Cami

Saturday morning Camille laid in bed with Poo, reading—or trying to read. It was sort of impossible to focus with the flurry of texts from Nate. She’d been doing her best to ignore them, but her stupid eyes kept wandering to the blinking notifications on her cell phone.

She decided if she texted back she’d just be feeding his obsession, or whatever this was. When she’d dropped Nate off last night, she’d had a moment of weakness, thinking maybe she and Nate could be good for each other. But by the light of day, she’d come to her senses. Camille couldn’t offer Nate anything. The sooner he knew that, the better.

She looked at her phone, contemplating the proper etiquette for confessing she had cancer via text. Sighing, she put her phone down and gave up. She’d just have to wait until she saw him. It would be harder to break the news in person, but he deserved that much.

For a moment, Camille thought maybe Nate got the hint, because the texts had stopped. But after a half hour of radio silence, the messages continued.

Camille’s cheeks flushed scarlet. She slammed her book shut and caved, finally texting a response.

Crap. Camille didn’t reply.

Of course she was busy thinking about him. Nate made it impossible to focus on anything else with his incessant texting. But even worse than that, he was right. Last night Camille’s dreams had been filled with Nate. Laughing with him, touching him, kissing him. But she couldn’t have those things. And the more she thought about it, the more upset it made her. She’d always known she wasn’t going to get to fall in love and she’d made peace with that. But then this tall, sexy boy with his goofy California smile showed up and screwed everything up.

It wasn’t fair—to either of them. Maybe Camille should just text Nate about the cancer already. If he knew she was sick it would scare him away. And it would be better for both of them if Nate gave up before getting more attached.

Camille was lost in thought when she heard the doorbell ring. Poo sprang off her bed, a barking blur of ferocity as he raced downstairs to the front door. Cami walked into the hall and peered over the railing. She saw her father walk out of his office toward the front door. Poo was already there, scratching, jumping and barking his little brains out.

“Poo! Bad Poo! That’s enough,” her father yelled, trying to shoo the tiny dog away from the door with his foot. “I said no more, Poo!”

Cami was shaking with laughter at her father’s word choices. And it only got worse when Poo latched onto her father’s bare foot.

He roared, trying to shake the dog off. “Camille! Can you please call off your hound?”

But Camille only ducked her head back from the railing so her father wouldn’t see her. She listened to him grumble as he scolded Poo before scooping up the crazed fur ball and opening the door.

She held her breath as she listened.

“Can I help you?” her father asked.

Please don’t be Nate. Please don’t be Nate.

“Hi, Mr. LaRue. I’m Nathan Hawthorne. I go to school with your daughter, Camille. Is she home?”

Shit!

Camille’s heart was in her throat. She was wearing polka dot pajama pants and her Cedric Diggory quidditch jersey. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. She had no wig or makeup on! Camille scurried back to her bedroom, trying to catch her breath. This had never happened before. No one ever showed up to surprise her. At least no one who thought she was a completely normal, healthy seventeen-year-old.

A few minutes later, her father knocked softly on her door. “Cami, you have a visitor.”

“Tell him to go away.”

“Honey? What’s wrong?”

She cracked the door with tears in her eyes, revealing herself in her hideous true cancer patient form. “Dad, I can’t let him see me like this.”

Her father gave her a tight smile. “Honey, it’s not a big deal—”

“Dad, he doesn’t know!”

“Know what?”

Camille’s eyes pleaded with her father for understanding. She loved him to death, but he was never good with understanding the workings of his teenaged daughter’s mind. “About the cancer,” she whispered.

“Oh! Okay. Um . . .” Cami could see the confusion wash over him. “Well, I’ll stall him while you get ready.”

Camille knew it was stupid. She’d already decided she was going to tell Nate she had cancer to spare them both the heartache of whatever this was. What did it matter how he found out? She could have her father tell him, or just walk downstairs without her wig or makeup on. That would certainly send Nate running. But deep down, a tiny part of her didn’t want to give up the way that Nate looked at her—like she was beautiful and worthy and normal.

So she nodded to her father, watching him walk to the stairs. He paused to look back at her. “Honey, you know you’re beautiful just the way you are, right?”

“Dad . . .”

“I know, I know, it’s a dad thing to say, but it doesn’t hurt to remind you every once in a while.”

“Thanks, Dad. But please go distract Nate while I get ready.”

He gave her a thumbs up. “I’m on it.”

Camille closed the door and locked it, just in case Nate slipped by her father. She grabbed a pale lavender wig with shoulder-length waves from her hair tree, which was actually an old hat tree she’d painted canary yellow and used to house her array of colorful wigs. She secured her hairpiece and ran to her vanity to paint on her face. Her fingers were trembling as she drew on her eyebrows. Breathe, Cami. None of this matters. It’s all just an illusion. No matter how perfect you make it, he’ll see who you really are soon enough.

