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CAMERONX: That’s what I can’t figure out about you. I thought you wanted to meet.

SKYLAR99: I told you what happened!

CAMERONX: Stop. Please. No more games. I know who you are. Hell, I even know who you sit next to in journalism class. You have a history with them, don’t you?

Ricky’s blood ran cold. He was referring to Omar! How could he know about that? Ricky hadn’t told anyone. Unless he was actually chatting with Omar right now. That didn’t make sense. But it could be someone they both knew. Ricky kept his reply short.

SKYLAR99: Yes.

CAMERONX: What are you so afraid of?

And now it was like he could sense, through the screen, how Ricky was feeling!

SKYLAR99: I don’t know what you want from me.

CAMERONX: To pick up where we left off. I really liked chatting with you on here. It only got weird after we were supposed to meet. Part of that was my fault. I still don’t understand what happened. And I took it personally. But I want to talk about it. Face to face.

Ricky’s hands were trembling before he steadied them. This was intense!

SKYLAR99: When?

CAMERONX: Tomorrow. At school. During lunch.

SKYLAR99: Where should we meet?

CAMERONX: I’ll come find you.

And with that, Cameron disappeared from the chat room. A quick check revealed that he was no longer logged in. Ricky’s head swam as he tried to piece it all together. Cameron had hurt feelings about being stood up. That explained why he’d been so weird the last time they chatted. And now he was willing to talk about it with him. He tried to imagine who he was dealing with. The cute black guy that sat behind him in journalism class? Ghalen could have overheard him and Omar making veiled comments about what’d they done together. Or something in their body language might have given them away. Or how about Diego Gomez, who continued to pick on him before and after English class? In a way that sure seemed to center on being gay. Omar had known who Diego was, back when Ricky had mentioned the situation to him. Maybe they talked. Jesus, he hoped it wasn’t Diego! Even though hewasreally hot.

Ricky swallowed, his mind reeling with the possibilities. At least one good thing had come of this. He was no longer feeling homesick.

CHAPTER 17

October 8th, 1992

The clock radio blared to life at 6:57 in the morning. Cameron Huxley reached over and slapped the top of it, interrupting Whitney Houston mid-note. Sometimes, if he liked the song enough, he would stay in bed until seven, when the radio station began playing commercials. That’s why he always set his alarm a few minutes before the hour. Today he laid there and watched dust motes dance through a sunbeam. Then he threw back the blankets, got up, and plodded to the bathroom for relief. Cameron drank from the sink before returning to his room, where he stretched and then fell to the floor on his palms so he could do a set of push-ups. He alternated between these and bicep curls until his muscles began to ache. Afterwards he grabbed some clothes from his closet and brought them to the bathroom, where he took a quick shower. Although he was more meticulous than usual since he would be putting his self-esteem on the line again. During lunch.

The house was still dark. Cameron knocked on the door of his parents’ bedroom on his way downstairs, not truly expecting a response. He opened curtains once on the ground floor and started brewing a pot of coffee in the kitchen. While it was percolating, he began packing his lunch for school. A sandwich, a small bag of chips, and a can of Sprite. Once finished, he poured a mug of coffee and set it on the table. Then he went back upstairs to his parents’ room, which was still silent and shut.

Cameron knocked again. “C’mon, Mom,” he said. “Breakfast is ready.”

He waited while listening intently. Eventually he heard a muffled, “I’m up.”

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said, and just to be sure he added, “Okay?”

“Yes,” his mother said, sounding a bit clearer.

Cameron returned to the kitchen and began making scrambled eggs on toast. He didn’t rush, knowing that his mom always took a while to finally appear at the table. He checked the trashcan when throwing away the eggshells, relieved to see only one empty wine bottle there. His father had been out of town for an entire week now. Cameron’s mom tended to drink more thelonger he was gone, which hopefully meant that she was trying to keep her promise to him.

He was in high spirits when she slunk into the kitchen, sat at the table, and hunched over the mug of coffee while sipping from it occasionally. Her chestnut brown hair—the same color as his own—was a tangled mess. He knew she would work miracles with it and return to being gorgeous by the time she had to leave for work.

“You are a godsend,” Brenda said when he slid a plate of steaming eggs beneath her nose.

“And you made me,” he said, sitting down with his own plate. “Does that make you a goddess?”

“Do I look like one?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered immediately.