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"For serious? I'd rather let Edward Rooney give me a root canal. While scraping his nails down a chalkboard. You know that."
"Don't be so dramatic, Cameron. It's The Bangles, not Shermer High Battle of the Bands."
They're sprawled on the floor of Ferris' bedroom, Sloane propped up on her elbows by the stereo and Cameron flopped dispiritedly on his back, scratching at his stomach through the rucked-up fabric of his Redwings shirt and exuding ennui to the best of his ability. It's easy to look bored when you're scratching your stomach. Bored is easy. It's a lot harder to give off a sense of ennui - which implies not only disinterest, but also a certain sort of cynical weariness not entirely commensurate with the act scratching one's stomach. Cameron, though, has had years of practise.
"Please, don't remind me. You know my left ear actually bled after that? It honest-to-god bled. I told you we should've sat at the back."
"Sorry, Cam." Sloane's voice is deep with amusement.
Ferris is downstairs, having embarked some twenty minutes ago on a mission to retrieve some soda, and is currently engaged in an impassioned debate with Jeanie concerning - insofar as either Sloane or Cameron can make out - the location of Jeanie's jazzercise videos. They're doing what they can to tune it out; sometime around the ten-minute mark, when the word thighs had come floating up the stairs with distressing clarity, they'd decided to put on some music. So far, in poking around the sediment below the stereo, they've encountered a respectable history of the last few years according to the Billboard Top 100, a number of blues records that are older than Ferris himself, and a collection of answering machine messages. And, perplexingly, a single tape labelled 'more roars' which, when they played it, had turned out to be a recording of Mr. Bueller making dinosaur noises.
There's a moment of (relative) silence before Cameron speaks up again.
"Did he really come by here yesterday?"
"Who?"
"Rooney."
"Yep." That's Ferris, finally backing through the door with an armful of loot from the kitchen: a bottle of Coke, an oversized bag of Cheetos, and three mismatched glasses. One of them looks like it came free with cereal coupons; on it, a cartoonish Han Solo battles a foe long since worn away by the dishwasher. When Ferris dumps everything on the bed, it bounces gently, and looks like it might roll off the edge before it comes up against the rumpled plaid blanket.
"Shit," Cameron whistles. "I mean. How d'you get your ass out of that one?"
"Believe it or not, my friend, the ass of yours truly was saved by none other than Jeanie Bueller."
"No kidding?"
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It's Friday, the day after their grand adventure, and Rooney doesn't show up to school. At first, it looks like Cameron isn't going to either. They wait for him outside, Sloane and Ferris, holding up the brick wall by the steps with half-anxious shoulders until first bell rings and Mr. Hollander happens by to shoo them both inside. They don't see him until lunch, when Cameron's doleful examination of the cafeteria meatloaf is suddenly interrupted by a warm set of fingers gripping his chin. They turn his head firmly, irresistibly to the left, and then -
"Jesus Christ, Cam." Ferris.
Ferris Bueller.
"No, it's - would you let me go? Chrissake." Cameron swats the hands away, turning to face their owner. Sloane's there too, hovering behind Ferris, eyes soft with concern. Ferris doesn't look concerned, though. Cameron doesn't know what that expression is on Ferris' face. "It's okay," he says.
"It doesn't look okay," Sloane says quietly. She has a certain way of sounding both comforting and accusing, does Sloane Peterson, and a way of drawing things out of you with those big brown eyes that she's got down to a fine art. And for a fleeting moment, Cameron finds himself feeling very sorry for her future progeny. Even Ferris Bueller's offspring won't be able to lie to those eyes.
"He threw a - he has this paperweight. It's like, it's glass, you know? With a, a tiny Ferrari inside." He has to grin, though the ache when he does is enough that he gives into the urge to reach up, fingers carefully prodding the mottled purple and brown of the bruise decorating his cheek. "I think he was more surprised than I was when it hit me. I remember when he decided I was gonna try out for Pee Wee, back when, and that he'd coach me. You know, all father-son-like. That lasted about a day. He's never thrown anything straight in his life."
Ferris doesn't say anything, but he doesn't try to touch Cameron's face again, either. He probably remembers that day as well, Cameron figures.
