The Camino Club

by Kevin Craig

  What is there to like? It was hard to get time alone with Diego. It was like everyone was out to ruin it for me, I swear. We’d be there, just the two of us, laughing about something silly, and then I’d see a shadow and bam… next thing I know I’m walking with three boys instead of one. Then this girl from the Netherlands butts in, and they hit it off. I couldn’t get a break. I hate my life.

  I like that Diego is always trying to make me laugh, though. His smile is so… but I can’t take all the interruptions. How could they not know we were trying to have a private conversation? Especially that Sophie girl.

  It felt like we kept going more and more uphill, too. I wonder if that was just my imagination or what? Meagan says the next couple of days are going to be way harder. I can’t imagine harder than what we did today.

  It was beautiful. Rolling hills and flowers everywhere. Old buildings. These little towns. It even smells better here than back home. If it wasn’t for all the climbing, it would be awesome.

  I manage to get the chair beside Diego at supper. We’re in a large dining room, and all the albergue guests sit together at one huge wooden table that looks about a million years old.

  As soon as I sit down I know something is off. The energy in the room is bad, and it feels like I’m back at the beginning with Diego. Everyone seems miserable. Maybe the walking just made them all tired today. No, there’s something else going on. I’m almost positive. The undercurrent stings. Too many sidelong glances and too much intentional silence.

  Claire doesn’t count, because she’s always a hot mess of anger. And besides, she was with Gil all day.

  I attempt to make eye contact with Troy, but he’s stubbornly looking down at his empty water glass as if it’s the most important thing in the goddamned world. His vibes are anger. Something I never see from Troy.

  Nobody’s talking, and it’s almost painful. What the hell? It’s like being at the dinner table at home. If Mom and Dad were giving off these vibes, Dillon would say something like, “My Spidey-senses are tingling.” On those miraculous occasions when we actually have dinner together, that is. Dad’s usually at the office every waking hour and Mom is always out spending his money and being all debutante diva. They really are ghosts in our lives.

  I tap Diego’s leg under the table with my foot to get his attention. Because everyone is looking everywhere but at each other. He startles and gives me a dirty look. There’s a slight shake of his head as if he’s telling me to leave it alone, to drop the subject I haven’t even had a chance to bring up.

  When I don’t look away, his face slowly softens. There’s no outright smile, but his dimples appear as his mouth softens. He wants to smile. That’s a start. So it isn’t me. Thank God.

  “You have to give me something here, Diego.”

  “Huh?”

  “What is going on? It’s like everyone’s mad or something. It was a tough day, but it wasn’t that bad. I need to talk if I want to decompress. This silence is killing me.”

  “Sorry, Shania,” Diego says. “It’s not you. I don’t know how to fix this.”

  “I’m actually a pretty good listener.” I pass him the basket of bread and, as he holds it, I take a small piece for myself.

  He turns to me and shrugs. Then he nods toward the hallway just outside the dining room, gets up, and leaves the room. When I get there, he turns to face me and gives me these big puppy dog eyes.

  “You gotta save me,” he says. “You gotta save all of us. We did a crappy thing, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

  Diego’s face is now Twizzler red, and he looks like the hunter who murdered Bambi’s mother in the meadow.

  “What did you do?” It’s kind of obvious he did something. Guilt wafts off of him in waves.

  “We may have teased Troy about his being gay. On accident.”

  “By accident, Diego? Really? Just how does a shitty thing like that happen, anyway?” I kick his foot and give him the dirtiest look I can muster.

  “I know, I know,” Diego says. “It just happened. Trust me.”

  Diego tells me this cockamamie story about Troy’s underwear and the boys teasing him about it flapping out their bathroom window.

  “I swear to you, Shania, we were totally only joking around about his underwear. He’s too sensitive. It’s stupid that he—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “You don’t get to decide that. You’re not the gay one here. You’re not, right?”

  “Very funny. Obviously not.”

