Burn Page 7

  There’s one big difference between Cameron and Eddie Fain. Cameron feels no pull to carve up school property or himself with a straightened paper clip, but he would like to take one to Hart’s smug face.

  Cameron looks down from where he’s balanced on that tightrope. It’s a long way, and no net. He’s so far up he can’t see the people in the audience, or the clowns waiting to come out and divert attention from his mangled body.

  He’s so far up, the air is thin. He thinks about his victory yesterday; same high. Same life or death. Then he lifts one of his feet and stands like a flamingo, tempting gravity.

  He looks into Hart’s face and says, “You’re an ass.”

  WEDNESDAY

  9:20AM

  Cameron holds the lighter under the balled-up paper towel. The fire doesn’t spread fast, like Cameron wants it to, needs it to. The paper is wet. It smokes but doesn’t flame. A dud. Like he is, only there’s a lot more potential with fire than there is with a guy who’s too afraid to bend over to tie his shoe, afraid he’ll be like a duck with his head underwater, afraid a Red Coat will pluck him out of the pond and pick apart his insides.

  Cameron tosses the piece of char into the trash and pulls a paper towel from the dispenser. Dry, like sandpaper. He ignites it and holds it between his fingertips. The first blush of heat is like a sweet song playing in his blood. The pulse in his wrists throbs heavily. It hurts. The flames eat away at the paper until there is almost nothing left. Cameron wishes he could go like that, in a blaze of glory. Yeah. Fast and with everyone watching. With everyone watching because they can’t do anything else. Cameron stands over the bin and drops the fiery ball into it. It catches quickly. It’s like he blinked and suddenly the trash can is an inferno, with flames jumping and smoke curling toward the ceiling. Cameron steps back. A tiny step. He wants to feel the burn on his skin.

  It’s hard to pull away. If Cameron went like that, everyone would have to watch. Fire has that much power.

  The wall behind the trash can is turning black with soot and ash before Cameron does anything about it. Then he dumps the can over and stomps on the paper towels, what’s left of them. When he’s done, with the fire out and his hands trembling from the rush, he notices the rubber soles of his shoes have melted. He notices smudges of black on his face and hands. He notices the red pull fire alarm just inside the door and the ceiling spigots that didn’t open up. And he laughs. A fire here at Madison High would burn without anyone noticing for a long time.

  WEDNESDAY

  9:30AM

  The office, from the inside looking out, isn’t as defeating as Cameron thought. He likes that. Suddenly the walls in this school aren’t that high, the halls not so long. He feels a lot bigger. Like maybe he grew a foot and finally looks like he belongs.

  He decides, before Mr. Elwood, the boys’ counselor, calls him into his office, that he’s not sorry and won’t say that he is. Maybe he’ll say nothing. Cameron knows how much adults hate that.

  “Mr. Grady.”

  Elwood is tall and about as white as a cigarette. He smells like them, too. How does a guy who smokes try to get kids not to?

  He doesn’t.

  Cameron stands up.

  “Come on in.”

  He walks past Elwood and into his tiny ice cube of an office. Two plastic chairs sit empty in front of a metal desk. Cameron takes the chair closest to the door and looks around the room. A diploma in a plastic frame, a bowling ball, or at least its case, and photos of Elwood’s golden retriever. He took the dog for a professional sitting. The retriever is sitting on a piece of carpeting, a football between his paws, with a blue background that looks like clouds smeared over a clear sky.

  Nothing has changed since Cameron was here last.

  “Mr. Hart says you called him an ass.” Elwood is reading from the referral form. When he moves around his desk he lets the paper fall onto a stack of other referrals, then takes his seat. “He says it’s possible you flipped him off as you left the room.”

  “I didn’t do that,” Cameron says. “I didn’t flip him off.”

  “But you called him an ass?”

  Cameron doesn’t deny it.

  “Does he list any witnesses?”

  Elwood sits forward and reads from the referral, “. . . in front of the whole class.”

  Cameron laughs. Hart, the crybaby.

  “Ass is a funny word, isn’t it?” Elwood asks.

