Burn (4 page)
Eddie looks at Hart, looks at Cameron, and smiles crazily. He digs the paperclip into his palm until Cameron is sure muscle and bone are involved, his eyes wide and burning. No pain, but deep rage the color of fire.
Cameron feels himself pulled into that, feels the heat from the inside out. He knows he’s a lot more like Eddie than he wants to be.
The seat between Cameron and Eddie is empty. Mr. Hart gives Eddie a wide berth, a safety zone for others. Cameron leans over, rolls his arm out over the empty desk, palm up, and says, “Give it to me.”
Eddie thinks about it, the red glow in his eyes cooling, then he shrugs and drops the paperclip into Cameron’s hand. He presses a finger to the hole in his palm and the blood slows, seeps around his fingertip, and drips on the desk.
Cameron looks at the strip of metal, stained with Eddie’s blood, and feels his Adam’s apple grow until it hurts to swallow. His eyes dry out so that when he blinks he’s sure they’re full of sand, and his hands sweat. All over a paperclip and a little blood. He wants to tell Eddie,
You should see what I can do with a book of matches.
“See ya later.”
Eddie says it, laughing, then he shrugs his backpack on and meets security at the door.
“He’s crazy,” says a girl.
“He’s going to hurt someone,” says another.
Mr. Hart makes sure the door closes all the way. He pulls the shade down for extra measure, then turns to the class.
“He’s a danger to himself,” Hart says. “Mr. Grady, throw that in the trash, will you? Then go wash your hands.”
1:10PM
“We’re going to have to adjust the axle. The wheelbase is off.”
Cameron looks over his shoulder at SciFi, his tech partner. The guy is a foot taller than your average bear and about as friendly. Well, he isn’t unfriendly. Just not easy to be with. Mostly, the guy talks in a language Cameron doesn’t understand. Big, scientific words you don’t hear in high school. The second day into their project — building a car with a computer graphics program, then transferring the knowledge into physical form, using a mini wood kit — Cameron asked SciFi to dumb it down a little for him.
Cameron clicks the mouse to save the changes he just made and turns back to the table where SciFi is trying to force the axle into the chassis.
“That’s not going to work,” Cameron says. “It won’t fit, and even if you do get it to go in, the wheels won’t turn.”
SciFi blows a stream of air from his mouth, fogging his glasses, then starts speaking scienceese.
“SciFi.” Cameron snags his attention and gives him the flat face, which is their signal that SciFi is speaking in terms above Cameron’s head. “English.”
“The axle is too big for the hole we drilled. If we try to drill the hole larger, the wood will splinter and we’ll have to start over. Again.”
Cameron laughs. SciFi isn’t used to failing at anything scientific. The problem is, the guy is book smart. He’s good with a microscope and a petri dish, as he told Cameron a week into their partnership.
“I’m going to give you a new nickname,” Cameron says. “Maybe Axle Rose.”
“I like SciFi.”
Cameron looks up at him, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.” He hands Cameron the axle and car chassis. “Now, will you fix this please? We only have two labs left before this project is due.”
“You ever been late with an assignment?”
“Never.”
“You ever get anything less than an A?”
SciFi shrugs. “I got an F in PE last year. That’s why I’m taking band.”
“Learning an instrument is easier?”
“Safer. I broke a toe and three teeth last year,” SciFi explains and taps his front teeth. “Porcelain veneers. My parents are still paying for them. So now I play the clarinet.”
Cameron laughs the kind of laugh that gets into your belly and zings through your blood. The kind that makes the incident from this morning seem like a long time ago.
“You’re good for me, SciFi.”
“I amuse you.”
“You are a little like that Vulcan dude from Star Trek,” Cameron admits. “You watch Nick At Nite?”
SciFi nods. “Spock. There are similarities.”
“It’s not a bad thing, you know,” Cameron says. “Maybe you’ll cure a disease or something. Invent time travel.”
“I’m better equipped for disease.” He picks up the car and offers it to Cameron. “That is, if I pass this class.”
“Okay. It’s a fair trade,” Cameron decides. “I’ll be your A and you can keep me laughing.”
“I’m not a funny guy.”
“Not on purpose,” Cameron agrees.
6:30PM
“You have to use math,” Cameron explains. He picks up the graph paper with the scale drawing of the rocket Robbie and his friend Danny are trying to build. The figures are wrong.