"You sure?" Sloane says, sliding around the table to sit down opposite the two of them. Her small fingers are warm over Cameron's, as warm as Ferris' had been on his cheek and on his chin. It makes him think of her hand in his in the Art Institute.
"It looks worse than it is." They both stare at him. Cameron can't blame them; that's probably the first time he's said those words all together and in that order in his life. He means it, though. It's okay.
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"Fine," Sloane says eventually, and shuffles over to her handbag on her elbows. "Okay. You two are just - you're completely hopeless. I'm making an executive decision." A moment's rummaging later, she emerges with a cassette, brandishing it triumphantly.
"Nooo," Cameron groans, sounding pained. "I mean - really, Sloane? Really?"
"Really, Cam," she says serenely. "And don't give me that look - this woman is an artist. She is the voice of a generation. What about you - any opinions you want to offer?" (This to Ferris.)
"Hey," Ferris says, spreading his hands. "I'm just impressed that you actually carry the tape around with you."
Sloane's laughing again, shimmying back over to the stereo and wrangling the cassette from its case. "Please," she says. "I never leave home without it."
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It's the second Thursday in September, and after a long summer's silence, Shermer Elementary is slowly readjusting to the sullen clatter of caged children. The first flush of excitement has more or less passed; friends have been made and re-made, desks have been assigned and coathooks viciously contested, and the varied tribes have, for the most part, staked out their territory in the lunch hall. Things are settling down, and the daily routine is starting to become just that: routine. By now, homework assignments are starting to trickle down from on high like the first drops of fall rain; by now, getting up early is starting to get a little old. And worst of all, as the week winds down, it's starting to sink in that when Monday rolls around, the whole thing is going to start over again. And then again, and then again.
Fifth grade, Cameron thinks, chewing on a nugget as he mushes a soggy french fry into his ketchup. What a gyp.
They didn't even get a new classroom, on account of the new wing being built. Mr. Wilkins got Mr. Harr's old room, which means that Cameron is still stuck down in the back by the hamster cage. It smells of poop, or at least it will when the girls decide that it's too gross to clean, and it's creepy when you see those tiny movements out of the corner of your eye, and Cameron's pretty sure that isn't even Missy in there anyway. Missy was fatter. The only reprieve from hamster stink will be Wednesday afternoons, and those are going to suck anyway. They've got double gym, which never ends well for Cameron, and then double art, which just makes him uncomfortable.
This week, though - this week's gym didn't start out too bad. Mostly 'cause it was sunny but not too hot, but also 'cause Ms. Whitt always makes the new kids captain at the start of the year, and they don't always know to pick Cameron last for softball. That was nice, for a change.
"Hi."
Cameron looks up from his ketchupy paste, and his eyes widen a little. "Hi," he says warily.
It's him. It's one of the captains from yesterday, the one who picked Cameron third, after Ethan Standish but before Becky Adamowsky. He's really fast, Cameron remembers. But they still didn't win. So why is he...
"You're Cameron, right? I'm Ferris," the other boy says, dropping into the seat opposite Cameron without waiting for an invitation. "What's up? I was supposed to go see the nurse at lunchtime so she could make sure I had all my shots and stuff, but the door was locked. Do you know if she went to lunch? Anyway, I guess I can always ask Mr. Wilkins if I can go between classes. What are you eating?"
"Chicken nuggets." Guiltily, Cameron hears his mother's voice echoing across the dining table, telling him not to speak with his mouth full, so he swallows and then repeats himself. "They're okay. You know, same as always," he adds, lamely.
"Ploo sa shaunge," Ferris replies wisely - or at least, that's what it sounds like.
"What?"
"I dunno. It's something my dad says. He said it when our new paper-boy broke a flowerpot just like the old one used to. And when Buddy chewed up all his socks. Buddy's my new dog."
"Oh." Cameron processes this. "What's it mean?" he asks.
"I dunno. Anyway, my mom says I have to take a packed lunch for the first week, until I get used to the new cafeteria, but I think it looks okay." Ferris is busily attempting to pry the lid off his lunchbox; after a few more tries, it comes loose with a sucking, plasticky sort of pop, and he bends eagerly to investigate the contents. Cameron pokes at his french fry again, watching the mushy pink potato ooze up between the tines of his fork.
"So where are you - " he begins politely.