  “I guess.”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  Of course, but Elwood doesn’t give him the chance to prove it. He reaches behind him for five pounds of Webster’s definitions, flips to the beginning, and starts reading.

  “ ‘A long-eared mammal; a domesticated relative of the horse; uneducated; a foolish person.’ ”

  Elwood looks at Cameron for confirmation.

  “That sounds about right,” Cameron says. “Well, except maybe the uneducated part. I mean, he went to school, right?”

  Elwood nods. “He did. For a long time.” He closes the dictionary and puts it back on the shelf. “You think Mr. Hart is a fool? Why?”

  Cameron looks at him, thinking maybe this is a trick question. First of all, anyone who knows Hart has to know the guy’s an ass. Second, why would Elwood want his opinion?

  “What happened to crime and punishment?” Cameron asks. “You know I did it, so give me the consequence.”

  “We talk about things here, Cameron, so chances are it won’t happen again.” He pauses, hoping it’ll sink in, Cameron’s sure. “Look, I know you’re new at this. The only other time you were in here was for a little squabble between you and an upperclassman. Remember? I called you both in here and we talked it out. That’s how we work out conflicts at Madison: we talk. Sometimes I bring all the parties together — do you feel like you need to talk to Mr. Hart?”

  “No.” Cameron feels he was pretty clear in the classroom. Anyway, he got a bloody nose the last time he tried to talk it out. It doesn’t work. He wants to tell Elwood this. He wants the counselor to know what a failure he really is, but that would mean telling him about the punch he took, it would mean sitting in this office again with Patterson and later taking the punishment for opening his mouth.

  “Okay. Sometimes I can get to the bottom of a conflict simply by listening to what a student has to say.”

  This is where Cameron is supposed to fill the silence with his innermost feelings. Not a chance of that happening.

  “Or you could sit in Mr. Hart’s class. See the way he talks to us.”

  “Did he say something that upset you?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t take care of myself.” But Eddie’s another story. And while Cameron thought it was funny before, he knows now that being lampooned by Hart is nothing to laugh about.

  “What did he say?”

  “Today?”

  “Does this happen often?”

  “No.” He has another victim, one he prefers more.

  “Okay, then. What did he say today?”

  Cameron shrugs and realizes he’s going to have to say something if he ever wants to get out of this office.

  “It’s the way he says it. Like I don’t have a brain.”

  Elwood nods. “Have you seen The Wizard of Oz?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know the scarecrow didn’t have a brain?”

  Cameron is about ninety-nine percent sure that Elwood is missing some or all of his.

  “I’m not a scarecrow,” Cameron says.

  “Exactly. Remember that whenever you think Hart is talking down to you.”

  “That’s it?” Is this guy serious?

  “No. Detention or Saturday school — which do you prefer?”

  Right. Detention. Maybe that way his mom won’t find out.

  “I see those wheels turning,” Elwood says. “I’m afraid I have to call her either way.”

  Great. “I’ll take the detention.”

  “Three days, an hour after school today, tomorrow, and
Friday.”

  Fine.

  WEDNESDAY

  9:55AM

  By the time Cameron leaves Elwood’s office, second period is over. The bell rings as he’s walking through the hall. PE next. The thrill is gone. He thought last night about pushing his lap time even more. He knows he can shave a couple of seconds if he doesn’t lose focus, but Patterson is all he can think about.

  He stops at a water fountain, stalling. He never enters the locker room early. Before it was so he could avoid Patterson and his stooge. Now he’s trying to psych himself up. He doesn’t want to disappoint the coach. Doesn’t want to look like a loser in front of the whole class after his victory yesterday.

  He has to do pull-ups today, enough to pass the PT test, and push-ups, too. He’s not worried about the running, the crunches, or the squats. The pull-ups and push-ups will be harder. His upper body strength sucks. Cameron has the thinnest chest in the whole ninth grade, except for Darcy Swimmer, the only flat-chested girl at Madison. That’s one of the things Cameron notices a lot. His only reason for making it to physical science class, and passing it, is because his lab partner, Helen Gosset, wears shirts that are so small Cameron knows her belly button is pierced. And they’re tight enough that Cameron can see the seams of her bra, the shape of tiny bows on the straps, through the cotton.

