When dinner’s over, I retreat to my pristine room without a word to Mom. I pull off my cream cable-knit sweater and fling it onto the bed. I hate leaving things out of order, not where they belong. I just don’t have the energy to fold it and put it in the drawer. Instead, I drop into my desk chair. What I really want to do is go for a run, feel the wind in my lungs, clear my head. But I’m risking injury if I run now after having already run today.
I pull out my Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market textbook and muddle through about five minutes of reading before “present-value calculations” and “consumer surplus” blur in front of my eyes. Frustrated, I flip open my laptop. If I can’t go running, web design is the next best thing, and I think Morgan might have been serious about designing a concept for Brad. I find the perfect font pretty quickly, a lightweight serif with a Futura feel.
I’m working on finding a complementary blue when I have an idea.
I open my email. Everyone’s addresses are programmed into the school email client. I type in one I never have before.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: You probably won’t open this but . . .
Brendan, I know you’re NOT INTERESTED in anything having to do with me, but I thought you might want to check out this website on color palettes. Video games are probably way more in-depth than a website, but the same principles might apply. I like number 27.
Cameron.
Twelve
I’M RUNNING ON NEXT TO ZERO SLEEP. It’s Wednesday, and I haven’t had more than three hours the past couple nights since the conversation with my mom in my room. The familiar worries keep me up—finances, my mom’s job. And yesterday, I found out I got a C on our first Econ exam. I’d worked hard, too. I’d pored over the diagrams in the textbook for days. Yet when I got to the exam, I felt like I’d read the wrong pages. The problems were completely foreign.
Which is not good. I need an A in Econ. This was only the first exam—there’ll be plenty more opportunities to improve my grade. I’ll ace the next exam, double-check every homework problem, take notes on every reading. If I don’t do well in Econ, I won’t get the internship. I’ll lose the chance to work with my dad. I definitely won’t be cut out for Wharton, for a life close to his.
Fortunately for my walking insomnia, there’s a Student Government coffee fund-raiser in the courtyard during lunch. Normally, I wouldn’t waste half the lunch period on badly brewed coffee. It’s a testament to my desperation that I’ve been waiting in line with Morgan and Elle for twenty minutes.
“Ugh,” Elle groans. “This line is endless.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m not going to make it through the day without heavy caffeinating. Look at the bags under my eyes.”
She studies me. “You’re right,” she replies. “They’re horrendous.”
I’m not usually bothered by Elle’s unflinching commentary. I’m used to it. I enjoy her remarks and return them with equal frequency. I don’t know if it’s the worry or the exhaustion, but today they hurt a little.
I smile hollowly, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious. “You don’t have to wait with me if you don’t want,” I reply, keeping my tone judgment-free.
“In that case,” Elle says unhesitatingly, pulling out her phone, “I’m going to go find Jason.”
I say nothing.
Elle waits until her phone vibrates in her hand, and her mouth flickers in the hint of a grin. Her eyes flit up to mine. “Hey, but we’re still on for milkshakes tonight, right?” she asks. I nod. We’re planning to stuff ourselves with shakes and animal-style fries from In-N-Out. “Great. See you then.”
She eagerly darts out of the line to meet Jason. I feel certain they’re going to spend the remainder of lunch in an empty classroom. I sigh. “Between Andrew and this Jason-and-Elle thing,” I say to Morgan, “I’m beginning to feel like I should just give up on romance. Is it really worth the trouble?” I don’t mention the really glaring example of a wasted, unhealthy relationship in my life—my parents.
“Elle and Jason do not count as romance,” Morgan replies.
I laugh and walk up to the counter, where I proceed to order the greatest number of espresso shots they’ll put in one cup. Morgan deftly reaches in and hands the barista her card, ordering her own espresso and paying for both before I can pull out my wallet. It’s a generosity I no longer resist. My friends know I have nowhere near the spending money they do.
