Brake for It #2
A photo of Cameron, Drew, and me from one of Cameron’s first shows last fall.
Cameron’s in the middle, sweaty from his performance, with his guitar strapped to his back.
He’s got one arm around Drew’s waist, the other around my shoulders, and we’re both leaning into him, smiling like he’s the glue between us.
Drew’s wearing that denim skirt she loves with a cropped pink T-shirt, and her dip-dyed hair is loose in long waves, sparkly eye shadow on her lids.
The image looks like every other one of the three of us from the past eighteen years.
Like we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. With anyone else.
It’s already a relic, a moment that has passed.
“Hey!” I glance up and see Cameron leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch? It’s chicken teriyaki,” he says. “Your favorite.”
“Yes, one hundred percent.”
“Oh, and I got you something from my dad’s collection.
” Cameron’s holding a cassette tape between two fingers.
He tosses it my way, and I flip the plastic to see Celine Dion’s face smiling back at me, her name scrawled in blue script.
“You love to sing that first one at karaoke, right? ‘It’s All Coming Back to Me Now’? ”
I bite down on a smile and nod.
“Sick,” he says. “I thought so. C’mon. Let’s go.”
But before we leave, I glance down at the computer, where the photo of the three of us still takes up most of the screen. I inhale sharply and click delete.
Cameron and I slide into our usual table with the rest of his bandmates—Fiona, Regan, and Timmy—and I try not to think about the fact that Drew’s seat remains empty as I stab a piece of chicken with my fork.
“So, we’re all set for tomorrow?” Fiona asks. She’s got bright red hair tied up in space buns, and freckles sprinkled across her nose. When she plays drums, she becomes an animal, her whole body arching over her set, pounding on the steel like she’s feral.
“Yep,” Cam says. “We’re going on last, after Monica’s folk band.”
“They sucked last time,” Regan says, tossing their blond braid over their shoulder. Regan was a classically trained pianist before Cam convinced them to play with the group.
“Be nice,” Timmy says. “It’s not their fault all their songs are snooze-a-loons.” Timmy plays bass and has never met a weed gummy he didn’t like, a habit he usually hides behind Elvis Costello–style sunglasses he never takes off.
“I can’t believe it’s our last show here, before tour.” Fiona pouts, and everyone’s quiet for a moment. Regan rests their head on Fiona’s shoulder.
“Oh, come on,” I say playfully. “You’re about to see the world.”
“Do thirteen small towns across the Midwest count as the world?” Cam jokes. I know he’s just downplaying what a big deal their summer tour is, but I don’t give in.
“Yes. Yes, it does.”
He blinks, still looking at me. “You know, you could come, too. See it all through that thing.” He points to my Leica.
“Tempting,” I say, a flush rushing to my cheeks.
“Think about it,” Cam says as a group of girls holding trays stops at our table.
“Hey, Cameron,” the short one says.
Cameron turns his head up to her, his lazy smile spreading across his face. “Hey.”
“We just wanted to tell you we’re so excited to cheer you on tomorrow,” says the one with curly hair.
“Thanks.” Cameron raises his eyebrows at me.
“We saw you guys at the homecoming dance, and you were amazing,” says another.
Fiona pipes in now. “We can’t wait to give you guys a show.”
But none of the girls look at her. They’re all locked in on Cameron until the short one takes the hint that the conversation is over and they scurry away, giggling to one another.
Regan smacks their forehead with their palm. “I spend my entire life learning to play piano, and all anyone wants is the guy with the guitar? This world is so cliché. I’m getting more fries.”
“Grab me a Diet Coke?” Fiona says, clasping her hands in front of her face.
“Kombucha for me!” Timmy calls.
“No way, dudes,” Regan says. “Come with.”
Fiona and Timmy grumble but pop up from their seats, and the three of them disappear behind the salad bar so I’m left alone with Cameron.
“Please tell me you’re not going to go screw a groupie now,” I say.
“I thought you said groupie is a derogatory, misogynistic term.” Cameron cocks his head toward me.