  Cameron is still drinking when a hand comes down on his head and shoves his face into the stream of water. There’s gum in the fountain and it connects with his chin. Cameron jerks backward, wipes at his face, and watches two Red Coats, Patterson’s buddies, continue down the hall, their heads back, laughing.

  “You make it too easy, Grady!” one calls back.

  Cameron adds the colors red and gold, their school colors, to his hate list. He promises himself he’ll never wear them again.

  He pushes through the double doors, into the boys’ locker room. Wet, dirty socks. The smell is the same every morning. Cameron stops at a urinal, pees and zips up, then finds his locker. He looks over his shoulder; the locker room is clearing out. He hears the coach’s voice through the doors, lining kids up. He’s later than usual and picks up his pace. He pulls his jock off the shelf, lets his underwear drop and is pushing his feet through the straps of his cup when the locker door next to his slams shut.

  “I was wrong, Murphy. Grady here isn’t a girl.”

  Cameron is pushed onto the bench; he shoves his hands in his lap to cover himself.

  “You have nothing to hide, Grady,” Patterson sneers. He bends over and plucks Cameron’s jock from the floor. “What are ya doing with this?” He holds it up. “Look at that, Murphy. It’s man-sized.”

  He laughs and taps Cameron on the head with it.

  “Get off me.” Cameron struggles against Murphy’s hands, takes a swipe at the cup, but Patterson pulls it back.

  “You’re in the wrong locker room, Grady,” Murphy says.

  “He’s not a girl, Murph.” Patterson bends over, grabs Cameron’s nipple, and twists. “No boobs.”

  “Darcy Swimmer doesn’t have boobs, either,” Murphy says.

  “You’re right, Murph. Looks like you have something to prove, Grady.”

  “I have nothing to prove to you,” Cameron says. His tongue is dry and it makes the words stick to his teeth.

  “You hear that, Murph? He has n-n-nothing to prove t-to us,” Patterson snickers.

  “How about to the school, Grady? Big mistake coming to sports night with your mommy. Wearing your hair like a girl’s.” He dips his head so he can snarl in Cameron’s ear, “Big mistake yesterday. You know you run like a girl.” Patterson pulls a cell phone from his pocket and flips it open. “I think you have a lot to prove. Once and for all. Is he or isn’t he — a she?”

  They laugh and it feels like scissors slicing through Cameron’s ears.

  Patterson nods at Murphy, who steps closer to Cameron, so close Cameron can feel his legs pressing into his back. The boy’s hands tighten on Cameron’s shoulders, the fingers grinding into his bones. There must be a pressure point there somewhere, because a hot, burning, tingling feeling runs down Cameron’s arm right before it goes numb.

  “I learned that in tae kwon do,” Murphy says. “There are a hundred and seventeen points of destruction in the human body.”

  “Your girlfriend, the Incredible Hulk, went down like a tree,” Patterson says.

  Cameron feels a tearing in his chest, like his heart broke loose and is knocking against bone. He roars from the pain of it and tries to thrust to his feet. Patterson shoves him back down and digs his knee into Cameron’s thigh, into the soft muscle, putting enough of his weight into it that Cameron feels the sting.

  Murphy’s hands tighten on his shoulders. Cameron tries to take a swing with his right arm, but it hangs useless at his side.

  “Hold still, Grady,” Murphy advises. “And say cheese.”

  “Get off me.” Cameron twists, hoping to break lose, and Murphy’s arms slither around his neck, holding him in a half nelson. Cameron swings at Patterson with his left arm, and glances off the cell phone in his hand.

  “Pull his arm back, Murph.”

  “Doing it.”

  Cameron’s arm is wrenched behind him, and he is completely exposed. Patterson snaps a picture. Cameron jerks up off the bench, frees his working arm, and tries again to knock the cell phone from his hand.

  Patterson shoves Cameron back onto the bench, puts his foot on Cameron’s leg to keep him there, and lowers his phone. Cameron hears a series of clicks. “A close-up. I don’t think it’ll do much for the girls, but it’s worth a try.”