“But yes,” Morgan says while we wait with the crowd. “It is worth it. With the right person.” Her eyes get the happy, faraway look they do whenever Brad’s around. I feel a pang of envy.
The barista, whom I recognize as a senior in Student Government, holds up a cup behind the counter. “BB,” she calls out.
Brendan pushes past me to the front. I hadn’t noticed him in the crowd. “It’s Brendan,” he says gruffly to the barista.
“Sure, BB,” she chuckles. A couple other Student Government seniors laugh with her.
I feel an unexpected twist in my stomach and level the barista a glare. “You heard him,” I say, hardening my voice. “His name is Brendan.”
The barista blinks, thrown by my sternness. “Oh, um, yeah,” she fumbles, wilting. “Yeah, Cameron, you’re right.” She hands over my triple cappuccino, as if in a gesture of goodwill.
I can’t help it—I turn, hoping Brendan heard my correction. Instead, I’m faced only with a wall of under-caffeinated Beaumont students waiting for their orders. Finally, peering over their heads, I find Brendan’s retreating back halfway across the courtyard. I deflate.
“That was really nice of you, Cam,” Morgan says beside me.
“Huh?” I’m distracted watching Brendan.
“Helping Brendan,” she clarifies. “You were being nice.”
We leave the crowd. “Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, sipping eagerly on my coffee and ignoring the sting of its too-hot temperature on my lips.
“I know you’re nice. It’s just a side you don’t often show others.” Morgan gives me a wry look. “See you tonight,” she calls over her shoulder as the bell rings.
I walk to the computer lab, Morgan’s words unfurling into an idea in my head. I know how I can help Brendan and earn his forgiveness. He hates me for the nickname I gave him, but I have the social clout to undo it. If I can erase “BB” on campus, I’ll repair his reputation and make amends with Paige.
When I walk into Computer Science, Mr. West’s busy with a group in the back and everyone’s beginning to unpack and work on today’s project. It’s the perfect opportunity. Determined, I walk right up to Brendan’s desk. He’s on his computer, his half-finished iced coffee next to the keyboard. Written in sloppy Sharpie, BB faces outward incriminatingly.
“Brendan,” I venture, “could you help me with my homework? I got stuck on the last task.”
Without sparing me a look, he wordlessly follows me to my station. I repress a small surge of frustration that he’s not even acknowledging what I did for him at the coffee cart. Loading my program on the computer, he starts testing the scenarios.
“Did you get the email I sent you?” I ask, annoyed at his continued silence.
“Yeah.” His eyes remain firmly on the screen, and he continues clicking through my work.
“Was it helpful?” I prod.
He shrugs. “I didn’t open it. Your homework is perfect, by the way.” Finally, he looks up, glaring. “Which you already knew.”
“I need help on today’s assignment,” I reply, undeterred.
“Which part, specifically?” he asks evenly.
“Um.” I give the board a quick glance. “The . . . first part?”
The hard line of his mouth curls in a frown. “Why don’t you get started,” he says, “and you can raise your hand if you get stuck. I’l
l send Mr. West over.”
He starts to walk away, and everything pent up in me for the past week forces out my next words. “Come on,” I say. “That’s it? I defended you today. I’m going to keep doing it, too. By the end of the week, you’ll be Brendan. Not BB.”
Brendan walks back to me, and I’m caught for a moment by the commanding intensity in his expression as he looms over me. “I don’t need or want you fighting my battles for me. I can stand up for myself. Here, watch: Cameron Bright, return to your assignment and don’t bother me again.”
He returns to his desk, leaving me in the middle of the aisle, a little stunned. I know I should be frustrated, offended, demoralized.
I’m not. I’m impressed.
I sit down in front of my computer, an approving smile forming on my lips.
Thirteen
I’M ON FAIRFAX THE NEXT DAY, TAKING photos on my phone. I had the time today when cross-country ended—I finished my Econ homework yesterday, I checked ahead in the Ethics textbook and wrote this week’s paper over the weekend, and of course I’m way ahead of the class in The Taming of the Shrew.
