He had caught me off guard.
“I wasn’t …” I started to object, but the quick look that he shot me told me that he wouldn
’t buy any excuse that I came up with anyway.
I scampered upstairs before he could observe anything else.
Cameron had a long, hip-level dresser in his room. It was against the wall near the doorway.
Only two of the drawers had clothes in them. The first drawer contained his socks and underwear
—boxer briefs, I mentally noted, simultaneously blushing. The second was filled with T-shirts
and jeans. Then, rolled in between the two folded stacks was an extra-small, pink T-shirt, too
small, too pink to be Cameron’s.
One by one, I dragged my bins over, neatly placing clothes in the drawers that were empty. Then
I made one trip to the bathroom and put away the rest of my toiletries. I put my tattered Rumble
Fish copy back under my pillow and left my tacky ballerina lamp lying on its side on top of the
emptied bins.
I later picked a video from Cameron’s selection—The Godfather seemed fitting somehow. I tucked
myself under the fleece blanket that had been thrown over the couch and settled in.
By the time Vito Corleone saw the Statue of Liberty for the first time, I was asleep.
When I awoke in the morning, I was in Cameron’s bed, with Meatball snoring at my feet. My
ballerina lamp was on the table next to me—it looked even tackier in Cameron’s room. I opened
the drawers to pick my clothes for the day; Cameron’s clothes were gone.
It was barely seven o’clock, and I was bursting with energy. I got dressed, grabbed my portable
player and crept out of my cell. Meatball went back to sleep, I went to the basement.
The house echoed the heavy breathing and snoring of all the boys who filled the rooms. I tiptoed
down the basement hallway to the gym.
And there was Cameron, lifting dumbbells—my heart fluttered and hopped. He smiled, but looked
tired.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“I could say the same for you,” I replied as I nervously walked in.
“I don’t sleep much,” he admitted. His eyes glanced over my face. “Did you sleep well?”
I shrugged. “I slept for almost ten hours straight.” I amended, “I don’t sleep much either.
”
The treadmill was now all in one piece and faced the windows toward the pool. Cameron and I
opened all the windows, and a warm wind filled the room. Then we each went into our separate
corners.
Outside, the sun was shining. I ran and watched as the night guards stood or marched about the
tree line at the back of the property. I could feel Cameron spying my running reflection through
the mirror. But I kept my eyes forward; the last thing I needed was to trip and go flying into
the wall behind me.
In many ways, running on a treadmill was a lot easier than the streets of Callister—I didn’t
have to worry about catching my feet on the cracked sidewalk, or diverting garbage, or keeping
an eye on the weirdo in the trench coat who liked to linger in the bushes. In other ways,
running on a treadmill was a lot harder—I had no cracks, garbage, or weirdoes to distract me
from myself.
Eventually we were done our workouts and sweaty. He walked to me as I was stretching.
“Swim?” he suggested.
“Sure,” I enthusiastically concurred … before I had fully considered what I had just agreed
to. It wasn’t until I got to my room and opened the drawer that horror set in: swimming meant
bathing suit. The thought of being seen by him, by anyone, half-clad petrified me—because the
skin under my clothes was just as freckled and ghostly as my face, because bones tended to
protrude around my clavicle and my shoulder blades, because I had barely graduated from a
trainer bra.
Solution: the oversized T-shirt that I threw over my bathing suit.
I met him in the pool, quickly jumping in. Meatball had followed me and was lying at the side.
Cameron was bare-chested. He was skinnier than I’d imagined, than I thought he might be, and he
had a farmer’s tan—his tan-lines ended where his T-shirt would begin. I avoided glancing in
his direction as much as possible while we swam around.
“Where did you go yesterday?” I asked, bringing Cameron out of his daze.
“Just work stuff,” he replied with firm vagueness.
“Boss stuff?”
A smile reached his eyes. “Boss stuff.”
“You looked pretty tired this morning,” I observed, mentally noting that he was starting to
look less tired.
“It was a long day,” he distantly admitted.
“You should get more sleep. You can have your room back if you want, I can sleep on the couch.
”
“If only that was all it took to make a difference. You’ll make more use of that room than I
ever did.”
He paused. “How was your day yesterday?”
“Kind of boring,” I blurted.
His brow worriedly furrowed. “You don’t like it here?”
“It was just a bit lonely, that’s all,” I said. “This place is a palace compared to where I
came from.”
“You mean your place. In Callister.”