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“Neither does a kid with your IQ nearly failing high school,” he says, and there’s nothing smug about it. He really looks pained.
“Did I tell you all that I’m going to be teaching a course on the poetic and prose Eddas next semester?” Mom says, trying to change the subject. “Remember how much you kids loved those Viking sagas when you were little? Odin and Freya, Balder and Frigg.”
Dad’s eyes are still on me, like I’m something he just can’t find a theorem for. “I know you want me to give up on you, Cameron. But I’m just not built that way.”
I could say thanks. The words are on my tongue. But, apparently, I’m not built that way. He’ll make me care and then he’ll give me his back.
“Could you pass the salt?” I say, and I give my spaghetti a dousing, even though it doesn’t need it.
After dinner, we walk along the strip mall. The shops are getting ready to close. People make their last-minute purchases. Mom and Jenna go into the bookstore, while Dad steps into the athletic shoe store three doors down. I stand out on the sidewalk, waiting. Lightning pulses in the distance like cosmic Morse code. Beat-beat, flare.
An old homeless dude in a tinfoil hat pushes a squeaky shopping cart through the mostly empty parking lot, tossing cans in when he finds them. He stops in front of me, nods toward the sky.
“Something’s brewing. Can’t you feel it?”
“Rain,” I answer.
“No, sir. Lot more ’n rain.” He points to his hat. “Better get you one of these.”
“Will do.”
“The world’s going to hell. It’s all gonna end.” He points to his hat again. “Get yourself one of these.”
He fishes a flattened Rad soda can out from under a sewer grate. A truck cuts through the lot, its headlights pushing against the dark. The wind shifts, bringing a faint smell of smoke. The old dude drives his cart down the sidewalk, the wheels shrieking the whole way.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two Weeks Later
Of What Happens When I Punch Chet King in the Stomach and Not Even Intentionally
“Dude, you okay?”
I’m doubled over the bathroom sink, trying to quiet the weirdness in my head. Stoner Kevin’s voice sounds like it’s coming from deep inside a tunnel.
“Seriously, you don’t look so good.”
“I think I ate something bad,” I manage.
Something really bad. Something that might be warping me on a genetic level.
He gives me a knowing grin. “Awww, duuuude! Are you ’shrooming? Oh, man, you are totally taking the Psilocybin Express to Club Mushroom Med, admit it!”
In the bathroom mirror, my face is paler and more gaunt than usual. My eyes are huge and haunted. Under my skin, my nerve endings seem to twitch and burn, smoldering match heads just blown out and wispy with smoke.
“You look wrecked, my man. Why don’t you ditch? Take off, enjoy the ride.”
“Can’t. I’m nearly failing Spanglish. One more absence and I’m gone.”
“Dude. Sucks.”
The bell rings. It clangs in my head like a gong played through a megastack of amps.
“Come on,” Stoner Kevin says. “I’ll sit next to you in class. Help you out.”
“You’re in my Spanglish class?” I ask.
“Uh … yeah.” He grabs my backpack for me.
