6:59 (12 page)

Cameron

I woke up in a cop car lying face down on sticky leather seats. My hands were painfully cuffed behind my back. I lifted my head carefully and looked around, not knowing why I was in a police car in the first place.

But then I remembered. I had blacked out during my kiss — oh, that wonderful kiss — with Olive. They must've called the police or something. But that doesn't explain the handcuffs. Or the reason why the cop in the passenger seat was yelling at me.

When I sat up, I came face-to-face with the angry cop. He peered at me through the metal wiring with a red face and angry eyes. “I could come back there and snap your neck, kid! I'm serious!” he barked at me, spit flying through the screen.

I shrunk back, wishing I could be at least two feet away instead of a measly one. “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to get into a more comfortable position and obviously failing.

“Don't you smart talk me, you idiot. If I could arrest you, I would,” he roared. If the screen hadn't been separating the two of us I knew he would've been much more action than talk. “But you know what? I have to take you back to your pretty little mansion. Screw you!”

I decided not to say anything more. I mean, all that mattered was that I was going home. So what if I was handcuffed, so what if I was riding in a cop car, and so what if this cop was mad at me? Once I got home, I could figure things out a little more.

The cop in the driver's seat hung a left and drove up my familiar street. I sat, avoiding the angry glare of the cop, trying to somewhat disappear into the leather. Despite all of my efforts, the cop wasn't done with me.

“Oh, so
now
you wanna shut up?” he said with a condescending tone. “A minute ago you were about ready to gouge my eyes out. Pretty little boy all talk? Is that what it is?” His grin was enough to feed into the stereotype of “Bad Cop".

Thankfully, we arrived at my house. The cop in the driver's seat leapt out of the car and yanked my door open. As he pulled me from the car, the Bad Cop stuck his foot out, causing me to fall flat on my face. I let out a moan of pain.

“Get up!” Bad Cop said, tugging me up by the back of my collar. I jumped to my feet and struggled to keep pace with them.

When they reached my front door, Dad opened it before they even had the chance to ring the doorbell. Dad's face showed caution and confusion. He peered at me, staring deeply into my eyes.

“Cameron?” he asked, sounding unsure of himself.

I nodded, not understanding why he had to question that.

Dad nodded firmly and then glanced at the cops. “Thank you, officers,” Dad said gruffly. Judging by the sound of his voice, I knew he hadn't slept much last night.

The officers nodded and gave him the run through; they found Dad's car at a local club, saw me getting into it, and immediately arrested me. Because I was Dad's son, I was brought back home.

When the officers un-handcuffed me and left — after Bad Cop tripped me again — Dad shut the door and grabbed my arm. “Cameron? Cameron, are you okay?” he asked, his heavy eyelids furrowing.

I rubbed my wrists and stretched out my aching neck. “I guess so,” I said. Then I looked at him. “What happened, Dad? Why was I arrested?”

Dad rubbed his eyes and sighed, exhaustion flooding around the room. “Come into the living room, Cameron. I have to talk to you.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me to the living room. There, he set me onto the couch and asked Mila to bring me something to drink. When I looked at the time, I saw that it was a little after seven in the morning.

Clenching his hands together, Dad sat across from me and gave me a hard stare. “Cameron, I know what's wrong with you,” he said with a tone similar to the one telling me that his wife — my adoptive mother — had died.

I immediately tensed up. Something was horribly wrong and Dad was about to tell me. I never reacted well to bad news and judging on the situation, I knew bad news was seconds away. “What's wrong with me?” I asked, knowing right off the bat that this had to do with my blackout problem.

“You're schizophrenic.” Dad said it with a wince as if it had hurt him.

My face immediately cracked. “What?” I asked, not comprehending what he'd just said. There was no way I was schizophrenic. I couldn't be schizophrenic!

But Dad just nodded slowly, not a hint of hesitation in his expression. “While you weren't yourself, Cameron, you'd stolen my car and gone off somewhere,” Dad explained. “Your friends were here — Armando and his girlfriend and Olive and that stunning blonde. We'd seen you take off and were completely confused. That's when Armando told us his suspicions.”

