Camo Girl

I call him Zachariah. He calls me Eleanor, but the way he says it, it comes out sounding like Ellie-nor. These are not our real names.
Most people, the sort of people who don’t need extra names, can get away with doing simple things like looking in a mirror or taking a bathroom pass out of the cafeteria in the middle of lunch hour. We are not most people.
Z and I have learned how not to see the things we don’t want to. It’s not that hard, but it makes us seem strange to everybody else. Z, especially, is … different… from the other kids in our class. Good different, as far as I’m concerned, but the kind of different that makes other people raise their eyebrows and sort of laugh under their breath, as if he’s not to be believed.
I’ve been gone maybe five minutes, but it’s too long. Heading back toward our table, I can almost hear that silly Sesame Street song humming in the air, converging on him. “One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong…”
Z’s in trouble. I’m walking toward him and I see it, know I should never have left him alone, but some things can’t be helped. Our eyes lock across the room, and there’s nothing in his gaze but stark terror. I should never have left him alone.
Zachariah. Eleanor.
These are not our real names. These are our shadow names, our armor, our cloaks. They are larger than we can ever hope to be; they cause things to bounce off us so we can never be hurt. By anyone. Anything. Ever.
It doesn’t always work.
“Zachariah!” I practically scream it, running toward
him.
“Ellie-nor,” he says, gazing at me with alarm.
These are not our real names, but none of that matters now. For the moment I simply throw my arms up over his head to stop the food from hitting him.
Spaghetti with mystery meat sauce.
Tiny rolling peas.
Vanilla pudding with cookies.
A carton of chocolate milk, unopened, thank goodness.
Z’s whole tray overturned by laughing hands. The bulk of it catches me in my shoulders, neck, and back.
Beneath me, Z sits stock still, clean but immobile, gazing innocently at the blank space of the table in front of him. He survived.
This, this is my superpower. My only power, to protect him. He wouldn’t understand what had happened. He would pretend not to see. Then he’d make up a story about how he had to crawl through a tunnel lined with bloody, mangled earthworms to get to freedom. He would smile, gooey strings of pasta hanging from his hair, and murmur, “All in a day’s work.”
Jonathan Hoffman tosses the soiled green tray onto the tabletop. He smiles at me in that way that is so infuriating. Is he proud of himself? As if no one else in the history of time ever thought to dump a lunch tray on someone’s head.
“Way to take the bullet, C. F.,” he says.
My face flushes with rage. I stand with my hands on my hips, ignoring the fact that I’m the one dripping with red sauce and noodles. I am Eleanor, Goddess of Everything, fearless in the face of danger.
“Do you ever get tired of being a gigantic jerk?” I snap.
Jonathan stretches lazily. “My work is exhausting,” he says, then saunters off to accept the high fives from his table of cronies.