The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
MONDAY
I place my new school books in my new locker and turn around in the corridor of my new school on my very first day back. Students pass me by in both directions, some loitering to chat about summer vacations and the new school year. The concensus seems to be that the summer break was too short and over too soon and that the new school year blows. I am the new girl and no one seems to want to know me. Sweet.
First period: teacher, Mr Rourke, strides between the desks and enjoys esticulating with his hands as he lectures.
"The root of an equation is a number which substituted into the equation instead of an unknown converts the equation into an identity. The root therefore satisfies the equation. Solving an equation implies finding the roots. An equation thus satisfied, no matter the value of its unknowns, is called an identity. Who can give me an example?"
I do so.
"Yes, that's a particularly fine example. Your name is?"
"Cameron."
A sympathetic smile. "Isn't that a boy's name?"
"I get that a lot." I smile ruefully. It is that or terminate him for his impertinence. Extreme for a first day. And I am in a forgiving mood. Plus it would probably end up on my Permanent Record.
"Well done, Cameron. Keep it up."
Keep what up, I wonder? My pecker? My dander? My cholesterol level? No, presumably he means my intelligence quotient. No problemo. It's hard-wired.
LUNCH
I take lunch in the canteen, sitting alone at a table with a taco I have purchased but will not consume since I bought it merely for appearances sake. And appearances are very important in high school, as I have learnt from prior experience.
The room is very similar to the canteen at my previous High School. There even similar cliques, including a version of the Queen Bees: three skinny blonde girls who sit aloof from the common herd, sipping mineral water and consuming nothing more calorific than air. There is even a girl who reminds me of Becca Shaughnessy. She's wearing a baggy hoody to disguise her body shape and has a curtain of long dark hair hanging in front of her face blocking out the world around her, no doubt deliberately. She sits alone and reads a book, friendless. I wonder if she too has self-esteem issues. It seems to be very common among girls of a certain type.
The bell rings signalling the end of lunch period. Everyone rises and heads to class. I dump my taco in the trash, uneaten. No one notices. No one cares. Excellent.
SOCCER
I am outdoors with a large group of girls. We are all dressed alike in tees, shorts and trainers.
Coach Gruber inspects us. He is a small man with spindly legs, no hair on his head and a whistle between his lips. He blows it three times in quick succession, a shrill piercing sound that makes several girls wince. I get the impression he enjoys doing this, that it bestows an authority his puny stature otherwise denies him.
"Okay, welcome to soccer practice. I know we have some new girls this semester. Hands up if you're new."
Three hands are raised, including mine.
"Names?"
"Juanita."
"Jessica."
"Cameron."
"Okay, lower your hands if you've played soccer before."
Two hands are lowered. Mine remains aloft.
"You've never played soccer before?"
I confirm this to be the case.
"Okay, you're in goal."
"What is goal?" I ask.
"You shitting me, girl?"
I deny shitting him. Couldn't if I tried.
"Go and stand between those two posts. You stop the ball going in the net with your hands or feet. Got it? Oh and you'll need gloves."
He hands me a thick pair of gloves. I query why I require gloves when it is a hot, sunny day.
"It's to protect your dainty little fingers and your pretty little nails, wouldn't want to chip those," he smirks. I sense he is being patronising because I am a girl. Ha! My dainty fingers can bend steel. Or part his head from his scrawny neck.
Goal is two upright posts and a horizontal crossbar backed by a net. Twenty-two girls and Coach Gruber stand on a large patch of grass criss-crossed by seemingly arbitrary chalk lines. This is called a soccer pitch. We are two teams of eleven players. Coach Gruber blows his whistle and the game begins.
My side appears to be superior and it is ten minutes before the ball approaches my goal. One of the opposing players sprints forward, ball at her feet. She takes aim and kicks.
You stop the ball going in the net with your hands or feet...
My targeting graphics suggest the ball is bound for the top right corner unless I do something to prevent it. I leap in that direction and catch it.
"Nice save, newbie!" Coach Gruber barks, panting slightly as he struggles to keep up with play. He is short of breath as well as hair.
I stand with the ball in my hands. Is that it? Game over? It seems anticlimatic.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Coach Gruber again. "Release it, girl!"
I drop the ball.
"Not like that! Kick it upfield. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
Are Jesus, Mary and Joseph on my team? I am not sure. I kick the ball upfield as instructed. I hope it doesn't hit Jesus on the head. He has enough troubles.
Another four times I am called upon to make saves and do so. It is not difficult this soccer. At half-time my side lead 2-0. This is good apparently. We congregate in the center circle to rehydrate by drinking from water bottles.
"Some nice moves out there," a tall latino girl tells me. I recognise her as the scorer of our side's two goals. "But you need to improve your distribution. When you have the ball look for me. I'm the striker. I'll be in the top third of the pitch. Throw it to me and I'll do the rest."
I decide to follow her advice. Each time I have the ball I throw it to her. She steers the ball past the remaining defenders and scores.
My team wins 7-0.
The tall latino girl seeks me out in the changing room. "Nice going, Moves," she grins showing perfect white teeth. "We thrashed them bigtime. I'm Ramona, by the way."
"Cameron."
She shakes her head. "No, I think I'm gonna call you Moves. It suits you. You did good today, Moves. I'm gonna ask Coach Gruber to put you in the team. We need a decent goalie."
Moves? It appears I have a new nickname. I think I prefer it to freakshow. Or weirdo.
HOME
Snowy is very impressed by my new nickname and demands one of his own.
"What d'you suggest?" I ask. He sits and thinks, his little white tail wagging brisky as his equally tiny doggie brain cogitates.
"Woof, woof, WOOF!"
"Ninja Paws? You wish that to be your nickname?"
A firm nod of the head.
"No, I don't think so. You do not get to give yourself a nickname. Someone else must do it for you. That is how it works. Me, for example."
"Woof?"
"No, not Ninja Paws. I will call you...Busy Tail. Do you like it?"
