“No,” I say. “I think that would be fine.”
“Well, great. Then get in before I gnaw my arm off.”
I debate a moment longer, afraid to start something with him that I can’t finish. I don’t want to get hurt. But logic fails me, and I get in anyway.
***
There’s a McDonald’s near the school, but I ask him to drive to the one closer to my house. One within walking distance.
We go inside, and the restaurant is a bit dingier than the other location, definitely not one of those McCafés. But it does have a playground. Before my life fell to pieces, my mother would take us here to play.
Cameron does indeed get me a Happy Meal, and we find a clean booth near the back. The minute Cameron sits down and opens his box of Quarter Pounder, I tilt my head and look him over.
“So why are you at Brooks?” I ask him. “What did you do?”
He smiles. “Who says I did anything?”
That’s the thing with troublemakers—we cling to that innocent-until-proven-guilty bullshit. Even so, I can’t begin to guess what Cameron is really doing there.
“Kids with Beamers don’t go to Brooks Academy,” I tell him.
“I do.”
“Why, asshole?” I laugh. “Quit acting so secretive.”
Cameron widens his eyes. “Me? You’re callingmesecretive, Miss I-don’t-want-to-get-dropped-off-at-my-house?”
“You’re stalling.”
“You’re right.”
I wait, actually admiring the fact that he doesn’t want to talk about himself. Too many people these days want to talk about themselves all the time. You don’t see me and Retha running around trying to explain ourselves. If people misunderstand, well, that’s on them.
Cameron takes a sip from his Coke, drawing out the silence. He looks around the restaurant, probably hoping for a distraction, but the place isn’t distraction worthy. Old people and five-year-olds are hardly enough to provide entertainment.
“Fine,” Cameron says, as if I’ve dragged it out of him. “I trashed a school.”
I straighten up. “You did?”
He swirls a fry in ketchup. “Yep.”
“Bad?”
“Hundred thousand.”
I gasp and lean forward. “How the hell did you cause a hundred thousand dollars in damage?” I ask loudly.
Cameron chuckles and looks around the room, his cheeks reddening. A couple of the senior citizens are staring at us.
“Can you keep your voice down, Savannah?” he whispers, acting offended. “This is a family restaurant.”
Again, the use of my first name is a bit of a shock. “Sorry,” I say.
But I’m fascinated. Is Cameron actually some anger management head case like me? Is that why he talked to me in the first place?
Cameron eats his fry, chewing slowly. He doesn’t look like he plans on elaborating, but if he thinks he’s going to get away with not telling me about his crime, he’s crazy.
I kick his sneaker under the table. “How did you ruin that much stuff?”
