Sleepwalking in Daylight Page 15

  It’s weird what she pays attention to, like it’s priority number one to get rid of my kitten. Like a tiny kitten’s gonna shift the earth on its axis. She’s all I don’t know why you didn’t ask first … if you had I would’ve reminded you about your father’s allergies. I didn’t mean to cry about it—who cares anyway, right?—but then she got all whiney about how she found the perfect family. That’s what she kept saying: they’re just perfect, Cam. The perfect family. Well, Goody-fucking-two-shoes for them. Now they’ve got my kitten to make them even more perfect.

  Thank God she forgot about that whole “Sam and Cammy Go To The Movies On Sundays” shit she wanted us to do. I threw out the showtimes I’d Fandango’d. I didn’t want to see a romantic comedy anyway.

  Samantha

  SYSTEM FAILURE. UNABLE TO CONNECT TO THE INTERNET. Check your local connection and contact systems administrator.

  “Cammy?” I call from the bottom of the staircase. “Ca-mmy! Can you come here for a second?”

  SYSTEM FAILURE. UNABLE TO CONNECT TO THE INTERNET. Check your local connection and contact systems administrator.

  The upstairs is dead quiet. “Cammy!”

  “Whaaaat?” Her tone and volume matching mine. “Can you come down here?”

  I’m back, logging on after restarting again, hoping … nope. Still nothing.

  “Jesus, why are you screaming at me?” she says. “Can you fix this? I’ve tried three times now and I can’t get online.”

  “Dad’s computer’s off line, too,” she says. “Must be the cable modem.”

  She shrugs her way out of the kitchen.

  “Wait! What do I do to fix the cable modem? Can you do it?”

  “No, I can’t do it,” she says, as if the mere suggestion is amusing.

  “Watch your tone,” I say. “And take the other earphone out, it’s rude to stay plugged in when someone’s talking to you.”

  “I’m just saying. Call the cable company or something, I don’t know. P.S. They’re not earphones. That’s so gay.”

  “Oh, excuse me, and don’t call things gay. You know better than that. What’re they called if they aren’t earphones?”

  “Headphones,” she says. “Or earbuds. Depending. Can I go now?”

  “I’d have thought you’d be freaking out about this more than anyone,” I say. “How come you’re so fine with the computer being down?”

  “I’m texting. I don’t care.”

  “That reminds me, we’re going to have to have a little talk about your cell-phone minutes,” I say.

  “Okay, but can we do it later? I’ve got, like, a million things due tomorrow …”

  “And you’re texting homework back and forth, right? Uh-huh. Fine. You’re excused. But just try one more time?”

  I pace behind Cammy, but after another halfhearted attempt she gives up and says, “Nope. It’s dead,” in a snarky tone that’s become a regular thing.

  I have to rummage through a shoe box of paid bills to find the number for the cable company.

  “Thank you for calling Horizon Cable, the world leader in phone and cable communications, my name is Princess, how can I help you?”

  “Oh, yes, hi, wait, let me take you off speakerphone,” I say, running across to the kitchen phone. “Sorry, I was on hold so long.”

  “Can I get the last four digits of your social-security number to verify your account information.”

  “Oh, sure … 5421. I’m calling because I can’t get online and my daughter says—”

  “You live at zip code 60626?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Ma’am, our technicians are working to fix the problem. It should be corrected soon. There’s a cable outage in your area.”

  “How long until it’s fixed?”

  “Ma’am, we don’t know yet. Sorry for the inconvenience. Is there anything else I can help you with today? Can I tell you about our money-saving three-in-one package? If you act today you can receive one month of premium cable channels free.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Have a nice day and thank you for calling Horizon Cable.”

  I know he’s e-mailed me by now. He had to take Lexi to a birthday party and wasn’t sure if parents were expected to stay or if it was the drop-off kind. By this time of day we would have traded two or three e-mails at least. We don’t call each other. Technically we haven’t done anything anyone could be suspicious about but it’s this unspoken agreement to communicate by e-mail. I just thought maybe he’d call my cell. So now I’m facing the real possibility that I might not see him all weekend.

