Cameron, her eyes met his briefly, and in that moment, he could tell she knew he’d seen the whole thing. He instantly felt guilty for not stepping in to help, and then he got mad, because he hated feeling guilty.
And somehow, his anger turned on her. The dweeb. She ought to know the last thing he’d want to talk about was his parents, and the last person he felt like talking to was Becky Pilchuk.
He rushed to his homeroom and tried to slide invisibly into his seat in the back. No such luck. Shannon Crane spotted him and yelled, “Cameron’s back. Oh, Cam, we missed you.”
He tried to act all normal as his friends gathered around. A few of them had been at the funeral, but he hadn’t really talked to them. He’d been too busy trying to avoid cameras from ESPN and the local news station that kept getting in his face. Now he stood in the midst of his friends, and he felt more alone than ever.
They chatted away, filling him in on school gossip—Maris Brodsky broke up with Chad Gresham, the girls’ volleyball coach had been written up for foul language and the theme of the senior prom was Sailing Away, like he gave a rat’s ass about that. Cameron didn’t move, but he felt distant from these people, a visitor from another planet. He was a stranger in his own skin. He didn’t know how to act anymore. When was it okay to joke around with his friends again? When was it okay to think about something other than the giant void inside him? When was it okay to care again?
He had no answers, only questions rushing in to fill the void. Pretty soon his friends turned their attention away from him and he sat alone at the one-armed desk, staring at the glossy fake-wood surface. From the pocket of his backpack, he took out his compass. It was a precision instrument, his geometry teacher had lectured when he’d passed them out to everyone. Keep the cap on the sharp point so you don’t gouge anything by accident.
Cameron didn’t gouge the desk by accident. He did it on purpose, etching the word FUCK in the shiny surface, then EVERYT—He didn’t get a chance to finish. The bell rang and everyone surged up and out of their seats. He stabbed the compass into the surface of the desk, slung his backpack over one shoulder and left with everyone else.
Throughout the day, there were moments that made him regret coming back to school in the first place. When his English teacher, Mr. Goldman, put his hand on Cameron’s shoulder and said, “How are you doing?” Cameron almost lost it.
“Just swell,” he said. “Absolutely super.”
“Would you like to talk to someone about it?”
That was pretty much all he did these days. He talked to social workers, to counselors, to Lily and Sean. He was sick of talking.
“No,” he said.
The day was only going to get worse from here.
part four
The child endures all things.
—Maria Montessori
chapter 25
“All right,” said Greg Duncan, helping supervise the bus circle on Friday afternoon, “what’s your excuse this time?”
Lily bade goodbye to the last of her students and then turned to him. “Excuse?”
“For not going out with me tonight.”
She paused and tapped her foot. “Um, you haven’t asked me yet?”
“So I’m asking.”
“And I’m saying no thanks.” She tried to summon a smile, but felt the corners of her mouth trembling. “I’m not very good company.” She wished he was the sort of friend she could unload on, wished she could tell him how physically and emotionally drained she felt from grieving. He wasn’t, of course. Come to think of it, most of their conversations revolved around his golf game and his gripes about paying child support for kids he never saw. She felt guilty for the thought and said, “Thanks, though. I appreciate it, Greg.”
“Tell you what,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “How about you call me when you feel like doing something.”
She nodded and managed to come up with a smile that was a little more genuine. “I will. That’s a promise.”
He went to join a group of other teachers standing around while the last of the buses pulled out. The easygoing conversation and occasional burst of laughter sounded so…so normal. Lily couldn’t find that anymore, couldn’t figure out what was normal. She went back to her classroom. She studied the calendar. Seven weeks left to the school year. Then it would be