The End of the World (12 page)

I swallow every vile response I want to let loose into the empty air and turn toward Shaye.

“Okay, let’s think.”

We’re walking along the side yard, underneath an oak tree that is just now contemplating sprouting a few buds. There’s got to be somewhere we haven’t looked, somewhere that a five-year-old obsessive-compulsive kid in love with peanut butter sandwiches and mayonnaise crackers would want to discover. Some place that kid would go to explore or just hide. Someplace that—

And then I remember.

I remember the question he asked me this morning when I was helping him with his shoes and getting angry when he wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to tie them right.

“Shaye, I think I know where he is.” I don’t think it. I know it. But I can’t risk giving her any false hope on the off chance I’m wrong.

But I’m not wrong. I’m certain of it like I was certain Shaye would be hard to figure out from the moment she opened the front door to me standing there holding a pathetic duffle bag and a frightened expression.

I walk fifty yards and turn to the left and begin to climb to the sound of Shaye asking what I’m doing.

I keep going. And it takes work. It takes two minor slips and a few scratched knuckles and one tear in my shirt, but I make it to the top and swing my legs over to look inside and he’s there.

He’s there and I no longer feel like crying.

Camben, how high is that crane with the bushes growing through it?

Twenty-two feet, give or take a few inches, Buddy.

Think it would be hard to climb?

I’m not sure. Never thought about it before. Why do you want to know?

But he never answered me. He’d already made up his mind about what he was going to do.

And there Pete lies, sound asleep in the rusty floor of that crane. He’s lying on a pile of old leaves and he’s clutching a blanket. And just like Shaye in the bathtub, his thumb is in his mouth.

Cameron

S
he’s changed. Not
in the way a person changes hairstyles or restaurants or radio stations when a top forty hit plays for the seventh time in the same hour. Not in the way the summer break from school gives you a tan and a new outlook on what you can survive during the upcoming year, but she’s changed. Deep down, where no one can see if they’re not looking really close.

But I’m looking. Have been for months now. Ever since we found Pete in that crane and worked together to pull him down, going limb by limb and passing him arm over foot until we safely reached the bottom. I still don’t know how we did it, especially considering the kid only woke up long enough to belt out the words,
I’m hungry
before passing out cold again. But we did it, and since then I haven’t heard Shaye complain once. Not a single time.

Not when we carried Pete up to the house and upstairs to bed, not when Carl and Tami berated us for sneaking out in the first place, not when we changed into pajamas and attempted to climb into our own beds, and not when Carl walked into Shaye’s room a half-hour later and demanded in low whispers still loud enough for me to hear that she follow him right then, right there. I heard the squeak of her bed as she slowly climbed out, the footsteps that reluctantly walked behind him, the soft close of her door from the strange way she always shuts it behind herself once, and then twice with a final twist of the knob. I’m not sure if she’s trying to keep something in or keep someone out. I’ve never asked.

She was gone a long time that night.

I didn’t see her the next morning.

When I saw her later in the school cafeteria, she sat across from me like usual, but this time she didn’t say a word. Her food remained untouched. Her face stayed a frightened shade of gray.

In the four months since then, I’ve spent my time hoping to God Shaye didn’t lie to me.

Too busy trying to convince myself that Carl isn’t doing
that
.

Too busy being a fifteen-year-old coward who handles fear by pulling a pillow over his head and turning toward the wall in an attempt to chase the monsters away.

I miss the old Shaye. The new one doesn’t complain, but she doesn’t laugh much either. It’s like she lives in a catatonic state—body, mind, and flesh intact, with very few allowances toward anything that makes life worth living. I miss her laugh, and I’m determined right here and right now to bring the sound of it back. Summer break is coming to an end, and I’ve been sitting next to her here at the end of the world all night trying to think of a way to do it. So here goes.

“I have an idea,” I say. I don’t actually have an idea, but I figure saying it out loud might force one to come to me. I wait for a second, then roll my eyes on a sigh. Still nothing.

“Are you going to elaborate, or is this the part where I’m supposed to start guessing?” she says. There’s anger, but there’s also a hint of the sarcasm I’ve missed. It’s a start, at least.

I give her a look at the same time an idea falls into my head. It’s not a very good one, but a guy’s got to start somewhere. I stand and pick up a few random stones and set them in the space between us. “Whoever can make these rocks skip the most number of times gets the week off doing dishes, starting tomorrow night.”

“I don’t feel like skipping rocks, Cameron.” Her voice is so wounded I almost feel the knife cut. Still, I have to keep trying.

“Did you hear what I said? A whole week of no dishes. Plus, since school starts next week and you’ll have more time for homework. I might even throw in an extra day if you win.”

I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned that Shaye is competitive, or that of all the household chores she’s left in charge of, dishes is what she hates the most. She hates them even more than cleaning toilets, which in my opinion is the worst chore ever not to mention the most tedious since this house has five toilets compared to only one sink full of dishes. But that’s the way Shaye rolls, so it’s what I have to work with. I know I’ve sparked interest when her eyes flicker.

“An extra day?” she says. “Like eight days in a row times three times each day which means you’ll do them a grand total of twenty-four times before I have to touch them again?”

A laugh catches in my throat, but I hold it inside. “Careful, Shaye, or you’ll start to become as numbers-obsessed as me.”

Her longsuffering sigh tells me she’s already contemplated the idea. “I think maybe I already am.”

“Well, that sucks for you. Especially considering you might not win, but I’m sure you never thought of that. Now are you on?”

“I’m on. Or you’re on. Or we’re on. Not sure what the correct term is here.”

“No matter, this isn’t English class.” I pick up a stone to the sound of her soft laughter and hand her one nearly the same size. It’s all I can do to keep my own smile in check. “You want to go first?”

