So after school one day, we were walking into 7-Eleven, and I was telling Cam how I was trying to talk my mom into letting me get a cat for my birthday. I know a dog is out of the question, especially in our apartment, but it’s big enough for a cat, and I said I’d even keep the litter box in my room. God, I’d love to have an animal in the house—and it’d be so healthy—it’s a fact, animals are good for your health. Really, I mean, there’ve been so many times when I couldn’t feel anything, or I didn’t feel for a long, long time, but even then, even at my worst, whenever I’d see an animal, I could feel what they were feeling. Like if they were happy, I’d remember how it felt to be happy. And if they hurt, I’d feel hurt. I didn’t tell him that, but then Cam goes, A cat? What kind? And I go, Well, I know we should get a rescue, but I’ve always wanted one of those smoosh-faced ones, what are they called, and he opened the door. A Himalayan, he said, and I go, Yes! I want a Himalayan cat for my sixteenth birthday. In case you were wondering what to get me, I said, walking inside, and he whistled that whistle, like, pricy, because they aren’t cheap, Himalayans, I know.
I went over to get something to drink, and we were horsing around. We have this running joke where Cam says, You know what Socrates said? It’s just something he said once, fixing my computer, because I was just like, You are so brilliant, Cam, and he goes, Well, you know what Socrates said? And then he never told me what he was about to say, because without even thinking about it, I go, Bend over? Totally rude, I know, but it just became our thing. So ever since then, like as a comeback, totally deadpan, Cam would say, You know what Socrates said? And I’d say, You’re killing me, you bunch of dumbfucks, or whatever. So he said it, walking over to the counter to pay, and I was about to answer, when I saw the donation can. You know those cans they have at the register at convenience stores, the ones that have pictures of dogs and cats that have been tortured, starved, burned, and it’s the most awful picture you can imagine? I leaned over the counter, laughing, about to answer, and there it was: a picture of this starving brown Lab who had been set on fire, so all its fur had been burned off its legs, and its skin looked like pink rice paper that’s about to tear—you could see bone and… and I lost it. Instant waterworks, bawling right in front of the guy behind the counter.
Of course the guy was just like, Whoa, what’s going on? So Cam paid and took me outside, pulling me by the arm, and then we stopped and he goes, Babe, what’s going on? And I go, Didn’t you see that can with the dog? I go, Cam, how could anyone do that? I just don’t get it, you know; it’s so fucking awful to do that, and I started sobbing. The worst part was the eyes—the dog’s eyes were so gentle, but so scared, like she couldn’t even trust the person taking her picture. She just wants to love you, but she’s too scared to do that anymore. To do that to such a beautiful creature is truly evil, and I tried saying that, but it didn’t make any sense through my tears. Cam held me, trying to calm me down, stroking my hair and whispering, Shhhh….
The thing is, almost all my life, I used to feel things so strongly, I couldn’t control it. And then, a couple years ago, I don’t know what happened, but everything shut down. It’s like the part of my brain that handles emotion, it bombed—not kidding, my brain bombed, and I couldn’t feel anything. I’m better now, but when I see something like that poor dog, I fall apart.
We got in his car, and Cam handed me a bunch of those little take-out napkins to blow my nose, and I blew. I calmed down, and there were still tears in my eyes, but then I got so angry. I said, That’s just so fucking evil, to set a dog on fire, I can’t even—can’t, I said, locking my jaw to keep from crying again. I know, he said, slowly nodding like he understood exactly what I was saying, but trying to calm me down, because I was getting upset all over again. So then I swallowed back, trying to get a hold of myself. He waited until I could breathe again, and I smiled, like, I’m fine. Really. Then, changing the subject, rubbing my leg, Cam goes, Here’s an idea. How about I take you home and we’ll do something to cheer you up? He meant sex, right? Like he’d cheer me up by having sex with me, oh, lucky me. Which, to be fair, was our plan before I saw the horrible evil dog picture, but still, I was just like, Seriously? I was so annoyed, I snapped, How can you even think about having sex after looking at that picture?
