Camo Girl (9 page)

I snag a box of Strawberry Pop-Tarts off the shelf. It's not stealing as long as you save the box so you can scan the bar code and pay for it afterward. Z's mom works here, so she can do that, no problem.

When I glide back into the aisle, working my new little dance move, I'm getting excited about the possibility of a Strawberry Pop-Tart. Just then, who do I see?

Bailey James.

I sidle back into the cereal aisle, out of sight. But I can't help taking a second look.

It's him, all right. He's pushing a big blue cart, wearing an L.A. Lakers jersey. Walking beside a tall, stern-looking woman, who must be his mom. They're near Aisle 15, housewares, and she's looking at packages of place settings. She points to one, Bailey nods, and then she plops it into their cart.

Bailey wheels the cart around fast. I duck back, but not in time.

“Ella?” Bailey waves.

I can't go anywhere in this town.

S
miling, i step out into the aisle. “hi,
Bailey.” I tuck the Pop-Tarts behind my back like some kind of contraband.

Bailey's mom is a tall, pretty woman with dark, smooth skin like my mom's. Her hair is straightened, pulled back in a bun. The lines of her face make her look very serious, but she smiles prettily when Bailey says, “Mom, this is Ella, my friend from school. She's the one with the basketball hoop.”

Mrs. James nods at me. “Lovely to meet you, Ella.”

“Hi, Mrs. James.”

We stand in weird silence for a moment. Then Mrs. James relieves Bailey of the cart and says, “I'll meet you at the checkout, B.” She gazes at him pointedly. “We cannot be late.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Lakers fan?” I say when we're alone.

Bailey grins. I grin, relieved that he could tell I was joking.

“So,” he says. “Sorry I don't have time to hang out.”

“That's okay. Where are you going?”

Bailey shrugs. “Just this place we go,” he says in a subject-changing kind of way. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then? Hoops?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cool.” Bailey holds out his fist, and I bump it. “See ya.”

Then he's disappearing through the maze of aisles toward the checkout. I head back to automotive, clutching the holy Pop-Tarts. Thinking how easy it was, what just happened.

Bailey wants to be my friend. No, he called himself my friend. Maybe we even already
are
friends. Just like that. Easy.

It used to be easy all the time, having friends. Millie, Z, right next door. Now, Millie's off on her own, and Z's sitting amid a pile of tires waiting for things that aren't real to happen. Waiting for me to bring him Pop-Tarts so that the world will seem less tilted for a minute, when really we're all walking upside down.

Z holds out his hands, like a tray. I place a Pop-Tart on them, reverently.

“Yum,” I say a second later, around a mouthful of my own Pop-Tart. “Don't let anyone tell you strawberry isn't the best flavor.”

Z smiles, crumbs on his face, and nods. “Delicious, milady.”

Two Pop-Tarts down, two to go.

Maybe I shouldn't have to work this hard. Maybe the things that are wrong don't get better when all you do is pretend.

“I ran into Bailey,” I say, because I want to see what happens. “You know, from school? That's what took so long.”

Z chews quietly for a while, his face a mask of moving parts. Then he licks Pop-Tart crumbs off his fingers and brushes some off his lap.

“The knight is white,” he says, rotating the chessboard and making the first move.

Z pulls the special box back out and rests it in his lap. Except for that, that tiny-huge detail, he's acting like it's business as usual.

A flash of heat rushes my chest. Hot, stupid anger for no reason at all. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

“Milady?”

“I hung out with Bailey this week. You hate that. Just say it.”

Z grabs the pawn he just moved and repositions it, like he's reminding me the game is already in progress.

“Your move, milady.”

“Stop it. Why can't we just talk?” I say. “I know I hurt your feelings.”

“Your move, milady.” He's restless now, bouncing his knees and drumming the top of the Altoids box.

“I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for it to happen. Just say something real. Please.”

Z covers his ears. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling. I think maybe he's going to cry or scream or fall over. But I can't make myself be nicer.

