by Anne Eliot
“It is wrong,” Ellen agrees.
I don’t say anything because I would only agree.
“And then, Cam,” Ellen asks, turning her ankle around and around again, making me wonder if she needs to warm up her leg before standing. “Maybe—after the game tomorrow—you can find some time to…to…” She shoots me a tentative look. “To help me run some practice shots down here after the game. What do you think? Will you have time? Maybe we could also do some on Monday, before the bonfire? Anyone? Or am I being too greedy with everyone’s time?”
My throat tightens up, as does my chest. The way she just said my name with that hitch in her voice is crumbling all resolve to stop my crush, because it’s rained goose bumps down the back of my spine in a way I think might never fade away. Worse, the way she just asked me for help is filling me back up with the buckets of hope that I’ve just dumped out!
My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Uh. Hang on…I don’t know…” I read the texts. It’s my dad: Camden. You have about two minutes to drive my golf cart back into our garage.
Mom texts me a bunch right at the same time: Cam.
Your dad is on one of his psycho rampages.
Is he texting you?
Ignore him. He’s lost his mind. Again.
Ellen says, “Yeah, but it’s a holiday so…I thought…it’s okay. I understand. You guys have bigger families than I do. My mom’s working so I’ll just come alone.”
I avoid looking up from my phone and say, “I thought I’d only promised today then Sunday’s starting next week, that’s all. Hang on…I’ve got to reply to this.”
I decide to ignore my mom’s text and answer Dad first in an attempt to try to calm him down: Mom said it was cool to borrow the cart. I needed it to help Ellen Foster get to the beach. Remember? My community service project?
Dad: Your mother’s an idiot. I never once said you could use my cart as some sort of a handicapped mobility service!
Don’t let that damn girl in my cart.
I don’t have the liability insurance needed should she fall out and sue us.
What is wrong with you?
You need to think about things like this!
I roll my eyes—as if I’m always wandering around thinking about my parents’ insurance policies and how they apply to the people I hang out with? And did he really call his golf cart a handicapped mobility service?
Laura makes a face at the buzzing phone in my hand. “Your phone’s exploding!”
I glance up at her, still in the tree and answer, “Yeah. Well. I need to make some weekend plans with…other people. You know?”
“Oh. Must be big plans, huh? Room for any of us in those plans, wee-laddie?” She sounds so hopeful.
I shake my head, staring back down at my phone, making sure to turn it away so none of them can see the crazy coming in. “Well…you know. It’s not what you think. You guys wouldn’t like it…”
Patrick leans back in his seat in the cart and stretches his legs out the side. “Laura, that means we aren’t quite popular enough.”
“It does not!” I protest, glancing at Ellen, who’s biting her lip, watching me way too closely. Her expression has gone from open and smiling to shuttered and wary.
“Well, they sure seem excited,” Laura grumbles. “I’d like the chance to see if I could quite fit?”
The phone buzzes a bunch more times.
Mom again: That cart is half MY golf cart.
Not just HIS.
And you can use it for whatever you want.
I gave you permission and you can use it as long as you want, too. And text your father that HE needs to respect me.
Dad again: Son, if your mom is giving you ANY other directions, she’s out of line. She doesn’t even play golf so the cart is NOT hers. I will personally march down to the willow beach and drive that cart out of there myself if I have to. And if there is ONE crippled kid, or any of your friends’ crap or any crumbs or ONE BIT of lake sand or water gumming up my custom leather seats and my brake rotors, heads will roll.
I’m walking out to the driveway.
Two. Minutes. I’m getting the hose out of the garage and you are going to wash the whole damn cart top to bottom, and re-wax it, even if it takes all damn night!
I shake my head and pocket the phone. I guess if I can’t remember to squelch my crush on Ellen, my awesome parents are a slap-in-the-face reminder why I have to keep her sweetness as far away from my house as possible. I try to keep my face all smooth and collected as I leave my seat to stand under Laura, but my heart’s thumping with dread that my dad really will make good on his threat and come down here and humiliate me.