Cam froze—his mouth open, realizing how bad that sounded—knew he was about to get himself in trouble. Then he goes, This is a trick question, right? I looked at him, my mouth hanging open, and he tried smoothing things over, saying, Babe, the way I see it, sex is going to happen sooner or later, so it might as well be—. Uh-uh, I said. I cut him off right there, and I said: The way I see it, babe, sex is not going to happen sooner or later, putting a stop to that. I couldn’t even believe him, you know? He sat back in his seat, and he goes, I’m sorry—I was just kidding, and it was such bullshit, I shot him this look, totally disgusted, and I go, No you weren’t. And Cam said, Well, not at the time, but I am now, and I gave him the look, you know, but I couldn’t help laughing at him, and then, out of nowhere, I almost started crying again.
Cam reached over and put his hand on my cheek, and I said, I’m sorry I lost it; it’s just that there are some really sick fucks in this world, and sometimes I can’t deal with it. Tell me, how… how could anyone do that to an animal? Cam leaned over, grabbing my head, pressing his forehead against mine, and he said, I don’t know, baby. I really don’t know, he said, so I took a breath, one of those trembling breaths, and I was like, Okay. Get a grip, Thea, and I sat up.
Cam pulled out on the highway, then he looked in the rearview, adjusting it, and he goes, What do you feel like doing? And I go, I thought you wanted to have sex, no? He shot me this look, and he goes, For real? I go, No. Psych! I shouted, laughing, and Cam’s face—ohmygod, priceless. Then I said, JYC—you know what JYC stands for? He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile, because he was getting played like the player he is, and I go, Jerkin’ yo’ chain, that’s what! Then I fell over, laughing, and he started paddling my thigh and my butt, slapping me across the seat: oh, I got him good. I’m sorry, I don’t care how smart he is, the mind of a teenage boy? Talk about sick puppy.
MONDAY, MAY 9, 2011
(FIVE WEEKS LATER)
10:47 AM
I forgot how to do this, how to be alone. Every day now, I wake up, and I think, Oh, yeah. I’m alone again. It’s like Saturdays now… Saturday used to pass in the blink of an eye, when I was with Cam. I was always like, Why can’t every day be Saturday? But now, Saturdays just go on and on; the day feels like a week. And Sundays are even worse than Saturdays.
We used to drive, take our little day trips, just get on the road and figure out where we were going when we got there. I remember him saying that the first time he took me for a drive, and I said, Where are we going? And Cam shrugged: Guess we’ll find out when we get there. Sometimes I get caught in class, spacing out, staring out the window, and then Mr. McConnell or whoever will ask a question, knowing I’m a million miles away, or a hundred, at least, and then I’ll look up, snap back, and the whole class will be staring at me, waiting. Strange, how sound comes back at you, like through a wind tunnel, but time…
The other day, I was so far gone, Mr. McConnell couldn’t even believe it. He just looked at me, like, You weren’t even close to hearing what I just said, were you? Then he goes, Would you care to join us, Thea? And I couldn’t answer, because I was so caught off guard, and because what I was thinking was, No, actually, I would not, but I didn’t say it. I just looked at my notebook, and people started giggling, enjoying the fact that I’d been called out.
There was a knock on the classroom door, and Mr. McConnell said, Come in, and every head in class turned to look at me before the door opened: I knew; everyone knew it was for me. I’d seen Linda’s face, peeking around the door, holding up her pink slip like a white flag so many times now, I could tell by looking at her that it was Foley. And because I pulled a runner, I could tell Linda had been told she had to escort
me the whole way back. So I followed, ten paces behind her, back to the office, and we walked in, and she got behind her desk, without looking at me again. Cheesy came out of his office, hearing us, and he looked scared, but like I was the one scaring him, not the other way around. Seriously, people are beginning to look at me like I’m contagious.
Then Cheesy says, Special Agent Foley would like to ask you a couple more questions, Thea. I didn’t even stop. I just nodded yes and walked straight down the hall, heading for the conference room. But then, when I got to the door, I froze, seeing Foley’s silhouette, seated at the table, perfectly framed, like Satan through the frosted glass, and I swallowed, before walking in. When Cheesy stepped up, behind me, I opened the door and walked in, but I didn’t see Foley, all I saw was the black bag on the table, and I froze.