  This of course puts me in a terrible mood, the kind of mood that sweeps across the house like a spotlight. One by one I’m ordering rooms cleaned and straightened and Bob is sent to Costco and anyone who’s ever been to Costco on a Saturday knows what kind of hell that is.

  I click on and off. I restart the computer. I go back and forth between Bob’s computer and mine and then, in an instant—checking password flashes across the screen and just as Bob’s car pulls in, packed with cases of bottled water and toilet paper and restaurant-size mustard, there Craig is in my in-box. Just when the house gets busy again. Bob’s got to unload so I have time to check just the one.

  Have you ever seen The Usual Suspects? Rented it last night. It’s so good you can’t believe it. Just thought I’d say hey.

  “Mom! I’m done cleaning my room,” Andrew calls down to me. “Can I go next door?”

  The second e-mail … I have to read the second one. Really quickly. Bob’s still unloading the car. “Mom? Can I?”

  “Huh? Oh. No! You’ve got a soccer game in a few minutes!” It’s taking a second for his words to unfurl.

  Hey. What’re you up to? Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you. We’re off to watch the game at a friend’s house. Hope you’re enjoying the day.

  I check over my shoulder and while I still have the kitchen to myself I click on number three. I have no willpower.

  Lexi saved us from football watching. Evie thinks she’s coming down with something. I think she wanted to get home to the kitten. We named her Fluffy by the way. I use the word “we” in the general sense. Do I look like the kind of guy who’d name a kitten Fluffy? This kitten could not be more loved. Thinking of you.

  “What’re you doing?” Bob asks.

  “Oh, my God, you scared me! I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, trying to find the X to close out my e-mail. I can’t look panicked.

  “How was Costco?” I ask him, aware that I’m trying too hard to sound casual.

  “You seem happy,” Bob says. “What was that e-mail you didn’t want me to see?”

  “Huh? Oh, nothing! Just a school thing. Was it crowded?”

  “Why were you so frantic to close it when I walked in if it was just a school thing?”

  “Jesus, what’s with the third degree?” I get up and busy myself with a pile of papers and mail next to the computer. “Oh, yeah, did you see this thank-you note we got from Margie O’Donnell? Read it so I can throw it out.”

  This is a turning point. We look at each other, Bob and I do, like a game of chicken where you try to last longer not blinking, as I hold out that random piece of paper that will decide whether he can let it go or whether he’ll hold my feet to the fire and get me not only to confess but to surrender Craig. And you know what? I will. If Bob gives me any sign of hope whatsoever, I will chuck the whole damn thing right then and there. So here we are, allowing Margie O’Donnell to decide our fate on this day of discount warehouses and clean rooms. Her letter is suspended between us, a gesture that carries the weight of a family with it. Bob’s reaching for it, accepting it, will be a tacit agreement to continue believing in our commitment, flawed though it might be. Refusing it will force us into an unknown abyss that could heal us or hurt us permanently.

  Bob takes the note from me and lowers his eyes to Margie O’Donnell’s neat handwriting.

  “That’s a nice note,” he says. He
hands it back and calls to the boys for them to hurry up for soccer. To prove everything’s business as usual I make a show of sorting through the pile crammed between the computer screen and a stack of cookbooks. My heart’s only just now returning to its normal beat after the near miss of Craig’s e-mail. In case he’s suspicious, I act preoccupied with my to-do list.

  “They didn’t hear you,” I mumble like I normally would.

  I look up when he turns to call up to the boys again. I touch the mouse to reactivate the screen so I can check to make sure I’ve logged off completely. I have. Good. Crisis averted. Then, remembering his e-mail, I imagine Craig curling up with Lexi and Fluffy.

  “Jesus, where are they? Boys! Swear to God.” Bob stalks through the living room to the foot of the stairs.

  “Hey, Bob?”

  “Yeah? Boys! Let’s go! Get your stuff!”

  “You never asked where the kitten went,” I call to him.

  “Huh? Boys! Don’t make me count to three!” He turns back toward the kitchen. “What’d you say?”