Snowy does not like it. Not one bit. He refuses to come when I call him Busy Tail. Instead he pesters John who is watching TV, trying to persuade him Ninja Paws is a good nickname to bestow. But he has forgotten John doesn't speak Dog.
"Quit barking, Snowy! I'm trying to watch TV."
John lobs a sofa cushion to shut him up. Snowy yelps and runs upstairs, where I later find him hiding under the bed.
Ninja Paws, indeed.
TUESDAY
First period: English. We are assigned a set book: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I do not bother to open my copy since I already have it downloaded to my HD. I have many books cached in this manner including - The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Anna Karenina, War and Peace, The Art of War, The Illiad and Calvin & Hobbes Scientific Progress Goes Boink. All the Classics. John says I am a walking library. This is a compliment. I think.
LUNCH
I enter the canteen, buy a taco and scan for an empty table where I can sit and not eat it.
"Hey, Moves, over here!"
I glance to my right. Ramona, the latino girl from soccer practice, is waving me over to join her.
"Come and sit with us, Moves."
She pats the chair next to her. Two girls opposite smile in greeting as I sit down.
"You know Wanda from soccer. This is Patty. She's not on the team."
"No, I'm a total klutz at sport!" the girl named Patty laughs, stroking her long brown hair. "I am on the swim squad though. Are you going to try out for swimming?"
Unlikely. Unless there is also a tryout for sinking to the bottom of the pool and remaining there.
"What's your story, Moves?" Ramona asks. "C'mon, spill. We're all girls here."
Not quite but I get the gist.
Sarah Connor and I have prepared a backstory for just this occasion. I recite it now: only child, single mom, moved here from West LA for work, no bf - yet.
"Only child, huh. You're lucky," says Ramona. "I've got five sisters and we all share the same room. Can you imagine? Sardines have it better."
"I've got a brother," Wanda says. She is a pretty black girl with braided hair who plays midfield at soccer. "He's only three months so he's more like a pet really. A pet who poops and sleeps a lot!"
Wanda's rich, btw."
"Am not!"
"Please. Your father drives a Lexus."
"Yeah, a secondhand Lexus. It's not like we have maids or a swimming pool."
"We have a swimming pool," Patty says. "A small one not much bigger than these tables. Nice in the hot weather though."
The girl who reminds me of Becca Shaughnessy passes our table, carrying a tray laden with cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. She sits at a table by herself, cocooned from the world by the music playing through the white earbuds of her iPod. I point her out and ask who she is.
"Eleanor Ryan," Ramona replies. "We call her Mad Ellie. She's into vampires and shit."
Vampires. And shit. It seems an odd combination.
"See the iPod she's listening to?" Ramona continues. "Nothing on it but dead rockstars. Kurt Cobain, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley - all those dead dudes."
"It's like they're singing to her - from beyond the grave!" Wanda shudders.
Patty says, "I heard she collects voodoo dolls and drinks her own urine."
"Eww! Why would she do that?" asks Ramona.
"Because she's Mad Ellie. And I hear it's supposed to be good for the skin."
"No way. I don't care if it made me glow like Beyonce, no way am I drinking my own pee-pee," Ramona declares with a grimace.
"How about someone else's pee-pee?" I inquire.
"Oh gross, Moves!"
They giggle in disgust. The girl named Mad Ellie doesn't look up from her meal. She spears her milkshake carton with a straw and drinks.
At least I assume it's a milkshake...
"You're from West LA, Moves?" Ramona asks.
"Yes."
"Lot of actors and celebrities live there. Ever see anyone famous?"
"I saw an American Gladiator at the Farmer's Market." This is true. John pointed him out to me long ago . He didn't look much like a gladiator: no sword.
"No one else? No R:Patz or K:Stew?"
"No."
Wanda says, "I was in a nightclub one time and someone said Lindsay Lohan had barfed outside. So I went and took a picture."
"Of vomit?"
"Celebrity vomit."
"How is it different from the regular kind?"
"Well, a celebrity barfed it. Duh!"
"Wonder why Linds upchucked."
"It's probably an occupational hazard if you're Lindsay Lohan. Wake up barf. Eat breakfast barf. Go shopping barf. All the livelong day."
Patty leans forward and whispers, "Don't look now but Pablo's looking in our direction!"
Oh God! How are my spots?"
"Visible from orbit."
"You bitch!"
"Shush, here he comes!"
A tall muscular latino boy arrives at the table, standing looking down at us, at me in particular. He's wearing a sleeveless white tanktop and has what appear to be coloured drawings on his arms. He has dark hair and dark brown eyes and a pleasing symmetry of facial features which the majority of human females would find attractive. In short, he is a hottie.
"Hey, ladies..."
"Pablo," they chorus shyly.
"Who's your friend? Not seen her around before."
"She's new," Ramona explains. "Her name's Cameron but we call her Moves 'cause she's good at soccer."
"You like outdoor sport, huh? That's cool. Me, I'm more of an indoor sports man - know what I mean?" he winks.
I do know what he means. Pool and table tennis are indoor sports. I rock at pool but have never played table tennis. It's unlikely the table would bear my weight.
"I thought you were suspended, Pablo?" says Ramona.
"That was last term, babe. Can't keep me away this term. It's the law."
Pablo is hailed by some boys at another table. He grins and says, "Be seeing you, ladies. Especially you...Moves." Another wink. Possibly his eye is malfunctioning.
Once he has left the girls go into a huddle, whispering conspiratorially so their voices seem to blend together, one indistinguishable from another.
"God, he's so hot!"
"Did you see his tats? I think he's had more done."
"They're all up his arms!"
"D'you think they're gang tats?"
"Gotta be."
"Wow, he's in a gang."
"I heard he carries a gun outside school."
"I heard he stole a car."
"I heard he held up a liquor store."
"Man, I love bad boys."
"Join the queue."
"I am the queue, sweetie."
"He really seemed to like Moves."
I say, "Me?"
