Cameron
THE MORNING SUNLIGHT STREAKS across my childhood bedroom.
I say childhood bedroom, but I’ve never actually lived anywhere else in the twenty-four years I’ve been alive, so it probably should just be called a bedroom.
But the light dances over the ragged carpet, my four-drawer dresser with its chipping paint where it sits by the door, and warms where I lie on my full-sized mattress.
Last week I bought a bed frame, and now, when the sun rises, it falls directly into my eyes.
Fucking great.
I thought the upgrade would make me feel less poor, but now it’s just interrupting my much-needed beauty rest.
I spend most of every day reminding myself of how miserably my mother and I live. If manifesting were a real thing, I’d consider our situation my fault. But dwelling is a vice I’ve carried since I was a child, and I can’t seem to accept my place in life.
I want more; I will never have it.
So instead, I drag myself out of bed and take a shower, letting the lukewarm water wash over my sweaty body. The water never gets fully hot in this neighborhood, and lately, it’s been getting toastier in the middle of the night.
Of all the years I’ve lived in Port Orford, I can’t remember ever sweating this much while I slept.
I don’t linger in the shower; Mom isn’t home, which means I have a chance at being long gone before she gets here. That is always my end goal: getting away from this crumbly two-bedroom house before she can arrive and tell me how much I’ve let her down.
So, after brushing my teeth and dressing in what I normally wear on a day off from the auto shop—a black Henley and some worn blue jeans—I run a hand through my blond hair, grab my essentials for the day, and slip out the front door.
I need a haircut. The tips of my hair have started to curl slightly, right over the tips of my ears, and the brushing of little strands makes me feel as if an incessant fly is buzzing around my head.
Once I get paid, I’ll take some of the money I stash away from Mom and go to the barber on 3rd Street.
My Mustang sits on the curb with its peeling black paint and old body. The sun is peeking through the clusters of gray clouds that seem to hang over our little port town indefinitely, and I slip into the driver’s seat before the rain can fall and soak me through.
As I’m pulling away, my phone buzzes from where I’ve tossed it into the cupholder to my right.
It’s a text from Michael, asking if I want to meet up with our friends after basketball.
Michael is young—almost like the baby brother I’ve never had the luxury of calling my own.
He’s eighteen and full of life and hope, things I lost a long time ago.
We play on the same recreational basketball team at the community center, where I’m heading now, and I’m constantly reminded of how differently my life could have played out just by being around him.
How, if I had a mom who cared, maybe we’d have the means to live comfortably. Or if Dad were alive, maybe I would be more of a man.
But I shoot him a yes anyway, because anything is better than coming back home to my mom and her drinking buddies, even if that anything is the constant reminder that out of all our friends, I am the only one who has to hide what they come home to every night.
The drive to the community center only takes ten minutes—Port Orford really isn’t that big—and I’m soon parking my Mustang by the entrance and grabbing the duffel bag I keep in the backseat.
By the time I make it to the small men’s locker room, Michael is already there, changing into his basketball shorts and white t-shirt.
“Cam!” he shouts, running a hand through his short black hair as he grins at me.
“Hey, Mikey,” I answer, not quite as loudly, as I drop my duffel on the bench next to his.
“Ready for an intense workout sesh?” he asks. “I saw Carl bring a shit ton of cones out, so I think we’re doing drills today instead of a practice match.”
I suppress a groan, pulling off my jeans to slip on the pair of name-brand athletic shorts I bought a few weeks ago—the ones I rewash and wear to every practice. Affording several Nike pieces is not in my budget.
“I guess,” I mutter, pulling my Henley off and replacing it with a worn-out muscle tank.
Michael laughs. “Don’t sound so disappointed. The drills will keep those muscles nice and big, bro.”
To emphasize his point, Michael pinches my bicep, making me jump.
He’s not necessarily wrong. I’ve put a lot of work into my body—maybe another inferiority thing—and maintaining it is a big deal to me. It’s the reason why I do free yardwork for Eric, who runs Port Orford’s only gym, so that I can have a free membership.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say sarcastically instead of agreeing. I can’t outwardly tell people how image-obsessed I am, though I suspect they can read me like an open book anyway.
“Come on,” Michael replies, nudging my shoulder as he grabs his water bottle and exits the lockers.
I’m right behind him, taking up place between him and another one of our teammates as everyone lines up to stretch.