  “Nothing’s obvious, loser.” I smirk to show that I’m at least halfway joking. “But you don’t get to decide if he’s being sensitive or not, Diego. For reals. That’s his decision to make. He was in a group of straight guys making fun of him. If he felt like it was poking at his sexuality, then it was.”

  “Okay, Dr. Phil. Settle down. I wasn’t asking for a lecture. Can you help us out of it here? I feel like a dirtbag. So do the other guys. But he won’t even look at us now. He’s so stubborn.”

  “Stop. Again, you’re making it his problem. His fault.”

  “Shania,” Diego says, now totally flustered. “Come on. Okay. I get it. What can we do?”

  “I’m trying not to be Nasty Shania right now, but you’re making it very difficult. You guys need lessons in how to be compassionate human beings. Seriously. Have you tried apologizing in a way that doesn’t sound like a non-apology?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shania? Diego?” Gil calls from the dining room. “Why don’t you join us before your dinner gets cold? You gotta try this Galician soup.”

  “Sorry, Gil,” I say. “Coming.” I start to walk away.

  “What do you mean?” Diego says, pulling me back.

  “Diego, it’s really easy. I just mean don’t apologize for how he feels about what happened. That’s making him own what happened, not you guys. Apologize for doing what you did. Tell him you won’t do it again. I’m guessing if you already apologized it went something like, I’m sorry you feel that way?”

  He gives me this goofy grin that answers my question perfectly. Their apology wasn’t an apology at all. Kudos to Troy for holding out for a real one.

  “Come on, guys,” Gil says from the table.

  “You may have a point,” Diego says. I shake my head, and we head back together before Gil bursts a vessel or something. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I pull out my chair, and we both sit down. The soup smells freaking amazing. Worth today’s walk.

  Chapter 12 — Troy Sinclair

  I may have overreacted. But I doubt it. It’s hard when you have crushes on everybody you’re hanging around with. I know I’m being overly sensitive, but I can’t help it. I can’t even look at them.

  Diego, even? He’s such a stand-up guy. At least he apologized. Finally. The right way the second time around. Greg’s the ass. He’s the one who made it ugly. Now I have to wonder for the rest of the trip if that was him showing his true colors. I hate when I feel like I can’t be myself.

  Greg went too gay too fast in that skit he pulled off at my expense. Like he had been dying to make fun of me, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  Even though Manny was right in there, saying all those cringe-worthy things, I can tell he just thought he was being funny. His teasing was friendly. He may even have a non-gay crush on me. Which would totally be okay, because Manny.

  I can just barely make out his face in the dark right now. The blinds on the other side of the room are only half closed, and the moon must be full or something because it’s completely filling the room with light. I could get used to staring at Manny’s face like this. Even though that’s probably stalkerish. Nah. It totally is. No probably about it.

  All the guys are sleeping. Diego puffs out little pops of air every once in a while, but doesn’t snore. Manny looks angelic with his hair hal
o and his perfect chin. His chest rises and falls so slowly I stop breathing to focus on it, to make sure he’s still alive. And his one eye is slightly open, like he’s watching me watching him. Even though I know he’s asleep.

  It’s Greg the jerk who’s snoring. I want to throw my pillow at him or kick his bed. But I’m so mad I might just keep kicking until there’s nothing left. I was kind of hoping crap like this wouldn’t follow me here.

  Instead of attacking Greg in his sleep, I get up and leave the dorm. I shut the door behind me and tiptoe downstairs. Once outside, I’m relieved to finally stop tiptoeing. As the front door of the albergue snaps shut with a pop, I turn to make my way across the street to the church steps.

  That’s when I see Claire. Claire, who has said maybe ten words in total to the lot of us. Aloof Claire, who is always late, elusive, and miserable.

  “Oh, hi,” I say as I approach the church steps where she sits looking up at the night sky.

  “Come out to howl at the moon?” she says, pointing at the sky.

  “Huh?” I turn to look. It is a full moon or close to it. It lights up the entire night for us. It’s beautiful. All the surrounding hills are visible in its light.

  “Werewolves. Full moon. Howl.” She shrugs, reaches into her hoodie pocket, and pulls out a bag of Skittles. “Want some?”