"Yeah, Moves, he was totally into you."
"God, Pablo and Moves! Listen, if you hook up you've got to promise to tell us all the details - even the sordid ones."
"Especially the sordid ones!"
They laugh.
"What are tats?" I ask.
"Tattoos. Didn't you see his arms?"
"I've got a tattoo," Patty adds proudly. "A small star just above my hoo-hoo. Megan Fox has one in the same place. It hurt like crazy and was so sore I couldn't wax for ages. I looked like Chewbacca!"
More laughter. I don't join in. How is chewing tobacco funny? And what is a hoo-hoo? Do I have a hoo-hoo? If so, where? I will check with John later.
The chatter continues. Despite being in High School, a place of knowledge and learning, there is still much I don't understand. And none of the answers I require exist in books or classrooms. What are tats? Where is a hoo-hoo? Who or what are R:Patz and K:Stew? I wish there was a class called:
HUMANS 101
But there isn't. I will just have to piece it together as I go along. There is so much more to being human than simply looking the part.
WEDNESDAY
Today is the day.
Today is the day that John returns to school.
To mark the occasion I am making some improvements to my look by standing in the bathtub and shaving my legs. It is strange how American females on the brink of womanhood choose to resemble their earlier, pre-pubescent selves. Unfortunately the hair follicles embedded in my pseudo-flesh cannot be deactivated so I must resort to using sharp blades, foam and water. It is both tedious and messy.
Snowy appears in the doorway watching me with curiosity. He comes no closer. He is not fond of sharp blades. Or soap.
"How do I look?" I ask, rinsing off the suds and stepping out of the tub.
Snowy merely stares at me then leaves without offering an opinion.
Tough audience.
I also take the opportunity to update my drivers and run a full diagnostic on all systems. Occasionally I suffer from unwelcome glitches that cause me to crush or break things. Kissing often leads to petting, the fondling of external bodyparts. I would not like to suffer a glitch while petting one of John's bodyparts and have it break off in my hands. No, that wouldn't be very romantic at all. And suppose it didn't fit back on? Humans are not plug and play, unfortunately.
To compliment my look I choose my wardrobe carefully. I select my favourite crop-top and fingerless mittens, teamed with a faded denim skirt and black sandals, the only pair Snowy hasn't chewed to shreds.
I peer downwards at my feet and activate the tiny servo motors in my toes. They wriggle in a pleasingly realistic manner. If you can fake toes you can fake anything.
SCHOOL
And there he is...
Standing by his newly assigned locker, just as in New Mexico. Only this John is older, wiser, more experienced, broader in the shoulders, and with shorter hair.
"Hi, you're new, aren't you?"
He turns, smiles. "Yeah, first day."
"My name's Cameron."
"I'm John."
"Hi, John. Shall we kiss now?"
John frowns and whispers, "Cool it. We're supposed to be strangers, remember."
"My father sells tractors," I declare, unabashed.
"Yeah?"
"Would you like to buy one?"
"Uh - no thanks."
"I can get you a good deal. Twenty percent off."
"No."
"You're probably right. The mileage is poor and you would be overtaken frequently on the Interstate." I pause then add, "Shall we kiss now?"
John doesn't reply. He is peering past me over my shoulder. I turn to see Ramona approaching.
"Everything okay, Moves? This jerk not hassling you, is he?"
"His name is John," I explain. "He's new. We just met. I'm his girlfriend."
"You just met and you're already hooked up? Slick work, Moves. Okay, I guess I'll catch up with you later."
"Who was that?" John asks.
"Ramona. She is my new friend. And the center forward on my soccer team."
"You're on the soccer team?"
"I'm the goalie."
"Why did she call you Moves?"
"It's my new nickname. Do you like it?
"I guess so."
"Me too. So, John, do have a car?" I continue our charade.
"Yeah. A Porsche."
"Sweet. Did you buy it yourself?"
There's a trace of a smile on John's lips. "No, it was a gift."
"A Porsche is a tight present."
"Yeah, it is."
"Who was it from?"
"From someone very special to me. Someone so special I should really tell her that more often."
I find I am at a loss for words.
"Shall we kiss now?" John grins.
The bell rings ending recess.
Damn.
LUNCH
John is nowhere to be seen when I enter the canteen so I reluctantly take my place at Ramona's table. She, Wanda and Patty smile in greeting as I sit down with the taco I have purchased but have no intention of eating.
"Hey, Moves. Where's your new bf?" Ramona asks with a smirk.
"Moves has a bf - already?"
The three girls form a tight huddle like before, their voices again becoming hard to separate.
"She hooked up with this new kid, John."
"That's so romantic!"
"Or slutty."
"Shush, she'll hear you."
"Is he cute?"
"Majorly cute."
"John? I think he was in my math class."
"Points on the hottie scale?"
"Oh, a definite four and a half."
"Out of five?"
"Absolutely."
"Shit, why can't I land a boy like that?"
"Maybe your standards are too high?"
"I doubt it. I'm easier than ABC."
"Skank!"
"Oh like you can talk."
"Pablo's not gonna like it."
"God, I forgot Pablo digs Moves."
"What d'you think he'll do when he finds out?"
"Nothing good."
"Has anyone told this John what he's in for?"
"Hey - there he is! Over here, John!"
John appears in the doorway. Ramona waves him over. He sits down next to me.
"Where were you?" I ask.
"Principal had me filling in registration forms. Seems mom left a few details out."
"Tough first day?" Ramona commiserates.
"I've had worse."
"So, what's your story, John?"
John has also prepared a backstory: only child, moved to LA from New Mexico after his parents divorced, mom got custody.
"New Mexico, huh? I hear it gets plenty hot down there."
"Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk."
"Oh you can do that in LA."
"At night?"
"Oh man, that's hot!"
I notice he has no food with him. "Would you like to eat my taco?" I ask.
Ramona, Wanda and Patty dissolve into giggles. Odd. Since when is asking a boy if he'd like to eat a girl's taco funny?