Foley goes, Good morning, Theadora. Please close the door, he said, and I did as he said. I realized my mouth was open, and I couldn’t even shut it, hide it from him. He could tell, too, but he asked anyway, he goes, Do you recognize this bag, Theadora? And I nodded yes, and Cheesy assumed his perch, in the corner, like he was trying to say he wasn’t really there, just act like he’s not there, and Foley said, Where have you seen this bag before? There was something about his tone that made me feel like he might give me a little reward if I just answered a couple questions, so I said, Yes. It’s Cam’s backpack, I said, speaking to the bag, not Foley. It looked deflated and dirty, but it was definitely his. I knew by the band patches he’d sewn on, because they were his dad’s.
I waited for what seemed like forever, until Foley said, We found it yesterday. And I said, Where? He said, In a tunnel, not far from here. Just behind the baseball field, he said, and I bit the inside of my lip. Cam? I said, and Foley said, Unfortunately, there was no sign of John. I looked at him, wondering what he wanted, and he goes, Would you please take a look at the bag, to be sure it’s his? It’s his, I said, and he goes, Please, to be sure, Theadora, meaning he wanted me to search the bag. There’s nothing in the bag now, he said, slowly rotating his thumbs. John’s phone and computer are still missing, as well, he said, then he reversed the direction of his thumbs, waiting on me.
So I unzipped the bag, feeling in each pocket, and—nothing. Like Foley said, there was nothing in it, but I just had this feeling like there was some little animal or spider that was going to bite me. Except for one thing, Foley said, almost smiling, the very second I felt it in my hand. Yes, we did find one thing in the bag, Foley said, and I knew what it was right away, before he said another word. Please, take a look, he said, as I removed my hand, seeing for myself. It was a baseball.
Does John play baseball? Foley asked, and I said, Not that I know of. Foley said, I didn’t think so. But what’s particularly odd is just how old this baseball is, and I looked at him, and then I looked at the baseball. It was really old, like a hundred years old, and it looked handmade. You’ve never seen this baseball before? Foley asked, and I shook my head no. Well, the plot thickens, he said, twirling his thumbs faster, like he was getting excited or something. Thank you, Theadora, he said, grinning at me. Freak.
Just when I thought the man was utterly and completely worthless, Cheesy says, Special Agent Foley, it’s most unusual, isn’t it, letting a piece of evidence be touched like this? Tampering, Cheesy said, remembering the word. Foley nodded, looking at Cheesy, like, what an astute observation. Then Foley said, Indeed, Principal Cheswick, it is most unusual to let a piece of evidence be touched. However, the most unusual part about it is that we now know there are two set of prints on this baseball: one set that belongs to John Cameron Conlon and another set that belongs to… Foley said, smiling at me: Theadora Denny. Technically, there’s been no tampering, seeing as Theadora’s prints match one set on the ball already. Whether or not it was true, Cheesy buckled, and honestly, my whole body went numb.
I have nothing more to say, except that I’ve never seen that ball in my entire life, I said, getting up from the table, and Foley raised a brow, Really, Theadora? he said, standing, and only then did I see that Foley was wearing white cloth gloves, and then he pulled a plastic bag out, from under the table, and he returned the backpack to the plastic bag, clearly marked EVIDENCE.
When I walked out of the conference room, I could barely feel my arms or legs. I turned to go back to class, but it was the first time I’d ever had anything like a panic attack. I mean, seriously, like not being able to move or breathe, even, so I stood there, just staring at the light of the front doors, at the end of the hall, and then the bell rang, and there were kids pouring out, everywhere, some looking at me, like, What’s her problem? but I didn’t care. I don’t know how long I stood there, but long enough that the hall emptied again, and third bell rang, and then I started walking to the front door. And of course there was a voice that said, You can’t do this. Don’t leave. You’re going to get in so much trouble if you cut school again. But I wouldn’t listen, no, I put my hand on the front door, and I opened it, telling myself to shut up.
It was so bright out, I covered my eyes, stepping outside, and I didn’t even have my coat, but I walked down the front steps. I don’t know what I was thinking, but when I got to the football field, no one was there, so I walked to the top of the bleachers, and I started shouting, as loud as I could: Where are you?! Cam, where the hell are you?!