  “Sure.” I sit beside her and hold out my hand. She shakes some of the candy into my cupped palm. “And I’m not a werewolf.”

  “These Skittles are the only thing between me and madness. They’re my lifeline.”

  “If I had known that, I would have said no.” My mouth is full of lifesaving rainbow.

  “Ha, ha. No. You’re okay,” she says. “I have enough to see me through this trying time. I made priority space for them in my backpack. No hiking shoes for me.”

  I look at her feet and for the first time I realize she’s wearing Crocs. Before I bestow upon her my eternal respect and undying love for bucking the system, I have to ask, “Are those the only shoes you brought with you? On the Camino?”

  “I wouldn’t really call them shoes. But yeah.”

  “You’re a goddess. I bow to your awesomeness.”

  “Calm down, cowboy.” She stands, folds up what’s left of her bag of Skittles, and puts it in her pocket. “This might sound a little crazy to you, Troy, but do you want to go for a walk?”

  Crazy? Maybe. But a walk out here in the beautiful Spanish countryside on a night when the moon is illuminating everything in a magical light I’ll probably never see again in my lifetime? How could I refuse?

  “Sure,” I say. “Why not? Yes.”

  “Cool.”

  I stand and bow. “Show me the way, O Captain, my Captain.”

  She rolls her eyes, nods for me to follow her. “Walt Whitman? Okay. Anyway, there was a cool-looking statue at a church we passed. Just a couple minutes away. I couldn’t stop, though. Gilbert was anxious to get here.”

  “Well, let’s go see it now.” We start walking. “Mind if I ask about the whole Skittles thing?”

  “They’re just this little secret thing my girlfriend and I have going on. Skittles are our I love yous. You know, incognito like. We trade them back and forth in class or when she’s at my place. Each color represents something different. Skittles are our language. I swear, sometimes we have whole conversations in silence… just handing Skittles back and forth. And now I’m here and she’s there. And I have mad love for her and I can’t pass her a single solitary Skittle. So now I’m popping them like druggies pop Oxy because I just want to tell her I love her.”

  We’ve been walking the dirt path back the way we came into town. Claire stops. She kicks the dirt with one of her unbelievably Croced feet, takes out the Skittles, and pops a few. She puts the bag back in her pocket. I guess I was lucky to get one taste of the rainbow. It will have to do me.

  “Wow,” I say. She just unloaded a pile of information on me. During our first real conversation. The girl who doesn’t talk has so much to say.

  “Sorry. TMI?”

  “No, no. It’s all good. Love is complicated.”

  “Ha,” she says. “We have to cross the little footbridge to get to the other side of the river. The church is over there.”

  I look to where she points, and the church is aglow under the moon’s white stare. It literally looks like there’s a spotlight illuminating it.

  “Cool,” I say. “But tell me, Claire, what’s so special about that one? Really, I feel like I’ve seen seventy-three churches exactly like it on the way here today.”

  “Oh, Troy. That may be so. You probably have. But you have not seen the Creepy Jesus this particular one has. Even from afar I knew that thing was outrageous and worthy of closer inspection. Creepy Jesus has been calling me. I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see him, because to tell you the truth I was a little afraid to get closer to him without backup.”

  She laughs, and I join her but I’m a bit horror-movie leery now. We step onto the bridge, and the church looms closer. Is its shadow reaching for us? This girl has my geese all bumped up.

  “Creepy Jesus, eh? Isn’t that sacrilege or something?”

  “When you see Creepy Jesus, you’ll think the church is the only one being sacrilegious here, my friend.”

  “I’m sure.” We stop at the center of the bridge and look out across the water. The river is extremely narrow. I’m sure even I could swim across if I had to.

  I search the rocks about my feet and bend to pick up a skinny one. I skip it across the water, but even under the light of the moon I lose visual before it hits the water. I hear a soft plunk, and a ripple appears a few feet out.

  “That is not how you skip a rock,” Claire says, laughing.

  “I suck at stuff like that. Guy stuff.”