“Fine,” I snap. “You don't care what I do. You're fine on your own.”

He clutches the box and whispers, “It is natural for those with great power to find themselves alone.”

“If that's what you want,” I say. “You've got it.”

Z stops moving altogether.

“I have to go find Grammie.” I walk away, leaving him to his boxes, chessmen, and tires.

W
hen we get home, i shut myself
in my room. It's bad, what I did. Yelling at Z. He doesn't mean to make things hard, he just . . . does.

It's not Z's fault. I don't know why I got so mad at him. I don't know what part of the body makes you get mad for no reason, but it feels like it comes from my belly. I don't know what part makes Z always want to pretend, but I'm guessing it's his brain, or his heart. The main parts of his engine.

I go to my bookshelf and pull out
The Body Book
. The clear, glossy pages flip back one by one, and you can see all the insides of the body. The skin, and everything underneath in there that makes people soft and squishy, right down to the bones that help us stand up straight. I like
The Body Book
.

Daddy gave it to me when he got sick. We looked at the pictures together so that I could understand. He told me the human body is like a machine. The brain and the heart are the main parts of the engine, and our lungs breathe air like gasoline to make us run.

The moral of the story was: Part of Daddy's engine was broken. His lungs.

“Grammie can fix that,” I said. Now I know it's stupid, what I said. Daddy must have known it too, but he just laughed and kissed me hard on my head. “Grammie's good, but not that good,” he whispered.

I let the pages of the book ripple down on top of each other, press the cover down.

I never did understand.

T
here are little things that happen.
Little things that make a difference.

At breakfast Grammie drops a glass and it shatters on the kitchen floor. I stay to help her clean it up, which makes me late getting out of the house.

So I'm running, running for the bus. Millie stands in the open door, on the steps, making it wait for me. It's a little too much kindness from her this early in the morning. As we slump into our seats, I'm breathless and strangely on edge.

“Thanks.”

Millie smiles, and suddenly I want to tell her everything. About Bailey and Z. I think she would understand.

“Why don't you braid your hair anymore?” is what comes out instead.

“What?” she says. “Sometimes I do.”

This is falsehood. Untruth. Lie. I shake my head. “Never. Not since the first day of school.”

I want to be mad at her. For leaving. For not looking back. But I also want to know how she did it, and if I can come, too.

“Well, I don't know,” she says. “I can't wear my hair the same every day anymore. No one does that.”

That stings. Especially because she knows that's exactly what I do. “Sure, yeah. What kind of loser would do that?” I reach up and yank the ribbons off the ends of my braids. My fingers itch to rip out my careful plaits, but luckily reason slips back into the mix. Jonathan Hoffman would have a field day if I showed up at school with a full, unruly 'fro.

“Ella . . .”

But I'm on a roll now. “And how come you stopped sitting with us at lunch?”

Millie gazes at me, puzzled. “You stopped sitting with me,” she whispers. “You know you could sit with us anytime you want.”

That's not how I remember it. One day it was the three of us together at a table with some other people. The next, it was me and Z. Alone.

“We can?” I say.

“Well, you can.”

“Oh.” There it is. The part I know deep down. The part I hate.

I can't do it to Z. Be a person who leaves. That's for everyone else. Not for us.

“It couldn't be the three of us forever.” Millie looks out the window. “You chose him over me. And he's so
weird
now.”

“You don't know anything about it,” I snap. “How could you?”

“There's something wrong with him, Ella. Everyone knows it but you.”

We climb off the bus, already not speaking. We climb off the bus into the strangest, most unexpected scene I could have imagined.

A
small crowd has gathered. in the
center Bailey and Z circle each other as if they're going to throw down. I race toward them.

“Whoa, man,” Bailey says. “Calm down.”

Z shakes his fist at Bailey. I didn't think people really did that. I thought it was just an expression, but there he is, doing it.

