Love Songs & Other Lies(7)
“Cameron Fuller?” He’s looking toward the back of the room, locating the one face that doesn’t belong, and we all do the same.
It might be Cameron Fuller’s first day at Riverton High School, but it isn’t the first time I’ve seen him. I worked at the beach over the summer and saw this guy every single day for the last few weeks. Always carrying his surfboard, always by himself. Most of the day he would float on his board, never even trying to stand; just floating, drifting. He never even approached any of the girls constantly surrounding his towel who—let’s be honest—pretty much had signs positioned over their blankets that said “willing and available.”
Clearly he was a terrorist.
Terrorist is our pet name for the thousands of tourists who flood into Riverton each summer, overrunning the restaurants, filling the beach, and terrorizing the locals with their NASCAR-like driving. Anyone local knows the surf shop downtown is a total terrorist trap. Waves only get big enough to actually surf during storms, and who wants to be out on the water in the middle of that? Death by lightning while half naked? No, thank you.
But here he is, in my first hour, clearly not a terrorist.
Every head turns to look at him in the back of the room. My eyes are on him too, and he looks sad, even though he’s now smiling, one hand raised in an awkward half wave. His dark, sun-kissed skin has gone almost as pale as his blond hair. He seems like the kind of guy who should be confident. He’s fun to look at, like the guys on all of my college brochures: with their broad shoulders, well-fit clothes and wind-blown hair, walking from the library to the cafeteria.
“Here.” His hands are crossed on the desk, and the smile fades quickly when everyone turns away. Everyone except me. I’m still staring at him, but I whip around quickly when his dazzling green eyes meet mine. He has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Mr. Flanagan waves his hands in front of him like a conductor. “Everyone?”
“Hi, Cameron,” the whole class chants in a lifeless monotone.
New students come to RHS so infrequently, they’re basically treated like visiting celebrities. By lunch Cameron will be claimed by one of our class’s most eligible bachelorettes and, by the looks of him, will probably be welcomed onto one of Riverton’s illustrious sports teams. He’s muscular but not bulky, and he doesn’t seem like he’s suffering from multiple head injuries, so my guess would be basketball or soccer. Teachers all but roll out the red carpet, and I have to say “Hi, Cameron” in three more classes. Each time he looks like he might puke as all eyes turn on him, and then there’s this look of immense relief as the stares of classmates drift away.
*
I may be slightly fascinated by Riverton High’s newest student. Cameron Fuller, it turns out, is a real-life high school anomaly: a new student who makes absolutely no attempt to fit in. He doesn’t talk to anyone, or make an effort to claim his spot in an established social group. In every class he sits in the back, sometimes several seats from the nearest person, always silent but also seeming to be engrossed in everything around him. He’s quiet, but he’s watching. I can tell by the way his eyes dart from person to person as they speak. He’s listening, observing, soaking it all in. Maybe he’s just sizing things up; weighing his options. That’s what I’d do.
After a curious scan of the cafeteria at lunch Cameron is nowhere to be found. I haven’t heard him say one word throughout the day aside from mandatory introductions, didn’t see him talk to a single person. Except when I pass him in the hallway on the way to Chem and he’s standing next to Jenna Mills. She’s holding a clipboard at the crossway of the junior and senior hallways, collecting signatures for … something. I don’t know what, because no one has actually stopped to talk to her. Except him. The guy who hasn’t talked to anyone without teacher instruction. I wonder what makes her special, even though at first glance it’s pretty obvious.
Jenna has short, spiky black hair with big chunks of blue that you can only see from a certain angle under the fluorescent lights. She’s always wearing something black. Today it’s a ruffled skirt with red leggings, and her eyelids are caked with red glitter. She reminds me of a deranged Tinkerbell. Seeing him leaning against the orange lockers in his white button-down shirt and light blue linen shorts, it’s hard not to notice the contrast between the two. As I pass, he pulls a Melon Ballers’ poster off the bulletin board behind Jenna, shoving it into his backpack. Will I see him at a show? With a quick nod, he walks away, still looking as sad as before. Maybe someone stole his donuts too.
CAMERON
It’s painful. Like someone-taking-a-key-to-the-side-of-my-beautiful-new-car painful. Every class is another new start, a fresh introduction, a new sea of staring eyes. By the time I reach English after lunch, my nerves are shot and, hand to the holy mother, I say an actual prayer that my classmates will be mute. Or that my teacher will take pity on me and saddle us with a five-hundred-word in-class essay or something. Anything to distract them from the most interesting thing about the first day of school, which seems to be me. It’s definitely me.
I have three hours left and all I really want to do is go back to the apartment. My apartment. Two months ago—the week after I turned eighteen—I spent an entire weekend visiting houses and condos in Riverton. When I finally walked into an apartment down the street from the beach and felt like I wanted to sit on the ratty old chair and just stay there, I knew I had found a winner. The rooms are all furnished seventies-garage-sale style. It feels comfortable.