“That’s the problem,” Robbie says. “Neither one of us can do math.”
“You do math every day. Time, money, shape . . .” Cameron balls the paper and tosses it into an empty box. “You need to start over.”
Danny groans and pantomimes stuffing his head inside an oven. “We’re done,” he says. “We present Monday.”
“There’s time.” Cameron sits down on a sawhorse drawn up to the workbench in Danny’s garage. “You have to use absolute measurement. Meaning, two boxes in your drawing need to equal one inch on the real thing. That can’t change.”
Cameron begins to draw, using a ruler to mark a straight edge, and then fills in the lines and angles around it. “You’re going to need to shave off a few inches from the model. The rudder is too long. Same with the fuselage. And the cockpit is too short. You need a new block of wood for that, unless you think you can get away with using clay. It can work like a joint compound. See if you can sell it to your teacher like that.”
“You’re a genius,” Danny says.
“Einstein,” Robbie agrees.
“Can you mark where we need to make the new cuts?”
“You can do it yourself.” Cameron stands up and slides the ruler to Robbie. “Remember, two blocks on the paper equals one inch on here.” He taps the rocket.
Cameron watches them measure and cut, using a plane. They sand the rough edges and the pieces slip into place, all but the cockpit.
“I’ll pick up some Roger’s Glue. The astronauts use it to bond things in space,” Danny says.
“Where are you going to get that?”
“I saw it at Home Depot. I think if we can show we went out of our way to use the stuff NASA uses, it’ll get us some points.”
“Yeah,” Robbie agrees. “Maybe Stubbs won’t think we’re idiots.”
“Well, my work here is done,” Cameron says. He pushes off the sawhorse and walks toward the front of the garage. “You ladies call me if you need more help.”
“Wait up.” Robbie tells Danny he’ll see him tomorrow, then scoots after his brother.
Cameron doesn’t wait. His mom sent him to get Robbie, but he’s not his brother’s keeper. Besides, Robbie is too old and too big for a babysitter.
Cameron picks up his bike, slides onto the seat, and starts pedaling. Dusk disappeared a long time ago. The sky is black and wet, dripping with mist. The streetlights are on and in their cone-shaped light moths flutter their wings and bake.
“You’re in a good mood,” Robbie says.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not pissed off.”
“I’m always pissed off.”
“Lately,” Robbie agrees.
10:20AM
Cameron’s sneakers hit the hardwood floor. His knees absorb the impact, stay strong, propel him forward. This is where he belongs. Too bad his grades stink. He wanted to go out for track. He’s a pretty good sprinter, better at middle distances. He’d have done okay. He’d be a winner, no doubt about it. No one can get close to him. There are a lot of jocks in his PE class, some even on the track team, but Cameron is so far ahead of them he can’t even feel them. And when he turns the next corner, he can see he’s closing in on the last of the pack, and the middle’s not out of reach. Rich Patterson, loping like a giraffe, and his sidekick Murphy lead the group of stragglers. Patterson may be good at holding the line in football, but he’s slow and awkward. Bulky. All that muscle weighs him down. In a pool, he’d sink to the bottom.
Cameron smiles at his thoughts. He wouldn’t jump in to save the guy and not just because he’s the enemy. Patterson picks on a lot of kids. None as much as Cameron. Still, his death would be a public service.
Cameron finds this so funny he snorts a little as the breath leaves his nose.
He’s losing focus. He’s not supposed to hear his breathing. He’s not supposed to recognize faces in the crowd. When Cameron runs, everything becomes a blur, except the goal. It’s called tunnel vision. The best athletes have it. It’s how they win the gold. When Cameron runs the lake path, the water, the trees, the birds become just splotches of background color.
Running is good for him. Cleans out his mind. Flushes the anger from his body. Breathing hard, his chest feels almost transparent. And his lungs, past burning, sing with accomplishment. It’s a good thirty or forty minutes before memory comes rushing in and he’s
that
Cameron again. Patterson’s favorite target, the failing student, the difficult son.
