Pain

Friday

Camille saw the car in the driveway and knew her plan had failed. She had hoped to pack a bag and then leave with Logan before her parents got home. But the parked car told her that at least her mother was back in the house. Nevertheless, she led Logan inside. Rock music from upstairs made it clear that her brother was also still in the house.

"Take a seat," Camille said, pointing to the couch. Logan nodded and did as he was told.

"Wait here, I'll be right back." With these words she went over to the kitchen where her mother was taking care of the groceries.

"Hey, Mom."

Mrs. Roberts barely turned to look at her. "Hello, honey. Could you please help me?"

"Yes, sure," Camille replied, taking a box of cereal from one of the bags. "Mom, do you know when Dad is coming home?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason." She put the cereal box on a shelf and turned back to her mother. "Mom, do you mind if I spend the weekend somewhere else?"

"With whom, honey? Jo?"

"No, Mom. Not Jo. It's-"

"Oh, I see. Then it's probably Stephanie or Lucy, isn't it?"

"Um, no. It's Logan."

"Which Logan, sweetie?" Mrs. Roberts asked absently, still focusing on the groceries.

"You know exactly which Logan I'm talking about, Mom. I'm talking about Logan Mitchell. You must remember him, right?" Camille said, unable to hide a slightly aggressive tone. But she finally seemed to have her mother's full attention, who was staring at Camille in horror. "I thought he was in this . . . what was it called again? Psychiatry?"

"He was in a therapy center for traumatized kids," Camille said testily.

"Yeah, whatever."

"He's back. And he asked me if I would like to spend the weekend with him and his family in Malibu."

"Family? I thought his father was dead."

Camille closed her eyes and tried to stay calm. She had told her family all sorts of things about Logan, more than once. They knew the facts.

"First of all, the man you're talking about was his stepfather. But Logan has a sister. And they both have foster parents now and moved to Malibu."

"Ah."

"So . . . may I go?"

Her mother made a face. "No, Camille, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Camille . . . You know, when children or young people are harmed by other people on a regular basis, sometimes it's like . . . well, they're going to commit violence themselves. And neither your father nor I will ever allow that to happen to you."

"Mom! How can you say that? I love him! Logan would never-"

"And does he love you too?"

"Yes, he does."

"Do you think it's going to be like this forever? That this fact will protect you? What if you two fight and he gets very angry? Do you really think that he would just walk away? Camille, he'll lose control and then-" Her words were interrupted by quick footsteps; a second later the front door opened and slammed shut.

Camille had turned at the footsteps, now she was looking at her mother again. She shook head. "Thanks, Mom. Great job." Then she left the kitchen to hurry after Logan, hearing her mother's horrified voice, "Was he . . . here? In the house? Camille? Camille!"