THEN
CAMERON
The first day of school goes exactly like I knew it would. Lots of staring, plenty of curious questions to dodge. Thankfully most of my teachers are talkative, leaving little time for anyone to get past the basics of “Where are you from?”Wisconsin.And “Why did you move?”To be closer to family.
The family part isn’t a total lie. I do live less than a mile from Gram. And nobody gives a shit about Wisconsin, so no one even asks me what city. Which is good, because I panicked when I said it. I’ve been to Wisconsin once and it was for my cousin’s wedding. I was ten. Lying about where I’m from wasn’t the plan, but I had this horrible vision of every kid in my class Googling my name. Right after they looked me up on social media and came up empty. “Cameron Fuller California” would be a gold mine of info. But “Cameron Fuller Wisconsin”? Sorry about your luck.
A few people made it as far as asking me if I was pissed that my parents up and moved me my senior year.Nah,I said, casually.It’s cool being close to the beach.Most of them just nod and smile. I know they’re all looking for somethinginteresting—a juicy piece of gossip or a flicker of scandal. They want to hear that I was expelled, or got a girl pregnant. Maybe I’m fresh out of rehab. Anything to spice up their small town. I don’t give them anything to work with, but by the end of the week I’m sure I’ll be pegged as a former gang member or recovering meth addict. People love a good story—I know I do—but unfortunately for them, my life and story are no longer public domain.
As soon as school lets out Friday I show up at Gram’s. By 4:30 I’ve filled her in on the entire week, and by 5:30 she’s dozed off. When 6:00 rolls around I know I should just leave, but I just can’t get myself to do it.Fifteen more minutes, Cameron.The suspense is wearing on my nerves as every tiny sound has me holding my breath, waiting for her to come back. Like she promised. It’s been a really long week, and I’ve been looking forward to this visit way more than I should have. While Gram sleeps I work on my homework, the tiny black detective’s notebook already flipped open beside my textbook, ready to be filled. I’m using the metal food cart as a desk, scribbling out my World History notes, when I hear the door swing open and click closed.
“Happy Tuesday, Nonni! It’s VA Day!”
VA Day? Is this some sort of weird holiday? For veterans? How do I not know this?
Her voice is so bouncy and light. Is she just one of those people who gets peppy and loud around old people? The nursing home makes me whisper, like there’s a sleeping person around every corner. Which is sort of true.
The poster I found at school today is lying on the food-cart-turned-desk.MELON BALLERSis written across the top and a black-and-white picture of a band is stretched across the center. I don’t recognize anyone in the grainy photo, despite having paid extra-careful attention throughout the day. It was wishfulthinking, really—it’s hard to tell if there’s even a girl in the picture. The poster says:
WE NEED YOU!
IN OUR BAND
GUITAR PLAYER NEEDED ASAP!
At the bottom there’s an email address, phone number, and a name: Anders.
The room is quiet, and then the squeal of a metal chair being dragged along the stone floor cuts through the silence. Something bumps into the dividing curtain, sending it fluttering toward my knees. My heart sinks in my chest.She’s going to find me.The fabric brushes against my legs.
Then nothing. Silence.
I think maybe she left, until I hear the unmistakable twang of fingertips on metal and chords begin to fill the room.Her guitar.My own guitar had been sitting in my closet—untouched for months—until last night. I pulled it out to learn the song she played. Then I just kept going, for hours. I actually have two guitars—an acoustic Fender Dad gave me for my tenth birthday and a red Gibson that I bought right after I moved to Riverton.With my blood money.The same money that pays for my apartment. For everything.
The sound filling the room is rich and comforting. Every note is precise as her voice joins in with the music. It’s nothing but a whisper at first, then grows louder and stronger as the song goes on. It’s beautiful. Strong but gentle; and somehow her voice conveys so much more emotion than the lyrics alone ever could.
Push me, pull me,
take me or leave me…
the way I am, can’t be like them.
Under the lens, out of the box,
waiting to explode
tick tick tock boom.
Push me, pull me,
it’s over once you hold me.
Tick tick tock boom.
Her voice trails off and the last note hangs in the air. It feels thick and heavy, like the words are still trapped in the small room with us. If I felt guilty before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel after hearing her sing. It’s so personal. I might as well have opened her diary and flipped through the damn pages. I didn’t deserve to hear that song and I feel more than a little guilty now.I’m a creep.
“You should play it,” Evelyn says.
I wonder if it’s one of her band’s songs. If she’ll play it at their bar gig next weekend.