She smirks at me. “Of course I do.”

Of course she does.

And it isn’t exactly that I tried to lose, because I didn’t. But the highest number of jumps I managed tonight was five even though I’ve practiced for weeks now and I’ve made no fewer than seven for the past several days.

So maybe it was just a fluke that I lost. Or maybe just bad luck. Or maybe I just had an off night—everyone is entitled to one of those every now and then.

Or maybe I just wanted to give Shaye a reason to cheer again. And for twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, she did exactly that. It was a nice sound to hear, and I’ve missed it.

*

Shaye

I’m not stupid.
He let me win. But then again, who cares? Not me. The past three days have been nothing short of heaven on my little patch of insanity-filled earth, and I’m latching onto it for all I’m worth. For the next four days, I plan to squeeze every bit of joy out of this Cameron-made scenario I can muster.

“It’s still dripping,” I say. “You can’t put a plate away with water pooling in the center. That’s how they grow mold and no one wants to eat off a plate growing mold. That’s disgusting, Cameron.”

He slides me a look, his fifth one tonight. “Mold props up the immune system, and I for one like the way it tastes.” He snatches the plate up anyway and swipes across the surface with the sopping towel.

“That’s not even true. And you need to get a new towel. That one’s too wet to work with.” I realize I pushed too far about a second too late. “What are you—ow! Don’t do that!”

Cameron twirls the towel and snaps it against my thigh before I have a chance to jump out of the way. A welt is bound to form on the spot, but I don’t take the time to glance at it. I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of a second attempt, at least not without putting up a fight of my own. I flip a towel from the drawer and quickly wet a corner, not caring that I just snaked a trail of water along the Spanish tile floor. I’ll clean it up before anyone notices.

“You think you’re smart?” Cameron snaps and misses.

“The smartest person you’ll ever meet, and your aim is off. Then again, you are only fifteen.” I snap and miss worse than him.

“Don’t insult my age.” The tip of his towel grazes my elbow, and I squeal.

“Then stop hitting like a baby. That strike wouldn’t have wounded a small bird.” I snap and miss again. This time he hits me squarely on the stomach and I yelp. Thank God I’m wearing a sweater.

“You talk a big talk, Shaye, but I’m not hurting anywhere yet.” He strikes. I strike back. Pretty soon we’re both laughing. Even Alan joins in from his spot against the window. A spoon he’s been chewing on comes out of his toothless mouth and he bangs it on the ground like he’s calling for an encore. So we give him one, spinning and jerking and darting back and forth to avoid each other at all costs. I haven’t laughed this much in a lifetime.

Until the sound of a booming fist crashes on the counter behind me. “What is going on in here?”

I can’t believe I’ve forgotten all about Carl. There’s never been an instance—not one single time—where I’ve given myself permission to let go or let my guard down with Carl in this house. Until now.

“It’s my fault,” Cameron speaks up, using his shirtsleeve to swipe at a trail of water snaking from his hairline and over his eyebrow. Cameron always speaks up like a savior just waiting for an opportunity to rescue those lost in a sea of bad choices. I’ve just found myself in the middle of the water, and I’m failing. Gasping for air. Drowning. Hoping against hope that I won’t be subjected once again to Carl’s demented form of salvation. “I was drying dishes and Shaye came in and on impulse, I flicked her with the towel. I meant it as a joke—”

But Cameron doesn’t finish that sentence. It’s impossible to talk when someone twice your size grabs the back of your neck shoves your face under a sink of hot dirty water and holds it there. Keeps it down so long that babies begin to cry and wives begin to yell and seventeen-year-old girls with exactly one friend in the entire world begin to fear they’re going to lose that one, too, and wind up with less than no one. Cameron’s it for me.

So I grab Carl’s arm and jerk it backward.

It’s clear I’ve shocked him…shocked him so much that he lets go of Cameron and spins toward me.

He pops my mouth with one hand and swipes the back of his mouth with the other.

And then he smiles. And studies me a long moment, unfazed by Cameron’s sputtering and hacking and waterlogged coughing behind his left shoulder. I want to go to him, wrap my arms around his thin shoulders and make sure he’s okay, but I don’t dare move. I remain focused, unbreathing and looking Carl square in the eyes with all the concentration I can muster. I mean it as a way to convey strength…to show that he can’t intimidate me anymore. Even though it’s a lie. Even though my upper lip is throbbing.

Not that it matters. He winks at me and grins, then points a thick finger at Cameron. “You clean this mess up. If this happens again, next time I won’t be so nice about it.”

He takes a step away before turning back toward Cameron, sizing him up with a slow perusal that communicates hostility and a warped amount of possessiveness. I’ve seen the look before, and my skin crawls in the same wiggly way it always does.

“And stay away from Shaye if you know what’s good for you.” Carl steps around me and walks out of the kitchen, taking an extra moment to knock into Cameron’s shoulder on his way out.

There’s so much I want to say…so much I want to communicate and so much I want to do. But Carl’s threats have been issued often, and not a single one is ever empty.

So without a word or a glance in Cameron’s direction or an offer to help, I walk out of the kitchen and head for the stairs. Maria is in her crib sound asleep, the book I left her thumbing through a few minutes earlier tucked under her left cheek. Not wanting to risk waking her, I pull a pastel purple blanket across her shoulders and then inch backwards to sit on my bed. My knees instinctively pull up to my chest, my pink bed pillow wedged in the space between them.

And I wait. Even when Cameron knocks on my door and quietly calls my name, I stay put and wait. My heart crumbles just a little before I quickly slap the pieces back into place. I won’t be deterred. I won’t give in to his sweet voice. My selfishness won’t put him in harm’s way more than it already has.