“It is,” I say. “But you can’t just go and hook up with the first people who show interest in you after Drew.”
Cameron leans over to nab a piece of chicken off my plate, and when he does, he scoots closer to me, so close that our thighs touch, and suddenly, it’s like the heat from his leg is burning a hole in my jeans. Everything in me tenses, but I force myself to stay still.
“I won’t.” He tilts his face up to me. His smile deepens, and his left dimple makes an appearance.
My hand travels to the bench next to me, where my camera’s sitting, and without thinking, I grab it, lay my finger on the shutter.
“Hey,” Cameron says. “Will you come to practice tonight? It may be our last time, and I was hoping you could take some photos. Maybe they’ll make it into one of those coffee table books about bands before they were famous. ”
I raise the camera to my eye, a barrier between us.
I’ve always loved looking at Cameron through the lens, capturing the way his curls bounce as he moves his fingers through them.
Usually, when I’m looking at him like this, he’s looking elsewhere.
At Drew. His guitar. But right now, he’s looking directly at me. Well, at my camera.
A thrill zips up my spine. If he only knew.
“Sure,” I say, and click the shutter. “Of course.”
The Beast is at her best at dusk, right when the sun is starting to set and the golden-hour light turns her into a real seventies babe. The Cher cassette is still in the stereo, and I let her keep singing for the five-minute drive to Cameron’s house.
I pull up in front of Cameron’s and see the garage door already open, everyone inside attached to their instruments.
Fiona raises her hand and waves, but Cam doesn’t notice me at first, and I pause in the Beast, watching him fiddle with his guitar as Regan plays a few notes on the keyboard.
He’s focused, like he can’t imagine a world outside of what he’s doing at this exact moment.
That’s why we always got along. Because that’s how I feel about the images I capture with my camera.
I raise my Leica up to my face and watch Cam through the lens.
I wait for a moment as one hand slides down the neck and the other picks at the strings, watch his face contort, his upper lip relaxing, then turning to a snarl.
That’s when I click.
“Willa!” Cam looks up, and he’s all smiles as I hop out of the car and plop down on the old couch in the corner.
“Do your thing,” I say. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
For thirty minutes, I watch them wail and sing and punch at their instruments.
Sweat beads on their skin, and I can feel the intensity, the urgency, the absolute necessity of their actions.
I circle them behind my camera, only pausing to reload with film from the dusty canisters I get from the one photo developer in town.
As they play, my pulse quickens, their energy contagious.
I snake around while they rehearse, getting shots of all of them.
But it’s impossible not to stay focused on Cameron as he belts into the microphone, grabs the stand in a clenched fist, closes his eyes and sings the songs he’s written about Drew, though they now have new meaning.
It’s almost like I’m studying him, trying to figure out what’s changed inside him since he and Drew broke up.
Other times when I’ve watched him sing about falling in love and finding home inside another person, he’s been all tenderhearted and full of longing.
But today, there’s bitterness and a raw edge to his vocals, like he’s a coil ready to unspring.
When I look at Cameron, I can’t help but see all the Camerons I’ve ever known.
The little kid who played at the water table in his backyard with Drew and me.
The second grader who could draw perfect sparrows.
The preteen who proudly showed us his first chest hair.
The high school freshman who brought me hot chocolate from the bakery when I was sick, his face like a flower, the sun, a warm day at the beach.
The fifteen-year-old who said yes when Drew asked him if he wanted to get ice cream, just the two of them, but like…
in a different kind of way. The high school senior with a broken heart, about to leave for the summer to tour with a band. His band.
Through all of that, he has always been Cam.
But looking at him today, I wonder what parts of himself he’s been hiding.
The song comes to a crashing halt, and goosepimples cover my arm. Cameron lets go of the neck of his guitar and wipes his arm across his face. “Take five!” he says, then smiles at me expectantly. “How was that?”
“Amazing,” I say. “You’re going to love the shots.”
His eyes meet mine, and his bottom lip drops like he’s about to ask me a question, and for a moment, I think he might. But then he nods once and turns back to the group.