I heard heavy breathing, a few sniffs.
“Don’t you ever disrespect me again,” his father growled.
“I’m sorry,” came the very quiet voice of Camden McQueen.
“Sorry? Sorry?” His dad sounded like he was about to let loose again.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Camden whimpered.
The sound of clothes being smoothed, hands being wiped off.
“All is forgiven,” his dad said easily, as if they just had a minor spat. Maybe this was a minor spat to them. It would explain a lot of what I saw in high school.
I heard footsteps walk into the hall and I pulled myself further into the dark of the room.
“Oh, and Camden? Next time you want to put an ad in the paper,” his father said, pausing near the steps. “You make sure to run it by me first, okay?”
I couldn’t hear his response so I could only assume he nodded. I waited in the dark until I heard his father go down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps Camden McQueen would have no problem becoming Connor Malloy.
I tiptoed to the door in time to see Camden storming past me. I caught a glimpse of a bloody lip, a bright red cheekbone, eyes that didn’t dare look at me.
“Camden,” I called after him. But he kept going, into his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, making me jump. Making my heart ache.
I poked my head into the hall and padded my way to the kitchen. A page from the local newspaper was on the table.
It wasn’t a huge ad, but it was big enough. Aside from the serious headshot of Camden in the corner, there was only one person in the ad, the man that his father objected to. He had a winning smile and was covered in gorgeous tattoos. He was also fit as a fiddle and wearing a black speedo, surrounded by oily men lying by a pool. He couldn’t have looked gayer if he’d tried.
Camden knew exactly what he was doing. He chose this man, not only because he probably was one of his biggest clients and certainly one of the most photogenic, but he knew it would piss off his father. He did this out of spite. He probably laundered money out of spite too. I knew a thing or two about that emotion. Spite was the fuel to right all your wrongs. And like any fuel, it could consume you.
I stared at his photo, lost in it. Here was Camden, gorgeous and outwardly successful, but fueled by nothing but spite underneath. All this time later the boy with the lipstick was still inside. Still kicking and screaming. Camden’s father underestimated him. Everyone had underestimated him. Especially me.
Then
In the twelfth grade, the girl had found a bit of peace. Perhaps because it was the senior year of high school and everyone knew they were almost out of there. They didn’t have much time left with each other and maybe they were growing up too.
The girl had never talked to Camden McQueen after that incident in art class. In fact, he dropped out of that class soon after. It was almost a shame—he received some high marks for his pictures of the girl—but she only felt relief. Every time she saw his face, she felt disgust, but most of all, guilt. When she didn’t see him, didn’t talk to him, it was much easier to pretend that he didn’t exist and that she’d never turned on him in the first place.
She hadn’t talked to him until one English Lit class in senior year. It was the only class they had together, but she sat on one side of the room and he sat on the other.
The bell had rung only moments ago and thanks to her spare block, she always got to class early. She had taken her seat and looked up when a bunch of her classmates—the middle of the run, good-natured crowd that got along with everyone—came in the room talking excitedly.
“I can’t believe we have a murderer running around our own town,” one of the guys said, slamming his books on the table with enthusiasm.
“Aw, come on, Mike,” said the guy in the football sweatshirt, taking a seat behind him. “The guy wasn’t a murderer. I think he was arrested for shoplifting or something.”
“Nuh-uh,” protested a guy who sat in front of the girl. “I talked to Phil Hadzukis, and Phil Hadzukis cousin’s friend works at the police station. They saw it happen. It was a murderer. Or maybe like an assaulter. But he was serious news.”
“And now he’s gone,” Mike said. “Imagine, he could be anywhere.”
“What are you guys talking about?” the girl asked. Mike looked her up and down with an appreciative grin. She rarely spoke to them unless she was spoken to.
“Didn’t you hear?” Mike said. She shook her head, obviously no, she hadn’t. “The Sheriff captured some criminal last night, some real bad guy, and locked him up. A few hours later, the guy escaped from his jail cell. Sheriff went crazy, running around town with his guns out like he was Clint fucking Eastwood or something.”
She frowned. “Sheriff McQueen?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t even drunk.”
“I think he was wasted,” spoke sweatshirt guy.
“He was pissed off is what he was. Put a perp away only to have him escape later? That’s gotta blow, dude.”
She bit her lip and anxiously looked to the door as more kids started filing in, hoping she’d see Camden. Hoping he was okay.
“Well, I don’t think you guys should worry too much about the criminal,” she told the boys. “Whoever he is, he’s not stupid. He’s long gone by now.”
“I forgot,” said Mike, “you must know a lot about this. Didn’t your parents almost get arrested by Sheriff McQueen?”
