Burn

by Suzanne Phillips

  “What’s going on here?” She puts a hand on her hip in her I-mean-business pose.

  “Just a private conversation,” Patterson says.

  “Really?” She doesn’t believe him.

  “Cameron helps us with our math,” Murphy says. “He’s a genius, you know?”

  She thinks about this, looks him up and down. Her lips pucker a little.

  “That true, Cameron?”

  Cameron tries to stand up a little straighter, feels his stomach muscles tug, but he keeps his face from showing it.

  “Yeah. Every word.”

  “I’m not convinced,” she says.

  She moves toward her desk, turns and stares at them, probably wondering what she should do with them. Cameron knows it’s his job to make her believe. He knows what will happen if he doesn’t. He’ll spend the next couple of days waiting to be jumped, pulled into a bathroom, and creamed.

  “It’s true,” he says. “We had a conversation.” When she continues to look at him with doubt making her face all soft and inviting, Cameron puts a little anger in his voice. “I don’t have to like what we were talking about, do I?”

  “No,” she agrees. “So long as it was talk.” Her shoulders give and she tells Cameron to leave first. “You two stay a few minutes.”

  Cameron makes sure his walk to the door is slow, then he stands there, trying to pour cement into his shaking knees as he waits for a break in the crowds flooding to class. He enters the heavy stream after a group of girls and watches their faces, their bright, sunny faces, and open mouths talking and laughing. But all he can think about is how much he hates this school. His hate is a steady roar that fills his ears. He can’t think beyond it, and so he just moves with everyone else.

  “Hey! Grady!”

  Cameron feels his name tug at his consciousness and turns toward it. And looks down. Pinon, the only guy smaller than Cameron at Madison High. The only guy lower on the food chain. Even Cameron doesn’t like him — stands as far away from him as possible in PE class, hoping they won’t be paired up for play. Same thing in Spanish class. Even when the teacher does group them together, Cameron refuses to move his desk, to look at Pinon, or even speak to him. And it’s not just because Pinon is a crybaby, tearing up every time the Red Coats pick on him. It’s because Pinon is the real boy-girl on campus. Or maybe all girl.

  “What did they do to you?” Pinon asks.

  The little guy is bouncing on his toes, like one of those yippy lap dogs.

  “Did they hit you?” he asks.

  Cameron wants to swat him. He gets a picture in his mind of Pinon, smashed against the wall, oozing blood and guts, and smiles. He used to feel bad for the guy, with the two of them being the favorite targets of the jock squad. But that’s all they have in common. Pinon tucks himself into a tight little ball when the Red Coats fall on him. They bat him around a little bit and he cries.

  Cameron stops and looks at Pinon, his thin face, his white-white skin and nervous fingers picking at his shirt buttons. He digs around inside himself for a little compassion and comes up empty.

  “I was just the warm-up. You’re the real show, Pinon.”

  Cameron pushes away from him and starts looking at room numbers. Another tardy will lower his grade; he can’t afford that.

  MONDAY

  9:05AM

  The only part of history Cameron likes is the battles. Not just the ones on the pages of their textbook, but the daily scrimmages Mr. Hart, their teacher, has with Eddie Fain. The boy is disturbed and is in a special room for the rest of the school day. Cameron takes his chair, two rows over from Eddie, and watches him drill a straightened paperclip into the desktop. Mr. Hart is watching, too. When the bell rings, he asks, “Mr. Fain, do you plan to pay for that desk?”

  “My father could. He could buy and sell you, too.”

  He keeps drilling. Last week, Eddie tore the pages out of his textbook, one at a time, for about ten minutes before Mr. Hart asked him if he was going to buy that, too. You have to pace yourself with Eddie. Let him burn off some steam before you pounce on him. Otherwise, he’s scary.

  Cameron watched him pin a senior to a wall and keep him there with his elbow pressed over the guy’s throat while he turned red, then blue, and squirmed like a mouse in the mouth of a cat. And that was Eddie’s reaction to being told he didn’t belong in senior hall — to get out before they moved him out. Eddie wasn’t ready to move.

