Rules for Camouflage

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

Genres: YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

Atypical meets Eleanor and Park in this relatable and heartfelt coming of age story about a neurodivergent teen navigating school, friendships and first love.
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Evvie Chambers is doing her best to skate through the last month of high school to graduation. The only thing standing in her way is a biology report on foxes—and her teacher, Mrs. Audrey Dearborn. The same Mrs. Dearborn who’s been a thorn in Evvie’s side for years, refusing to acknowledge or accommodate her neurodiversity. Evvie would much rather be doing her report on Aretha, the octopus she cares for when she volunteers at the Minnesota Zoo but deviating from the exact assignment isn’t allowed—and Mrs. Dearborn isn’t going to make following the rules easy. 
 
Evvie’s only escape from high school hell is the Lair: a safe haven for kids whose brains need some time away. But when Mrs. Dearborn refuses Evvie’s pleas to finesse the final report assignment to her strengths, and persistent bully Vandal McDaniel directs his harassment toward Lair members, Evvie finds herself more desperate than ever for stability and support.
 
When a shocking act of violence pushes the whole mess over the edge, Evvie, with the help of her friends and the others who love her, will have to figure out how to find her place in the wide world, while remaining true to herself.

Release date: June 18, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 336

Sample

THERE’S A CEPHALOPOD ON MRS. DEARBORN’S HEAD.

She has no idea.

The octopus—is it my octopus? I don’t think so—perches on her salt-and-pepper hair like a hat, its mantle draping down the back of Dearborn’s head. The octo has one arm on each of Dearborn’s shoulders, one arm around each of her ears, two arms cuddled around her chin, and two arms circled around her eyes. Poor baby is agitated; I know because it’s flashing different colors as Dearborn talks. The arms around her chin move down to her throat. Dearborn has no idea how strong that octopus is, and I’m not gonna mention it.

“EVVIE!”

My eyes fly open.

“Yes?” I try to act like I’ve not just been dreaming in the middle of Biology, but it’s pretty impossible when I’m also trying not to fall off my stool.

Laughter everywhere.

In my defense, it’s not even 10:00 a.m.

“Please wake up.” She glares, no octo glasses in sight. “And we need to talk after class, all right?” She raises her eyebrows as the class snickers around me.

I don’t say anything. I just try to remember what she looked like with an octopus for a hat.

Lucky for me, she goes back to lecturing about the nervous system. The human nervous system. I sit up straight, blink my eyes really, really hard, and log in to Kahoot when she tells me to.

Finally, class is over. The sophomores file out of the room, nudging each other and probably talking about me, the only senior. I glare at them. Mrs. Dearborn fiddles with the stuff on her desk until the room is empty except for us.

“Let’s discuss your presentation, shall we?” She’s gearing up for the bad news. I can see it in her face.

“It’s Friday, Mrs. Dearborn. Please don’t do this right now.” And I book it out the door.

I don’t look back. I don’t go to my next class. I head straight for the Lair.

Lockers. Doors. Hallways.

Then I have to look back. Maybe she’s not following me.

Of course she is.

Mrs. Dearborn’s fussy, annoying face is locked into her I’m just trying to help you, Evvie, just trying to help you see the right way expression. The one she wears when I’ve done something that doesn’t match her rigid and careful explanation of the world. The one I’ve seen since I was twelve, when she was my middle school principal.

I’m not supposed to run, and she can’t, because she must be over sixty, nor would she dare, because teachers don’t run in school unless someone’s on fire, so I walk super fast. The distance between us expands.

Fridays are always a bit chaotic, and Mrs. Dearborn gets stuck talking to Mr. Garfield, our principal, who comes out of the office right as she goes by. He’s oblivious to the fact that she’s chasing-but-not-chasing me.

When she’s finally looking him full in the face, I risk it and pull my key from my pocket, then unlock the Lair and slide inside. I’m sure she sees me go in.

I let my breath out in a whoosh.

Some squishy, beat-to-hell furniture is to my left, a small couch and two armchairs, and there’s a window behind the couch. Why there’s a window in a band storage room is beyond me. It looks onto the school’s lawn, the bench by the sidewalk, and the street that goes by our stupid school in our tiny little punk-ass town.

It’s sunny right now. Spring can be decent in Minnesota.

Two thousand Bluestem Lake residents are having regular days out there, not being chased by stressful teachers, and not caring two shits what I do for my presentation.

The Lair is maybe twelve feet wide and thirty feet long, with two rows of big cupboards to my right. They cover the walls, on the top and bottom. Directly in front of me is a door that leads into the band room. On that door is a sign that says KEEP OUT.

Above that door, in squiggly, cheerleader-y purple and black letters on a big piece of poster paper, it says THE LAIR.

Vaguely band-ish noises are floating under the door.

A defining feature of this space: pieces of paper taped everywhere. It looks like a ream of paper exploded.

Gus Gus is in one of the armchairs. He looks up at me, then at his book.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. With feeling.

“Evvie! I saw you go in there!” So polite and nice.

The door handle twists once, twice.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. With intensity.