“Return the treasure, you rogue,” Z barks, his voice high and strained. Everyone laughs. Bailey seems bewildered.

“I don't know what you're talking about, man.”

A few of the basketballers are egging Z on. Brandon and Miles mock him in the usual way, echoing his intense tone and odd phraseology.

“Yeah, you're such a rogue, Bailey,” Brandon taunts.

“Go get your rogue on,” cheers Miles.

The other guys clap and cheer as I weave through the circle. Then a strange thing happens where, for a moment, I'm just one of the crowd. I wasn't there when it started, standing by him. I don't know what happened. For the first time ever, I'm on the outside looking in. For the first time ever, I see how easy it would be to point and laugh along with everyone else. For the first time, I see how freakish and small we must look, going everywhere on our own, talking a different language. For the first time ever, for a very long moment, I hate us.

Z charges forth, oblivious, which only enhances their fun. “Return it at once!”

“Oooh, you're in trouble now,” Brandon says gleefully.

“Back off,” Bailey yells at them. “Leave him alone. Let me just figure this out.”

By this point I've reached them. I rush up to Z. “What're you doing?” I whisper.

“Stand back, milady,” he insists. He holds his chest out and raises his fists. “The return of the treasure is utmost. There may be bloodshed.”

The others hoot and holler. Bailey puts out his arms, obviously confused. I fall back, a little scared of the expression on Z's face. He's flushed an angry red, and his knees are bent like he's going to spring. But he can barely
maneuver under the weight of his backpack, and the picture he makes is beyond absurd.

He could never do any actual damage to Bailey, but what I don't understand is why he would want to. I return to his side.

“Stop it,” I tell Z, pushing his fists down. “It's going to be okay.” Then I round on Bailey. “What did you do? Why are you messing with him?”

Bailey puts up his hands, surrendering. “We were just hanging out. He came up on me all hot, talking about I stole his treasure.”

“What did you take?”

“I'm telling you, nothing,” Bailey says.

Z pounds his feet on the pavement, then stalks away to our corner. The others shout a few words after him but quickly lose interest. Thank goodness Jonathan Hoffman is nowhere in sight.

“What the—?” Bailey shakes his head. “That's one strange little dude.”

“He's my friend,” I snap. I have to do something, and fast, to make up for all the bad thoughts.

“I know—” Bailey crosses his arms and looks after Z. He's huddled at the corner of the building, digging into his backpack. “Does he have a problem with me?”

Well, of course he does. I like you, and he doesn't like that.

“Maybe. I don't know.” I say as it dawns on me. Bailey did take something from Z, sort of. Z would see it that way. What Bailey took was . . .me.

I rub my forehead. Things just got way more complicated. “I have to go talk to him. We kind of got in a fight yesterday. I think this is my fault.”

I walk away from Bailey, toward Z. When I get close, instead of turning toward me like usual, he gives me his back, hunching low over his bag and his boxes. With his arms, he shields it all from my view.

“Maybe he needs some space,” Bailey says. He speaks right over my shoulder. He's followed me.

Bailey is the greatest boy ever. Right then and there, I realize it. He could be off with all his friends, making fun of the freak boy and the camo-faced girl and laughing, but instead he's here. He's trying to help. But I can't let him.

“We're fine.” I push Bailey's arm gently. “Just go.”

Bailey doesn't go. Instead he grabs my arm and pulls me a few yards away from where Z is working with his boxes, clearly lost in his own world.

“What's his deal?” Bailey says. “I'm just trying to understand what I did.”

“No idea,” I say, walking a little further away. “But he obviously doesn't want to see either of us right now.”

“Just give him a day,” Bailey says. “You can sit with us at lunch. Let him calm down.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe at lunchtime.”

“Hey, Ella.” Bailey grins like he just remembered something. He reaches into his pocket. “Check it out.” Bailey extends his hand. He's holding two round golden disks the size of large coins. They are stamped
Mirage
on one side, with neon palm trees and a big ten-dollar sign on the other.