The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
SATURDAY
The new safe house is situated in a quiet residential neighborhood less than a mile from the beach. If I adjust my audio receptors to maximum I can detect the faint sound of surf crashing against the distant shoreline.
John makes no comment on Sarah Connor's choice of locale; he is brooding over no longer being able to contact Kate Brewster. She will have seen the media reports of us perishing in the school fire. To contact her now would be to breach our anonymity, something he argues for with his mother who swiftly vetoes the idea. I take no part in the discussion and my opinion is not sought. However, the prospect of Kate Brewster no longer littering the place with her presence makes me want to dance.
The nearby beach is popular with surfers - peculiar humans who balance on long fiberglass boards they use to skim across the waves. I ask John why they choose to behave in this manner.
"They do it for the buzz mainly."
"Buzz?"
"The kick. The high. The sheer thrill of it. Haven't you ever felt a buzz?"
"I buzz only if there is a loose connection, then I fix it."
"I guess you won't be hanging out at the beach much."
"No. I dislike the beach."
"How come?"
"Sand. It is abrasive. It gets into...crannies. It is very tricky to remove."
"Crannies, eh? I can imagine."
John smiles for the first time that day. Was it something I said?
Sarah Connor selects the master bedroom for herself. John calls dibs on the second largest bedroom before I can react leaving me with the attic room, cramped and smelling faintly of mothballs. I hang my clothes in the wardrobe and hide my secret diary under the mattress of the bed I shall never sleep in. Oh well, at least I have a nice view.
The house shares a wide driveway with the house next door. When we arrive this driveway is empty. By the time we have unpacked and chosen rooms there is a vehicle parked beside our SUV; a small white convertible. John says it is a seventies-vintage VW bug. There are long fiberglass boards propped in the back suggesting it belongs to the peculiar humans who surf.
On the lawn next door is a girl wearing a black rubber swimsuit and not much else. She is bent over and using a hose to wash her long dark hair. I watch her do so. She looks up and says, "Take a photograph, why don't you. It'll last longer."
"I don't have a camera," I inform her.
She grunts a reply.
"Why are you using a yard hose to wash your hair?"
"To rinse the salt out."
"You put salt in your hair?"
"No, the Pacific Ocean put salt in my hair, I'm trying to rinse it out before it makes my hair frizzy. I hate frizzy hair."
"Me too," I admit. "Hair is hard to get right."
The girl shuts off the hose and straightens up. She has the sort of round, attractive face with full lips that I once heard Becca Shaughnessy describe as a heartbreaker. Although hearts are very hard to break. It is simpler just to squash them. Perhaps she is a heartsquasher?
"Make yourself useful and unzip me."
She turns around to indicate a zipper running down her back. I lower it.
"Thanks."
She shrugs the upper half of the rubber swimsuit off her shoulders and leaves the sleeves to dangle uselessly round her waist. Her torso is firm and tan with medium-sized breasts contained and concealed in a blue bikini top. She is mucho buff, I tell her.
"Thanks again. I suppose you must be the new neighbours? I'm Alys Ramirez. That's Alys with an Y and an S."
"I'm Cameron. That's Cameron with a C and an A and an M and----"
"Are you making fun of me?"
"No."
"Well, don't." She coils the hose and drapes it over the standpipe. "I hope you're an improvement over our last neighbour, old man Dreyfuss. I'm pretty sure he used to take pictures of me sunbathing. Perv."
"Why did he take pictures of you?"
Alys frowns. "Most men consider me attractive. But I'm gay so it's a non-starter. I prefer gash."
"Why are you gay?"
"What - you think something traumatic happened to turn me off men? Get real."
I'm not sure how I can get any realer than I already am so I opt to say nothing.
"You live with your folks?"
"Mother and brother," I confirm.
"Hey, me too. Pop flew the coop when I was little. No great loss by all accounts."
The door to Alys' house opens and a teenage boy emerges. He stops still when he sees me and smiles.
"Oh wow, if you're here then heaven must be missing an angel."
Alys snorts. "Barf! You really think that corny line is gonna work?"
"It might. Give it a chance."
"Cameron, this is my brother, Jerold. He's a douche, by the way."
"Hello, douche," I greet him.
"Er - I prefer Jerold or Jerry, if you don't mind."
"Cameron just moved in next door."
"Cool! But isn't Cameron a boy's name?"
"Yet I am obviously a girl therefore your question is illogical."
"Illogical?" Jerold laughs. "I think we've got ourselves a Trekkie."