Nothing. Not a sound. Screaming like a tree falling in the forest. My throat hurt, my heart hurt, my head hurt, so I sat down on the top bleacher. Hoarse, sighing, I put my bag down, and stretched out my arms, about to lean back, then I felt something scratchy. I looked, and someone had carved 6001133, big—about six inches long and three inches wide, cut deep, using a pocketknife or something, and I leaned to the side, lifting my butt, and the numbers kept going. I stood up, and they went on and on, all the way down the bleacher. I didn’t know what it was, but I had that feeling again, and I looked at the bleacher below me, and more numbers. I got up and walked to the bottom bleacher, far right, and there it was, starting: 3.1415926… Ohmygod, I covered my mouth with both hands, seeing that the numbers went on and on, all the way across the first bleacher, the second bleacher, the third bleacher, every single bleacher covered in numbers, thousands and thousands of numbers, circling around and around, until I reached the very top again. I didn’t know what the hell it meant, really, but I know π when I see it.
And then I heard his voice in my head, and I got such a chill, I had to cross my arms, nipping out: You do, too, know, Cam said. I’d almost forgotten about that night, the night he took me to the baseball field and he showed me the secret tunnel. After we got back in the car, Cam started to turn over the ignition, and then he changed his mind. Hunching over the steering wheel, he looked up at the hole in the fence, right above our heads. He just stared for like a minute or two, and the look on his face was the same look a little boy has, staring at a dump truck or a crane, lifting beams into the sky: pure joy, you know? Finally, I said, What’re you thinking, boy genius? Cam sat back and he said, Numbers, Thee. Everything, absolutely everything in reality comes down to numbers and codes. Said it once, and I’ll say it again: you break the code; you alter reality. That’s the whole game, right there: just got to hack the code, he said, sitting back, beaming.
Rolling my eyes, I tsk-tsked, because he was basking in his own glory again. Christ, funny how that kept happening. So he raised his brow at me, and he goes, You disagree? I said, Everything, huh? Everything, he said, nodding yes at himself, and I said, Love, too? Is love just a code? He knocked his head backward, and then he goes, Ohhhh! And the crowd goes, Rahhhhhh! Rahhhhhh! he said, cupping his mouth with both hands: Thea Denny, ladies and gentlemen! Thea Denny hits a grand slam, right out of the park! I reached over to slap him with the back of my hand, but he caught my wrist, pulling me across the seat, holding me across his lap. Lying there, in his arms, looking up, I could see it, too, the dark hole in space and time that had Cam so smitten.
Cam kissed the top of my head, and smoothed
my hair, and then he said, You know what pi is? And I said, No, and he gave me a smack on the butt. You do, too. Go on, tell me, he said, and I said, I know the definition, but I don’t know what it means, and he said, Tell me the definition of pi, then, and I said, Cam, please. No more homework—. Tell me, he said, and I could tell he wasn’t going to let it go, so I huffed, but I told him. I said, pi is the circumference of any circle, divided by its diameter, and he said, See? You know! No, Cam, I really have no idea what that means—. You do, Thee. Because pi is math’s greatest love story—it never ends, infinite. Just like you and me, kid.
I could barely breathe, standing there, with my back to the football field, and I looked up, grinning at the sky, despite myself. You smart-ass, I thought, covering my face with both hands, because who else could have done this but Cam? No one: it had to be him. It was crazy—those numbers were completely crazy, but it was so beautiful. Cam always said math was beauty, and I got it—at long last, I got it—I saw how beautiful it is. And seeing Cam right there, plain as day, but nowhere to be found, I was laughing, but I was crying. Same difference.
SUNDAY, JANUARY 30, 2011
(NINE WEEKS EARLIER)
8:11 PM
I can always tell when they’ve had a fight, my mom and Rain Man. Like the second I walk in the door at night, or getting up, first thing in the morning on a Saturday, I’ll know they’ve had a fight, because my mom always broadcasts the fact. Like if I walk in the door and she’s playing Hole or Chrissie Hynde, that’s a good sign: that’s the sign that Mom’s in her I-am-woman-hear-me-roar mode, and we have a fighting chance of her walking away from Raymond once and for all. But if I walk in and she’s listening to the Afghan Whigs, I know I should turn back around and stay away for a couple days, let her burn the song off like a terrible hangover. Seriously, there’s this Afghan Whigs song “My Curse,” that she’ll play over and over and over, all day long, and I just want to bang my head on the wall. Like, Seriously, Mom, have you no shame?
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