  Mr. Hart is still working on his timing. He doesn’t have it down yet, just how long Eddie needs before he can be approached. Hart pulls out the tab he keeps on Eddie. He reads it aloud.

  “One plastic student chair — make sure your father gets that in blue; a dry eraser; two dozen dry erase markers; the window we replaced in October; two textbooks; a yardstick; and now a desktop. That brings your total to about four hundred dollars.”

  While Mr. Hart is reading the list, Eddie blows the mound of sawdust from his desktop and begins twisting the piece of metal into the palm of his hand. He draws blood quickly and lets it pool on the desk.

  “You’ll own this school before long,” Mr. Hart says and looks up from his list. “Damn.”

  Cameron thinks, What did Hart expect? Eddie’s father is in prison and any time anyone mentions him Eddie self-destructs. But this is the first time Cameron sees Eddie inflict physical pain on himself.

  “You’re going to the nurse, young man, and then straight to the vice principal.”

  Mr. Hart pulls a pass out of a desk drawer and begins writing on it, changes his mind, and reaches for the phone.

  “It’s Fain,” he says into the receiver. “Destroying school property and himself. Yes. Yes.” He nods. “Come and get him.”

  He hangs up and turns back to Eddie. “Drop that.”

  Eddie looks at Hart, looks at Cameron, and smiles crazily. He digs the paperclip into his palm until Cameron is sure muscle and bone are involved, his eyes wide and burning. No pain, but deep rage the color of fire.

  Cameron feels himself pulled into that, feels the heat from the inside out. He knows he’s a lot more like Eddie than he wants to be.

  The seat between Cameron and Eddie is empty. Mr. Hart gives Eddie a wide berth, a safety zone for others. Cameron leans over, rolls his arm out over the empty desk, palm up, and says, “Give it to me.”

  Eddie thinks about it, the red glow in his eyes cooling, then he shrugs and drops the paperclip into Cameron’s hand. He presses a finger to the hole in his palm and the blood slows, seeps around his fingertip, and drips on the desk.

  Cameron looks at the strip of metal, stained with Eddie’s blood, and feels his Adam’s apple grow until it hurts to swallow. His eyes dry out so that when he blinks he’s sure they’re full of sand, and his hands sweat. All over a paperclip and a little blood. He wants to tell Eddie, You should see what I can do with a book of matches.

  “See ya later.”

  Eddie says it, laughing, then he shrugs his backpack on and meets security at the door.

  “He’s crazy,” says a girl.

  “He’s going to hurt someone,” says another.

  Mr. Hart makes sure the door closes all the way. He pulls the shade down for extra measure, then turns to the class.

  “He’s a danger to himself,” Hart says. “Mr. Grady, throw that in the trash, will you? Then go wash your hands.”

  MONDAY

  1:10PM

  “We’re going to have to adjust the axle. The wheelbase is off.”

  Cameron looks over his shoulder at SciFi, his tech partner. The guy is a foot taller than your average bear and about as friendly. Well, he isn’t unfriendly. Just not easy to be with. Mostly, the guy talks in a language Cameron doesn’t understand. Big, scientific words you don’t hear in high school. The second day into their project — building a car with a computer graphics program, then transferring the knowledge into physical form, using a mini wood kit — Cameron asked SciFi to dumb it down a little for him.

  Cameron clicks the mouse
to save the changes he just made and turns back to the table where SciFi is trying to force the axle into the chassis.

  “That’s not going to work,” Cameron says. “It won’t fit, and even if you do get it to go in, the wheels won’t turn.”

  SciFi blows a stream of air from his mouth, fogging his glasses, then starts speaking scienceese.

  “SciFi.” Cameron snags his attention and gives him the flat face, which is their signal that SciFi is speaking in terms above Cameron’s head. “English.”

  “The axle is too big for the hole we drilled. If we try to drill the hole larger, the wood will splinter and we’ll have to start over. Again.”

  Cameron laughs. SciFi isn’t used to failing at anything scientific. The problem is, the guy is book smart. He’s good with a microscope and a petri dish, as he told Cameron a week into their partnership.

  “I’m going to give you a new nickname,” Cameron says. “Maybe Axle Rose.”