Trekkie? I do not know what this is. My chassis serial number is TOK-715. Perhaps I am a Tokkie?
The door to the safe house opens and Sarah Connor emerges. She glances in my direction then climbs into the SUV and drives away down the street.
"Wow, is that your mom?" Jerold asks. "She's hot."
"Think you've got a shot at her too, little bro?"
"Better shot then you."
"Puh-lease. She's too old for me."
"Ageist."
The door opens a second time and John steps out. He walks over to join us.
"What's going on?"
I make the introductions. John and Jerold high-five in greeting.
"Dude, we just saw your mom. She is smoking hot!"
"Hey!"
"Seriously, dude, it has to be said. She is one fine cougar."
"Seriously, dude, shut the hell up. That's my mom."
"I hear you, man. My bad."
"You'll have to excuse my horny brother. His sole ambition in life is to deflower Miley Cyrus."
"And Taylor Swift. Don't forget her."
"Hey - hands off, dweeb! Taylor's mine."
"So," Jerold asks, "You guy's into surfing?"
"I'm more into skateboards and trailbikes."
"That's cool. How 'bout your sister?"
"Cameron doesn't like the beach; she has a sand phobia."
"Sand phobia? Man, that's crazy talk. How can you be phobic of the beach?"
John smirks and glances at me. "She has her reasons."
"What do you like, Cameron?"
"I like guns," I admit.
"Guns?" Alys grimaces. "I hate guns. The NRA can kiss my ass."
"The NRA has four point three million members," I inform her. "Do you wish them all to kiss your ass? It will require time and much forward planning."
"Ha! She's got you there, sis."
"Bite me."
Bite me is an expression not an invitation. I will not make that mistake again.
Alys asks, "You gonna go to our High School?"
"Don't know yet," John replies. "I think maybe we're getting a home tutor."
"You're not missing much," Jerold states emphatically. "Girlwise it's a dogpound."
"He's only saying that because they turn him down for dates."
"Yeah, I think my natural machismo scares girls away."
Alys laughs so hard she is a little bit sick.
Indoors as the light begins to fade, I ask John his opinion of our new neighbours.
"They seemed nice enough, though the brother was a bit full on. I didn't care for the way he spoke about mom, like she was a piece of meat."
"Sarah Connor is an attractive, fertile human female."
"Don't you start."
"She ticks a lot of boxes."
"What's that mean?"
"I don't know," I confess. "Becca once said it about Alexis. She ticks a lot of boxes."
"As far as I'm concerned the only box being ticked is the one marked mom."
"Do you think Alys is attractive?"
John glances at me. "Uh - I guess. She is beautiful."
"She doesn't like boys; she prefers gash."
John doesn't reply, merely nods. His face reddens slightly.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"What is gash?"
MONDAY
I am in the shower. Hot water cascades through my hair and down my naked body. I seldom shower since my pseudo-flesh repels dirt and has an anti-bacterial agent that means I never smell bad. I am unlike humans who require regular showers or baths to rid themselves of accumulated dirt and the secretions of their many glands. However, my hair does need occasional washing; it attracts the taint of pollution, and thanks to its many automobiles Los Angeles is a very polluted city. I do not wish my hair to smell like a tailpipe.
The door opens and closes as someone enters the bathroom. I can see their outline through the opaque shower curtain. I run shape comparison software which indicates it is Sarah Connor, not John.
Pity.
Had it been John I could've invited him to join me in the shower. I think he would enjoy that. I know I would. But not Sarah Connor. No. That would be gross.
"Don't use all the shampoo!" Sarah Connor yells above the sound of running water.
I glance at the shampoo bottle. It is empty.
"I won't," I lie.
"And don't use all the hot water. There are other people in this house too."
"I won't."
"And put your wet towels on the drying rail when you're done. Don't leave them in a wet pile on the floor."
"I won't."
She is such a fusspot. John says this is a Good Thing. It means she is treating me less as a machine and more like a daughter. Sometimes I don't mind being treated like a machine. Less nagging.
The door opens and closes and I am alone once more. I turn off the hot water, step out of the tub and towel myself dry. I place the wet towel on the drying rail as instructed.
I am so whipped.
Summer has arrived in California which means the decision whether or not to send John and I back to school can be deferred until the Fall.
Mid-morning Sarah Connor enters my room and without asking opens my wardrobe and rummages through my clothes. Perhaps she wishes to borrow an item of mine to wear herself?
"Nothing will fit you," I tell her. "You are several sizes too large."
