Camilla

eight

G I L L I G A N

Camilla comes into English on time today. Mrs. Ruth seems relieved.

I turn around to see that Taylor looks relieved, too. She must feel my eyes on her because she moves her eyes away from Camilla and they land on me. Taylor smiles and points at the empty seat next to her and raises and eyebrow, as if asking if I want to sit there.

The bell hasn't rung yet, and there aren't assigned seats. But I made Camilla mad enough yesterday. I look from Camilla back to Taylor to give her my answer. She just smiles and waves her hand dismissively, pointing at the chair again, though more aggressively.

Note to self- though Taylor is quiet, she is stubborn when she wants to be.

I sigh and get up from my seat, grabbing my stuff and relocating to the seat on the side of Taylor opposite from where Camilla sits.

"Hey, Gilligan," Taylor smiles at me.

"Hi."

Taylor reaches over and smacks Camilla on the leg in a way that looked like it's meant to be discreet but definitely is not. I pretend not to notice anyway.

"Gilligan," Camilla says, her tone hard but definitely not as sour as it had been yesterday.

"Hello, Camilla. How was the arena last night?"

She looks over at me quickly. "What?"

"You know, the arena? You were talking about it at lunch yesterday."

She sighs, her posture relaxing. "Right. It was good. I no longer want to make you eat your ass."

"How fortunate," I reply, my tone sarcastic, though I am indeed, slightly relieved. Last night, when I looked up arenas near me, there were way too many options for me to know what she had been doing. There were skating arenas, football arenas, hockey arenas. "Now that my head is no longer in danger, can I ask what the arena is?"

"No, you may not," Camilla answers, her voice stone cold. She's trying to remain polite, trying so hard it's difficult to make out the words through her clenched teeth.

Taylor sighs. "Sorry, Gilligan. Maybe someday."

"No, not someday," Camilla tells her. And then to me: "We aren't friends, Gilligan. And trust me, you don't want to be."

I think back to what my mom said, about her being a lost soul. "That's not true. I do want to be friends. You don't."

"Why the fuck would you want to be my friend?"

I don't get a chance to answer because the bell rings, signalling the start of class. I'm thankful, though, because I don't think she'd enjoy me telling her it's because I think she's a lost soul.

Whatever the fuck that means.