Girl in Snow(3)
Cameron had turned fifteen last month, but he wouldn’t take driver’s ed. He would never learn to drive. He didn’t want to risk getting pulled over and having to look a police officer in the eye. Hey, the officer would say. Aren’t you Lee Whitley’s son?
It didn’t help that they looked similar. Cameron and Dad were both wiry, with long arms that swung when they walked. They had the same light-brown hair. (Cameron grew it out, because Dad had a crew cut.) Pointy nose, pasty skin, hazel eyes. Narrow shoulders, which Cameron hid in various versions of the same baggy hoodie. Knees that bowed in a V shape, pointing naturally inward. Shy feet.
People used to say that Cameron and Dad had the same laugh, but Cameron didn’t like to remember that.
Ronnie had talked all the way to class, and Cameron had ignored him. Ronnie Weinberg was Cameron’s best friend—his only friend—because neither of them knew what to say or when to say it. Ronnie was obnoxious, while Cameron was quiet, and no one else spoke to either of them.
Beth DeCasio, Lucinda’s best friend, had decided a long time ago that Ronnie smelled bad and Cameron was weird. People tended to believe Beth DeCasio. Beth once told Mr. O—Cameron’s favorite teacher—that Cameron was the sort of kid who would bring a gun to school. Aside from dealing with the administrative mess that followed—the interviews with the school psychologist, the calls home to Mom, the staff meeting—Cameron had the same nightmare for four months straight. In the dream, he brought a gun to school and he shot everyone without meaning to. But that wasn’t the worst part. In the dream, he had to live the rest of his life knowing those families were out there, missing their kids. Mom had lots of meetings with the school’s counselors, and after, she’d come home vibrating and angry. Unfounded and unprofessional, she’d say. She’d make Cameron tea and assure him that he would never do such a thing, and besides, it was physically impossible to accidentally shoot a whole school of people.
Cameron still thought about it sometimes. Not in a way that made him want to shoot anyone—still, he felt like a toxin in the bloodstream.
Now, Beth DeCasio walked in front of Cameron, arms linked with Kaylee Walker and Ana Sanchez. She wore purple, Lucinda’s favorite color. This made Cameron think of Lucinda’s diary—the cover was purple suede, with a white elastic band holding it shut. The girls cried, their shoulders hunched, tissues bunched in their palms.
Usually, Lucinda left her house between 7:07 and 7:18 a.m. Sometimes, her dad would take the morning off from his law firm and they would go to breakfast at the Golden Egg, but this generally happened less than once a month, and Cameron always factored in the odds. It occurred to Cameron now, as Lucinda’s friends cried in front of trophy cases, that this morning had been different, and he hadn’t even known—Lucinda had not been walking down the street, behind or in front of him. She had not brushed her teeth over the bathroom sink, she had not eaten a croissant or yelled at her mom, she had not wrestled her arms into her yellow down coat.
Cameron felt genuinely sorry for Beth, Kaylee, and Ana, though he didn’t think anyone had a right to be sadder than anyone else. A girl was dead, a beautiful girl, and there was tragedy in that. And anyway, some types of love were quieter than others.
“I bet it was some kinky shit that killed her,” Ronnie said as they took their seats in history class. “Like, strangulation or something. Everyone’s talking about her ex-boyfriend, that soccer player—Zap. Douchebag looks like he’s into the nasty shit.” He made a choking motion.
Ms. Evans flicked on a movie about the Hundred Years’ War and shut the lights.
Cameron was afraid of the dark. It came down to thinking and unthinking. Once he imagined the possibilities that accompanied absolute darkness, he would convince and unconvince himself of all sorts of horrors: A stroke in his sleep, and the subsequent paralysis. Sleepwalking to the drawer of steak knives in the kitchen. All the awful things your own body could do to itself. He’d twist in circles around his miserable brain until he exhausted himself and fell asleep or lifted the screen off his bedroom window and ran. Neither option helped much.
“Excuse me,” said a gruff voice from the doorway. The smell—Dad had smelled just like that. Tobacco, coffee, rusty chains. “May we speak with one of your students?”
“Of course,” Ms. Evans said.
“Cameron Whitley?” The police officer was silhouetted in the crack of fluorescent light that streamed in from the hall. “You’ll need to come with us.”
Jade
I have a theory: faking shock is easier than faking sadness. Shock is a more basic emotion than sadness—it’s just an inflated version of surprise.
“The details have been released,” the vice-principal says. He claps his hands together, all business. “The victim was a student here at Jefferson High, Lucinda Hayes. The ninth-grade class is currently in the auditorium, where Principal Barnes is delivering the news. There will be a memorial service on Friday. Counseling will be available in the front office. We encourage you all to stay alert.”
He strides out of the classroom, a swish of khakis.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I look stupid, but so does everyone else. Half the class looks genuinely sad—embarrassingly sad—and the other half bounces with the sort of glee you only find during a drama like this.