Cameron feels his pace slow. His joints grow sticky and he realizes his focus is on Patterson. His square head bobbing on his thick neck. The guy’s beefy arms bowed and stiff. A patch of sweat darkens his red T-shirt. Cameron stares at the guy’s back, at that patch of sweat, like it’s a bull’s-eye. If he had aim, if his hands didn’t shake, he could put a bullet right through that patch of sweat and into Patterson’s heart. Game over, just like that.
He was doing just fine until Patterson happened to him. He used to wake up in the morning, roll out of bed, think about the things he wanted to talk to Steve about. Imagine the shirt Helen Gosset, his lab partner in his physical science class, would wear that day; try to guess the color. Eat breakfast. Make sure his homework was in his backpack.
He doesn’t do any of that anymore.
He wakes up with an elephant on his chest.
He wakes up gasping for air. Like he’s doing now.
His legs feel heavy.
Don’t do this,
Cameron tells himself.
Don’t let him take this from you, too.
He lifts his knees, putting enough of his mind behind the motion that his body loses the flow.
He never thinks about running.
To think about running is death.
Focus. FOCUS.
FOCUS.
Cameron tears his eyes away from Patterson. Sifts through the crowd of runners. A dark head, some kid Cameron doesn’t really know. He lets his eyes fall on him; he’s just far enough ahead that Cameron has a slim chance of pulling even with him, of overtaking him. And that’s what this is about. Running the fastest he can; outrunning the fear, the anger that would eat him up and spit out his bones if he let it.
This is about control.
Cameron clenches his fists. He picks up speed. The sound of his feet hitting the gym floor gains distance. The rush of his breath in and out of his lungs becomes all he can hear, and that comes from the inside. He’s back inside himself. No sharp edges, just rhythm and speed.
Cameron rounds the next corner and hears the coach call out, “Five!”
He’s run five laps. He has three to go. A half mile today.
He knows it’s best to wait until there’s two laps to go before he bursts out of his current pace, puts all he has into the finish, but he’s suddenly gained the back of the pack, is weaving around kids, pulling to the outside, away from swinging elbows.
“Six, Cameron!”
His thighs burn. He’s lightheaded, like he’s standing at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro with the air so thin it whistles in his chest. He digs deeper. There’s always more. Every time he looks for it, works it, stretches himself until he thinks he’s going to snap, it rises up inside him, carries him through. He’s never left empty-handed.
The kid with the dark hair is either slowing down or Cameron has more in him today than he’s had before, because he’s pulling alongside him.
“Eight! That’s it, Cameron.”
It takes a moment for Cameron to absorb the coach’s voice, his words. Eight laps. Half a mile. He wants to know his time. He knows he did better today, much better. Did he break three minutes? For sure. Two-thirty? Probably. Cameron stopped clocking himself months ago, when he realized there was no point. He stopped running for time and just ran when he needed to. When it was life or death if he didn’t.
Cameron slows, stops, and leans back to expand his chest. Gulps air. His face is probably as red as his shirt; it’s definitely covered in sweat. He wipes at it with his shoulder.
“Two-ten.”
“What?” Cameron turns and looks up at the coach, who is peering at his stopwatch.
“Damn, but that’s exactly what it reads. Two-ten.” The coach turns the watch for Cameron to see. “Why aren’t you on the track team?”
Two-ten. Cameron feels like he’s breathing helium.
“Well, Cameron?”
“Grades,” Cameron admits, and pulls in another breath, this one a little deeper as his lungs begin to ease. “I couldn’t get my grades up in time.”
The coach shakes his head. “That’s a damn shame. Are you training on your own? You must be.”
“I run some.” Not as much as he used to.
“Diaz gets plenty of practice.”
Patterson’s voice falls on Cameron like a grenade. He feels the cut of a thousand pieces of shrapnel, especially when Patterson’s words are followed by laughter — Patterson’s and his sidekick’s and a couple other kids walking past who heard and know exactly what Patterson means.
Even the coach picks up on Patterson’s meaning and dismisses the guy. “He lapped you, Patterson. And about twenty others.” The coach turns back to Cameron. “You keep your runs strong and you won’t have to worry about your grade in here.”
Cameron rides the sound of pride in the coach’s voice, feels a smile opening his chest, until reality snags him. He’s going to pay for Patterson’s public humiliation. No doubt about it. He may be standing still, but he is officially on the run now.
“And get a tutor if you need one,” the coach advises. “I want to see you on the track team next year.”