Free Camo Girl by Kekla Magoon Page A

were a Utah Jazz fan,” I say.
    â€œNo, sorry.” He lies flat on the ground, nearby. “Are you? I didn’t think you had a team.”
    â€œI don’t. You wore it to school a few times, so I thought . . . you know.”
    â€œUtah’s the closest team to here,” he explains. “I figured most kids would be for Utah. Or Phoenix. I have a Suns jersey, too.”
    â€œSo, you’re really a Knicks fan?”
    â€œNo.” Bailey grins. “Don’t try to guess my team. I have all the shirts.”
    Bailey James, man of mystery.
    â€œWhere did you live before?”
    â€œDelaware. Before that, Pensacola. Before that, um, Seattle?”
    â€œWow.”
    â€œI’m used to being the new kid,” he says, tossing the ball up and catching it. “We move around a lot.”
    I can’t imagine it. I never remember living anywhere but in this house in this town. Every inch of this place is part of my story.
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œMilitary brat.” He shrugs. “You get used to it.”
    â€œSo, you might be leaving?” I felt it. I did.
    His expression goes funny. “Naw. Probably not for a while this time.”
    â€œYour dad or your mom?” I say.
    â€œIt’s just my mom.”
    â€œOh. She’s in the military?”
    â€œNo.” Bailey catches the ball, holds it. “I don’t like to talk about my dad,” he says.
    â€œMe either,” I whisper.
    For a long moment we rest there, locked in something silent but strong, held fast by whatever sadness is hanging over us. I don’t know about his dad, and he doesn’t know about mine, but there’s a second where it’s like we do know. The line we draw around ourselves sort of breaks open. For a moment, we’re a figure eight. Everything else is outside, and it’s just us. In.

CHAPTER 28
    S unday morning i fix my own bowl of cereal for breakfast. The house is quiet, which is odd because Grammie’s not the type to sleep in. I knock on her bedroom door, but she’s not there. I find her in the garage, tinkering under the hood of the car.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œWell, we need an oil change,” she says, showing me the fresh line on the wiped-clean dipstick. “You wanna ride into town with me? Need to stop at the Walmart, too.”
    â€œYeah?” I say, hesitant. That’s where Z’s mom works.
    Grammie fixes on me with hawk eyes. “Your new friend coming to play today?”
    â€œNo.” Bailey says he has something to do on Sundays. A family thing.
    â€œWell, then, let’s go, kiddo.” Grammie swats at my behind with the grease rag until I hop into the backseat.
    Fine.
    There’s one of three places where I can always find Z. The games and puzzles section, the snack bar, or automotive.
    Today he’s in automotive. I almost don’t notice him. He’s sitting on the floor, staring at the tall piles of tires, holding one of his boxes in his hand. Box 4. The special box. The secret box.
    He has a small satchel beside him, smaller than his school bag, no doubt for the rest of his boxes.
    â€œHi,” I say.
    Z flinches, startled. He clutches the box to his chest, like armor.
    â€œMilady,” he murmurs.
    I fold my legs beneath me, across from him. “Zachariah.”
    He slides the loose box back in the bag with the others. “Ellie-nor.”
    We look at each other. It’s one of those moments where we’re both trying to make sense of things. And probably coming up with different answers, which isn’t how it used to be. One plus one doesn’t always equal two, for whatever reason.
    â€œWe missed some games this week. Do you want to make them up?” I say.
    Z fingers the edges of his bag. He says nothing but reaches in and extracts the box of chessmen. He knows which box it is by feel, even though they’re basically identical.
    He lays it between