I don’t want to go home. Not with my mother and me pretending to ignore each other. Hours to myself to photograph are exactly what I need.
I don’t love Fairfax. It’s dirty and noisy. It’s like the music in every restaurant and trendy store is turned up ten notches too high. It’s crowded—people wait outside some of the stores with literal camping equipment, prepared to stay overnight in hopes of grabbing a jacket or pair of sneakers. While parking in Los Angeles is never easy, only varying degrees of frustrating, parking on Fairfax is a crime against humanity.
I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t better than nearly everywhere in the entire city for inspiration. It’s where I come every time I want web design ideas, and it never disappoints. Parts of the Arts District give it competition, but when it comes to design, Fairfax is unparalleled.
I grab a quick photo of the juxtaposition between the hard, industrial font of a gym on the corner and the jagged, indecipherable pink graffiti on the outer wall. It’s a great combo. If I ever design a website for a musician or a club or something it would be perfect.
Not that I ever would. Not with Penn or Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market. Web design is only a hobby, not the kind of thing I could do professionally. Not the route to a life resembling my dad’s—
I cut off the train of thought. I can take a day for a hobby. I’ll return to Econ tomorrow, to my almost-finished Wharton application and worrying about the internship.
Today, I’m taking one afternoon to cut myself loose from the thick cords of my life pulling me down—pulling me apart. The helpless positions my mom puts me in. The accomplishments I need to achieve to prove I’m worthy of my dad’s pride. The inadequacy of my entire personality to a friend I respect, a problem I can’t figure out how to remedy right now. For one afternoon, I need to escape it all.
I wander down the block, passing advertisements for concerts and movies—identical posters copied over and over in a nonsensical row. Sweet and spicy air wafts over me from the churro cart. I’m about to go over and grab one when I’m drawn by my camera to the sign over a coffee shop. It’s lettered in swooping, old-school font on a blue background. It’s a nice blue, heavier than sky blue, but more complicated than American-flag blue.
I could photograph everything, honestly. The billboards that are more art than advertisement. The graffiti spray-painted onto the sidewalk. The coffee shops neighboring delis from the thirties.
I’m about to cross the street to check out a café when I hear my name. “Bright!”
Nobody calls me that. Well, nearly nobody.
Reluctantly, I glance back to find Paige Rosenfeld climbing out of a car as crappy as mine. She’s illegally parked in front of the red-painted curb for a fire hydrant.
“You want to make it up to me, right?” she calls. From the trunk of the car she hefts a cardboard box over to the curb.
“Um,” I say, confused. “Right?”
Paige grins. “Carry this into the Depths of Mordor for me.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
She nods in the direction of the storefront windows behind me. Following her eyes, I find THE DEPTHS OF MORDOR written over a display of dusty paperbacks with elaborate fantasy covers.
I cross my arms. “You know,” I call, “wanting you to forgive me doesn’t make me your personal slave.”
Paige’s grin never falters. She shrugs. I notice a meter maid driving up the street—and I guess Paige does, too, because without a word she climbs into her car and pulls away from the curb.
I gaze at the box.
I just wanted the afternoon off. But . . . I don’t have to go home for a couple of hours. I doubt my mom would bother calling even if I didn’t come home for dinner. I do want to work on getting Paige to like me.
I pause for a moment in front of the bookstore, taking in the hideous design. SECONDHAND SCI-FI AND FANTASY reads the cardboard sign in hasty permanent marker under the name of the store. In one window hangs an unbelievably detailed replica of a dragon, transparent wire around its neck and scaly tail. Wooden bookshelves packed with fat paperbacks fill the front of the store, covers decorated with indecipherable scenes of moons rising over shimmering cities, spaceships firing their weapons, and scantily clad elves and sorceresses squaring off with long-haired knights.