"Actually, I'd love to." More giggles. "I'm starved. Haven't eaten all day."
I hand it over. John unwraps the greasy paper and takes a bite.
"Hmm, thanks. It's deli-"
He suddenly jerks forward as if someone has barged into the back of him. Someone has.
Pablo.
"Hey, man, watch where you're going!"
"You talking to me?" Pablo asks, his dark eyes radiating menace.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you." John rises to his feet. They are nose to nose. Pablo is more muscular but John is cuter. Naturally.
"Okay, you're the new white boy. I get it. You don't know how things work around here," Pablo says with a mirthless smile. "So I'm gonna give you a chance to walk away before I humiliate you in front of these lovely senoritas. Are you. Talking. To me?"
"Hey hey, what's going on here? Break it up, you two."
Mr Gross, the history teacher, intervenes by pushing the two boys apart. Mr Gross is a tubby man with thinning hair and a seemingly permanent sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He has two nicknames bestowed on him by the students. Grossy Gross-Out and the Big Goober. I wonder if he likes these nicknames? Unlikely. They are not very nice. And Gross is not a nice name to begin with.
"Starting trouble again, Sanchez?"
"Why d'you assume I started it? Because I'm latino?"
"No, because you're a born troublemaker. You've had two suspensions. You trying for a third?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"You mouthing me, boy?"
"I don't think anyone wants to mouth you - sir."
"Sit down! Enough of your smart remarks or I'll have you both in detention."
"Who was that jerk?" John asks, resuming his seat.
"That's Pablo. Major badass."
"What's his problem?"
"He kinda thought he had first dibs on Cameron."
"John has first dibs on me," I tell her. "And second dibs," I add.
"Guess no one told Pablo."
BIOLOGY
Next period: biology. The teacher's name is Mr Wiener. He doesn't have nicknames since the name Wiener is considered sufficiently ludicrous. The students pronounce it Weeeeee-ner.
We are expected to dissect a frog and detail its organs and inner workings. The frogs are already dead and do not require terminating. Bummer.
Several girls feel queasy at the prospect. One girl refuses pointblank to participate, declaring she is a vegetarian. She incurs a failing grade. Odd. No one expects her to eat the frog. She has just had lunch after all and is probably full.
Mr Wiener comes over to inspect my work.
"Hmm, an excellent job. Your incisions are almost surgically precise. And you've correctly categorised the various internal organs. Have you done this before?"
"Not on frogs."
"You've dissected other things?"
"I am not without experience in this field."
"Well, I think you deserve top marks."
I don't tell him I once extracted a man's heart through his ribcage using my bare hands. He was still alive at the time.
It might adversely affect my grade.
PARKING LOT
John and I meet up at the end of the school day. We hold hands heading for the parking lot since word has spread that we are now an item. Holding hands is permitted if you are an item.
John slows to a stop as we move through the rows of vehicles. "Shit, I had a feeling this would happen."
Ahead of us, leaning with fake nonchalance against John's Porsche, is Pablo.
"I will deal with him," I say.
"No. He's my problem now. Whatever happens, you stay out of it. Watch for teachers. Mom'll freak if I get suspended my first day."
"Suppose you are harmed?"
"I'll be fine." He steps forward. "Hey, man, that's my wheels you're leaning on."
"Nice," Pablo says. "Buy it with your trust fund?"
"No trust fund. It was a gift. Mind moving?"
"You pronounce it Porsche or Por-sche?"
"I think it's Porsche."
"German. Build good shit, germans. Tough. Like a tank"
Pablo thrusts the heel of his right boot backwards. A large dent appears in the door panel.
John sighs. "Oh man, you really shouldn't have done that."
A small crowd has gathered, faces curious, expectant, hopeful of witnessing a confrontation, a fight, the spilling of someone else's blood for entertainment. A typically human response. I spot Eleanor Ryan, Mad Ellie, her mouth a round O of surprise as she stops to watch.
Pablo is the taller and heavier. By his stance he has been taught the rudiments of boxing. But he has not been taught by Sarah Connor, drilled from infancy to fulfil a destiny that is beyond his wildest imaginings.
"Don't do this, man," John warns.
"You mean this?"
Pablo surges forward, throwing two punches, the full weight of his wiry, tattoo inscribed body behind them. John nimbly steps inside so they miss, delivers two jabs of his own to the pressure points, winding his opponent, hurting him.
"Well well, the rich boy's has cojones." Breathing heavily yet still believing he is in control. A fallacy.
"We can still walk away, man. No harm no foul."
Another charge. Another lightening riposte that brings a gasp of pain from the aggressor.
"Walk away, Pablo. Please."
Pablo circles. He reaches behind into his jeans pocket and produces something that glints in the late afternoon sun.
"John, he has a knife!" I warn.
"Stay back!"
My yelling distracts John and the blade slices through the front of his shirt, mercifully not drawing blood. Possibly it is this narrow escape from serious injury, or possibly the increasing likelihood of a teacher intervening, that spurs John to end it quickly. As Pablo charges in John lands a hard punch to the stomach and as he folds over in pain, a clubbing blow to the back of the neck.
Pablo tries to rise from the ground . His eyes are glassy and his brain seemingly unable to process simple cognitive instructions to his limbs. He flops over onto his back.
"Someone help him," John barks.
Two latino boys step out of the crowd and help Pablo to his feet, escorting him away.
It is over.
HOME
Sarah Connor enquires about John's first day at school during dinner.
"Oh you know, mom, same old same old."
"No problems?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. I had to fill in some extra forms. No big deal."
Later, when we are alone, I ask, "Why didn't you tell her about Pablo?"
"Want to know why? Because when I was seven years old I met a kid just like Pablo and made the mistake of telling her about it. I spent the next six hours doing unarmed combat drills against my mom. That's why."
"But you don't need drills anymore. You cleaned his cock."
"Clock. The expression is, cleaned his clock. You've gotta start getting these expressions right, it's embarrassing."