“Ireland, pass me down the camera, would you? My dad, he’s—a complete—” I stop and hold back the words I want to say, and go with: “He needs his golf cart back.” Then I layer in a lie. “As for the rest of the weekend plans, I promise next time, I will try to get you guys all…invited to stuff. But you do know everyone can come to the bonfire on Monday,” I add, deciding it’s better they think the worst about me than to know the truth.
Laura hands down the camera, pouting at my answer as I walk back to the cart. Heart pounding now, I check to make sure my dad’s nowhere in sight as I calmly run my hand over the leather seats to make sure there are no visible muffin crumbs or sand before I climb into the cart. Patrick gets out, shooting me a glare and grabbing his bag and Ellen’s stuff as well. “Can you make sure Ellen gets home okay?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “We’re good with or without you in the plan, dude. Always have been and always will be.” Patrick’s frowning and totally pissed off which is ridiculous because he’s the one who hammered in the points as to why I need to keep my distance from Ellen.
I’m just getting on board with what he wants and now he’s pulling this act?
I dart a glance at Laura who’s climbing down from the tree, looking all concerned and bewildered. I hear her whisper to Ellen, “Are they fighting…or what?”
“Who knows?” Ellen whispers back. “Patrick’s always moody.”
“Cam—you didn’t answer,” Ellen shouts out, my name catching in the back of her throat, bringing on the goose bumps and longing all over again. “Cam…can you? Help me? Tomorrow? After the game? Please?”
My phone’s exploding in my pocket. “Sorry. I’m—not sure yet. Maybe,” I say, working with all my might not to look at her face, hoping the word maybe will be enough to not make her sad when I don’t—can’t—won’t—text her later. “Either way, I’ll see you guys at the game and I’ll let you know my schedule there,” I add, driving the cart up the pathway as quickly as possible.
I can feel my heart trying to beat again while I use the idea of my dad standing in our driveway with his hands on his hips ready to shout at me to battle back all the images I’ve saved inside my head of Ellen Foster smiling at me today.
As each one flips by, my stomach is trying to ram into my throat and I realize that even if I could get the images of Ellen’s face out of my head, I’m never ever going to be able to remove the sound of her voice calling my name: Cam…can you? Help me. Tomorrow? After the game…
I know I’m not going to be able to say no to her. Not after she ended with, please.
ellen
Laura jumps up, raining her micro-glitter onto my dark jeans. “I’m off to get one of those slushy drink things before the game starts. You want one?”
“No, thanks.” I smile, admiring how she’s able to skip-hop down the few, half-empty bleacher rows in front of us so easily. She moves like a little cat. Or, should I say tiger, because she’s wearing her top-to-bottom orange and black striped school spirit outfit today. And, just like last time, she’s pulling it off like it’s the most fashionable, amazing set of mixed up stripes ever.
I�
��ve decided Laura’s the closest thing to a living comet I’ll ever meet. Everyone’s always staring at her because she’s extra bright and obviously from a far away place so they can’t look away. I know I can’t. She’s lucky, too. Instead of how it is when people stare at me because I walk funny or tumble and fall, they’re simply captivated.
She’s paused now to execute some professional looking ballet spins on the first row of the flat bleacher seats. Because of course, living comets also know how to do perfect ballet spins and are not embarrassed or shy in front of crowds of onlookers. If this girl grew a unicorn horn in the middle of her forehead right now, everyone would simply say, ‘wow’ or ‘I told you so’ and get on with admiring her ways.
I snap a quick photo with my iPhone and text it off to Patrick’s mom. The poor lady picked us up early and got us to the game as promised, but instead of staying, she was called in to work which is only one block from here. Before she left, she gave me the keys to her car for Patrick to drive us around, and I promised to keep a photo-text record of every minute she’s missing.