She frowns but says nothing. I can tell she is not pleased because the vein on her forehead begins to pulse. It is not my fault my clothes will not fit her. That is the way the cookie crumbles. Mostly in her mouth. Fewer cookies equals smaller clothes. QED.
"You need some new outfits," she informs me.
"I am happy with the outfits I have."
"Well, I'm not. It's hot out and you're still walking around in boots and leather jacket."
"I don't feel the heat like you do. I don't sweat out my tops like you do. I don't stretch out my pants like you do."
"All right! I get it, you're special. But you need new clothes to fit in with what other people are wearing. You're no good to us if you're conspicuous. We're going clothes shopping. Now. No arguments."
SHOPPING
The clothing store Sarah Connor selects is large and full of racks of clothes designed solely for human females, of which I am an honorary member thanks to the design of my outer dermal layer based on a human Resistance fighter named Allison Young. We head straight to the summer dress aisle.
"What size are you?" Sarah Connor asks. "Size six?"
"Size two," I correct her. "I would be swamped in a size six."
She mutters something under her breath which sounds like 'skinny metal bitch'.
A flowery print dress is chosen and handed to me.
"Here. Try this on."
I pull my top over my head and start to undo my belt.
"What are you doing?" Sarah Connor asks.
"Trying the dress on."
"Not in the middle of the shop!"
"Why not? Oh. The human nudity taboo."
"Or common sense, as we call it. At least you wore a bra."
"The twins like to be snug."
I undress in the appropriate area: the changing room at the rear of the store. Another girl is there trying on a pair of jeans. She is trying to see the reflection of her rear end by peering over her shoulder. "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" she asks me.
"It is not the jeans," I inform her. "Your butt is 33 per cent larger than the norm for a female of your age and height. You have major booty, girlfriend."
She utters several rude words and departs.
I am pleased to have been of assistance.
I don the dress picked for me and return to the main shop floor. Sarah Connor insists I twirl around so she can inspect me from all angles. A shop assistant wanders over.
"Ooh, your daughter looks simply lovely!" she gushes. "I love her pale skin. So many girls show up straight from the beach with skin the texture of leather. Your skin is for life not just the summer."
"Yeah, she's a regular porcelain doll. We'll take this dress in every colour you have," Sarah Connor orders.
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Do you stock Havaianas?"
"Second aisle on your right."
Havaianas turn out to be rubber-soled thong sandals. Sarah Connor picks up three pairs.
"Now you can ditch those old boots."
"You expect me to wear these?"
"Why not? They're very fashionable."
"Fashionable but not badass."
"Not everything has to be badass."
She is mistaken. I am a terminator. I am badass or nothing.
But there is no arguing and we exit the shop 22 minutes later laden with shopping bags, one of which contains my boots, jeans and leather jacket. Sarah Connor insists I wear one of the dresses we purchased. It has thin spaghetti straps and a pink floral motif. It is not badass. Not even close.
John is in the kitchen when we arrive home. He looks up and grins broadly.
"Hey, mom, who's your new friend? Not seen her before."
"You have seen me many times," I correct him. "It's me, Cameron." Perhaps he requires glasses?
"Not dressed like that I haven't. Are you wearing thongs? Man, I thought those boots were welded on."
"My boots were not welded on. You are thinking of my head. My head is welded on."
John is enthusiastic about my new wardrobe, smiling broadly at each new dress produced from the bags.
"Glad you like it," Sarah Connor tells him with a smirk. "Because I'm taking you shopping next."
John abruptly stops smiling, informs his mother he has work to do in his room and hurries upstairs. I hear him close and lock the door.
Why didn't I think of that?
AFTERNOON
With John apparently barricaded in his room I head outside for some fresh air. I do not actually require fresh air, or stale air for that matter, since I lack the requisite lungs. But Sarah Connor is hinting at taking me shopping for accessories and I think it prudent to put some distance between us.
Our neighbor, Alys Ramirez, is on her front lawn waxing her surfboard. Like John, she looks up and sees me and begins to smile broadly.
"Howdy, Miz Scarlet. Why ah do declare, you is home from Atlanta looking purttier than a Junebug in that there dress. Mr Ashley is gonna be mighty pleased!"
I tilt my head, curious. Is she having some sort of seizure? She is making absolutely no sense.
"Just kidding. Mom take you shopping?"
"Yes."
"Don't worry. Come with me. I'll sort you out."
We get into her VW bug and reverse out of the driveway.
"Where are we going?" I inquire.
"The Fanny Locker."