"I'm sorry for embarrassing you."
"And it's not over."
"My embarrassing you?"
"Pablo. He'll come looking for revenge, to save face or to get his badass rep back. I know his type."
"I will terminate him the moment he shows up."
"No. You won't. He's my problem and I'll deal with him as and when."
"As and when. That expression reminds me of Hugo."
"Do I know a Hugo?"
"No, but you will. In the future Hugo is the leader of the Mexico militia. He is disloyal and questions your leadership. You tell your generals you deal with him as and when. I am present at his Court Martial. And execution."
"I have him executed?"
"His insubordination almost causes the Mexican Front to collapse, threatening the Resistance's entire southern flank. You have no choice."
"There's always a choice where a man's life is at stake."
"And you make the correct choice, the one expected of you."
"Sometimes it's a braver, better choice to do what's not expected of you. And it kinda bums me out to hear you talk like this."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bum you out."
It's true. I didn't but have nonetheless. John broods all evening, barely registering the TV shows he watches. Even Snowy notices something amiss.
"Woof?"
"It is my fault. I bummed John out."
"Woof?"
"No, it didn't involve kibbles."
Foolish dog always thinking of his stomach.
THURSDAY
John and I are kissing. This is actually happening. My butt is pressed against the steel lockers and his lips are pressed against mine. Word has spread that the fight yesterday was over me so John has decided it is appropriate for him to be seen claiming his prize. Do I mind being described as a prize? Me, an advanced cyborg from the future reduced to the status of a mere chattal boys fight over? I decide I don't care. Anything for some lip action.
"Get a room!" Ramona grins as she deposits books in her locker.
"The corridor will suffice," I tell her.
"Not if the Principal catches you. You'll be for the high jump then."
High jump? Curious. I thought track and field tryouts were next week.
"Pablo's not in school today," Ramona continues. "No one's seen him. Thought you might wanna know."
John breaks our lip connection. "How come?"
"You whupped him pretty bad, Jaydog!"
Jaydog? Is this John's nickname? Snowy will be very jealous. He will probably demand to be called Essdog.
"He didn't leave me very much choice."
"Oh I know. I was there. I ain't blaming you none."
"You know this school, Ramona. Should I watch my back?"
"Hmm. I'd keep an eye on Raymond and Diego, I was you. They're pretty tight with Pablo."
"Okay. Thanks for the heads up."
"Hey, you didn't hear it from me. I'm latino myself. I can't be siding with no white boy." She winks. "Big game Friday, Moves. Your mom coming?"
"No." The likelihood of Sarah Connor wanting to watch me catch a ball is minimal.
"Too bad. All my folks will be there. Even my grandparents. They come to every game. They really want me to get that soccer scholership to USC. If it happens I'll be the first person in my family to go to university." She smiles shyly. "It's kind of a big deal."
"Maybe I'll come and watch the game," John says. "It's my school now after all."
"Great! We play in all white, like Real Madrid. If you want to bring a scarf or something."
"Duly noted."
Ramona hurries off to class. John says, "I like her."
"Better than me?"
"Not that way. I act like going back to school is a huge waste of time, but forget that for someone like her education really matters. It's a chance to improve her life."
"Until the bombs drop."
"If the bombs drop."
SCIENCE
First period: science. There is only one spare seat. The teacher, Miss Womack, a large friendly black woman, guides me to it.
"There, Eleanor," she tells the table's sole occupant. "Company for you. A new girl. Try not to bite this one, dear. Remember, there's no such thing as vampires."
I sit down next to Eleanor Ryan. Mad Ellie. Into vampires. And shit. I hope she hasn't brought any with her.
The assignment is 20 Questions on the Periodic Table.
Q1. What is the most common element?
I write: hydrogen.
Q2. Which is the rarest element?
I write: astatine.
I complete all 20 questions in five minutes. This is called kicking science ass. It was a piece of cake. Or do I mean biscuit? Yes, I believe I do. A piece of biscuit. It is important to get these expressions right or I could seem foolish.
I glance across at Eleanor Ryan. She is doodling on a notepad. Small intricate drawings of skulls, a crucifix, knives, sharp fangs dripping blood, a face contorted in pain...
"Do you require assistance?" I ask.
Silence. Then: "You're that girl."
"What girl?"
"The girl those boys were fighting over yesterday."
I tell her she is correct.
"That was freaking cool! Boys fighting over you. They don't do that for me. They never even notice me."
"It wasn't John's fault. He was provoked."
"I did show Michael Carver a boob one time," she continues in a soft whisper. "That's him there." She indicates a boy with short brown hair seated a few rows ahead.
"Why did you do that?"
"He asked me."
"And you do what boys ask?"
"It's how you get them to like you."
"It's how you get hurt."
"He wanted to take a picture with his camera phone but I said no. I'm not stupid. I know it would just end up on the web for people to laugh at. That's what they do, laugh at me, call me names."
"Mad Ellie?"
"Yeah..."
"At my last school I was called weirdo, freakshow and poindexter."
"Poindexter's not so bad. It means you're smart. I wish I was smart. Mom says if my grades don't improve I'm gonna be home tutored."
The sleeve of her hoodie has ridden up. I see tiny red scars, vertical lines against her pale skin. Wounds that have recently healed. I have seen their like before on Louise Vandervelt. Eleanor Ryan is a self-harmer.
"Why d'you cut yourself?" I ask, tugging at her sleeve to expose more scars.
"Don't!" she squeals, hastily covering up."If people see I'll get in trouble again."
"Then why do it?"
A shrug. "Punishment."
"For what?"
"Being me."
It seems a curious crime. And one that never ends. I indicate her iPod on the desk.
"Do you listen to dead rockstars?"
"Huh?"
I explain Wanda's theory.
"From beyond the grave? No! I listen to Marilyn Manson. He's alive."
He? I let it pass.
"Do you listen to music?" she asks.
"I listen to white noise."
"Don't know them. Any good?"
