by McKinley May
“I was twelve the first time the cops busted me. Same as you. In fact, the circumstances of the situation were oddly similar. Me, behind a mall, hanging out with a group of older thugs and druggies."
Another clench of his jawline as he grinds his back teeth together. “But it wasn’t just cigarettes I was messin’ around with—I did my first line of cocaine that night. I was in 7th grade."
My stomach drops at his words.
A 7th grader doing cocaine?!
I was still playing with Vaughn’s old Hot Wheels and sleeping with a night light at that age. The thought of someone that freaking young snorting a fine line of white powder…Shit. It’s hard to fathom.
He takes the ramp onto the highway and continues.
“The police officer took me home to the hellhole I was living in, blasting the sirens and lights to try and scare me straight. He woke up my foster parents and revealed exactly what I’d been up to that night. They acted concerned, pretended to be shocked as they received the news. But the second that officer was gone, you know what they said? ‘Be more discreet next time. Don’t get caught. We have other kids to deal with; we don’t need another 2 a.m. wake-up call because of you’.” Cameron shakes his head in disgust. “They didn’t give a damn. No one did, so I kept on with the behavior. Two more years of drugs and smoking and shit like that—every cop within a thirty mile radius knew me by name."
I sneak a peek into the rearview mirror, analyzing Bev’s reaction. Her forehead is pressed to the window, a frown etched onto those painted-black lips. At first glance it would appear she’s tuning him out, but the way her brows are pinched together says otherwise.
She’s listening.
“After a typical night of drinking and partying one summer, I was out at the rival high school vandalizing it. Coach Hanson was the soccer coach there, up bright and early for the team’s morning practice when he caught me tagging the brick. Instead of turning me in, he just talked to me for a while. When he noticed my height, he asked if I wanted to stand-in for one of his goalies at the scrimmage. I didn’t have anything better to do, and since he hadn’t snitched, I agreed. I’d never played before—hadn’t even watched a soccer game in my life—and my performance wasn't exactly high caliber."
He changes lanes, taking the next exit as he carries on.
“But Coach must've seen something in me. Potential, promise, or maybe just a reckless teen who needed some guidance. He took time out of his busy schedule to work with me the rest of the summer, helping to fine-tune my skills. Even had me over to his house for Erika’s home-cooked meals and motherly advice. They didn’t have to do shit for me, but they did. Coach got the offer for the Windhaven job in early August—it was too good an opportunity to pass up, so they moved down to Texas. He promised if I joined my school’s soccer team and kept out of trouble and graduated, he would have a spot for me on his college squad."
He pulls into a quaint neighborhood, the streets quiet and still.
"The Hansons helped me out of a bad situation, and they're trying like hell to do the same for you. Don't take advantage of them. Don't give them shit because all they're trying to do is help, kid."
She shuffles in the back, denim scratching against the leather seat.
“Coach gave me my wake-up call.” Cameron's eyes flit to the rearview mirror. “And now I’m giving you yours. Don’t go down this path, Bev. I know it’s tempting, I know life has dealt you a shitty hand—I get it. But it’s not worth it. Believe me."
He flips the car lights off as he turns down the final street and puts the vehicle in park. He places a hand on his seatbelt and hesitates.
Bev and I watch his every movement, curious if he’s going to march her to the door and rat her out.
With a sigh of defeat, he removes his hand.
“Which window did you sneak out of?"
“The one in the office."
“Go back in that way and don’t wake them up.” His commands are followed by one final instruction. “Promise me you won’t do this again."
The tween mumbles an incoherent response as she goes for the door handle.
With quick reflexes, Cam hits the automatic locks. He turns in his seat, facing her square-on.
“I’m serious, Bev. You can’t sneak out anymore."
“Fine,” she snaps out. “Whatever. Just let me leave!"
She hops out and slams the door before jogging to the back of the home.
Cameron’s head rolls back as he rubs the back of his neck. “Did she even hear a goddamn word I said? Or was my monologue for nothing?"