Nate

“So this is the famous Poo LaRue?” Nate asked when Mr. LaRue came back downstairs.

Camille’s dad looked stunned for a moment as his eyes settled on Nate, scratching the tummy of the belly-up dog on his lap. “Looks like he likes you.” Mr. LaRue said.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Nate replied in his dog whisperer voice, which pretty much sounded like baby talk.

Mr. LaRue chuckled. “Well you’re gonna have to tell me your secret, because that shaggy mongrel doesn’t like anyone but my daughter. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

Nate smiled. “No secret. Animals just like me.”

“So, Nathan, is it?” Mr. LaRue asked.

“Yes,” Nate placed Poo on the floor and stood to shake Mr. LaRue’s hand. “You can call me Nate.”

“Well Nate, it’s nice to meet you. You can call me Ray. Cami’s getting dressed. She’ll be down in a minute. Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure.”

Nate followed Ray into the massive kitchen where he poured them each a glass of iced tea. The LaRue’s home was like something out of a magazine. Everything was larger than life and perfectly decorated. No wonder Camille had balked at Nate’s house. From the street the LaRue’s house looked like a historic New Orleans villa, but on the inside it was like a Home & Garden show room.

The kitchen ceiling vaulted up two stories, with gas lanterns hanging past the second story balcony. They hovered just above the white marble island, where fruit and flowers and cookbooks were perfectly arranged on the counter tops, like a cooking show was about to start filming at any moment. And the giant stainless steel refrigerator with the LCD touchscreen built in actually spoke, prompting Ray to enter the iced tea into his food diary.

“Nice house,” Nate remarked as he sipped the unsweetened tea.

“Oh, I can’t take credit. It’s my wife’s doing. She really has the touch for this sorta thing.”

“I’ll say.”

“I’ll pass on the compliment,” Ray said, his dark eyes sparkling.

Camille looked nothing like her father. Where Ray was tall, with bronze skin, dark eyes, black hair and features that leaned toward Creole decent. Camille was small, fair-skinned and pale eyed. She seemed more likely to be the daughter of a fairy prince than the strong southern man standing in front of Nate. He wondered if Camille took after her mother as he followed Ray from the kitchen through a hallway of photographs. There were hundreds of pictures of Camille. Baby Cami, childhood Cami, preteen Cami, and the current brooding model that Nate adored.

He paused to study the photos. Young Cami had wavy brown hair, but her heart-shaped face, porcelain complexion and clear gray-blue eyes were still the same. In the preteen photos, her hair was a short pixie cut, then long and blonde, then pale pink, then black, and in the most current picture it was a silvery-gray that faded to lavendar.

“She smiled more back then,” Ray said at Nate’s side. He seemed lost in thought, a wistful look in his eyes. “I wish she smiled like that now.”

“She smiles,” Nate replied. “She just makes ya work for it.”

Ray laughed. “Ain’t that the truth?” His eyes cleared and he clapped a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Do you like music, son?”

“Love it.”

Nate followed Ray into a massive room with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors covered in layers of expensive looking rugs in rich gold and red hues. A drum kit sat gleaming in one corner, a baby grand in the other. An impressive display of guitars hung on one of the walls, while the other housed a massive vinyl collection and numerous platinum records.

Nate felt like he’d walked into a musician’s dream world. “It’s like the Hard Rock Hall of Fame in here.”

“Well that’s about the best compliment you could’ve given me,” Ray replied beaming as he sat down on the piano stool. “Do you play?”

“Yeah, a little.” Nate definitely played more than a little. His dad taught him how to play guitar, piano and the violin, but Nate felt intimidated surrounded by so much greatness.

“Well give one of them a test drive,” Ray said, noticing how Nate was staring at the wall of guitars.

“Really?”

“That’s what they’re there for.”

“They look expensive,” Nate said.

Ray waved him off. “Nah, I’ve been collecting them for years. I give music lessons, so most of them have too many hours on them to be worth anything. But that’s what they’re meant for, am I right?”

Nate grinned, plucking a powder blue Gibson Les Paul off the wall. “So do you play in town?”

“Nah. Gave that up when Cami was born. I teach at a local high school, do private lessons sometimes, but I mostly just fool around in here in my free time.”

“Not a bad place to pass the time.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Ray swiveled toward the piano and started playing.

Nate instantly recognized the song and joined in on the guitar.

“You gotta plug it in if you’re gonna play the Les Paul,” Ray said nodding to the stack of amps. “That baby likes to wail.”

Nate didn’t need to be told twice. He plugged in and let the electric thrum from the Gibson reverberate through the room.

“That’s it!” Ray yelled. “Crank it up.”

Grinning, Nate turned up the amp and picked up the song. They got to the chorus and Ray shook his head. “Now if only we could convince Camille to join us.”

“Does she play?” Nate asked.

“Better. She sings like an angel.”