you. I’ve just been busy.”

We’re inside the shed and it’s as dark as ever despite the blazing sun that shines just outside the rickety sliding doors. It’s late September but today feels like the middle of July with its ninety-six-degree temperatures and insane humidity that leaves moisture sticking to your skin after only two seconds of stepping outside.

I saw Shaye come in here when I was on a walk earlier and decided that now was as good a time as any to mow the yard. Besides, I’m worried about her and cornering her was the only way I could think of to make sure she’s okay.

“You haven’t been any busier than you always are.” I pour some gasoline into the lawn mower tank and screw the cap back on, then maneuver the machine away from its spot against the wall. “I know what you’re doing.”

That gets her attention. Shaye doesn’t like to be challenged.

“And what is it I’m doing, oh wise one?”

She does likes to name call when she feels threatened.

“One, you’re still mad at me even though you shouldn’t be. I thought I was helping. Didn’t know he would punish us that way.”

“Even though I told you he would,” she says, “and you didn’t listen to me.”

“I didn’t realize it would be that bad. And two,” I continue, ignoring her, thankful the torture of the past week is over. “You think you’re protecting me from Carl, when the truth is I don’t need your protection because I don’t give a crap.” Her subtle flinch tells me I’m right. Her lip is healed; the new bruise under her eye is mostly gone.

“You don’t know him as well as I do—”

“That’s obvious.” I push the mower outside and try to ignore the way her eyes sear into me like she’s trying to rip me apart with her lethal laser-beam vision.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she says. But she knows what I mean even if I’m not entirely sure or brave enough to venture a guess out loud.

“It means that you’ve lived here longer.” I turn to look at her. I don’t want to lie; I hate liars. But sometimes dancing around the truth is necessary, if only to avoid hurting those you care about.

Besides, I need to mow. I need to mow so I can get out of this heat wave with its confounding ability to make me feel like I’ve stepped onto a tropical island—one without a view or water or exotic fruit or any other noticeable benefits, of course. But I’m the one who initiated this conversation and it’s entirely my fault, so I suck up my irritation and face it head on.

“You’ve dealt with more in almost four years than I’ve had to endure in just one, but I don’t care. I’m not afraid, Shaye. He can threaten me and hit me and starve me and dunk my face into all the nasty hot water he wants to, but I’m not going to cower around him. This is where I live, this is where I’m stuck until they decide to move me somewhere else, and you’re my friend and I’m not going to pretend otherwise unless you tell me I have to.”

I run a sweaty arm across my even sweatier forehead. For the love of God it’s hot, but I’m not done talking. I have a question that she needs to answer because the last two weeks have sucked and I’m done living like this. If she wants to hide in her corner of the house and have me hide in mine, now’s as good a time as any to find out.

“So tell me, Shaye, is that what you want? You want me to pretend we’re not friends?”

When her bottom lip quivers I know I’ve won even though I don’t feel all that victorious. Shaye doesn’t have any friends. I’m all she’s got, and we both know it.

I rub the back of my neck and wait. And wait some more while she stares and stares and stares at the ground. I start to squirm about ten seconds in; maybe I haven’t won after all.

Finally she looks up. “No, it’s not what I want. I won’t pretend if you don’t. But if Carl thinks we’re too close…and if he thinks you’ll open your mouth again…”

I squeeze the handle on the mower, ready to start it up. But first, I give her a small smile. “Like I said before, I’m not scared of him.”

She bites her bottom lip and grins back at me and my heart gives a little flip. But I’m not stupid. More than two years’ difference in our ages and whatever I’m feeling is nothing more than a stupid crush that will fade with time.

“Then I’ll stop being scared of what he thinks, too,” she says. “Now, what do you need help with?”

“Well, you could always—wait,” I say. “What did you come in here for in the first place?”

She sighs, long and slow. And she looks a little embarrassed.