“Evvie!” Not as polite and nice.

I hear the band-room noises stop midnote. There’s a brief pause, then the door to the band room opens. Ms. Brownlee—she lets us call her Rachel—comes into the Lair, smiles at me, and motions me down toward the end of the room where we have our reset pods—unused instrument cupboards with pillows, blankets, and good smells—great for naps or panic attacks. I climb in one and shut the door.

FWOOSH. I imagine Rachel composing her face into its best teacher look, camouflage perfectly arranged.

Random fact: did you know octopuses are better at camouflaging themselves than chameleons? They’re the best in the animal kingdom. FWOOSH.

Rachel’s determined footsteps move to the door, and I hear her turn the handle. “May I help you, Mrs. Dearborn?”

There’s a polite but annoyed huff from the hallway. “I saw Evvie Chambers go through this door, which she seems to have locked behind her. It’s not supposed to be locked during the school day, Ms. Brownlee. You know that.”

“I didn’t realize the problem, Mrs. Dearborn. Thank you for pointing it out.” I hear Rachel’s keys jingle as she unlocks the door.

“But if I could—”

“If I see Evvie, I’ll let her know you’re looking for her. If you could be so kind as to move your foot?” No answer from Mrs. Dearborn. “Have a good morning.” The door closes before Mrs. Dearborn has anything else to say.

I hear Gus Gus chuckle.

“Evelyn?” Rachel knocks gently on the door of the cupboard.

I crack the door and peer up at her. “Yes?” Our reset pods are all in the bottom row of cupboards.

She’s got her teacher face on, but it’s fading. There’s a smile there, too. The Lair was her creation, long before I got to high school, for all the kids who need time-outs on a regular basis. Good time-outs. Not the punishing kind. “Mrs. Dearborn giving you a hard time?”

“She wants to tell me I can’t use octopuses for my final project.” I emerge, stand up, and crack my back.

Her smile is steady and comforting. “If you’re all right, I need to get back to lessons. Carry on.” And she walks out of the instrument room, back to the kids in the band room.

Rachel says she created the Lair because she wanted one when she was in high school. Her brain is also unruly. She grew up here, went to college, and came back to teach, which I think is uncalled for. Rachel knows Mrs. Dearborn’s bullshit—as a student and as a teacher. Dearborn’s been here for a million years.

The music-ish sounds resume.

On the wall above the window, above the squishy furniture, there are four pieces of paper. They’ve been there since I’ve been coming in here, so I don’t know how old they are. We take turns recoloring them when they get faded. The pieces of paper are laid out like a banner, and each has a different word on it. Each letter has wild colors and patterns. The words say:

HOP OFF MY WANG

Because nobody ever, ever does.

Gus Gus watches me walk over to the door, open it slightly, and use my key to undo what Rachel had done. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“Mrs. Dearborn is not your fan.”

“She is if you ask her. She thinks she can help me be a better student and has all the right plans to make it work.” I flump on the couch.

“She is not interested in cephalopods.”

“Nope. Just foxes. Gotta follow the assignment rules. Only mammals for your final presentation.”

Gus Gus is a senior, like I am, and he’s on his way to MIT. He’s quiet, but he’s always paying attention, unless he’s lost in a favorite topic. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s either smart or entertaining. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, like most of us at this backward school, and he’s my brain cousin, because our official labels have a few overlaps. In this tiny-ass town, it’s surprising he’s not my actual cousin. He’s also one of my favorite people.

He’s reading A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, and he puts his finger in the book to hold his place. “Sorry you didn’t get Mackowski for the makeup class. Aretha is an amazing animal.”

“She is.” Seniors don’t normally take Biology, but I’m not exactly a normal senior. Aretha is the octopus at the Minnesota Zoo, and she is my most favorite creature on Earth aside from my cat, Popcorn.

He goes back to reading. I look at my phone to see how much time I have until next period. Twenty-seven minutes.

I study Gus Gus, who’s cool as a cucumber. “Who are you hiding from?”

He keeps reading. “Nobody. Not a fan of people. As you may know. Plus, I have three study halls in a row, because I’m done with all my classes except for choir. I have a lot of free time.” He tunes me out for Hawking. Fair enough.

I close my eyes and contemplate what to do next.

I need Dearborn to see how cool octopuses are.

I need to make it through the semester. And graduate.

I need to disappear into thin air.

I wish I had a way to get Aretha to my school, Bluestem Lake Area High School, also known as BLAHS—did no one check the acronym? The district itself is BLAS—Bluestem Lake Area Schools—and I don’t know if that’s better or worse than BLAHS. It’s forty miles, give or take, between the zoo and BLAHS. If Dearborn could meet Aretha, she’d see how amazing Aretha is and why Aretha should be the subject of a final presentation.

I have no physical, mental, moral, spiritual, or educational authority to make anything happen.

Octopuses are the closest thing to space aliens on Earth, if there aren’t actual aliens among us. If I have my way, I’m writing a ten-minute presentation on them so I can pass my biology class. The one I should have passed when I was a sophomore, but I didn’t, because I missed most of the year. Though not on purpose.