I know Patrick’s going to be so happy about this turn of events, mostly because he’ll be thrilled to have the chance to have his mom’s car so he can dump me off first, then take a really long time driving Laura home. Patrick does his best scheming on girls while they’re buckled next to him like sitting ducks in a car’s passenger seat. He loves a captive audience so he can flex his biceps while he grips the steering wheel.
I call out, “Order the red shush drink, not the blue raspberry flavor. The blue stays for hours and hours.” I tap my lips.
“Really?” She waggles her brows so high they are lost in the mop of curling, sparkling, blonde bangs sticking out of her tiger beanie. “I’m so in for bright blue lips.”
“Your funeral.” I laugh, tugging at the flap of hair hanging out of my own beanie and pulling my braid to the side. “At least the red color slightly looks like lipstick.”
“Trollops wear bright red lipstick. And Luna and Thumbelina are notoriously known as the good girls, right?”
I laugh.
Skipping away, she calls back up to me. “Blue or bust, Ellen! You’ll see. I shall be magnificent with blue lips.”
“I’m sure you will,” I answer, but she’s long gone.
The bleachers in front of and behind me are filling up fast. I move our stuff all the way to the side, making sure Laura and I secure the seats on the very far edge. Laura tried to make us sit way up top, but sadly, I’ve never sat that high. For bleachers, I always need the second or the third row and always the outside edge—if they’re the kind that don’t fence you in at the edges—that is. At our school stadium, third row up is exactly the right height. The edge is perfect for me to swing my legs off the end and let gravity help me stand easily if there’s an emergency or something. At first Laura didn’t understand, but once she saw me tripping up the small steps to row three, she ramped in quickly and stopped begging me to go higher.
In movie theaters, I have to be dead center so I don’t have to stand and topple around every time someone has to go to the rest room or for more candy. Either way, center or far edge, once the people crowd in, I get kind of stressed because I can’t move very much. I’m already regretting coming to this game because I can feel my left side—arm to ankle— stiffening. This is because I’ve had to use it extra to balance myself upright. Without seat backs to lean on, I get tired pretty fast. I also have not had a drop of anything to drink since I woke up, not even milk in my cereal. Saying ‘no’ to Laura’s slushy offer actually hurt. Years of assemblies, pep rallies, and the few sporting events I’ve been forced to attend in my life have taught me that I really don’t want to do my stiff-sided-lurch-walk to the rest room with a whole crowd staring down at me.
Especially not every darn kid from my entire high school.
And, thanks to the fact there is nothing amazing to do in Brights Grove, Ontario once it’s too cold to swim in the lake (and not counting trips to the awesome Tim Hortons at the edge of our two block town) the whole planet seems to be present for today’s playoff game. Whatever that means—heck yeah—I’m determined to stay put, and stay thirsty until this game is over.
I track Laura as she returns from the snack bar and almost crack up watching her shove her face all over the horrible blue icy treat. Forget blue lips. That girl’s going to have a blue face-mask! I see Patrick run up, holding his helmet under his arm to talk to her. In less than two seconds he’s laughing and jumping out of her way as she presents the overflowing, blue ice drink to him. From this distance he seems so huge next to her, like a gladiator meeting a firefly! Laura shoves her face deep into her slushy drink again and even from here I can see that Patrick’s charmed and acting all awkward. She laughs as Patrick jumps back a second time. A slosh of blue gunk goes flying because she’s shoving the thing at him again! She must want him to take a bite.
*Tries NOT to wonder where Cam Campbell is right now. Tries harder NOT to wonder if Cam would also look extremely tall and extra handsome standing next to me in his football gear.*
I shake my head to push that one away. Because…of course I don’t care how he looks next to me…of course I don’t. Besides, in my case, Cam would be like…like…sexy Captain America standing next to a snail with a cracked shell. I’m not magical like Laura is, nor will I ever be. I’m…just me.
