Cameron and the Girls

by Edward Averett

  I look quickly at Dr. Simons and then back over to my mom.

  “What are you talking about?” she says. “That’s preposterous. A thirteen-year-old can’t consent to this.”

  “Oh yes, he can,” I say.

  My mom rolls her eyes and says, “Dr. Simons, will you please set him straight?”

  “Actually, he’s right.”

  “But kids Cameron’s age can’t make that important a decision. They’re not mature enough.”

  “In some ways, I agree with you. For example, if they are at risk of doing harm to themselves or others. But otherwise they can.”

  “But he lives under our roof,” my mom complains. “He lives by our rules.”

  “I understand that,” the doctor says. “And that’s a different issue.” He starts rubbing his fingers rapidly. “All I’m saying is that if you were in a court of law, the law would say Cameron can make up his own mind.”

  “But look at his mind—” Mom starts to say, but realizes it’s mean and clamps her mouth shut.

  “I am perfectly okay,” I say. “Really, I am. Whatever it was that caused that thing to happen is all gone now.”

  “Cameron,” says Dr. Simons. “We really need to talk about this. You are aware that you have been a sick young man, and this disease is not likely to remit so quickly.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we talked before about how this could get out of hand for you again and how the best thing for you may be to have a consistent medication regimen to keep it under control.”

  I nod. “The earlier you catch it, the less severe the symptoms are.”

  “Well, I might as well not be here,” my mom says, getting up from her chair. She heads for the door, already pulling the cell phone out of her pants and pushing buttons.

  When she is gone, Dr. Simons faces me. “This is very serious business you’re involved in here, Cameron. Very serious.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I don’t want any more shots. They make me feel like I’m not a real person. I don’t want to feel weird anymore.”

  Dr. Simons smiles and scratches above his ear. “I understand what you’re saying. But you know who your mother is talking to out there? Your father. I predict he will come home from work early today to have a conversation with you about this. He will try to talk you out of your decision.”

  “Is it really true, Doctor, what I said? That I can make up my own mind?”

  “Yes, it is ultimately true, Cameron. But with it comes a great responsibility. The state is asking you to take the best care of yourself that you possibly can. Do you feel up to doing that?”

  I nod again. “And then some.”

  “Here’s what I’d like to do. I’d like to keep prescribing you the medication. You seem reasonably good right now, so I won’t insist that you have an injection. But I want you to continue to take the pills. Will you do that for me, Cameron?”

  I bring my fingers up to my chin.

  Sometimes adults are almost too easy.

  “It will show you’re willing to take the responsibility necessary to keep this thing under control,” the doctor says. “And it will help calm down your parents.”

  “Sure I will,” I say, hoping my face is as straight as it can be. I stand up to shake the doctor’s hand. When I leave, I can almost feel the clouds leaving my head. And now, I’m floating on them.

  Fourteen

  All the way home, Mom cannot stop talking about how if my dad hadn’t been training a new guy, he would have come home early and set my thinking straight. She says she is going to ask around and see if she can find a different therapist for me, one who appreciates the needs of the parents as well. All the while, I look out the window and think the day is sunnier than normal.

  Dr. Simons is right about the pills, though. When we get home and I stand on my side of the car and uncap the little amber bottle, shake one out in my hand, and then throw it to the back of my throat, it does seem to soothe Mom.

  “Do you want me to keep track of those for you?” she asks, holding out her hand.

  “No,” I say. “The doctor says I need to do it myself.”

  Her eyes narrow, and I can see her chewing on the inside of her cheek, but she goes in the house without saying another word, and that in itself spells victory as I spit the pill onto the driveway and grind it with my shoe.

  I take off toward the barn. As I climb, I think winning the battle with my mom has made me more philosophical. Maybe each of us can live only inside our heads, and that’s the reason we can’t always get along because our world looks different from the world of the guy next to us. And maybe it’s a waste of time to try to explain our world to the next person because he’ll just never really get it.

  “Live a day inside my brain,” I say out loud.

  I am tramping through my brain and the high weeds so much that I lose track of time, and that is why my dad surprises me when he comes sneaking up on me.

  “What do we have here?” he asks. He still wears his blue baseball cap and his dirty work jeans. Dust has collected on the oily surface of his steel-toed boots.

  “Hanging,” I say.

  “Looks to me like you might be talking to somebody who’s not there,” Dad says, his eyebrows lifting.

  “I know Mom’s mad at me,” I say, getting the jump on him.

  “Yeah, she gave me an earful. Is it true what she says? Have you gone and decided to stop with the meds?”

  “No,” I say.

  “I can barely see you, Cam. Come on out of there.” He steps back as I wade through the grass. Then he whistles when he sees my clothes are soaked.

  “I’m just—”

  “Do you even care if you catch pneumonia?”

  Him too?

  “Dad.”

  “Cam?”

  “I do care and I don’t,” I say.

