In the twelfth grade, the girl had found a bit of peace. Perhaps because it was the senior year of high school and everyone knew they were almost out of there. They didn’t have much time left with each other and maybe they were growing up too.
The girl had never talked to Camden McQueen after that incident in art class. In fact, he dropped out of that class soon after. It was almost a shame—he received some high marks for his pictures of the girl—but she only felt relief. Every time she saw his face, she felt disgust, but most of all, guilt. When she didn’t see him, didn’t talk to him, it was much easier to pretend that he didn’t exist and that she’d never turned on him in the first place.
She hadn’t talked to him until one English Lit class in senior year. It was the only class they had together, but she sat on one side of the room and he sat on the other.
The bell had rung only moments ago and thanks to her spare block, she always got to class early. She had taken her seat and looked up when a bunch of her classmates—the middle of the run, good-natured crowd that got along with everyone—came in the room talking excitedly.
“I can’t believe we have a murderer running around our own town,” one of the guys said, slamming his books on the table with enthusiasm.
“Aw, come on, Mike,” said the guy in the football sweatshirt, taking a seat behind him. “The guy wasn’t a murderer. I think he was arrested for shoplifting or something.”
“Nuh-uh,” protested a guy who sat in front of the girl. “I talked to Phil Hadzukis, and Phil Hadzukis cousin’s friend works at the police station. They saw it happen. It was a murderer. Or maybe like an assaulter. But he was serious news.”
“And now he’s gone,” Mike said. “Imagine, he could be anywhere.”
“What are you guys talking about?” the girl asked. Mike looked her up and down with an appreciative grin. She rarely spoke to them unless she was spoken to.
“Didn’t you hear?” Mike said. She shook her head, obviously no, she hadn’t. “The Sheriff captured some criminal last night, some real bad guy, and locked him up. A few hours later, the guy escaped from his jail cell. Sheriff went crazy, running around town with his guns out like he was Clint fucking Eastwood or something.”
She frowned. “Sheriff McQueen?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t even drunk.”
“I think he was wasted,” spoke sweatshirt guy.
“He was pissed off is what he was. Put a perp away only to have him escape later? That’s gotta blow, dude.”
She bit her lip and anxiously looked to the door as more kids started filing in, hoping she’d see Camden. Hoping he was okay.
“Well, I don’t think you guys should worry too much about the criminal,” she told the boys. “Whoever he is, he’s not stupid. He’s long gone by now.”
“I forgot,” said Mike, “you must know a lot about this. Didn’t your parents almost get arrested by Sheriff McQueen?”
She was used to this by now. She gave him a haughty look. “Almost got arrested. Almost is the key word. They weren’t.”
“Because they ran,” said the sweatshirt guy. But he looked a bit nervous when she speared him with her gaze.
“I wish my parents were cons,” Mike mused, looking into the air dreamily. “All my dad does is sit on his fat ass all day.”
“Cuz he’s a bus driver,” the other guy said.
But the girl was no longer listening. Her eyes were drawn to the front of the class where Camden was walking in. He no longer wore the trench coat, which made him just a little less scary. But he still wore black nail polish and morbid clothing. His hair was to his shoulders at that point and more neatly kept. But he was still Camden the Queen to everyone.
And he was sporting a black eye.
The girl couldn’t help but gasp at the vicious black and blue circles that were rimming his puffy eye. The glasses did nothing to hide it. It wasn’t anything new to see him looking beat up—he’d often taunt some of the jocks like he was a freaking martyr—so that’s probably why no one was too shocked to see him like that.
“Yikes,” Mike said under his breath. “The Queen got his ass beat again.”
But the girl knew that wasn’t the truth. The girl had seen his father enough times to know that Camden’s injuries were a result of his father losing the criminal and taking it all out on him. She had a feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, the moment the boys had said something.
The rest of the class went by slowly. The teacher didn’t even do a double-take at Camden, but the girl did. She kept sneaking glances at him at the back of the room. He never looked up at her or at anyone. He kept his eyes on The Lord of the Flies and that was it.
When the bell rang, however, and class was dismissed, the girl couldn’t walk away without saying something to him. She watched him scoop up his books and leave the room. She quickly followed him out and down the hall until she had the nerve to say something.
“Camden?” she asked timidly.
He stopped abruptly. She almost slammed into his army jacket.