“I saw you outside and walked in here hoping you would follow me. I wanted to see you and it’s the only place I could think of that no one would notice.” She hugs herself and looks away, and any teasing comebacks I might have made slink back down my throat. The last thing I want her to be is unsure of herself around me. The kids at school might be nothing more than a collective group of scumbags, but I’m certainly not going to join them.

“Good call on your part.” I clear my throat to hide the obnoxious way it just cracked. I could blame it on emotion, and I would except it’s been doing that more and more lately. I’m guessing pretty soon I’ll fully and finally sound like a man, but it would be nice if I could skip this awkward voice-changing step on my way to getting there. “Now, do you know how to use a weed eater?”

When she nods, I grin. “Then grab it and get to work. Let’s knock this out fast and meet each other at the end of the world in an hour. That should give us a good thirty minutes at the lake before anyone comes looking for us.”

When she scrambles toward the back wall to grab it, I rev up the mower.

Thirty minutes might not be long to most people, but to me and my friend Shaye, it’s everything.

Shaye

This time the
stakes are higher, and this time there will be no letting me win. Cameron chose this prize and I’m going to ace this competition with no help from him if it kills me in the process. Except now he’s cheating and there’s no way I’m going to stand for it.

“It was six. I counted with my own eyes.”

“Then you need glasses, because it was only five.” He splays five fingers in front of my face, a kindergartener proudly pronouncing his age. He looks stupid and I tell him as much. Like always, he ignores me and keeps talking. “Which means I win, because I got one more than you.”

I swat his hand away. “It was six. It isn’t my fault you can’t count. I want a redo.”

“The rules are, there are no redos.”

“What rules? You’ve never brought up rules before.”

“Because no one has ever tried to cheat before now.”

“Exactly, so stop cheating and give me a redo.”

“Me? You think I’m the one who’s cheat—” He stops, slaps a hand over his head, and shakes it as though he’s in physical pain.

Too bad, because I want him to cook dinner for me. No one has ever cooked dinner for me and now is the best opportunity I’ll have in the foreseeable future to know what the experience feels like.

“Fine, do it again. But the number you get this time is the official number, no arguing about it. Got it?”

“I’ve got it, just hand me a rock.” I snatch a smooth black stone out of his open hand, line it up best way I know how—which is really just me squinting into the space between the rock and the lowest point on the horizon where the water meets the sky—and let it go with a flick of my wrist. It bounces. And bounces and bounces and bounces and bounces and bounces. And then settles to the bottom, leaving behind nothing but a tiny wake and a few bubbles in its absence.

“Did you count them that time?” I can’t keep the smugness from my voice.

“I counted six. One more than last time.”

“You said no arguing!”

“I’m not arguing! I’m just saying it’s one more than last time.” He stands up to brush bits of gravel off his gym shorts. A few blades of grass remain from the world’s fastest lawn-mowing job we finished thirty minutes ago, but I say nothing and instead look up at him and blink. It’s weird how I have to tilt my head to look at him now. Eight months has made such a difference in the way I view him. No longer just another kid for me to take care of, he’s become a friend. Probably the best one I’ll ever have. I know this, because until now I’ve never had any at all. When you’re a troublemaking foster kid with more checks against you than for you, it’s just the way life goes. But with Cameron, I’m just really glad I met him. As for one day having to navigate life without him…

Feeling the tiniest bit uncomfortable and not sure why, I turn toward the water to clear my muddled thoughts. It works. Mostly.

“Now, what do you want for dinner?” he asks.

That question has me smiling again. There are so many options, so many choices, so many things that sound good. All the possibilities present themselves in an instant and roll together in my mind, making it hard to navigate through the phantom smells of meat and sauce and steam and spices. So I say the only thing I can think of—the only thing that keeps the decision simple and to the point, while still keeping the tiny thrill of victory alive inside me.

“Make whatever you want. I’m sure it will be good. I trust you.”