"Oh, neat, Pop Rocks. You want some?"
"Uh. Okay? I mean, I should probably - " but he's cut off again, this time by the sound of ripping paper as Ferris opens up the packet. He holds it out, an expectant look on his face, and after a moment, Cameron remembers to put out his hand. They're watermelon flavor, and Cameron watches as the virulently green crumbs dance out onto his palm, dotting his hand with stray dust that looks even brighter against the pale pink of his skin. He looks up in time to see Ferris tip a palmful into his own mouth, face screwing up in amusement as the fizzing and popping starts on his tongue.
Huh.
Starting to grin a little in response, Cameron mounds his own Pop Rocks in a careful pile by his tray, then spears another chicken nugget on his plastic fork. At least one more, he tells himself. And then the broccoli, and then - and then his train of thought is interrupted by a sudden hiss as Ferris pops open a can of Coke. Cameron nearly drops his nugget.
"What are you doing?" It comes out embarrassingly squeaky, but there are more important things to worry about right now. Ferris pauses, can frozen in mid-air, giving him a blank look.
"Wuh?" he enquires around his mouthful of candy.
"You can't drink Coke with that stuff!" Cameron lowers his voice, leaning in to whisper urgently across the table. "Don't you know that's dangerous? I heard that kid in the cereal commercials drank Coke after eating Pop Rocks, and his stomach exploded." Ferris gives him another long look, but this time, Cameron can't tell what the other kid is thinking. At least, not until his eyes start to twinkle. "No man, I'm serious, this really happened, um, Ferris, you can't - I'll tell on you if you do, man, FERRIS - "
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"Anyway, I'm, I'm not going to see 'Teen Wolf'."
"Why not?"
"You mean apart from being grounded for the rest of my life, and having no cash until I get a job, which I can't do because I'm grounded for the rest of my life?"
"You're here now."
"I'm supposed to be at study hall. I'm not gonna go because it looks stupid, that's why not."
"It doesn't look stupid. It looks like a wryly affectionate and insightful parable for the teenage experience."
"You read that in the Tribune."
"I did not."
"Yes you did, I read that review yesterday. 'Teenage experience' my ass. The teenage experience of turning into a wolf and playing basketball?"
"Well, we can't expect Cam to understand."
"Hey, I'm tuned in. I'm part of the zeitgeist. I'm," a gesture towards the stereo, now warbling Madonna to cover the strains of Jeanie's jazzercise routine, "I am a Material goddamn Girl."
"Cam. Hey Cameron."
"Stop kicking me. What?"
Ferris grins at him from the head of the bed.
"Maybe you should dig up your old Chewbacca costume and go as Michael J. Fox this Halloween."
Cameron punches Ferris in the shin. There's probably something more to add (for instance, 'ow'), but for the moment, nothing seems about to present itself. 'This Halloween'. It's an uncomfortable reminder. The silence stretches out, hanging unhappily in the air.
"Wait," Sloane says suddenly, appearing over the end of the bed. Her eyes glitter with suppressed laughter. "Chewbacca?"
"Oh, for - "
"It was sixth grade," Ferris interrupts, in his very best story-telling voice. "It - no, it was sixth grade, Cameron, and I remember because you still slept with that bl- OKAY, okay. There's no need to be so violent, you know; I'm just trying to tell a story here. You're so hostile."
Cameron just snorts and rolls his eyes, which isn't exactly much as far as responses go either, but is about as much of a go-ahead as he ever gives Ferris anyway.
"So it was sixth grade," Ferris begins again. "And Suzie Prendergast was having a Halloween party. Now, obviously, I went as Han Solo."
"Obviously," Cameron and Sloane chorus, shooting each other looks.
"And Cameron here," another gentle kick, "was supposed to come as my Luke. Except I turn up, right, and I can't find him anywhere. He's not bobbing for apples, he's not trying to pin the tail on the donkey, he's not feeling up grape eyeballs and screaming in the living room. Where could he be? Where could he be?" Ferris pops a Cheeto in his mouth and chews for a moment, cheerfully drawing out the suspense. "You wanna know where he was?"
"Do I?"
"He was out in the garden. When he turned up dressed as Chewbacca, Suzie Prendergast's little Pomeranian freaked out and chased him up a tree."