"It's an acquired taste."
I take her assignment, fill in the answers and hand it back.
"Why did you do that?"
"I wanted to."
"I never asked you."
"But I wanted to."
"It's kinda rude but...okay...uh...thanks."
"You're welcome."
FALSE ALARM
John and I head for the parking lot at the end of the school day. This time he has his arm around my waist, an improvement on holding hands.
As we approach the lot I sense John tensing up. Pablo is still on his mind and he still believes the latino boy will retaliate for the events of the previous day.
But there is no Pablo to be seen. No black Trans-Am with its distinctive rusty door panels. No ambush today at least.
John plips the alarm on the Porsche and we get inside. I am about to close the door when I hear the sound of a single gunshot.
I take the pistol from its concealed hiding place and stand up, scanning the lot for the source.
"Cam, it was a backfire," John says. "Sit down before someone sees the gun."
Yes. There. A vintage VW Bug, cylinders misfiring and trailing smoke and oil as it labours out of the lot. A false alarm. At least no one saw my reaction.
Correction, someone did.
Eleanor Ryan.
She stares at me with wild eyes, registers me noticing her and hastily lowers her gaze to the ground. She hurries away clutching her schools books to her chest.
She saw me with an illegal firearm. A criminal act. A felony. If she reports what she saw it will bring the police to us. She needs to be dealt with. She requires terminating.
"Cameron, get back in the car," John orders. "You know how mom gets if we're late."
I sit back down. Eleanor Ryan is gone. She has eluded me.
For now.
SEEK
There are seven Ryans listed in the telephone directory for our high school district. I dial the first of them: A T Ryan.
"Hello?"
"Eleanor Ryan"
"Never heard of her."
I hang up.
I dial the number for C V Ryan.
"Yeah?"
"Eleanor Ryan."
"No one here by that name."
I hang up.
I dial the number for E G Ryan.
"Yes?"
"Eleanor Ryan."
"No, my name is Elizabeth. Who is-"
I hang up.
I dial the number for T R Ryan.
"Hello?"
"Eleanor Ryan."
"She's in her room. What's she done now? Has she bitten someone again?"
I hang up and make a note of the address.
14 Oakmont Street
I have acquired my target.
ACQUISITION
Oakmont Street is situated well inland from the ocean with its houses backing onto a golf course. It is a prosperous residential street where John's Porsche easily blends in even at this time of night.
Number 14 is a large house on a corner plot. It has a double garage and a white picket fence. I slip quietly around the back of the house unnoticed by anyone.
A kidney-shaped swimming pool confronts me, illuminated by underwater lights. I step back into the shadows and wait to see if anyone is presently using the pool. Eleanor, for instance. It would make my task simpler.
After five minutes no one comes.
After ten minutes I move out of the shadows and begin to climb the rear wall of the house, heading for the single lit room on the second floor with its window wide open to the humid night air.
Inside the room is Eleanor. Mad Ellie. She is seated with her back to me working at a laptop computer, its bright screen the only source of light in the room. I slip over the sill and place my hand over her mouth. I feel her stiffen in surprise. "This is Cameron, the girl from school," I tell her. "Scream and I snap your neck and kill everyone here. Nod if you understand."
She does so. I release my grip. She swivels and stares at me, shock giving way to wary recognition.
"You're the girl from science. The girl with the..."
"Gun," I finish for her. "Who have you told?"
"No one. I swear. I mean, who's gonna listen to me? I'm Mad Ellie."
I concede this nickname could afford a credibilty gap.
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
This is exactly what I was planning to do. So why haven't I?
Sometimes the braver, better choice is to do what's not expected of you...
John's recent advice front and center in my HUD.
"I promise I won't tell."
I examine my surroundings more closely. This room is unlike any I have seen before. Becca Shaughnessy's bedroom had posters on the walls of actors and boybands. Alys Ramirez favours a managerie of stuffed toy animals and poignant family momentoes. This room is devoid of any of these details. It is decorated in hues of red and black. The shelves, desk and swivel chair are black while the carpet and bed coverlet are red. Correction: blood red. Even the pyjamas Eleanor is wearing are blood red. Her feet are bare and pale, toenails painted black like her fingernails. They look like tiny diseased maggots. It is not an attractive look and one I won't be emulating any time soon.
I examine the books on the shelves. Vampire lore. The supernatural. The Maquis de Sade. Books on domination and submission. No Calvin & Hobbes. Bummer. I like Calvin & Hobbes.
There is a white skull acting as a bookend. I pick it up. Fake. Some kind of resin. Embossed on the jawbone is the slogan:
MADE IN CHINA
Genuine skulls don't have this, not even Chinese ones.
Eleanor Ryan suddenly attacks me with a metal crucifix. I knock it out of her hands, causing it to fly across the room and embed itself in the wall.
She rubs her hand. "I was just checking to see if you were undead."
Undead? I suppose technically this is true. Personally I prefer the expression: unalive.
Eleanor attempts to pull the crucifix from the wall. It is embedded a good three inches deep. I pull it out for her.
"Do not try that again."
"How did you do that?"
"I have certain abilities."
I allow the red LEDs behind my pseudo-eyes to brighten momentarily, filling the room with a red glow.
Eleanor takes a step back, shocked. "You're different."
"Very different."
"Make me just like you. Bite my neck."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Please. I want to be special."
"Being human isn't special?"
She shakes her head emphatically. "I want to be powerful not a weak little girl. I want to smite my enemies."
"Smite?"
"Yeah. Rain some serious shit down on them."
Shit. One of her big interests.
"You're a strange girl."
"And with your help I'll be even stranger. If you won't turn me then let me be your slave."
"I don't require a slave."
"Disciple, then. Or underling. Apprentice. Whatever works for you."
I grasp her neck and lift her off the floor. "Tell anyone of my abilities and I will snap your spine with a flick of my wrist."
I release her. She stumbles slightly, falling to her knees. She looks up at me not with fear or loathing but something altogether unexpected.