  “How come you never asked where the kitten went?”

  He hunts through his coat pockets then his pant pockets for the car keys.

  “Where the kitten went,” he echoes.

  “The kitten? The kitten you were allergic to? The one we had to get rid of?”

  He shrugs and an aha crosses his face when he spots the car keys on the counter. “Throw me those, will you? Thanks.”

  I toss them over.

  “You found a home for it, right?” He’s feeling pockets again. “Have you seen my sunglasses?”

  “Over there on the table. You never asked who took her.”

  “Does it matter?”

  The boys stampede into the kitchen, both nearly-but-not-quite dressed in uniforms.

  “Finally!” Bob says. “You can finish getting ready in the car. Let’s get a move on. Go, go, go, we’re gonna be late!”

  “No,” I say. “I guess it doesn’t matter who took her.” But my voice is lost under the noise of wait, I forgot! and that’s it, I’m counting to three and then cleats on the hardwood floor out then back again clacking over to the fridge for bottled water.

  “See you later, Mom!” Jamie calls on his way out the backdoor.

  I don’t know if I’m relieved not to have had to lie to Bob or sad that he simply doesn’t care about anything I do. That’s where we are, I guess. He doesn’t care about me and if I’m going to be honest with myself … I don’t really care about him.

  Cammy

  Everyone’s talking on their cell phones. Who’re they talking to? I know for a fact I have a signal pretty much everywhere except on Lake Shore Drive around Fullerton but after North Avenue beach I get all four bars. They’re talking and driving, shopping, riding their bikes. It’s like a Dr. Seuss poem—They talk when they walk. They talk when they stalk. That’s stupid but whatever. It’s everywhere I look. Even my mom gets more calls than I do. How pathetic is that? It’s ridiculous.

  I gave Will my cell number but he must’ve lost it or something. Ricky kind of calls me but he doesn’t count really. Monica might call me if we weren’t in a massive fight but she lost her phone. She’s lost it so many times she used up all her replacements her calling plan allows so she says she’s going Amish until she earns enough money to pay for one. She doesn’t have a job, though.

  Monica’s pissed at me for some reason but she won’t tell me for sure what. After she found out about me and Will she went all ballistic because I didn’t tell her even when she was talking about how hot he was. She’s all “you could’ve said something!” It’s not like we’re going out or anything. I thought we were kind of but then I saw him with Paola Desti the other day. Yeah so okay she’s beautiful but she’s not the be-all endall. She fake-slapped his arm after he said something I guess he thought was funny. He gave her this bear hug from behind and she rolled her eyes but still let him walk her a few steps that way. She finally wriggled free but not before he kissed her cheek still from behind. I looked him right in the eye on my way to English and he blinked at me and looked away. He’s like pretending I don’t exist. Invisible Cameron. So I told Monica and she said he should find someone without a dot on her forehead. That’s all she said. I guess she’s pissed at me and Paola.

  Monica passed a note to David with dreads he’d have to shave if he were white but no one in this stuck-up school wants to offend a black guy so he gets away with whatever he wants. He’s one of maybe twenty black kids in the entire upper school. Anyway, David got the note in trig and read it and snorted before looking back at me—so frigging obvious. Mr. Stevens took it from him and thank God he tore it up and threw it away without reading it aloud first like some asshole teachers do. Somehow I’m the one who got in trouble. He goes: “Cammy, if you slip any further down in your seat you’ll be lying on the ground and this isn’t nap time.” Monica and David laughed at me and I know my days with her are numbered. I’m fucked since she’s my only girlfriend. Whatever. There’s no one I want to be friends with anyway so the joke’s on you.

  Lately she’s been on my case about the litmag I got a poem in. She’s been calling me Little Miss Sunshine. And now she makes sucking sounds whenever I come into one of the three classes I have with her. Here’s the piece that’ll be in the May issue:

  WHO ARE YOU

  Are you mine?

  Do you call me yours?

  Do you even remember my name?

  Or that I exist?

