Cameron and the Girls by Edward Averett

might as well not be here,” my mom says, getting up from her chair. She heads for the door, already pulling the cell phone out of her pants and pushing buttons.
    When she is gone, Dr. Simons faces me. “This is very serious business you’re involved in here, Cameron. Very serious.”
    â€œI know,” I say. “But I don’t want any more shots. They make me feel like I’m not a real person. I don’t want to feel weird anymore.”
    Dr. Simons smiles and scratches above his ear. “I understand what you’re saying. But you know who your mother is talking to out there? Your father. I predict he will come home from work early today to have a conversation with you about this. He will try to talk you out of your decision.”
    â€œIs it really true, Doctor, what I said? That I can make up my own mind?”
    â€œYes, it is ultimately true, Cameron. But with it comes a great responsibility. The state is asking you to take the best care of yourself that you possibly can. Do you feel up to doing that?”
    I nod again. “And then some.”
    â€œHere’s what I’d like to do. I’d like to keep prescribing you the medication. You seem reasonably good right now, so I won’t insist that you have an injection. But I want you to continue to take the pills. Will you do that for me, Cameron?”
    I bring my fingers up to my chin.
    Sometimes adults are almost too easy.
    â€œIt will show you’re willing to take the responsibility necessary to keep this thing under control,” the doctor says. “And it will help calm down your parents.”
    â€œSure I will,” I say, hoping my face is as straight as it can be. I stand up to shake the doctor’s hand. When I leave, I can almost feel the clouds leaving my head. And now, I’m floating on them.

Fourteen
    A ll the way home, Mom cannot stop talking about how if my dad hadn’t been training a new guy, he would have come home early and set my thinking straight. She says she is going to ask around and see if she can find a different therapist for me, one who appreciates the needs of the parents as well. All the while, I look out the window and think the day is sunnier than normal.
    Dr. Simons is right about the pills, though. When we get home and I stand on my side of the car and uncap the little amber bottle, shake one out in my hand, and then throw it to the back of my throat, it does seem to soothe Mom.
    â€œDo you want me to keep track of those for you?” she asks, holding out her hand.
    â€œNo,” I say. “The doctor says I need to do it myself.”
    Her eyes narrow, and I can see her chewing on the inside of her cheek, but she goes in the house without saying another word, and that in itself spells victory as I spit the pill onto the driveway and grind it with my shoe.
    I take off toward the barn. As I climb, I think winning the battle with my mom has made me more philosophical. Maybe each of us can live only inside our heads, and that’s the reason we can’t always get along because our world looks different from the world of the guy next to us. And maybe it’s a waste of time to try to explain our world to the next person because he’ll just never really get it.
    â€œLive a day inside my brain,” I say out loud.
    I am tramping through my brain and the high weeds so much that I lose track of time, and that is why my dad surprises me when he comes sneaking up on me.
    â€œWhat do we have here?” he asks. He still wears his blue baseball cap and his dirty work jeans. Dust has collected on the oily surface of his steel-toed boots.
    â€œHanging,” I say.
    â€œLooks to me like you might be talking to somebody who’s not there,” Dad says, his eyebrows lifting.
    â€œI know Mom’s mad at me,” I say, getting the jump on him.
    â€œYeah, she gave me an earful. Is it true what she says? Have you gone and decided to stop with the