calling me that. If you wanted my name to be Cammy, why didn’t you just put it like that on the birth certificate?”
“It’s just a nickname, girl.” Our mother leaned toward us, putting her skinny hands palms down on the table. “You’re a little sensitive lately, Camille. I think that change is coming on pretty soon.”
Now, Camille looks at me for a long time, like she’s considering her next move. Then she shrugs her shoulders and takes her arm off my throat.
“So what?” she says. “It’ll be you soon, too.”
She rolls over and lies next to me.
“Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s something you do at a time like this.”
“Are you sad?”
“No, not really. It’s more like a feeling of aloneness. Like no one else knows what’s going on inside me. It’s a little scary, too. And a relief it’s finally come. It’s a whole bunch of things. But it’s not bad. Not as bad as they tell you in school.”
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No. Crampy, maybe. I don’t know yet. So far I feel OK. There’s a girl in my P.E. class who says she gets cramps every time.”
I hope this doesn’t happen to Camille.
“I won’t tell. Not Mom or anyone.”
“Ever?”
“Not ever.”
Camille doesn’t want our mother to know because she’ll drag Camille to the store for the “necessary supplies,” and Camille says she can see it already, standing in line at the Safeway and our mother saying to the checker, “My daughter just started. Isn’t that amazing? I swear she was in diapers just two months ago.” I think I’d keep it to myself, too.
For now, Camille says her P.E. teacher gave each girl a package of necessaries and it will get her through.
“Can I see it?” I ask.
“No.”
Camille goes back to her bed but keeps the light on.
“I’m going to sleep with it on. If that bothers you, too bad.”
But it doesn’t bother me. I know I won’t sleep now anyway.
Our first week in our house on Myrtle Street, Camille ran away for an afternoon. She packed her suitcase and left the house like she was going to school, then sat down at the train station and watched the trains and the people until it got dark.
Camille says the train station is full of possibilities.
“There’s one train that goes to San Francisco and another one that goes to Santa Fe. You can go to Seattle or Denver or Chicago. One day I’m just going to hop on one of those trains and see where I end up.”
“You can try that,” our mother says. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.” She looks up from her nails. She’s painting them Scarlet Fever in preparation for her date tonight. She’s going out with a man whose truck got hit from behind at a red light. Our mother filed the claim for him and took a picture of the damage. “I tried it once,” she said. “Remember?”
That’s how she met our father.
“Think about that, Camille, when you’re thinking about where that train might take you. My life hasn’t been the same since.”
I look at Camille. She’s got her lips pulled in like she does when she thinks hard about something. I wonder if sometimes our mother thinks about leaving us like our father did. I used to ask her, but she always said, “Don’t go borrowing worry, Chloe,” or “You worry something too much and it’s likely to happen,” so I stopped asking.
“I think it might be worth the trip,” Camille says.
The next day Camille wrote the school a letter saying she was at the dentist and would they please excuse her absence. She signed our mother’s name to it.
I haven’t told on Camille, not on any of these things. She didn’t need to use her voodoo on me.
I keep my mouth shut because telling means I’m no longer useful. Sometimes Camille says to me, Get lost. I don’t need you. When I know something, when the secret’s still safe, she likes me better than she likes her best friend.
Camille says she and I will never truly be friends because she’ll always be
“It’s just a nickname, girl.” Our mother leaned toward us, putting her skinny hands palms down on the table. “You’re a little sensitive lately, Camille. I think that change is coming on pretty soon.”
Now, Camille looks at me for a long time, like she’s considering her next move. Then she shrugs her shoulders and takes her arm off my throat.
“So what?” she says. “It’ll be you soon, too.”
She rolls over and lies next to me.
“Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s something you do at a time like this.”
“Are you sad?”
“No, not really. It’s more like a feeling of aloneness. Like no one else knows what’s going on inside me. It’s a little scary, too. And a relief it’s finally come. It’s a whole bunch of things. But it’s not bad. Not as bad as they tell you in school.”
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No. Crampy, maybe. I don’t know yet. So far I feel OK. There’s a girl in my P.E. class who says she gets cramps every time.”
I hope this doesn’t happen to Camille.
“I won’t tell. Not Mom or anyone.”
“Ever?”
“Not ever.”
Camille doesn’t want our mother to know because she’ll drag Camille to the store for the “necessary supplies,” and Camille says she can see it already, standing in line at the Safeway and our mother saying to the checker, “My daughter just started. Isn’t that amazing? I swear she was in diapers just two months ago.” I think I’d keep it to myself, too.
For now, Camille says her P.E. teacher gave each girl a package of necessaries and it will get her through.
“Can I see it?” I ask.
“No.”
Camille goes back to her bed but keeps the light on.
“I’m going to sleep with it on. If that bothers you, too bad.”
But it doesn’t bother me. I know I won’t sleep now anyway.
Our first week in our house on Myrtle Street, Camille ran away for an afternoon. She packed her suitcase and left the house like she was going to school, then sat down at the train station and watched the trains and the people until it got dark.
Camille says the train station is full of possibilities.
“There’s one train that goes to San Francisco and another one that goes to Santa Fe. You can go to Seattle or Denver or Chicago. One day I’m just going to hop on one of those trains and see where I end up.”
“You can try that,” our mother says. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.” She looks up from her nails. She’s painting them Scarlet Fever in preparation for her date tonight. She’s going out with a man whose truck got hit from behind at a red light. Our mother filed the claim for him and took a picture of the damage. “I tried it once,” she said. “Remember?”
That’s how she met our father.
“Think about that, Camille, when you’re thinking about where that train might take you. My life hasn’t been the same since.”
I look at Camille. She’s got her lips pulled in like she does when she thinks hard about something. I wonder if sometimes our mother thinks about leaving us like our father did. I used to ask her, but she always said, “Don’t go borrowing worry, Chloe,” or “You worry something too much and it’s likely to happen,” so I stopped asking.
“I think it might be worth the trip,” Camille says.
The next day Camille wrote the school a letter saying she was at the dentist and would they please excuse her absence. She signed our mother’s name to it.
I haven’t told on Camille, not on any of these things. She didn’t need to use her voodoo on me.
I keep my mouth shut because telling means I’m no longer useful. Sometimes Camille says to me, Get lost. I don’t need you. When I know something, when the secret’s still safe, she likes me better than she likes her best friend.
Camille says she and I will never truly be friends because she’ll always be
Similar Books