Armando? How could Armando think I was a schizo? He'd never even been around when I was blacked out! But how should I know that? If I weren't myself, then who's to say he hasn't been hanging around with me the whole time?

Dad continued. “He told us how pleasant you are as Cameron. Then he told us how nasty and rude you were as Cam.”

“Cam? What do you mean?” I asked, trying to understand it all.

Dad frowned. “You see, you're schizophrenic, Cameron. Being schizophrenic, you…” Dad struggled to find the words. “…I guess you have a split personality. From what I've researched online, it's a mental illness that alters your behavior.” He stood up and joined me on the couch, handing me his research. He pointed at one of the bullets. “I think you're mostly catatonic,” he said.

I read the paper, struggling to take this all in. According to the research, those who suffer from catatonic schizophrenia display symptoms of agitation, negative feelings, insensitivity, and hyperactive motion. Last time I checked, I barely fit into this category of schizophrenia. Not even a little bit.

As if hearing my thought process, Dad took the papers away and said, “Okay, so you might not suffer all of these symptoms. But, Cameron, you're a completely different person come nighttime.” Dad squeezed my shoulder. “At night, you hate me and Mila, you boss everyone around, you sneak out of the house, you make a mess out of things, you call us names, you break important things, you trip me multiple times…”

As Dad told me all of the horrible things I do at night, an increased understanding of what was going on with me began to sink in. Everything all made sense now. Like the time when Olive said she'd seen me jump out of my window — that had been me, or should I say
Cam
. Or when Dad yelled at me for interrupting his photo shoot — that had been Cam, too. It also made sense why everyone called me Cam regularly.

And what about all those times when my room was messed up, my clothes were dirty, and I woke up in random places. It was all because it wasn't me — technically.

It was
Cam
.

“…you called Mila fat, you killed both our dogs, you spat at the neighbors twice, you totaled my car, you took a hammer to the flat screen TV, you peed in my coffee, you kidnapped Olive, and you disrespected Abby,” Dad finally finished. “You're
horrible
at night, Cameron.”

“Wait,
I
did all that?” I asked, still horrified by my peeing in my father's coffee and killing both our dogs. All this time Mila had told me that they'd run away.

When I told this to Dad, he nodded his head expectantly. “Yeah, Mila knew you were schizophrenic since we got you so she took her anger out on
Cam
and not on
Cameron
. Do you get it?”

Not really. I mean, my father and Mila had been treating me entirely different during the night? How was it possible that they could separate the events of the night with those that took place during the day and not even hint to me about them? And how come they're just realizing all of this now?

As if reading my mind, Dad slid back into his chair, rubbing his forehead. “I'm such a crappy father,” he groaned, shaking his head and looking up to the ceiling. He looked as if he were going to cry. “I never even thought twice about getting you checked out. I just thought this was how all teenagers acted. I should've realized all of this when you kept insisting I call you Cam. Or how your eyes go all funky and your hair gets lighter. Or that mischievous expression you get during the night.” Dad blew out a loud sigh. “Why hadn't I realized all of this?”

“Because you're too busy with your work, Mr. Sloane.” I hadn't even realized that Mila was standing there, holding a few glasses of orange juice. She set the cups on the table and took a seat on my other side. “Cameron goes to school in the morning and you work during the night. You can rarely see how he acts. There are moments when you do encounter him but you're too busy to notice.”

Dad nodded his head in solemn agreement. We all just kind of sat there staring at the floor, taking all of this in.
I
personally was freaking out. All this time I thought I'd been passing out for twelve hours just to wake up at the same time every day. I had no idea that I was an entirely different person during the night.

How was I supposed to explain this to Olive now? She'd known that I always went to sleep around seven and never hung out at night. Now, thanks to Armando's bright idea about me being schizophrenic, she probably thinks I'm the biggest freak. She'd
never
want to stay with me.

We were back to square one.