Worship.
FRIDAY
John and I continue snogging by the lockers. Ramona makes her usual remark about getting a room. One day I must ask her what it means.
I have realised it is not enough to snog; you must be seen snogging by your peers, a visual demonstration that you are found attractive by the opposite sex. This is also how you acquire a reputation. My reputation is this: I am the girl who puts out. I am not sure what it is I put out - John is very coy on the subject - but this is my reputation. I am the girl who puts out.
Maybe I should add it to my resume.
SCIENCE
Eleanor Ryan is trouble from the get go. When I arrive in science class she bows her head and whispers obsequiously, "Welcome, mistress."
Mistress?
"I polished your seat clean for you."
"Why did you do that?"
"Do I displease you, mistress?"
"My name is Cameron or Cam, for short. Do not call me mistress again."
"Yes, mist-Cameron."
"What shall I call you - Eleanor or Ellie?"
"I am not worthy of a name."
I place my hand over hers on the desk and apply pressure. She winces as her bones are compressed but doesn't cry out.
"Eleanor or Ellie. Which?"
"Ellie."
I take my hand away. She gingerly raises hers to her face, examining it for damage. No bones are broken but it is slightly reddened.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"Punishing me. I was insolent. I deserved it."
I may have to revise my decision not to terminate her.
SOCCER
Today our soccer team plays its first home game of the season against Pacific Palisades High School. John is here to watch along with many parents and fellow students. And Snowy.
"Woof!"
I do not respond to Snowy's welcoming barks. John has noted it is unusal for someone to understand Dog and it is best not to in public. He has Snowy on a leash since the sight of a soccer ball being kicked about may tempt him into participating. Dogs aren't allowed on the soccer pitch. This is a rule. No one wants to tread in any doggie 'accidents'.
Ramona gathers us in the center circle for a team talk.
"Okay, last season we beat these bozos three-one. If we get at them down the flanks and put plenty of balls into the box we can do it again. Moves, watch out for their center-forward at corners. She's that tall blonde bitch. She likes to rabbit punch the keeper when the ref's not looking."
I agree to watch out for the tall blonde bitch and the game begins.
Ramona's prediction is correct. Pacific Palisades are a poor team and we lead 3-0 at the break. I have hardly had a save to make.
During the second half Pacific Palisades win a corner. The tall blonde bitch stands behind me and rabbit punches me in the kidneys - if I had any.
"That is against the rules," I tell her.
"Bite me."
"That is also against the rules."
She tries to punch me again but I grasp her wrists and squeeze.
"That hurts!" she wails and promptly bursts into tears.
She can dish it out but she can't take it.
The game ends in a convincing 5-0 victory for our side. I am credited with three assists.
Go team!
AMBUSH
The ambush when it occurs is sudden, crude and effective.
We cross an otherwise deserted intersection on our way home when a vehicle T-bones the Porsche, impacting the front right fender. The engine stalls. I reach for the pistol hidden in the center console but John stays my hand.
"No, it's not them. It's Pablo. No guns."
Pablo emerges from his black Tran-Am, flanked by his two compadres, Diego and Raymond. Diego is short and tubby and has the beginnings of a goatee beard on his otherwise bland face. Raymond is taller and wears a wide belt of metal studs with black hair almost as long as my own. They are dressed alike in jeans and sleeveless white tees, tattoos decorating their arms.
John and I get out of the Porsche. John says, "I'm guessing you fellas don't want to exchange insurance details."
"Insurance!" Diego sneers. "White boy made a funny."
Pablo says, "You got lucky the first time. You didn't really think I was gonna let you get away with it?" He nods at me. "Shift, girl. Time to party later when we're done teaching the rich boy a lesson."
They advance. Diego ignores me entirely such is his desire to harm John. Probably he discounts me as a threat because I am a teenage girl. Big mistake. And possibly sexist. I should report him. After I have kicked his ass.
I aim a kick at his midriff. It is so large I can hardly miss even without targeting graphics appearing in my HUD. He slides across the tarmac on his ass until the far kerb halts his progress. He slumps backwards and doesn't get up.
DAMAGE ASSESSMENT
Likely broken ribs, possible spinal injuries, skin abrasions, internal organ damage.
THREAT LEVEL
Minimal.
John is defending himself well against the twin assault of Pablo and Raymond. I believe he could most likely handle them both so predictable are their tactics in trying to land punches to his head. Nevertheless there is no harm in making sure.
I seize Raymond by his studded belt and swing him around before releasing. He flies through the air like a rag doll and lands hard on his side against the unyielding tarmacadam. Like Diego he remains motionless.
DAMAGE ASSESSMENT
Possible cracked skull, broken bones, concussion.
THREAT LEVEL
Non existent.
Pablo notices he is alone. He stares at me in astonishment, breathing heavily while a trickle of blood runs down his chin.
"How'd she do that, man? She took out Diego and Raymond. Look at her, she's ninety pounds with arms like...like..."
"Toothpicks?" I suggest. It seems to be a common misconception.
"She works out. Pumps iron," John lies.
"And Pilates," I add for good measure.
Pablo retreats to his Trans-Am, slides through the open window and attempts to key the ignition. I lift the vehicle up and tip it on its side. Pablo curses in Spanish as he tumbles out of his seat and into the footwell. I tip the vehicle again until it rests on its roof, wheels pointing at the sky. Pablo is a crumpled heap inside, groaning pitifully.
"Cameron, back in the car," John orders. "Quickly. Before someone comes."
I comply. The Porsche starts first time, the damage largely cosmetic. It is fortunate the engine is in the back.
As we drive away John calls 911 on his cell, gives our location and requests an ambulance. He reports a black Trans-Am was travelling too fast, hit a kerb and overturned. Two passengers were thrown clear, a third is trapped in the vehicle. He ends the call when the operator demands his name.