  I’m twirling like a girl

  In a light wind of snowflakes,

  My arms helicoptering out

  The smell of a winter snap in the air

  Even though winter’s not here. Yet.

  I turn and turn in the nearness of a new season.

  A new beginning of something I can’t name.

  I need a hand to hold.

  Someone all mine.

  I want to have you to myself.

  I want you to know I exist.

  I’m not a memory

  Or an idea

  Or a regret.

  I want you to claim me.

  I want the snowflakes to dance around both of us.

  They’ll melt on our tongues

  And on our hats and we’ll laugh

  And you’ll turn to me and say I’m yours.

  I’m waiting for you.

  Samantha

  I haven’t slept well for at least a week now and I have a call in to my doctor to see about sleeping pills. Lynn’s taking Lunesta, Sally’s on Ambien and I heard Kerry Kendricks talking about Ativan. I never used to need something to help me sleep. Now every night at around three in the morning I’m wide awake, making lists of things I need to do. At least I try to make lists. Sometimes, if I try too hard to fall back asleep I find myself flipping over onto my stomach then back onto my back and I start wondering how Craig sleeps. I start willing him to wake up. I want him to be thinking of me at the precise moment I’m thinking of him. All I want is to sleep through the night. I’ve been yawning through the days. The other day I thought I might fall asleep driving down Ashland, so I opened the window and cranked the radio. Kelly Clarkson saved me from an accident. Lately my eyes are puffy and even Cammy’s noticed.

  “You pierced the top of your ear? Just great, Cam,” I say.

  She’s rummaging through the fridge, past cold cuts and pot-roast leftovers, muttering about the horrors of living with carnivores. She finds baby carrots and crunches loudly and I want to say I get it, you’re a rebel, you’re so tough eating those carrots like such a badass, but I let her make her point.

  She looks at me and I know her mission’s been accomplished. I’ve had the exact reaction she was hoping I’d have. Well, too goddamn bad. So I’m predictable—shoot me.

  “What’s next—one of those creepy tribal holes stretched into your lobes? Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into you?”

  “You look like hell,” she says. She cocks her head to one side like she’s really thought
this out. “Your eyes are different.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night, thank you for asking. Don’t change the subject.”

  “You’re so uptight,” she says. “Half the girls in my class have piercings, it’s like so normal it’s not even funny. Can someone please remember to get tofu.”

  “If it’s so normal why have only half the girls in your class done it?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she says. Shrugs. Walks away.

  “You’re taking that out, you know,” I call to her.

  “I’m not taking it out and plus the guy at the place said you can’t take it out or it’ll get infected,” she yells on her way up the stairs.

  “The hell you’re not taking it out,” I’m now yelling. “And maybe that someone can pick up her own tofu.”

  She closes the door with no flourish, like she closes it every other day. A slammed door would have been an insult hurled down at me. But this is worse: it’s like I’m invisible now. I don’t matter enough to warrant a loud door.

  I trudge up the stairs. It doesn’t even occur to me to knock.

  She looks up from her cell phone, her busy thumbs pausing in the middle of a text message. Before she puts on the angry-teenager-face, I see the old Cammy sitting cross-legged on her bed. The Cammy who’d smile and scoot over to make room for me and offer me an earphone to listen to a song on her iPod. The Cammy who’d laugh and roll her eyes at the way I moved my head to the sound. The Cammy who’d call me a dork.

  I notice her knobby limbs are filling out and lengthening, her sharp cheekbones have gentle curves now. It’s like it happened overnight. I don’t remember her having breasts last week. She’s in another growth spurt. It’s as if she’s fighting it all. Her skin is what beauty magazines would call dewy, but she plasters it with makeup. Her long eyelashes are bending under the weight of clumped mascara she never washes off. Her wavy curls are scorched flat so much, the ends are splitting and breaking. Mostly it’s the color people notice. She used to have movie-star auburn hair that got sun-kissed in summer with lots of hours on the tennis courts, but now it’s pitch-black like a Halloween-witch wig. That’s the first thing everyone comments on when they see her: the tar-black hair that shadows her pale face, the long bangs that hang like an awning almost down to her nose.