"Well," Cameron says eventually, all injured dignity over the sound of Sloane's laughter, "at least nobody knew it was me."
"I knew it was you."
"Yeah, okay, obviously you knew it was me, Ferris, because Ferris Bueller knows everything except how to take miles off cars. But nobody else did. Which was kind of the point."
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It's Thursday, and Cameron is lying in the water, eyes closed, as Ferris tries to slap him awake. His fingers are warm from the jacuzzi, and he sounds scared.
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It's Wednesday afternoon, and Cameron Frye has lost a bet. It's not that he isn't grateful to Ferris; the track and field thing had admittedly been a mistake, and there probably isn't anyone else on the planet who could have sold Coach Metzger the tragic tale of Cameron's hurdle-related trauma. But, Ferris had insisted, he'd have to trade one activity for another, because it was important to socialise ("Cameron, babe, that's what high school is for."), and because he, Ferris, at least deserved to get an afternoon's entertainment out of it. And so, on the second day of auditions for Shermer High Drama Club's latest oeuvre, Cameron is sitting in line on a flimsy plastic chair, between a pretty freshman in a red polka-dot skirt and a girl dressed in black who keeps sprinkling Cameron's sleeve with dandruff every time she looks down at the script sheet in her hand. Ferris, damn him, is sitting near the back of the auditorium, feet up on the chair in front of him and munching on what Cameron knows, just knows is popcorn.
"You. Skinny sophomore."
Cameron looks up to see the director snapping his fingers impatiently in his direction, and manages to lever himself out of his seat before he can fit in another bark.
"I gotta, I gotta sit in the box? Right here?"
"It's not a box, boy. Not today. Today, it is a bathtub. Today, it is the bathtub. Okay, and you, let's see you as Simonne. Over here."
Slouching towards center stage, Cameron is dimly aware of Dandruff Girl taking position off to the side, but most of his attention is focused on giving Ferris the stink-eye, and on trying not to trip over his own legs as he folds himself into the large cardboard box-that-is-not-a-box. He smooths out his wrinkled page of dialogue on his knees, gives Ferris one final, poisonous look, and clears his throat.
"Simonne," he intones. "Simonne. More cold water."
He isn't a hit. He can act okay; that isn't the problem. He's been turning in winning performances since he was eleven, when Ferris had rescued him from junior orchestra by way of an elaborate, wide-eyed fiction concerning the fate of Cameron's clarinet. Cameron had helped, nodding along and embroidering at what seemed like appropriate moments, and he supposes that his parents must have swallowed it, since they didn't buy him a new one and make him go back. Then again, his father probably hadn't been too sad to see it go. Cameron had been expecting him to flip out for sure, but he remembers arguments with his mother, too, when he'd first taken it up; his father insisting that it would make him look like a little nelly, that people would think he was a queer, and his mother determined that her son would have something to show off when people came for dinner. Something nice.
His mother... well, by the time he'd 'lost' his clarinet under Ferris' bed, she'd started to give up on the whole notion of dressing him up and parading him around like a toy dog, largely because she'd gotten a real one. She'd named it Gigi, and it couldn't talk back (or at least not in actual words), and it lasted a good eight months chez Frye before his father got tired of it shedding on the furniture.
No, Cameron can act just fine, when he's with Ferris. The problem here is the row of would-be thespians sitting across the stage from him; the sense, developed over many years of practise, that he can feel their gaze on him, itchy with expectation. And the content of the play isn't exactly helping, either (nor the fact that he's getting liberally showered with dandruff every time 'Simonne' mimes changing his non-existant bandages). There's a steady backing chorus of sniggers, especially whenever Dandruff Girl declaims her lines; between his bits, Cameron keeps his own gaze on the bright red polka dots ahead (just level with his eyes), and tries to tune them out.
"Simonne," he finishes finally, all in a rush, "the screaming is inside me, Simonne I am the Revolution."
When he takes his seat again, trying to discreetly brush the dandruff off his sweater, he notices that the pretty freshman, too, is pressing her fingers to her lips, trying to stifle a laugh. Or that's what he assumes, anyway, and he's right in the middle of working up a good sulk about it for later when she proves him wrong.
