I heard heavy breathing, a few sniffs.
“Don’t you ever disrespect me again,” his father growled.
“I’m sorry,” came the very quiet voice of Camden McQueen.
“Sorry? Sorry?” His dad sounded like he was about to let loose again.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Camden whimpered.
The sound of clothes being smoothed, hands being wiped off.
“All is forgiven,” his dad said easily, as if they just had a minor spat. Maybe this was a minor spat to them. It would explain a lot of what I saw in high school.
I heard footsteps walk into the hall and I pulled myself further into the dark of the room.
“Oh, and Camden? Next time you want to put an ad in the paper,” his father said, pausing near the steps. “You make sure to run it by me first, okay?”
I couldn’t hear his response so I could only assume he nodded. I waited in the dark until I heard his father go down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps Camden McQueen would have no problem becoming Connor Malloy.
I tiptoed to the door in time to see Camden storming past me. I caught a glimpse of a bloody lip, a bright red cheekbone, eyes that didn’t dare look at me.
“Camden,” I called after him. But he kept going, into his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, making me jump. Making my heart ache.
I poked my head into the hall and padded my way to the kitchen. A page from the local newspaper was on the table.
It wasn’t a huge ad, but it was big enough. Aside from the serious headshot of Camden in the corner, there was only one person in the ad, the man that his father objected to. He had a winning smile and was covered in gorgeous tattoos. He was also fit as a fiddle and wearing a black speedo, surrounded by oily men lying by a pool. He couldn’t have looked gayer if he’d tried.
Camden knew exactly what he was doing. He chose this man, not only because he probably was one of his biggest clients and certainly one of the most photogenic, but he knew it would piss off his father. He did this out of spite. He probably laundered money out of spite too. I knew a thing or two about that emotion. Spite was the fuel to right all your wrongs. And like any fuel, it could consume you.
I stared at his photo, lost in it. Here was Camden, gorgeous and outwardly successful, but fueled by nothing but spite underneath. All this time later the boy with the lipstick was still inside. Still kicking and screaming. Camden’s father underestimated him. Everyone had underestimated him. Especially me.
Then
`
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.”