  Dad looks like I stepped on his last nerve. “You want my opinion? Never mind, you’re going to get it anyway. My opinion is that you don’t mess with your head. If it’s soft, you wear a helmet. It’s the most precious thing you’ve got. You take chances with it and come up wrong, it’s a permanent loss. You can’t go around as if nothing matters. That’s what I think.” He twists on his heel and takes off. Right before he turns at the barn, he stops and waves me over. “She’s a mess, Cameron. I want you to go apologize to her.”

  “I’m coming,” I say.

  I always feel small next to my dad, but most times it doesn’t matter. Now it does. I feel his big, looming presence as we stop under the apple tree. Dad looks up into the branches. “I want you to promise me one thing, Cam,” he says. “I want you to promise me you won’t let it get all out of control.”

  “I promise,” I quickly say.

  “No. I mean, really promise, not just say something to get me off your back. The last thing I want is your mother to get hurt.”

  “Yes,” I say vigorously. “I promise.”

  My dad looks like he’s about to go, but he changes his mind. “Do you think it’s possible you could be over all this soon?” he asks.

  “I want it to be over, Dad.”

  Dad looks to the distant field past the barn. “I don’t understand it, that’s all,” he says. “I mean, we’re good people. We try to do the right thing. That’s true, isn’t it? I mean, you haven’t been doing things in secret like killing animals and skinning them out behind the barn, have you?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “You’re not doing drugs, are you?”

  Might be.

  “Dad.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I wish they could find the answer to this thing.”

  “I promise,” I say again.

  He looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “Maybe the next time I go to the gym you could tag along with me.”

  “I could try,” I say.

  Now Dad smiles and reaches out, rubbing the top of my head. “Get down there and apologize,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say.


  On my way to the house, I hear:

  One shouldn’t be so certain about a voice one doesn’t really know.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I mean, a path that seems clear can very soon become tangled.

  “I’m getting kind of tired of you,” I say.

  At school, Nina and I reach the lunch table just ahead of Griffin. He tries to sit next to us, but I block him. “Nina wants to talk to just me,” I say.

  Nina nods and Griffin sits at the next table facing us. He wears a big frown and I feel guilty.

  But Nina and I had that moment at her house, and today I want only her. “I’m glad you’re back,” I say to her. She looks different, brighter and happier somehow.

  “Me too,” she says. She cocks her head to one side. “You don’t look like a guy who had a shot yesterday.”

  “I’m not,” I say happily.

  She nods her approval. “Good one, my man. You’re actually growing a pair.”

  I bite into a pig in a blanket and then tell her how I talked Dr. Simons into doing what I wanted.

  “You’re getting brave,” she says. “Forget about a pair; I think you grew three of them.”

  A piece of bread bounces off my head, and I look over to see Griffin grinning.

  “Please, Griff,” Nina says without turning.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing for us,” I say. “It’s our bodies. It’s our brains. Shouldn’t we be able to do what we want with them? Even my dad says we have to do what’s best for our heads.”

  A smile breaks on her face. “You know, you and I make a pretty good team.”

  “A pretty good team,” I say.

  Fifteen

  The next day at school, Nina and I sneak down the hall toward the central office. Here, as always, the regular students are making their way to their next classes. We pause at the corner and watch them.

  “They don’t look too different from the kids in our class,” Nina says.

  Although today I’m not afraid of them, I do feel for the first time a kind of envy. Maybe, I think, maybe someday I can walk among them.

  “At my last school, I was in the regular classes,” Nina says.

  “How was it?”

  “Better than anything,” she says. “I mean, the kids are still the same jerks, but for me it was nice just knowing I was one of them.”

  “So how come you’re not still one of them?” I ask.

  She turns and starts walking back to our class. “You already know the answer to that.”

  At lunch, Nina and I quickly eat and then go outside. The air is cool and humid, but it hasn’t rained for hours. Groups of students walk around the parking lot; some stand in small knots, talking. Here and there, a single student sits on the steps, reading. It is not common for kids in my class to join in, but I feel different now.

  “You want to?” I say. And it’s as if she knows what I’m saying.

  So we start walking around the lot. When we finish one lap, we end up near our classroom.

  “You want to do another?” Nina asks me.

  “Nah.”

  “You want to go out to the track?”

  I look out past the wood shop. “Okay.”

  We walk slowly, and when we’ve gone behind the shop, Nina slips her arm into mine. I look down on it but don’t say anything. We reach the rubberized track. It feels cushiony below my shoes.

  “Can I ask you something?” Nina asks. “Have you heard from that girl lately?”

  “No,” I say.

  Her body relaxes next to mine. She hooks her arm in closer.

  “She doesn’t talk all the time?”

  “Not really.”

  “That might not be a bad thing,” she says. “But sometimes I wish I had someone to talk to. I know I can talk to you, but I mean, all the time. Even when I’m at home.”

  I think about The Girl and try to remember the last time we talked. I can’t. The only one I’ve heard from lately is The Other Guy. Even though I’m with Nina, I now feel lonely. Why can’t the good times last longer?

  “But I really like the times we talk to each other,” Nina continues. “It’s just good to have a best friend. Funny that it turns out to be a boy. I have a problem making friends with girls. Do you have a problem making friends with boys?”