  “Shut your face. That’s not guy stuff.” She picks up a rock and skips it. This one I see because it skips to catch the light a few times before it disappears into the depths of the river. “Girl Power.”

  She walks off, and I rush to catch up with her. “My bad,” I say as I come up beside her.

  “Number one,” Claire says as we leave the bridge. “That’s the last time my bad comes out of your mouth. Number two, prepare to meet The Creepy Jesus of Cacabelos.”

  “You’re freaking me out.” We’re almost at the church. As we step into its small courtyard, I stop to ask, “So how long have you and your girlfriend been together? Are you out? At home? At school? Do you—”

  “Whoa. Too many questions, Troy. Zoe and I have been together for… seven months. I’m out, mostly at school. I’m so not out at home. I was. But not anymore. Why do you think I need to communicate with my friend in a secret language?” She strikes air-quotes around the word friend. “And I’m not out yet on the Camino. Unless I count you.”

  “I count.” I smile. “What’s with the used to be out, not out? How’s that even a thing?”

  “Well, Troy. That’s a very long and troubling story. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about it. Time will tell. Then again, maybe I won’t. I only know today is not the day.”

  “Fair enough. Sorry if I put you on the spot. My friends tell me I talk too much and ask too many questions. I’ll back off now.”

  “We’re good. I’m just not ready to go there tonight. It really is a long story. Are you out?”

  “Yep. I’m the trophy son. My parents are these weird we-have-a-gay-son people.”

  “Buddy, don’t complain. My mom cried for a week because she thought she lost her chance to be a grandmother. Not to mention how she cried for my soul because I’m destined for hell. And that was just the beginning.”

  “My mom says she’s counting on me to give her her first grandchild, because she doubts my straight brother will ever have any kids.”

  “That’s cool. Hey. Here it is. Okay, wait!” I turn to look up. “Don�
�t look yet.” She physically tears me away before I get a chance to look at this Jesus guy.

  “Whoa. It’s so wild. Creepy Jesus.” She holds me back, but I see the horror in her expression as she inspects the face of the statue. Her nose wrinkles, and her eyes bulge. I begin to think I may turn to stone or something if I look into the face of Creepy Jesus. “Okay, are you ready for this? You can’t unsee it once you look. I’m cool if you don’t want this one in your memory bank. I’m just glad you were here with me when I saw it up close.”

  She’s only half kidding. I can see this look of awe in her face. And maybe fear.

  I laugh and push Claire aside. “Come on. It can’t be that bad, psycho.”

  I’m standing in front of the most hideous statue of Jesus I have ever seen. It’s out of Stephen King. Mary? Yeah, it’s gotta be Mary holding him. It? Mary’s holding it. He’s man Jesus, but he’s only the size of a baby in her hands. He’s got these long thin arms, and she’s holding him sideways, but his hair is straight down his front, and there’s seventy-eight kinds of wrong with this Creepy Jesus. Even Mary looks disgusted to be holding the thing.

  “Argh,” I mumble. “You’re right. Please make me unsee it.”

  “Cannot be done, my man. That’s in there for life.” She taps my noggin, and I swear I hate her right now. But, all the same, I pull out my phone and take a few pics.

  “I was minding my own business. I just came out for some fresh air. I was going to pace a bit and then go back inside the albergue. This. Will. Never. Ever. Leave. Me.”

  “Ha ha,” she says. “I win the day.” She puts up her hand for a high five, and I reluctantly give it to her. She deserves it. Impressive.

  Claire takes some pictures, too, and then we get in for a selfie with Creepy Jesus and his reluctant mother in the background. Sweet. I can’t wait to show this thing to Tommy when I get home. Maybe even Dad.

  “Let’s go back before Meagan or Gilbert wake up, notice we’re missing, and send out a search party.”

  “Or Creepy Jesus here gets down out of his mommy’s arms and slays us both,” she says. I can’t even tell if she’s joking, because I’m not quite sure what Creepy Jesus is actually capable of doing. I mean, besides filling our hearts with terror.