"Urgh," she says, weakly but still perfectly audible. And then, raising a tentative, delicate hand, "Mr. Nangano?" Nangano, in the midst of an artistic frenzy over Dandruff Girl's performance, looks up enquiringly. "I'm not feeling very well," she continues, voice soft and plaintive. Cameron thinks the word is genteel. "Would it be alright if I went to the nurse's office?"
As she speaks, she lowers her hand until it comes to rest on her stomach, just below her belly button. Her toes are pointed inwards, and she's hunched ever so slightly in her chair, and Cameron can literally see the moment when Nangano suddenly Gets It.
"Yes," he says, flustered. "Ah, yes. Of course. Miss - Peterson, was it? Do you, er, do you need anyone to...?" He trails off uncomfortably, and that's when Cameron feels a sharp little elbow dig into his ribs.
He blinks, and looks around.
She doesn't.
Another dig.
Oh.
"I can," he blurts. "I can take her."
"Thank you," the girl murmurs in response, and to Nangano's obvious relief, that's all the excuse she needs to slide gracefully from her seat, holding out her elbow until Cameron finally gets with the program and takes it, the picture of gentlemanly solicitousness. Her hand goes over his, small and warm. Together, they descend the steps to stage right and head towards the door, where a chink of outside light shines promisingly through.
"I'm Sloane," the girl whispers. Maybe Cameron hadn't been all wrong; her eyes are dancing with laughter.
"Cameron," he whispers back.
Near the back of the auditorium, feet up on the chair in front, Ferris Bueller is grinning like a son of a bitch.
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It's Thursday, and Cameron is sitting by Ferris' pool, breeze ruffling his t-shirt as he watches Sloane change out of her clothes. Later, as Ferris tries not to laugh beside her, she'll smile at him and say, "That's okay. I'm not embarrassed."
Later still, as he thinks about the long pause that came after, he'll realise: neither is he.
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It's Christmas of '84, and it's a Tuesday. Cameron's father is in Paris on what everyone has tactfully decided to call a 'business trip', and his mother is in Decatur. Given the choice between staying in Shermer or spending a week in the company of relatives who still ask him to pull out his clarinet and play 'Silent Night', he'd gladly taken Mrs. Bueller up on her offer of the spare room. He likes it better here, anyway; they never have a real tree at home, since shedding plant-life is no more to be tolerated than shedding dogs. He's never noticed it before now, just how amazingly Christmassy the smell of pine is. At home, too, they only ever have blue-white fairy lights, so as to match the living room décor. Here, the tree is a riot of color, reds and blues and greens and pinks, glinting off handmade ornaments from Jeanie and Ferris' not-terribly-artistic kindergarten days, and shimmering off the bows and accents on mismatched wrapping paper. Occasionally, one of the more venerable and ancient strings will fizzle out, at which point it is the duty of the nearest person to get up and jiggle the plug in the socket until, to general applause, the problem fixes itself.
After gifts but before dinner, they pay calls. The Buellers live in a neighbourhood with a carefully cultivated summer tradition of backyard barbeques and cul-de-sac luaus. They're friendly with the neighbours in each direction, and everyone is friendly with Ferris; by the time they make it home again, they've about broken even on bottles of wine, just in time for the turkey.
Sloane shows up later, car purring into a driveway that was plowed that morning and is already several inches under. She only lives a couple of blocks away, an easy walk when it's warm - but you don't fuck around with winter in Illinois. Even so, and even though it's already dark and nobody will see it, she insists on making a snow angel on the lawn before coming inside. Her dark hair spills out of her hood, and as she sweeps her arms and legs through the shallow drifts, the snowflakes drift slowly down to spangle it. Ferris and Cameron stand in the porch, waving and shouting. You're crazy, they call, and her laughter rings out into the night, up towards the white stars spangling the dark sky.
She doesn't bring gifts - between the three of them, they decided: no presents - but she does bring something else. After a carefully calculated amount of teasing (on all sides), she gives a mischievous grin and produces, from that capacious handbag, a sprig of mistletoe. Ferris cackles, of course, and dives in for his reward, but even Cameron gets a fond kiss on the cheek. Sloane's lips are warm against his skin, and they leave a little red lipstick mark that nobody tells him about.