Cameron

I
’ve cooked dinner
in some capacity since I was eight years old and my mother had just died and everyone was too busy grieving to notice that the little boy waiting on the living room staircase for someone to pay attention to him still hadn’t taken a bath or eaten dinner. Grandparents were there. Neighbors had swung in and out like a revolving door you see in nice big-city hotels that are fun to spin through but are easy to catch a finger or break a hand on their way around. At least that’s what my mother used to tell me.

The point is, I like food. Carl and Tami have kept the pantry stocked since they stole my money. I know how to cook dinner. And just like the little boy who finally gave up waiting and trudged down the stairs in search of a jar of peanut butter and store brand white bread—I guess Pete and I aren’t that far apart in taste of cuisine—I’ve made dinner for myself lots of times. For years and years now.

But I’ve never had a pretty girl staring at me while I’m doing it, issuing orders the whole time I’m trying to work.

“It’s just that I’m not a big fan of spicy foods.”

“You should have told me that before I tossed in the extra jalapenos.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you would put those in?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m making jalapeno soup.”

“Which brings me to my next point,” she says. “What is it?”

I try really hard to not to sigh, even harder not to drop an unkind word. But come on.
I trust you
, she said.
Make whatever you want
, she said. What she really meant to say was, make whatever you want as long as it’s bland and tasteless and you’ve cleared it with me first. Well, I didn’t clear it with her and this is my favorite thing to eat and I haven’t had it in well over a year now and I’d just like to make this freaking soup in peace. Plus, I have no idea what she’s going to say when she discovers this is just an appetizer and she sees me getting started on the enchiladas. They’re even spicier.

I sound like a diva throwing a lame internal cooking fit, but whatever.

“Jalapeno soup is just that—soup. The best soup you’ll ever have, actually,” I say. “So do me a favor and stop complaining about something you’ve never even tried.” I open a box of chicken broth and pour it into the pan.

“Yes, Dad. Whatever you say, Dad.” Shaye crosses her arms and leans against the counter like she’s not sure what to do with herself. I’m not sure what to do with her either. The roles are totally reversed here. I scramble to come up with something and then throw it out there before I can second-guess myself.

“So, have you ever had a boyfriend?” It doesn’t hit me how careless the words sound until after I say them and it’s too late to take them back. Has she ever had a boyfriend? Are the rumors at school true? Have you slept with as many guys as people say?

I briefly think of turning the knife I’m holding away from the onions and straight to my chest. I’m fifteen and ridiculous and my heartbeat is going crazy and I really want this soup and streams of my own blood won’t add to the flavor.

“Despite what you might have heard, I haven’t,” she says on a sigh. “When would I find the time?” Her gaze drifts toward the window and the setting sun just visible through the trees—the same trees that lead us out of this yard and to the end of the world. It’s been less than an hour since we left, but I already miss it. Or maybe I just miss the solitude, the company and the peace of knowing we won’t be interrupted by foster fathers with crappy attitudes and massive hands.

He could walk in at any moment, and the whole time we’ve been inside I’ve been hyper aware. It’s an awful way to live.

“True,” I say. “I guess outside of the douchebags at school, your options are limited.” Suddenly hating the road I’ve taken us down, I stir the soup and don’t look up.

“My options are very limited, and you’re right about the guys at school. Every last one of them is awful.” She clears her throat and walks over to stand next to me. “Need any help with anything?”

It’s the most she’s ever acknowledged about the way our classmates treat her, and I don’t want to scare her off. To keep the evening light, I bump her away from me with my elbow. “Go back over there. You’re not supposed to help with anything tonight.” I smile at my next words, knowing they’ll make her mad. “You won fair and…not quite square since you cheated, so go find something else to do.”

“I didn’t cheat!”

This conversation continues for the next several minutes. The longer we talk, the more it hits me. Even with Todd and Shelly and Mrs. Miller and all the other people who’ve taken a little time to care about me in my short life…

I haven’t been this happy in years.

*