"She definitely heard you. So did I," I say softly. "I had no idea..."
My eyes latch onto his, a rare vulnerable expression on his face.
"I don't usually talk to people about that stuff," he admits before shaking his head. "And I shouldn't've dragged you into all this shit. I just thought she'd be more willing to hear me out if you were around. She likes you, and I took advantage of that to make this easier. Selfish as fuck of me, honestly."
"No, you're not being selfish. I'm glad you wanted me here," I insist. "I like tagging along, no matter the reason."
"Yeah?" He studies me for a moment or two before a genuine smile appears on his face. Reaching over, he places a hand on my thigh and squeezes. "I like you tagging along, too."
My flesh burns at his touch, like an ice-cold steak placed on a sizzling griddle, and the fiery sensation remains long after he removes his palm. He puts the car in drive, rolls the windows down, and we ride back to the Treehouse in quiet contemplation.
Everything's been so laid back and casual with our previous meet-ups, but now it's as if I've been introduced to a whole new side of him. A boy with a troubled past, a man who is more than muscle and sports and good-looks.
The things he had to overcome, the struggles he had to endure at such a young age...
And seeing the way he obviously cares for Bev, the desire to protect her from harm and bad decisions.
It just solidifies a fact I already knew.
Cameron is a freaking amazing guy.
14
"Cameron! Thank you so much for doing this. You're a lifesaver!"
Erika's frazzled demeanor is evident the moment I open the Main House door on Wednesday night. Her hair's twisted into a messy bun, body tense as she gives Beverley a quick hug and nudges her forward.
"I told my supervisor I couldn't work weeknights anymore, but apparently it's an emergency. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't, and Coach has that meeting with the athletic director tonight which is incredibly important, so I—"
"It's all good, Erika." I interrupt her ramblings and try to ease her worries. Crooking my index finger, I motion Bev inside the home. "She can hang with me as long as you need. Don't stress about it."
"No stress. Right, okay." A relaxed breath parts her lips and suddenly she's shoving a steaming casserole dish into my arms. "Here. I got the work call just as this came out of the oven. Y'all enjoy this and I'll be back around 9:30 to pick her up. Thanks again!"
With a final goodbye, I shut the door and adjust the food in my hands. The foil lifts slightly, a whiff of deliciousness floating up my nose.
"Hungry?" I ask as I glance down at my playdate for the evening.
She nods.
"Same. Let's eat at the dining tab—"
Before I can finish my sentence, Bev's already stomping towards the living room. She climbs up on the armchair, getting comfy as her feet dangle a good ten inches above the ground.
"Or not," I mumble. I head into the kitchen where I serve up two portions of the baked pasta, mine about three times the size of hers.
"Chow down," I say as I hand her a warm plate. We eat together in the quiet room, the sound of forks scraping porcelain and the occasional shout from Sigma Pi our only source of noise.
When we finish, I place our empty bowls on the coffee table. She stares me down, black Converse tapping together impatiently.
"So..."
&
nbsp; "So..." I parrot as I scratch the back of my head. "Skatepark?"
"But that's what we did on Sunday," she whines. "We can't go there every single time."
The kid has a point.
Our Sunday outing with Sydney was yet another trip to the concrete park—a trip I thought would be awkward as fuck considering the encounter that took place the night before. I was fully prepared for another tumultuous day with Beverley the Bad. Another dose of the silent treatment, maybe some more acts of belligerence on par with those that occurred during our notorious mall outing, but nope.
Oddly enough, she was on her best behavior. No smug remarks, no picking fights with random skater dudes just for kicks. Hell, she even said 'thanks' sans sarcasm when I complimented her new skateboard trick.
That's major.
I'm hoping—no, I'm praying—that some of my words soaked into her thick skull Saturday night. That she took my advice and past experiences to heart.
It seemed like there was a change in her the next day, however small it might be, and maybe, just maybe, we'd reached some sort of mutual understanding between the two of us.
Who knows, though.
There's a strong chance her good mood was nothing more than a sugar rush from the chocolate smoothie Sydney brought her.