Even later, when Mr. and Mrs. Bueller have gone to bed, Ferris appropriates a bottle of wine, securing Jeanie's silence by allowing her a glass of her own before shooing her upstairs. They debate going upstairs to watch TV in Ferris' room, but instead opt to stay down in front of the merry twinkle of the fairy lights as a fuzzy recording of A Charlie Brown Christmas plays in the background. Ferris gives them a wobbly performance of 'Baby It's Cold Outside' (both parts), as Cameron and Sloane attempt unsuccessfully to provide accompaniment by wetting their fingers and tracing the rims of their wine-glasses. Then they dance, first to no music at all, and then to the tinny hum of 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing' from the television set. As the Peanuts impart the true meaning of Christmas, Sloane whips out the mistletoe again, and Ferris, because he's Ferris and because they're all a tiny bit drunk, tips Sloane back over his arm and silences her squeal of laughter with a theatrical smack of a kiss.
And then (because Ferris is Ferris, and because they're all just a little drunk), he does the same to Cameron. Or tries to, anyway. Since Cameron's growth spurt in freshman year, he's been all legs and elbows; he doesn't even get a chance to voice a protest or to push Ferris away, because they're already tripping over each other's feet and then again over a discarded gift box, already narrowly avoiding death by coffee table, already landing in a tangle of limbs and outrage on the carpet as Sloane doubles over with laughter.
"Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!" Ferris announces, just a smidge too loudly, and then plants a second kiss right on Sloane's lipstick print.
Somebody, either Jeanie or Mrs. Bueller, is calling downstairs for Ferris to be quiet. Cameron doesn't really hear them; he's not used to drinking wine, and Ferris is still sniggering somewhere in the vicinity of his armpit, while Sloane is trying to extricate them from each other, but looks more likely with every passing second to stumble and join the pile instead. His own attempts to escape are only making matters worse, so in the end he simply stops, tipping his head back against the carpet and watching the fairy lights instead, colored dots glowing in and out of existence, bright halos overlapping and creating new hues inbetween.
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It's Thursday, and Ferris is later than the Easter Bunny on Labor Day. "I'll call you tonight," he promises, as he whirls past Sloane like a dervish; like a force of nature.
"Okay," she calls back. "I love you!"
"I love you too!"
He's gonna marry me, she thinks, not entirely sure if she's said it out loud. Ferris knew what he was doing when he woke up this morning - and Sloane's pretty sure they both know how to finish it.
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It's Friday, the day after their grand adventure, and Cameron Frye never went to study hall. They're lazing on Ferris' bed, all three of them. Sloane is perched cross-legged at the end; Ferris is leaning back against the wall at the head, empty Star Wars glass on his knees. Cameron occupies the middle, feet dangling off one side of the bed and head hanging off the other. There's a packet of Cheetos torn open on his stomach, being slowly demolished by Ferris and Sloane. Occasionally, he'll reach up and help himself to one - but mostly, it's Ferris and Sloane. Seen upside-down, Ferris' carpet is even uglier, the colored splotches of the pattern blurring into unrecognisability. Nobody's said anything for a while.
"Hey," Cameron says presently.
"What?"
"You still have my clarinet."
For a moment, in his head, it's Thursday, and everything's okay. He's saying: I am not gonna sit on my ass as the events that affect me unfold to determine the course of my life. I'm going to take a stand. I'm going to defend it. Right or wrong, I'm going to defend it.
"You bet your ass I do, Chewie. That thing makes a hell of a fake dial tone."
There's a weird texture to the silence again, like there's something going on over his head - or rather, over his stomach. It's not bad, though. Feels a little like being watched - that itchy sense of expectation. But not in a bad way. When he sits up, the blood rushing away from his head makes colored spots dance in front of his eyes, and makes the livid bruise tingle on his cheek. He's also scattered Cheetos all over the bed, but nobody else seems to have noticed.
"Yeah, well. Call me crazy, but I've learned not to bet against you."
Sloane's hand is touching his arm, just where the sleeve of his shirt is rucked up; her fingers are warm against his skin.
When Monday rolls around, the week will start over again. Gym class and study halls and make-up tests, and college applications and cafeteria lines and scouting for summer jobs. But it's Friday, and they've the whole weekend.
Monday is a while away yet.
