hand under the mattress and comes out with a book of matches. He brings them to his nose, inhales the sulphur smell. The effect is calming.
He used to think about burning the school down, moving from bathroom to bathroom, lighting fires in the trash cans, in the trash cans in the halls, too, until the school was an oven and everyone on the inside was cooking. This was one of his favorite daydreams until he realized he was always pulling out one or two kids who didn’t deserve to die; until his dream was ruined by the escape of Patterson and the other Red Coats.
Burning the school would not be one hundred percent effective. There’s no guarantee his problems would end there.
He rolls off his bed and reaches under it for his collection of possible weapons. A pocket knife, a razor blade, a scalpel he took from his mother’s work supply, an ice pick. He throws in the book of matches and then folds the white hand towel around them and stashes it in his backpack.
Patterson may not be at school tomorrow, but he will be back. And it’ll be the same scene, take two. Only Cameron’s not going to let Patterson or any of his chump friends make a bitch out of him.
“You’re ours, Grady. . . . This is just the beginning.”
No, I don’t think so,
Cameron thinks.
They’re no match for me now. I’m new and improved.
THURSDAY
10:10AM
The drive to Pittsburgh takes two hours. Cameron listens to his iPod. Coldplay. Kid Rock. Eminem. He used to like this music but realizes now that they’re a bunch of whiners. He wants to take off his headphones and put himself out of his misery, but then either his mom or Robbie will talk to him, and he wants that even less. The only reason Cameron got in the car was because his father threatened to come all the way to Erie if he had to. And Randy stood over him, hands in his pockets, his tin star pinned to his chest. His gun clipped to his belt.
Cameron wonders briefly if there is any way he could get Randy’s gun from him. There are school shootings all the time. They’re in the news for a few days and then it’s like they didn’t happen.
He heard Randy tell his mom, after the last shooting hit the news, that there’ll be more of them. Cameron believed it even then.
But Randy always wears the gun when he’s around; he never takes it off, never puts it down. Even when he’s not in uniform the gun’s holstered at his waist.
Cameron wants to be in school today. He wants it over with. When his mom came into his bedroom this morning and handed him the telephone, saying, “It’s your father,” he knew not to touch it. Not to put it to his ear. The fear caught him around the throat and as soon as Cameron realized what it was, he knew the only way to master it was to face it.
“What do you want?” Cameron had asked.
Pause. His father’s face probably went all loose, surprised to hear his number-one son talk back to him.
“You’re going to talk to your dad that way?” he finally asked, and his voice was like an elevator going up.
“I don’t want to talk to you at all.” Cameron felt the fear in his body change to something more, like riding a roller coaster that pulled at the rails, thundering toward liftoff.
“Well, you’re going to talk to me,” his father said. “You’re going to sit your ass in your mother’s car and drive two hours just to talk to me up close and personal.” Cameron could hear the breath dragging through his father’s nose, little bursts of it against the receiver. “If you didn’t go get yourself beat up . . .”
Sissy boy. I’m not raising sissy boys.
“. . . if you just stood up for yourself, landed one good punch, no one would mess with you.”
Been there, done that, Dad. It had about the same effect as grease on a fire.
“Cameron? Did you hear me?” Cameron let the silence stretch, felt his father’s anger pressing through the phone. “You get your ass in your mother’s car . . .”
Cameron handed the phone back to his
He used to think about burning the school down, moving from bathroom to bathroom, lighting fires in the trash cans, in the trash cans in the halls, too, until the school was an oven and everyone on the inside was cooking. This was one of his favorite daydreams until he realized he was always pulling out one or two kids who didn’t deserve to die; until his dream was ruined by the escape of Patterson and the other Red Coats.
Burning the school would not be one hundred percent effective. There’s no guarantee his problems would end there.
He rolls off his bed and reaches under it for his collection of possible weapons. A pocket knife, a razor blade, a scalpel he took from his mother’s work supply, an ice pick. He throws in the book of matches and then folds the white hand towel around them and stashes it in his backpack.
Patterson may not be at school tomorrow, but he will be back. And it’ll be the same scene, take two. Only Cameron’s not going to let Patterson or any of his chump friends make a bitch out of him.
“You’re ours, Grady. . . . This is just the beginning.”
No, I don’t think so,
Cameron thinks.
They’re no match for me now. I’m new and improved.
THURSDAY
10:10AM
The drive to Pittsburgh takes two hours. Cameron listens to his iPod. Coldplay. Kid Rock. Eminem. He used to like this music but realizes now that they’re a bunch of whiners. He wants to take off his headphones and put himself out of his misery, but then either his mom or Robbie will talk to him, and he wants that even less. The only reason Cameron got in the car was because his father threatened to come all the way to Erie if he had to. And Randy stood over him, hands in his pockets, his tin star pinned to his chest. His gun clipped to his belt.
Cameron wonders briefly if there is any way he could get Randy’s gun from him. There are school shootings all the time. They’re in the news for a few days and then it’s like they didn’t happen.
He heard Randy tell his mom, after the last shooting hit the news, that there’ll be more of them. Cameron believed it even then.
But Randy always wears the gun when he’s around; he never takes it off, never puts it down. Even when he’s not in uniform the gun’s holstered at his waist.
Cameron wants to be in school today. He wants it over with. When his mom came into his bedroom this morning and handed him the telephone, saying, “It’s your father,” he knew not to touch it. Not to put it to his ear. The fear caught him around the throat and as soon as Cameron realized what it was, he knew the only way to master it was to face it.
“What do you want?” Cameron had asked.
Pause. His father’s face probably went all loose, surprised to hear his number-one son talk back to him.
“You’re going to talk to your dad that way?” he finally asked, and his voice was like an elevator going up.
“I don’t want to talk to you at all.” Cameron felt the fear in his body change to something more, like riding a roller coaster that pulled at the rails, thundering toward liftoff.
“Well, you’re going to talk to me,” his father said. “You’re going to sit your ass in your mother’s car and drive two hours just to talk to me up close and personal.” Cameron could hear the breath dragging through his father’s nose, little bursts of it against the receiver. “If you didn’t go get yourself beat up . . .”
Sissy boy. I’m not raising sissy boys.
“. . . if you just stood up for yourself, landed one good punch, no one would mess with you.”
Been there, done that, Dad. It had about the same effect as grease on a fire.
“Cameron? Did you hear me?” Cameron let the silence stretch, felt his father’s anger pressing through the phone. “You get your ass in your mother’s car . . .”
Cameron handed the phone back to his
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