She was used to this by now. She gave him a haughty look. “Almost got arrested. Almost is the key word. They weren’t.”
“Because they ran,” said the sweatshirt guy. But he looked a bit nervous when she speared him with her gaze.
“I wish my parents were cons,” Mike mused, looking into the air dreamily. “All my dad does is sit on his fat ass all day.”
“Cuz he’s a bus driver,” the other guy said.
But the girl was no longer listening. Her eyes were drawn to the front of the class where Camden was walking in. He no longer wore the trench coat, which made him just a little less scary. But he still wore black nail polish and morbid clothing. His hair was to his shoulders at that point and more neatly kept. But he was still Camden the Queen to everyone.
And he was sporting a black eye.
The girl couldn’t help but gasp at the vicious black and blue circles that were rimming his puffy eye. The glasses did nothing to hide it. It wasn’t anything new to see him looking beat up—he’d often taunt some of the jocks like he was a freaking martyr—so that’s probably why no one was too shocked to see him like that.
“Yikes,” Mike said under his breath. “The Queen got his ass beat again.”
But the girl knew that wasn’t the truth. The girl had seen his father enough times to know that Camden’s injuries were a result of his father losing the criminal and taking it all out on him. She had a feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, the moment the boys had said something.
The rest of the class went by slowly. The teacher didn’t even do a double-take at Camden, but the girl did. She kept sneaking glances at him at the back of the room. He never looked up at her or at anyone. He kept his eyes on The Lord of the Flies and that was it.
When the bell rang, however, and class was dismissed, the girl couldn’t walk away without saying something to him. She watched him scoop up his books and leave the room. She quickly followed him out and down the hall until she had the nerve to say something.
“Camden?” she asked timidly.
He stopped abruptly. She almost slammed into his army jacket.
He slowly turned, knowing who it was, not wanting to show his face. But he did. It looked even worse up close.
The girl gathered her courage and gave him a small smile. “Hi.”
He didn’t say anything back, just raised his brow in distrust.
She looked down at her feet, his black eye too much for her to take. She felt drawn to him, pained for him in ways she didn’t really understand. As if all of this was somehow her fault. It wasn’t, but that was guilt for you.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “For what?”
She squinted at his eye. “For what happened to you. Your eye.”
He didn’t look too impressed. “Is that it?”
“Yes. I mean, no.”
He observed her carefully and she squirmed under his microscope.
“I wish we could have stayed friends,” she said honestly.
Camden nearly laughed. “You still crack me up, Ellie Watt.”
She didn’t dare join in. “I mean it.”
He shook his head, utterly amused. “You can mean it all you want. It’s too late. Look, it’s our last year here. Let’s just keep going our separate ways. When this is all over, you’ll go one way and I’ll go the other.”
His rejection stung but she’d kind of expected it. “Where will you go?”
“I’ll go west,” he said. He cocked his head, looking ready to say something else. But he didn’t. He just turned around and walked away.
“Take care of yourself!” she called out after him, catching the attention of kids loitering in the hall.
“You take care of yourself,” he said over his shoulder. Then he turned the corner and was gone.
They’d never utter another word to each other until they were twenty-six years old.
Now
Saturday morning was grey and surprisingly chilly. Normally the high desert didn’t get this cold until the heart of December and January, but I found myself layering on the sweaters and keeping the fireplace going.
Camden looked terrible. I only saw him briefly at breakfast where I tried not to look at his bruised and battered face. It felt weird not being able to talk to him normally, even over our plans which were totally abnormal, but I continued to give him space. He hated pity and I didn’t want to give him any.
Just after noon, he came upstairs from his shop, done with his clients for the day. I’d cracked open a couple of cans of chili, wanting something hearty and warm.
“You hungry?’ I asked him, stirring the pot.
I heard him pause. I looked over my shoulder at him. He was standing there and watching me with a small smile. Then it was gone.
“Yeah, starved,” he said and started bringing bowls out of the cupboards, the same cupboards his father slammed him against last night. I didn’t dare broach the subject.
He was bringing spoons out of the drawer when we heard the bell ring from the shop below.
I looked at him. “I thought you were done for the day.”
“I am,” he said, looking confused. “Maybe Chet’s dropping off his deposit or something.”
He put the forks on the table and ran down the stairs. I heard him open the door to this office and close it. I scooped out the chili from the pot and placed it into the bowls and put them on the table. I hoped whoever it was wouldn’t take up too much of his time. His food would go cold.
And more than that, I just wanted to be around him, to make sure he was alright.
After about five minutes, Camden still hadn’t come back up. Then I heard the door to the shop open and close. Curious, I scooted myself down the hall and into his bedroom, peeping out the window.
