it’s a compliment
when you see Camille
handle
the ball.
75.
On the way home,
Camille is not Camille:
Staring. Quiet. Still.
I give her space
but eventually ask,
“Are you okay?”
“It’s just…
everyone around here
makes a big freaking deal
out of ev-e-ry-thing!”
“I know.”
“Just because two people play ball together—
it doesn’t mean anything at all.
We’re friends!”
“I know.”
Camille glares out
the bus’s window, at the same houses
we pass every day.
“You know what’s cool about you, Abbey?”
“Please tell me,” I say seriously.
“You get to be
whoever you want to be in this town.
You’re free. No history.
I have to be
who everyone expects me to be.
Good old Camille.”
“You think I’m free?” I smirk.
“Free and forever
the newbie, maybe.”
“One day, Abbey,
I’ll be in college somewhere, far from here,
playing basketball.”
“That’s funny—you want to leave,
and all I want is to stay put,” I say
without a smile on my face.
“Yeah, funny,” Camille agrees.
“It’s a wonder we met at all.”
76.
The community center oozes orange
and black. Tables overflow with candy,
popcorn, and caramel apples.
Parents are throwing us
a Halloween party,
Ghouls After School,
since we’re “too old
for trick or treat.”
We’ve been warned to take it easy
on the gore. “Out of respect
for all that’s happened.”
Mr. Lydon’s band, The Hiccups,
plays in a corner. Tommy and Sheila
show their fangs and slow dance.
Angela and Lana float over angelically
to Jacob and me, where we’re drinking punch sheepishly,
waiting for Camille to show up.
My costume consists of a shirt
splattered with paint, and Jacob wears
an orange tee with the word
Costume written on it.
“What’re you supposed to be?” Angela stops near me to stare.
“A Jackson Pollock painting,” I reply.
“I knew it!” Jacob smiles.
“O-kay.” Angela nudges Lana and rolls her eyes, then says,
“Camille must’ve lost her jockstrap.”
I don’t say anything,
and neither does Jacob—at first.
Some friends we are!
Then suddenly Jacob speaks up,
“Were they all out of pitchforks and horns at The Devil Store?”
Angela and Lana groan
and flutter away. I let a laugh
escape once they’re gone.
Then—all in one breath—Jacob describes
a Pollock-inspired project he once made
and how he mostly plays soccer now
but his favorite teacher was Mr. Lydon last year
and do I like Mr. Lydon, too?
“He’s definitely my favorite!” I agree,
and a new kind of warmth floods me.
Jacob grins back,
and we glance once more
toward the door,
waiting for our shared friend
to appear.
When Camille finally shows,
clad in jersey and high-tops,
I’m annoyed that Angela
got the gist of her costume right.
Feeling the need to say
I’m sorry
or
I’m a loser friend
for not defending her,
I push Jacob in Camille’s direction
and we rush over to her.
Then the three of us
spend most of the night
huddled around a bowl of candy,
laughing and eating
only the good chocolates
and voting on our
all-time favorite
costumes.
77.
After the dance, I wait at the curb
for Mom to show up.
I’m beginning to think she forgot
since Jacob and Camille
and most of the others have left.
Mr. Lydon, loading instruments,
calls to me: “You okay, Abbey?”
“Yeah,” I say, before spying
Angela and Lana approaching
with arms full of dismantled decor.
“Waiting on Mommy?” they giggle
but don’t stop for my reaction
because they’ve spotted what looks like
Jiman and a little boy
walking by themselves,
her arm tight around
his shoulder.
“Who invited you?!” Angela yells.
“Ange!” Lana claps her hand over Angela’s mouth,
“You’re so mean!”
But the expression
on Jiman’s face doesn’t seem to change,
although I’m too far away to tell for sure.
What I don’t do
is tell them to shut up,