"Cameron...hello? What are we gonna do?"
Her question brings me back to the dilemma at hand.
"You're right about the skatepark. We need a new activity," I say before another idea crosses my mind. "Actually, what we need is to get you involved in something."
"Involved in something? What does that mean?"
"It means you need a hobby."
"I have a hobby." Her 'uh-duh' tone takes over. "It's called skating."
"Okay, let me rephrase. You need a team hobby. One where you can learn the dynamics of working with other people."
"Working with other people?" She gags like I just told her to finish off a plate of raw broccoli. "Gross. Why?"
I ignore her qualms and rub my chin in thought. "You like sports? Softball? Volleyball? Soccer?"
Her nose scrunches up in disapproval. "I hate all of those."
"What about hockey?"
The suggestion isn't mine; it's Weston's. I have no fucking clue where he came from or when he even entered the house, but here he is, leaning against the wall with a bowl of Erika's pasta in hand.
When Bev doesn't respond, he raises his fork and points it at her. "Hockey, kid. Heard of it?"
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I've heard of it."
"There's a group of 8th grade girls who practice in the parking lot where I do soccer training with some guys. They're always there on Wednesday nights. Buncha tough, scary chicks who look like they eat bowls of nails for breakfast. You'd fit right in."
He shoves a massive bite of food into his mouth. After swallowing the giant forkful, he moans in delight. "Damn, that's good. Erika's the best." Once his pasta-gasm ends, he turns his attention back to Bev. "Cam said you like longboarding and shit, right? You have rollerblades?"
"Yep."
"Sweet. Then all we need to do is put a stick in your hands and you're golden." He shrugs off the wall and takes his phone out of his pocket, thumbing the screen. "My bud, Carlos, has a sister who used to play. I'll call him and ask if he can bring the equipment tonight. You two are riding with me. We're leaving in ten, so you better be ready to go."
He lifts the cell to his ear, winking as he strolls out of the room.
"Hey, 'Los. What's up? I need a favor..."
"Wow," Bev mutters as his voice fades out. "He's bossier than you."
"We don't have to go," I tell her. "Weston's all talk. He'll be fine if we turn him down."
"But...I want to," she admits with a shrug. "Hockey's not so bad."
"Really?" I give her a skeptical look. "So you despise all sports, but hockey's the one exception? Wanna explain?"
A contemplative glaze flickers in her eyes, almost like she has a significant reason, but she quickly shakes it off.
"I just like it, okay?!"
Andddd here we go again with the snippy teenage mood swings.
"Alright, alright. Claws down—I won't ask again." I hold my hands up in surrender before changing the subject. "Okay, here's the plan. We're crashing a street hockey practice. You're gonna play, slap some sticks and show up the 8th graders. I'm gonna sit on the sideline, Bandaids and Neosporin at the ready for when you fall and scrape your whole body." With a sardonic nod, I give her two thumbs up. "Fun times incoming."
She releases an angry hiss. "I'm not gonna fall."
"Famous last words."
"Whatever." She picks at the hole in her black jeans. "Will you invite Sydney?"
"I'll send her a text and see if she's free." I type out a quick message, then level Bev with an intrigued look. "You really like her, don't you?"
"She's awesome." Her eyes bounce from the ripped pants up to me. "You really like her, too."
The way she says it, all statement and no question, has me wondering what the hell she's trying to get at.
"I mean, sure I like her. Of course I do. She's my best friend's little sis and she's doing me a solid by helping out with you." I shrug my shoulders. "What's not to like?"
"No," Bev argues defiantly. "It's more than that."
Before I can defend myself, Weston saunters back into the room, soccer ball tucked under an arm.
"Chop chop. In the car. Let's bounce." He motions for us to follow him and I let out a confused laugh.
"Dude, you said ten minutes."
"Yeah? Hasn't it been that long?"
"It's been two."
"Eh, same difference." He spins the ball on his index finger, unbothered by his inability to tell time. "Plus, we gotta stop by Coach's house on the way and pick up her skates. Time to hit the road."
