“Cameron. I’m in your math class, actually.”
“Right.” She nods, lazily, and I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know me. And she’s blissfully unaware of just how much I know about her. “Hey, Cam.”
Cam? Huh. Interesting.Everyone has always called me Cameron. All three syllables, every time. My mom used to say that if she wanted people to call me Cam, she would have named me that.
Am I a “Cam” now?I guess I can roll with it. “What’s the VA stand for?”Friends can ask that sort of thing. We’re friends now, right? You already “Cam”-ed me, after all.
“Virginia.”
“Like the state.”
“The nineties song,” Anders says, smiling. “‘Meet Virginia’?”
I shake my head. I don’t know it.
Anders starts humming and Logan sings, “Meet Virginia, I can’t wait to meet Virginia—”
She rolls her eyes. “No one calls me that, though. Just Vee. Or VA, if you want to be like Logan.” The way she says it makes me think I don’t.
Vee. VA. Virginia… Ginny.Definitely her.
She’s nothing like I imagined. She isn’t ridiculously thin. No giant tree trunk legs. Her hair is long, in waves over her shoulders, a million shades of brown and blond. Still, seeing her now it all fits together in my mind. Even in her faded jeans, I canimagine her in the leather pants of my mental picture; the tattered T-shirt hanging off her shoulder, the crazy hair. Maybe it’s in there somewhere.
Vee opens her binder, pulling out small squares of yellow paper. “Parking passes for the gig at Carnivale this weekend.”
The bar gig.
“Put them in your windshield and we can park in the reserved spaces to unload.” She hands one to each of the guys, stopping in front of me and looking over to Logan and Anders.
“You in, Cam?” Anders makes a show of crossing his fingers in front of him and looking up to the sky as if he’s praying.
“I’m in.” The words escape so quickly, I almost don’t have time to second-guess them.Almost.
A huge smile fills Vee’s face as she begins slowly chanting, “Cam! Cam! Cam!” Everyone joins in, clapping and shouting. Anders beats on his drum. Logan plays a crazy riff on his guitar. Looking at Vee—cheeks red against her light hair—it feels like a fifty-pound weight has dropped from around my neck, as I realize that this is my chance to start over. To be a new version of me.
Cam.
Cam has zero baggage—no complicated past. People don’t look at him like he’s going to break. There are no expectations for Cam.
Camis freedom.
My fresh start.
VIRGINIA
I’m sitting in my usual corner, across from the band, scribbling down the last of my Calc exercises. The guys are herding up the stairs to the kitchen, like it’s filled with naked girls. Or beer… I imagine the reactions are similar. Usually everyone has at leastone can under their belt by now, but I don’t see any empties lying around. Either Cam’s appearance distracted them, or Logan’s older brother Drew hasn’t been home from college to replenish the stash they keep in the garage. Tucking my book into my bag, I’m ready to head upstairs to grab a snack, when I see that Cam’s still sitting on a stool next to the equipment, guitar in hand. Just a few feet away. He’s playing softly, unplugged, and the song becomes familiar as it grows louder.
“‘Yellow Shirt’?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His eyes are on me, but he keeps playing.
“I’ve never met anyone who actually knows The Icarus Account. They’re one of my favorites.” I’m trying to keep my excitement in check, but I love this song. I played it for Nonni a few days ago—it’s basically my personal anthem. Except you won’t catch me in a yellow shirt. For me, it’s purple.
He nods. His eyes drift from me to the guitar, then around the room. The only sound that fills the space is the melody of my favorite song, drifting from his fingertips, as we both stare at the dingy gray carpet.
“The guys are probably upstairs grabbing beers if you want one.” I wonder if he drinks. The guys getting drunk at practice is one of my pet peeves. I’m not opposed to drinking—I’m not looking to be a nun, or anything—it’s just that half of the time I end up having to drive one of them home when things get sloppy. Which is often. Logan’s dad is gone on business a lot and his mom lives in Florida with her new husband, Tomas. Even when Logan’s dadisaround, he’s not interested in what goes on downstairs.Boys will be boys.I sometimes wonder if the guys can even play sober anymore. “They’re probably slamming them to catch up.”
“I’m good. It’ll be hard enough, trying to get home in this corn maze.” He’s still playing, softly humming along. I could hug him right now, but I just smile instead.