  “I like SciFi.”

  Cameron looks up at him, surprised. “Really?”

  “Really.” He hands Cameron the axle and car chassis. “Now, will you fix this please? We only have two labs left before this project is due.”

  “You ever been late with an assignment?”

  “Never.”

  “You ever get anything less than an A?”

  SciFi shrugs. “I got an F in PE last year. That’s why I’m taking band.”

  “Learning an instrument is easier?”

  “Safer. I broke a toe and three teeth last year,” SciFi explains and taps his front teeth. “Porcelain veneers. My parents are still paying for them. So now I play the clarinet.”

  Cameron laughs the kind of laugh that gets into your belly and zings through your blood. The kind that makes the incident from this morning seem like a long time ago.

  “You’re good for me, SciFi.”

  “I amuse you.”

  “You are a little like that Vulcan dude from Star Trek,” Cameron admits. “You watch Nick At Nite?”

  SciFi nods. “Spock. There are similarities.”

  “It’s not a bad thing, you know,” Cameron says. “Maybe you’ll cure a disease or something. Invent time travel.”

  “I’m better equipped for disease.” He picks up the car and offers it to Cameron. “That is, if I pass this class.”

  “Okay. It’s a fair trade,” Cameron decides. “I’ll be your A and you can keep me laughing.”

  “I’m not a funny guy.”

  “Not on purpose,” Cameron agrees.

  MONDAY

  6:30PM

  “You have to use math,” Cameron explains. He picks up the graph paper with the scale drawing of the rocket Robbie and his friend Danny are trying to build. The figures are wrong.

  “That’s the problem,” Robbie says. “Neither one of us can do math.”

  “You do math every day. Time, money, shape . . .” Cameron balls the paper and tosses it into an empty box. “You need to start over.”

  Danny groans and pantomimes stuffing his head inside an oven. “We’re done,” he says. “We present Monday.”

  “There’s time.” Cameron sits down on a sawhorse drawn up to the workbench in Danny’s garage. “You have to use absolute measurement. Meaning, two boxes in your drawing need to equal one inch on the real thing. That can’t change.”

  Cameron begins to draw, using a ruler to mark a straight edge, and then fills in the lines and angles around it. “You’re going to need to shave off a few inches from the model. The rudder is too long. Same with the fuselage. And the cockpit is too short. You need a new block of wood for that, unless you think you can get away with using clay. It can work like a joint compound. See if you can sell it to your teacher like that.”

  “You’re a genius,” Danny says.

  “Einstein,” Robbie agrees.

  “Can you mark where we need to make the new cuts?”

  “You can do it yourself.” Cameron stands up and slides the ruler to Robbie. “Remember, two blocks on the paper equals one inch on here.” He taps the rocket.

  Cameron watches them measure and cut, using a plane. They sand the rough edges and the pieces slip into place, all but the cockpit.

  “I’ll pick up some Roger’s Glue. The astronauts use it to bond things in space,” Danny says.

  “Where are you going to get that?”

  “I saw it at Home Depot. I think if we can show we went out of our way to use the stuff NASA uses, it’ll get us some points.”

  “Yeah,” Robbie agrees. “Maybe Stubbs won’t think we’re idiots.”

  “Well, my work here is done,” Cameron says. He pushes off the sawhorse and walks toward the front of the garage. “You ladies call me if you need more help.”

  “Wait up.” Robbie tells Danny he’ll see him tomorrow, then scoots after his brother.

  Cameron doesn’t wait. His mom sent him to get Robbie, but he’s not his brother’s keeper. Besides, Robbie is too old and too big for a babysitter.

  Cameron picks up his bike, slides onto the seat, and starts pedaling. Dusk disappeared a long time ago. The sky is black and wet, dripping with mist. The streetlights are on and in their cone-shaped light moths flutter their wings and bake.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Robbie says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not pissed off.”

  “I’m always pissed off.”

  “Lately,” Robbie agrees.