Whatever. With a half sigh, half grumble, I walk over to the box, reach my fingers under the cardboard, and heave.
It’s heavy. I glance under the lid. The contents only heighten my curiosity. Paige wants me to carry into the bookstore . . . a sewing machine, chunky and antiquated. No wonder the box weighs a hundred pounds. Other than the sewing machine, the box contains swatches of colored fabric, purples and reds, and a couple of pieces of black lace.
I walk into the Depths of Mordor and nearly drop the box on my feet. Because there’s my one ex-boyfriend, Grant Wells, perched on a faded green armchair between stacks of books, in fishnets.
And a corset.
And lingerie.
I freeze in the doorway. The shop’s nearly empty, but in the chairs around Grant, in what I’m realizing is a reading area in the sci-fi section, I notice a couple people I know from school. Abby Fleischman and Charlie Kim are doubled over laughing and cheering Grant on. The bookstore’s only other patron, a ponytailed middle-aged man in a WINTER IS COMING shirt, watches Grant with confusion and concern.
My eyes meet Grant’s. Like someone’s just kneed him in the balls, he emits a strangled squeak and hops off the chair.
I really don’t want to go over there. Not only is the visual of Grant in that outfit deeply disturbing, he inevitably reminds me of the utter disaster of my only previous attempt at dating.
It was an extraordinary lapse in judgment, the kind of regrettable mistake I’ll wish I could forget every day until I’m eighty. Grant Wells is the reason I swore off boys for two years. I went into the relationship without carefully considering the decision—without weighing the guy in question’s practicality, his rightness for me, his possible current girlfriends—and it ended horribly.
We dated for two months during sophomore year. I had flirted aggressively with him while he was dating Hannah Warshaw. Why? I honestly don’t know. He was Brad’s best friend, and it made a certain amount of sense for me to date him while Morgan dated Brad. Morgan specifically didn’t invite Hannah to her sixteenth birthday party, and my white string bikini was too much for Grant to handle. We hooked up in the Jacuzzi. I told Hannah the next day, she dumped him—and he was mine.
The problem was, he never really got over her. I could tell, and it’s possible I reacted badly. I flirted with his friends, I ignored him, and I paraded him in front of Hannah so she’d never want him back. I was pretty much the world’s worst girlfriend. By the time I very publicly dumped him
, I didn’t even recognize myself. I’d become my mother, who clings to her hopeless attachment to my father despite everything, playing petty mind games and pining for affection from a guy with whom it would never work out. After Grant, I decided I would carefully plan the guys I date, to protect myself from obsessing over someone who’s not worth it.
Grant, for his part, fell out with the popular crowd and landed, I guess, with Paige’s friends.
In a corset. And fishnets.
I hope I live to forget the image. I need to make a hasty retreat. I don’t care if Paige wants to press me into indentured servitude in return for her forgiveness.
I’m searching for coffee table space for the sewing machine when the bell over the door rings and Paige hurries in. Before I have the chance to put the box down, she begins rummaging under the lid and pulls out a piece of lacey fabric.
“Okay,” she calls to her friends. “I found the perfect—”
From over my shoulder I hear Abby’s voice, affronted. “Why’s Cameron Bright holding your costume box?” She says my name with a disgust I don’t often hear. Whatever cachet I have with my classmates generally is absent among Paige’s friends.
Paige eyes me, as if realizing I’m an unexpected guest. “Relax, Abby,” she says with an authority I wouldn’t have expected. “She helped me avoid a parking ticket.”
Abby doesn’t reply. I get the sense Paige is kind of the ringleader of her gang.
“You mind plugging that in?” It takes me a moment to realize Paige is talking to me. I guess the tremendous aftershock of the image of Grant hasn’t entirely worn off.
I clear three books off the table—Dune, the covers read—and place the box down beside a figurine of a wizard. I open the lid, then pause. This can’t be cool with the shop. I check behind the counter or in the back for a clerk, but the place is practically vacant.
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