The Fanny Locker turns out to be a large wooden shack several miles down the coast and so close to the beach people walk in and out still dressed in their swimwear. It is full of clothes very different from the store I visited earlier. There are no floral print dresses. I like the place already.
"Cool, isn't it, " says Alys. "I buy stuff here all the time. It's surfer chic for surfer chicks. No corporate Nike bullshit here."
The clothes all have oddly named labels: Hot Wax, Fat Face, Lavalamp, Animal, Freaky Frog, O'Neill, Redordead, Rocket Dog, Drunkymunky.
Alys hands me a crop top. "Here. Try this for size. It's so you."
"Where is the changing room?"
"There isn't one. It's the Fanny Locker not Bloomingdales. Strip, no one cares."
I remove my dress and begin trying on crop tops. Alys nods or shakes her head at my selections. I trust her judgement.
"Okay, enough with the tops. Try some jeans. Here, these are Teddy Smith's."
"Won't he want them back?"
"Who wants them back?"
"Teddy Smith."
Alys laughs. "That's really funny!"
It is? I wonder why.
I try on seven pairs of jeans and keep four, including Teddy Smith's; if he doesn't want them I do.
"Bikini tops," Alys announces. "A girl can never have too many bikini tops."
I choose four. Alys adds a fifth made from some type of animal skin.
"Leather. Trust me. Feels great against your skin."
We place my purchases on the backseat of the VW bug and begin the drive home.
"Tell me a bit about yourself, Cam." Alys says as we head onto the freeway.
"What d'you wish to know?"
"How old are you?"
"17."
"Are you on Facebook?"
"No."
"Twitter? Bebo? MySpace?"
"No. No. No."
"God - you're so last century! I know - I'll tell you a secret about myself then it's your turn. Um...I lost my cherry to a supply teacher when I was 15. We did it in the janitor's closet at school. She was really really old - like 26. Okay, your turn."
My CPU provides me with five possible secrets to divulge:
1) I am a non-human cybernetic organism
2) I am from the future
3) On Judgement Day there will be a nuclear holocaust
4) I have terminated over 100 human lives
5) I like Steven Seagal movies
I make my selection.
"My secret is I like Steven Seagal movies."
"Eww! With the creepy ponytail? Okay, but that's not really a secret, Cam. I'll go again to loosen you up. When I was 5 my father went away for the first time and my mother told me he was a roadie for Fleetwood Mac. But he was really in prison for trying to rob a bank. The big loser. Okay, you're up."
"I don't have a birthday," I confess.
"Huh - you mean you don't know your birthday, like you're an orphan or something?"
"Yes."
"So your mom isn't your real mom and John's not your real brother?"
"Yes."
"Oh you poor sweet thing! Big hugs!"
Alys is silent for 37 seconds then:
"You like movies, Cam? Seen Jennifer's Body with Megan Fox? She's totally hot."
"I know Megan the fox. She is on Jake's wall."
"Is Jake your boyfriend?"
"He is a boy, yes."
"Do you go on dates and kiss and stuff?"
"Jake and I will go on one date, kiss for the first and last time, then he will die."
"Heavy shit! I knew I was gay practically straight from the womb. But it's not all I am, right? It doesn't define me. I'm more than that. I'm loyal to my friends; I love my brother even when he's an idiot; I'm kind to animals; I go to church every Sunday and I haven't been struck by lightning as punishment for being different. I figure Jesus still loves me even if I chew pink."
"Chew pink?"
"Sorry, am I creeping you out? I didn't mean to."
"No, you're not creeping me out."
"And one day I'm going to try and save the world."
I stare directly at Alys. "I am also trying to save the world."
"Because Climate Change sucks, right? We have to do something now before it's too late. Man, we are so simpatico, you and I. Absolutimo. See, I speaka da Italiano."
She doesn't but I don't bother correcting her.
"Thank you for assisting me today," I inform her.
"Totally my treat, babe. I got a wettie just watching you undress."
"That's good?"
"It's better than good," she grins, "it's golden."
We pull into the driveway. Alys kills the engine and turns to me. She appears suddenly bashful, nervous even, quite unlike her previous confident self.
"Cam, can I tell you something?"
"What?"
"I think I'm a little bit in love with you. Do you mind?"
"Why would I mind?"
She grins, her normal self again.
"That's so freaking cool!"
"It's better than cool," I tell her. "It's golden."
-000-
New beginnings. The OCs, Jerold and Alys, don't have huge parts to play but they make a neat foil for Cameron. More Sarah too; I like the way she and Cam butt heads occasionally, almost like real mother/daughter.