“Who left you here all alone? Are you okay?” Cam’s low voice shimmers down my spine and I wonder if I’ve dreamed the sound of it, saying exactly the words I wish he’d say to me right now.
“Captain America…” shoots out of my mouth as I startle and topple backwards, but before I butt-slide and crash into the bleacher behind me, his arms shoot out and pull me back to center. Once I get my bearings, I realize Cam’s standing right in the center of the space between the bleachers, blocking my emergency escape route and looking up at me.
“Sorry to startle you.” He grins. “Thought you saw me, and…you just called me Captain America.”
“I did.” I cover, blinking calmly. “Because you look so suited up and—ready—to go.” Before he can answer that lameness, I flip topics. “And of course I’m okay. I’m always okay.” It’s a fib but I’ve got to do something to play off the part where he obviously caught me being not okay.
“Of course.” He nods, agreeing with my lie.
His gaze travels over me—my face—all of me. I know it’s my turn to talk, but instead I’m hit with a wave of tongue-swallowing awkwardness. I can hardly hold my expression steady because—wow.
My eyes have just gone all over him! Over and over and over and over and, wow.
I thought I’d be used to him after last week but…who knew that football pads really accented all the muscle-spots on a guy in such a good way? I want to reach out tap my knuckles against his new, park-a-bus-here shoulders. I also want to examine his calves in—is he wearing knee socks? And are they surprisingly cute? And…are those football pants actually very tight leggings?
He leans in, thankfully breaking my view. “Would it be hard for you to scoot over so I can sit for a second? I’ve only got a few minutes before my dad shows up.” He glances at the field. “I need to get out of Coach’s line of sight because I’m supposed to be heading to the bathroom. It’s the only reason he let me walk over in this direction because the rest room over here is closer than the one in the men’s locker room.”
“Uh…yeah…okay.” I tear my eyes off his—whole body—and try to figure out the best way to ‘scoot’ without looking like a fool, or without having to say words like: My CP doesn’t really allow me to scoot so, please hold while I fumble around and figure it out?
He squeezes close as though he thinks the way I’m leaning to the right is going to allow him to hoist himself up next to me in the space I’m supposedly about to provide to him. But of course I’m nervous. And o
f course my whole left side is refusing to obey any commands as I knew they would! I try one last time but as I hear him pulling up on to the bleacher, I turn back to admit my defeat, but he’s full speed ahead. That’s when I’m gifted a nice, smack-whack into my face with his shoulder pad.
*Decides that looking at shoulder pads is way more interesting than feeling them.*
My head’s ringing. From somewhere nearby, but very far away he’s saying, “Whoa. Hey. Crap! Did I get you? I’m sorry—whoa there—”
I’m not going to lie about the fact that I’m seeing stars as the world tilts. I know I’m heading for some sort of unstoppable plank-to-the-side type fall so I brace for it, but then he’s got me. He’s blocking out the sun overhead and pulling me close—so close I can’t breathe.
Not because my head kind of aches but because he—his face—it’s so darn beautiful.
“Ellen. I’m sorry,” he whispers like he’s afraid to startle me again…or maybe because he doesn’t want anyone to hear or notice that he’s stuck holding an empty headed rag-doll?
*Repeats: Ellen, I’m sorry. Adds in the all important question that comes up in my head at times like this: Why, God? Why?*
Since I’ve got no answer, I decide to count one set of those attractive little smile-crinkles next to his eyes. I’m so close, and even though he’s not smiling at all, I can see there’s at least six…or seven…possibly ten of them, if you count the tiny ones…
And then, I’m back. Upright in my seat all over again like none of that just happened. Except it did, because the proof is that Camden Campbell is sitting next to me while we both watch the helmet he must have let go to save me bump-roll until it comes to a rest at the bottom of the bleachers.
“Damn. I’m sorry. So sorry. You’re so easily knocked around. So—light. Like a feather or—a butterfly.” He peers at my face, his hands gripping my shoulders. “You steady?”