After getting into his car, Weston and I take on two very different roles as we make the drive. He gets to be the cool, 'no rules' dude. Top's down and doors are off on his shiny red Jeep, hip-hop music's blasting from the speakers, and he wins Bev over when he hands her his extra pair of Ray Bans and tells her she looks badass in them.
Me? I get the pleasure of being the responsible, 'good influence' guy. The one telling her to put her seat belt on correctly, insisting Paine drive under the speed limit for safety reasons, and turning the song off after I hear the words "fuck", "shit", and "bitch" one too many times.
"Do you have any non-explicit music?" I ask, feeling like a damn nun as the question leaves my mouth. "Something clean?"
"Clean music?" Weston utters the phrase as if it's an oxymoron, then cracks up like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Fuck no."
"Dude. Mind laying off the f-bombs?" I sock him on the bicep. "There's a kid in the car."
"I know the f-word, Cam," Bev says from the backseat. "I'm not five. Also, you cuss in front of me constantly."
"Ooooh, she put you on blast, Collins."
"Come on, Bev." I scoff. "I use PG-13 words. R-rated stuff gets censored."
"Lighten up, bro." Weston puts on a lazy grin. "Let her live. She's—" His brows draw together and he swivels around. "Wait, how old are you?"
"Twelve," she answers, then quickly adds, "Almost thirteen."
"She's almost a teenager, dude. It's not like we need a Baby on Board sticker or a freakin' car seat, so chill. I bet everyone at her school knows that song and all the lyrics. Even the 'big bad dirty' version."
I turn around in my seat, confirming the claim. "Do they? Be real with me."
Bev bobs her head up and down. "Every last word. I swear."
"Fine." I hit Play on the console touch-screen. "Just don't tell Coach and we're cool."
Blasting the bass so loud the street signs vibrate, we turn numerous heads as we arrive at our destination. The park's just across the street from Windhaven, so Weston peels into an empty space in the Physics Building parking lot. Bev jumps out of the Jeep, points at the tall structure, and asks W if he takes clas
ses there. He pulls some orange cones from his trunk, somehow managing to keep a straight face as he says 'yep' and follows that with his fake plan to become an astrophysicist.
Now it's my turn to laugh like that's the funniest thing I've ever heard.
It actually might be.
The three of us walk towards the bumpy field—Bev lagging behind as usual—and I immediately spot Sydney.
Apparently she wasn't exaggerating when she responded to my text and said she'd sprint over ASAP.
"Isn't that Vaughn's mini-me?" Weston flips his baseball hat backwards and squints in her direction. She's playing one-on-one with Carlos, dribbling circles around the poor kid.
"Yeah."
We watch her do a double step-over move, the trick so smooth it seems effortless on her part. Carlos lurches a leg out in the wrong direction, then tries to fix the mistake by sticking his other leg back the opposite way. He ends up landing in the freaking splits as the dark-haired girl kicks the ball in the net.
I can't help but grin as she gives 'Los a teasing curtsy. "That's definitely Sydney."
"Weird. Wonder what she's doing here."
Before I can try and brush it off as coincidental, realization flashes across his face. He comes to an abrupt stop.
"Shit. You invited her, didn't you?"
He gives me a pointed look, one that lets me know any attempt at lying is going to be futile.
Guess I didn't get him drunk enough at Gigi's.
"Yeah," I say with the most casual shrug I can manage. "No big deal."
"No big deal? Dude, what?"
"What what?"
"You're playing with fire, Collins." He pokes his tongue in his cheek, shaking his head in disapproval. "And not some weak-ass sparkler, either. I'm talking full blown fireworks."
"I invited her for Bev, man. She freaking loves Sydney. Having her tag along to the meet-ups makes my life a helluva lot easier."
"Right. So you expect me to believe you've been spending time with V's clone for the teeny bopper's sake..." He lifts a quizzical brow. "And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you wanna jump Lil Steel's bones? Not buying it."