  “Except for Griffin, I don’t make friends with anybody very well.”

  “Do you think . . .” Nina starts to say, then clears her throat and continues. “Do you think we could maybe go out sometime?”

  I stop. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Cam. Don’t make me ask twice. Just answer the question.”

  “Well.” I’ve never been faced with this question before and it tugs. “You know. I already have a girlfriend.”

  Nina pulls on me and we start walking again. “Cameron, don’t take this wrong, but because we’re such good friends, I can say this. You and I both know she’s not real.”

  I walk on, dejected. Something about what Nina says seems like treason. “Your reality is not my reality,” I say.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” She jerks on my arm a little to try to get me to laugh, but I walk stiffly around the track until the buzzer sounds for the end of the lunch hour.

  As we walk toward the back door, two of the regular girls spy us, arm in arm. “Hey, look at the love nuts,” one of them says.

  The rest of the afternoon, I sit in class, trying to make my head stay clear. I have important questions to ask The Girl, such as what is Nina doing asking me out; why does she want to walk around as if she’s my girlfriend; and why is it that kids need to say things like those girls said to Nina and me.

  Nina turns and raises her eyebrows. Now I think her eyebrows are very pretty. She quickly scribbles something down and passes it to me.

  Forget what those stupid pigs said, it says.

  I write back, Okay.

  Griffin is missing when Mrs. Owens comes into class. She glances at me and I feel the heat.

  “I think we need to have a little talk,” she says to the whole class. When everyone is settled, she leans against the side of her desk. “I know it’s hard for everyone to know that you are members of this class. I told you that on the first day. I hear what other students say, and I think I know how it feels on the inside when you hear it. But please, don’t allow that to make wrong decisions for you. Please. Those of you who take medications take them for a reason. They keep you as healthy as possible. If you decide that medications are not for you, that may not be what’s best. I’ve called Griffin’s parents, and they will be taking him home. He needs a rest.”

  We nod our heads as a unit. We’ve been through this before. At least once a month, one of us is sacrificed to the gods of reason.

  “Is it safe?” asks the little rabbit girl in the back of the class. She barely rises above the top of her desk and wrinkles her nose like a bunny.

  “Of course it’s safe, Amy,” says Mrs. Owens. “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “It seems like there’s something wrong,” Amy answers back.

  “Griffin’s freaking,” Nina says.

  “Now, Nina,” says Mrs. Owens. “Let’s try to use correct language, shall we?”

  “Freaking is part of the language,” Nina says.

  Mrs. Owens lets out a big, long breath and crosses her arms. “I think you know what I mean, Nina.”

  They go on for a minute, but I try to block them out. I don’t like banter. It makes claws in my brain that scrape against my skull. Their voices start out strong but now are like ants’ voices. One ant arguing with another. I can’t take it anymore. I track the words as they rise out of my stomach like a hot geyser and then spew forth.

  “He’s just trying to be who he really is!” I shout. “That’s all!”

  The whole class quiets down. Mrs. Owens’s face drains of color. Nina turns in her seat and wrinkles hers. The little rabbit girl cowers under her desk.

  “Cameron
?” Mrs. Owens tries cautiously.

  “That’s all,” I say, more quietly.

  If you are a danger to yourself or others, then it is not a good idea to take your life into your own hands.

  I have read in the library about what he is saying, but I prefer to ignore The Professor’s advice. I am different from Griffin. I can handle this taking my life into my own hands. I am excited. Two voices back and one to go. And she is the one I can’t wait to hear from again.

  But this time it has to be different. This time I have to be careful and smart. If I am, then I can have a girlfriend who loves only me. I can stop taking my meds. I can act like the kids in the regular classes. Other kids will respect me. And I can kiss all this craziness goodbye.

  A spark has ignited in me that will never be put out. I can make up my own mind.

  Sixteen

  When I wake up, I feel like I’m in a straitjacket. The covers are wound around me, and my chin is practically touching one knee. I’m a giant version of what grows inside an egg. I suck in a deep breath and then another before I unravel and stand on my bedroom floor.

  I wander out in the hall and pause at the top of the stairs. When I look down, they seem to get smaller and smaller and never end. It’s scary and I hoof it to the bathroom.

  I stand in front of the mirror and study myself under the low, buzzing fluorescent light. It makes my skin look pale and sickly. The whites of my eyes are clotted here and there with tiny yellow yolks.

  My life is in my own hands now. Every move I make, it seems like I have to really think it through. When I stand in front of the toilet with the Risperdal in my hand, do I flush it down, or do I pop it in my mouth? I wasn’t expecting this dilemma. Isn’t freedom supposed to feel free? Just before the water goes swishing away, I drop the pill in.

  I hear the phone ring downstairs, and in a moment Mom calls up to me. “Cam! It’s that girl!”

  I hold my breath as a wave of pleasure washes over me. That girl? I forget my fears for a moment, break out of the bathroom, and drum down the stairs in my boxers. Mom holds the phone out, a frown hanging on her lips.