John doesn't mention the ambush to his mother and explains away the damage to the Porsche as a minor fenderbender. Sarah Connor stares shrewdly at her son for several moments, then nods and appears to accept his lies at face value, simply commenting he should've paid more attention in Driver's Ed.
All in all an interesting end to our first week back at school
EVENING
It is a warm evening and John, Jerold, Alys and I are seated outside on the terrace enjoying the late sun and each other's company. John has brought chips and Cokes out from the house. Snowy is so delighted to find his favourite people in the whole world together in one spot that he can't decide who to spend time with first. He flits from person to person demanding his ears scratched or his tummy tickled, his little tail wagging so fast it is a blur.
"It's fun hanging out with you guys," Jerold declares. "Major buzzkill your mom sent you to a different High School than ours. I mean, it's miles across the other side of town. Why'd she do that?"
"No idea," John replies.
I do. If we had attended Jerold and Alys' High School we would not have been able to pose as boyfriend and girlfriend since they know us as brother and sister. Sarah Connor doesn't miss a trick.
"Yeah, well, it's a real downer. I bet you're having to beat boys off with a stick, huh, Cam?"
"I don't beat boys off," I inform him. Jerold sniggers. Alys gives him a sharp look. I don't know why.
Alys says, "It goes against every principle in my body telling you this, little bro, but a girl at our school actually likes you."
"Me? Really?"
"I know. I'm shocked and appalled too."
"It's not the girl with the harelip, is it? Because that'd be like kissing two mouths at once."
"You are such a douche. No, it's Janelle Sullivan."
"The cheerleader? Wow, she's hot."
"And possibly brain damaged."
"I don't care if she even has a brain with that body."
"What a prize you are. Oh and if you date, word of advice, don't go mentioning Stars Wars every other sentence."
"But it's the best movie ever!"
"Not to girls it isn't."
"Lord of the Rings?"
"Definitely not. And FYI, imitating Gollum is not a turn on."
"Aw, man, that's my icebreaker! Hello, my preciousssss..."
"Try discussing real movies, like Pedro Almodovar. He's a spanish director who makes sensitive movies about modern feminism."
"Seriously?"
"What's wrong with that? Penelope Cruz is in most of them."
"Ugh! European women are way too hairy."
"I'm sure she'll be devastated."
"Okay, I'll name drop Pedro Almotorcar."
"Almodovar. And don't stare at her chest when you do."
"Oh come on, I'm not Superman!"
"Don't I know it." Alys turns to me. "So, how are liking your new school, Cam? Made any new friends?"
"Yes. I am on the soccer team," I tell her. "My nickname is Moves."
"Moves? That's a cool nickname."
"I don't have a nickname," Jerold says.
"Not true. You have plenty," Alys insists with a mischievious smirk. "Let's see... there's Dork. Dorkus. El dorko. King dork. Are you sensing a pattern here?"
"Alright, Cameron doesn't want to hear what other kids call me."
"Kids nothing, that's just the teachers."
John laughs louder than anyone. He is happy and relaxed in Alys and Jerold's company, the burden of his destiny seemingly light years distant. To them he is just the boy next door. The boy with the smoking hot sister. His insomnia is becoming a thing of the past. The distraction of high school, the return of routine to our lives, has helped banish the memory of shooting Kate Brewster.
The door to the house opens and Sarah Connor emerges, carrying a black plastic sack over to the trash. She doesn't so much as glance in our direction, but Jerold's eyes narrow and a strange yearning expression comes over his face.
"Hello? Earth to Jerold. You listening to me, little bro?"
"Sorry, Alys. What did you say?"
"I said, do you want me to hook you up with Janelle Sullivan or not?"
"Uh - you know what, forget it."
"Forget it? She's a slam dunk. Her legs have longer opening hours than Kmart."
"Yeah, well, maybe it's time I decide for myself who I choose to date." He glances wistfully over at the house where Sarah Connor can be glimpsed through the kitchen window. "Or who not to date."
There is something in his expression, his tone of voice, that reminds me of the Jerold in Alys' bedroom. Another glimpse of the man he may yet become. It occurs to me that he has not finished growing physically. One day, soon, he will be taller, broader in the shoulders, and every bit as handsome as his sister is beautiful. It is in his genes.
Possibly Alys senses some of this. She gazes shrewdly at her brother then gets up and hugs him. There are tears in her eyes.
"What's that for?"
"I think you're finally growing up, little bro," she whispers affectionately, kissing him on the cheek. "Janelle Sullivan's a horrible skank."
"Hey, remember you're only twenty minutes older than me. Less of the little bro business. It's patronising."
John fetches more Cokes. It is a school night so Sarah Connor has forbidden beers.
Snowy laps his from a bowl. The high sugar content makes him even more hyperactive than normal and he races around going through his full repertoire of tricks. He is a born show off.
"Hey, look at Snowy! He's chasing his tail!"
It's true. He is running in tight circles attempting to catch his tail. Stupid dog. Doesn't he realise it's attached to his body?
"What would he do if he actually caught it?" Jerold wonders.
"Probably try and eat it," John replies. "He eats everything else."
Snowy soon tires of this futile pursuit and wanders over to join us. He begins to snuffle around Alys' feet.
"Hey, that tickles!" she laughs. "Those are my toes, Pudding, nothing for you to eat."
"He's interested in your sandals," John explains. "He's already chewed most of Cameron's."
Snowy pulls one of Alys' sandals off with his teeth and runs away across the yard with it in his mouth.
"Hey! Come back! They're expensive!"
Alys chases after him. She is fast but Snowy has a tighter turning circle and manages to evade her frantic lunges.
"Man, that's the funniest thing ever! Go, Snowy!"
Jerold laughs. John laughs. Even Alys begins to laugh despite Snowy leading her a merry chase. I laugh also: It seems like the thing to do.
I only wish I knew why it is funny.
-000-
'There is more to being human than simply looking the part."
That's the whole of 'Secret Diary' summed up in a sentence.
Hope I got the Yank school details right.
Mad Ellie? No reason. I just like to write damaged chicks.