Michael was right; cones have been set up in two separate, straight lines. Carl is standing under the closest hoop, reading something from his clipboard.
After a few minutes of stretching and listening to the guys shit-talk each other and brag about whichever Port Orford girls they’re screwing right now, Carl clears his throat.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he shouts, scratching at his short ginger beard. “Let’s get this party started.”
Practice flies by, with all of us drenched in sweat and Carl slightly irritated that we can’t seem to beat our last drill timings.
Oh well. It’s not as if we’re going for a championship, anyway. We’re just playing against guys from neighboring towns—it’s all for fun and community. It’s an escape.
Michael and I take quick showers in the locker room and change back into the clothes we showed up in, heading out of the community center together.
“We’re meeting at Ground Central in about ten; you’re still coming, right?” Michael asks, heading towards his car.
“Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”
With a nod, he slides into the front seat of his Chevy and heads toward the coffee shop.
Ground Central is where our friend group likes to frequent. There, or at Checkers, the diner up the street. Hailey works at the bookstore across the street from Ground Central, so it only makes sense for us to meet there most of the time.
Michael and I are the last to arrive, just before the lunch rush, and we spot Kimberly, Hailey, and Cassie sitting in the back. They’ve pushed two four-seater tables together, just as we always do, and I plop down across from Hailey as she stirs her hot chocolate.
“Back from the testosterone-infested jungle?” Kimberly asks, smirking at her little brother as Michael sits down in the chair next to mine, but across from hers.
“Yup,” he replies, rolling his brown eyes.
“Are you guys ready for the game? Isn’t it in two weeks?” Hailey prompts, giving us the same kind smile she always does.
I shrug. “I guess.”
As Michael stands to order, I divert my eyes to stare at the table in front of me.
Albeit a small one, I’m now faced with a choice. Being poor means you’re constantly presented with unwanted decisions. Such as whether you can afford to take time off when you’re sick, which laundry soap to buy in this economy, and if you can swing going without Wi-Fi this month.
And now, as I stare at the smooth brown texture of our table, what excuse I’ll give when one of my friends asks why I’m not getting up to order my own coffee. It’s not a luxury I can always afford.
Before I can dwell on it further—the excuse-making, I mean—an iced chai latte is slid in front of me. Cassie gives me a grin around her own mug.
She’s the only one who truly knows my situation: how I barely survive day-to-day and how Mom does more damage than good. It’s the reason why I can’t hate her, even though she was directly involved in the incident.
The one that cost me him.
The one where I hurt someone badly, for the first time in my entire life.
The one where I realized I’m not a very good person.
I return her smile, a silent thank you for the beverage, and take a generous sip.
“So,” Kimberly begins, not bothering to wait for her brother’s return. “Has anyone heard from Julian?”
I freeze, doing my best to keep my face impassive. Cassie, on the other hand, has gone pale.
“No, actually. I haven’t heard from him since I let everyone know I couldn’t make New Year’s,” Hailey offers.
“You guys don’t think it’s because of Susie, right? I feel guilty, like I ruined our friendship with him because I ghosted his bestie.” Kimberly is looking at her hands where they’re wrapped around her mug, her brows furrowed.
She looks guilty. She shouldn’t; it really has nothing to do with her and everything to do with… well, I’m not really sure. Partially us, I’m guessing.
Us as in Cassie and me.
Cassie recovers, once again smiling brightly in that pleasant, beautiful girl-next-door way that she does.
“I’m sure he’s just busy! Working at Chastain can be a lot, I’m sure,” she reassures.
Neither of us told the group about our last visit with Julian. It’s too… incriminating.
Guilt begins to swallow me whole, the way it did when we first befriended him; the way it did at the New Year’s party.
“You’re right.” Kimberly sighs, sounding defeated. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“What’s nothing?” Michael asks, returning to his seat with his cinnamon roll and his coffee.
“Why Julian isn’t coming around anymore,” Kimberly explains.
“Oh, I saw him the other day!” Michael chirps. “He was with the middle Chastain kid… Atlas, I think? I saw them at the grocery store.”
“Was his brother there?” Cassie asks, her voice betraying her with its urgency.
Michael doesn’t seem to notice, only saying, “Nah. It was just the two of them. But he looked super happy, and Atlas was smiling too. The last time I saw him—what, years ago?—he was not in a smiling mood. Maybe Julian is a good influence on him.”