While I was gone, I bonded with octopuses, and we’ve stayed bonded for more than two years.

Mrs. Dearborn has assigned me to present about foxes. I like foxes fine. But they are not octopuses. She’s frustrated, not mad, Evvie, just frustrated! with me for objecting. Aretha is an invertebrate cephalopod, not a vertebrate mammal.

Mrs. Dearborn will not hop off my wang.

The door opens again, and Rose slips in, key in hand. She looks at me and Gus Gus. “Pods empty?”

I gesture. “All for you.”

She climbs in.

“Anything we can do?”

She shakes her head. And the door shuts. I hear her spray the lavender calming mist.

The band students start practicing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Ouch. Our band is grades seven through twelve, because we’re a small school. Seventh graders don’t know the song yet.

Gus Gus starts humming under his breath, still reading Hawking. His hand flutters in time to the song.

I close my eyes and sit for another fifteen minutes. Then I rummage through the snack boxes until I find a CLIF Bar and start to choke it down.

Meds + school day = no appetite. But you gotta fuel up.

FILM DIVA: EVVIEEEEEEEEEEEE.

It’s my best friend, Ken—normally I don’t get a text from her between morning and lunch. She used to go to BLAHS, but then she moved to Apple Valley, so she lives closer to Aretha than I do—the Minnesota Zoo is in her town. Our text streak is years long—back to middle school, when we got our first phones. At the moment, she’s Film Diva in my phone, because she wants to make movies. I’m <3 <3 <3 in hers—octopuses have three hearts.

Ken used to tell people her name was Kendra or Kennedy if they were giving her shit about having a boy name, but now she doesn’t care. She cared a lot when we were kids. Now she knows it’s just another thing that makes her a badass.

She’s that friend you always went trick-or-treating with when you were in elementary school. The one you laughed with when someone farted in eighth-grade gym. The one you learned to drive with in the church parking lot by her house, while your moms screamed, one in the front seat and one in the back, and her dad waved his arms like a Muppet in front of the car, trying to keep you away from the cones he set up. The one you cried with for three days when her flaky, weird parents got a wild hair up their ass to move away the summer before your senior year. That friend.

FILM DIVA: less than two months, Evvie! LESS THAN TWO MONTHS. i’m gonna explode.

Apple Valley West graduates before BLAHS, so she’s got an advantage.

<3 <3 <3: i’m gonna explode from the bullshit that is Mrs. Dearborn.

Ken knows Dearborn, too. She was a model student—always polite to teachers and administrators. Dearborn loved her. Ken would sneak me granola bars when I had to sit in the office after school.

FILM DIVA: soon you can disappear from that school FOREVER.

<3 <3 <3: Dearborn may kill me before that.

FILM DIVA: got that short film i made about composting into a student film festival this summer. super cool! here’s the link!

<3 <3 <3: very super cool!

Ken’s new school is three times the size of BLAHS. She’d never admit it, since she’s still pissed at her parents, but Apple Valley West has been great for her because they have a photography and film club. We’re way too small for that. Ken’s on her way to be a film major at DePaul in Chicago. She wants to make documentaries.

How the hell does a person know what they want to do in life? Overwhelming. Life is a long time. How could a person want to do the same thing for all of it?

Next year for me = gap year. Working at the zoo. And that’s all I need to know right now.

I finish the last bite of my CLIF Bar. Blech.

Ken never came to the Lair when she lived here—it’s not really for her, but she was still welcome. She never believed me when I said it was her loss. She has new friends at AVW—like a football field full of them, judging from her Insta. When she was here, she was kind of a loner, like me.

I find it super weird she made a film about composting, but who am I to say what’s weird?

I miss her.

The bell rings. The pod pops open, and Rose crawls out. She looks at me, and out the door she goes—FWOOSH—camouflage up. Kids like us are easy targets. FWOOSH. Mine goes up, too, as I follow her into the hall. Gus Gus keeps reading. He’s our anchor.

Now we’re back in the wild, away from our Lair. Now we’re fair game again, if someone sees through our protection.

Rose goes to Math, I think. I go to Psychology.

In my head, I hear the video Gus Gus made for his media class last fall, about the benefits of neurodivergence. I want to walk around with that video on an iPad, holding it out in front of me. Gus Gus made his voice really deep, Mufasa-deep, and started the video with, “We are your scientists. Your Olympic gold medalists. Your kids next door. Your teachers, bankers, and doctors. We discovered relativity. We program your computers, write your music, invent machines, and make sculptures. Our unique brains are genetically adapted to push humanity forward. Neurotypical people, you need us. So stop being such assholes.”

He actually said that. In a school assignment.

Gus never camouflages. Ever.

Do you know how many people want Lair kids to be “normal,” as in, like them? So, so many. Because it’s easier. Difference is disruptive and causes chaos. That is literally something Mrs. Dearborn said to me.

Guess what we’re not? And that’s fine.

We’re Albert Einstein, Simone Biles, Michael Phelps, Emma Watson, and the mind of fucking Bill Gates, and who’s more powerful . . .