  Cameron screams in frustration and Patterson shoves a sock in his mouth. He gags on the cotton, which is too far down his throat, drying out his mouth. He breathes through his nose and switches to survival mode. Disconnect. He’s got to get himself out of here, even if it’s only as far as his mind will allow.

  “Full frontal,” Patterson says.

  Cameron feels his legs pushed apart. Patterson is standing between them, holding the phone close to Cameron’s body, snapping pictures.

  “You want to impress the girls, Grady?” Patterson takes Cameron’s face in his hand, lifts it so that Cameron has to look him in the eye. “You have to pack wood for that.”

  “Are you going to do it, Grady?” Murphy asks, pulling on his arm. “Or are we going to do it for you?”

  Patterson isn’t waiting. Cameron sees the intent in his eyes, feels his own body shudder with an anger that’s too big, that will split his skin, that will kill him for sure.

  Patterson slides his phone into his shirt pocket and pulls out a glove.

  “This won’t hurt at all,” he says.

  “No! No! No!” Cameron’s voice is muffled by the sock. He surges against Murphy’s hold and then recoils from Patterson’s touch.

  If he doesn’t die from this then he’ll kill himself.

  That’s the last thing Cameron remembers thinking and then he checks out completely. His eyes hook on the white tiles leading to the showers. He thinks he can hear the steady drip of water from a shower head. A toilet flush. Water rushing from a sink faucet.

  Tunnel vision. Patterson and Murphy become blurred; the white tiles sharp. And then a dark head. Small, bobbing over the half wall isolating the showers. It pops up and Cameron sees Pinon, just his head, his eyes wide, like the lids have been rolled back and pinned to his skull. Pinon. His glassy eyes and his teeth biting into his pink lips, like maybe he wears lipstick they’re so pink. His hands come up, curl over the wall, and he swallows. Cameron can see his Adam’s apple jerk, like the kid is choking on it.

  He’s real. Cameron isn’t imagining anymore. Pinon is crouching in the showers, watching Cameron’s humiliation. Not running for help. Not crawling into a small space. Hiding. Pinon is crouched in the showers, watching and not even blinking.

  Cameron feels his body fall to the cement floor. A foot swings into his side. He cracks his head against the bench and squeezes his eyes shut. His hea
ring returns like the crashing of symbols.

  “You’re ours, Grady,” Patterson warns. “This is just the beginning.”

  WEDNESDAY

  12:35PM

  Cameron makes it through the door of his computer class just as the bell rings. A group of kids are gathered around a computer work station. He starts toward them, when their teacher, Mrs. Marks, stops him.

  “Cameron, when that bell rings you need to be at work, not just arriving.”

  He knows this, but it took him an entire hour to convince himself to finish the school day. After Patterson and Murphy were done with him, Cameron got back into his jeans and sweatshirt and bolted out of the locker room. He didn’t stop running until he was off campus, until he found shelter under the canopy of some elm trees at the back of a strip mall, where he sat shaking and reliving the incident until he was so angry he was sure the rain sizzled when it hit his skin.

  He despises Rich Patterson, his loser friends, all the peckerheads in this school. He especially loathes Charlie Pinon. The next time Cameron sees him, he’s going to let the perv know with his fists how much he doesn’t like him. But even thinking about that isn’t enough to cool him off, isn’t enough to convince him that life is worth living.

  His mom. When it comes right down to it, the image of her broken face, the moment she finds out he burned alive, is more than he can keep in his head. That’s what Cameron thought about doing, lighting himself up. He sat under the tree, with the rain falling around him, and lit one match after the other. Letting the flame burn down to his thumb and finger, watching the skin bubble, feeling the pressure ease slowly from his body.

  That helped, too.

  “Mr. Grady?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Next time it’s a tardy.”

  He is going to agree with her, but they’re interrupted. Laughter. Deep, husky laughter and some nervous twittering. Then a girl’s scream. That’s how he’ll remember it.

  When Cameron turns toward the students crowded around a work station of three computers, he sees a screen flickering through a series of images. He doesn’t need to step closer to know what they are.