  TUESDAY

  10:20AM

  Cameron’s sneakers hit the hardwood floor. His knees absorb the impact, stay strong, propel him forward. This is where he belongs. Too bad his grades stink. He wanted to go out for track. He’s a pretty good sprinter, better at middle distances. He’d have done okay. He’d be a winner, no doubt about it. No one can get close to him. There are a lot of jocks in his PE class, some even on the track team, but Cameron is so far ahead of them he can’t even feel them. And when he turns the next corner, he can see he’s closing in on the last of the pack, and the middle’s not out of reach. Rich Patterson, loping like a giraffe, and his sidekick Murphy lead the group of stragglers. Patterson may be good at holding the line in football, but he’s slow and awkward. Bulky. All that muscle weighs him down. In a pool, he’d sink to the bottom.

  Cameron smiles at his thoughts. He wouldn’t jump in to save the guy and not just because he’s the enemy. Patterson picks on a lot of kids. None as much as Cameron. Still, his death would be a public service.

  Cameron finds this so funny he snorts a little as the breath leaves his nose.

  He’s losing focus. He’s not supposed to hear his breathing. He’s not supposed to recognize faces in the crowd. When Cameron runs, everything becomes a blur, except the goal. It’s called tunnel vision. The best athletes have it. It’s how they win the gold. When Cameron runs the lake path, the water, the trees, the birds become just splotches of background color.

  Running is good for him. Cleans out his mind. Flushes the anger from his body. Breathing hard, his chest feels almost transparent. And his lungs, past burning, sing with accomplishment. It’s a good thirty or forty minutes before memory comes rushing in and he’s that Cameron again. Patterson’s favorite target, the failing student, the difficult son.

  Cameron feels his pace slow. His joints grow sticky and he realizes his focus is on Patterson. His square head bobbing on his thick neck. The guy’s beefy arms bowed and stiff. A patch of sweat darkens his red T-shirt. Cameron stares at the guy’s back, at that patch of sweat, like it’s a bull’s-eye. If he had aim, if his hands didn’t shake, he could put a bullet right through that patch of sweat and into Patterson’s heart. Game over, just like that.

  He was doing just fine until Patterson happened to him. He used to wake up in the morning, roll out of bed, think about the things he wanted to talk to Steve about. Imagine the shirt Helen Gosset, his lab partner in his physical science class, would wear that day; try to guess the color. Eat breakfast. Make sure his homework was in his back
pack.

  He doesn’t do any of that anymore.

  He wakes up with an elephant on his chest.

  He wakes up gasping for air. Like he’s doing now.

  His legs feel heavy.

  Don’t do this, Cameron tells himself. Don’t let him take this from you, too.

  He lifts his knees, putting enough of his mind behind the motion that his body loses the flow.

  He never thinks about running.

  To think about running is death.

  Focus. FOCUS. FOCUS.

  Cameron tears his eyes away from Patterson. Sifts through the crowd of runners. A dark head, some kid Cameron doesn’t really know. He lets his eyes fall on him; he’s just far enough ahead that Cameron has a slim chance of pulling even with him, of overtaking him. And that’s what this is about. Running the fastest he can; outrunning the fear, the anger that would eat him up and spit out his bones if he let it.

  This is about control.

  Cameron clenches his fists. He picks up speed. The sound of his feet hitting the gym floor gains distance. The rush of his breath in and out of his lungs becomes all he can hear, and that comes from the inside. He’s back inside himself. No sharp edges, just rhythm and speed.

  Cameron rounds the next corner and hears the coach call out, “Five!”

  He’s run five laps. He has three to go. A half mile today.

  He knows it’s best to wait until there’s two laps to go before he bursts out of his current pace, puts all he has into the finish, but he’s suddenly gained the back of the pack, is weaving around kids, pulling to the outside, away from swinging elbows.

  “Six, Cameron!”

  His thighs burn. He’s lightheaded, like he’s standing at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro with the air so thin it whistles in his chest. He digs deeper. There’s always more. Every time he looks for it, works it, stretches himself until he thinks he’s going to snap, it rises up inside him, carries him through. He’s never left empty-handed.

  The kid with the dark hair is either slowing down or Cameron has more in him today than he’s had before, because he’s pulling alongside him.