He’s illegal. Ugh, He hated how that sounded, if all eyes were on him like some murderer with blood still soaking his clothes.
But Cameron couldn’t help the thrill of it. This was it. And it was the first time he’d ever really take in anything into his own hands. He always read about the Future in Your Control, aspired to the existentialism they taught at Nottingham, but now he was living it. And now he would be forced to live with this future he decided in America. Illegally.
Cameron really didn’t think he’d end up here, out in California practically a whole world away from home. But at least it was feeling like England, with rain for these first few nights out in the San Francisco Bay Area. Fantastic! All the same comforts of Nottingham existed with this sprawling place where there seemed to be endless options, plans to be made, But for lying low this second year, Camerons’s busing at The Tunstall had to do.
That first night he missed his Virgin flight and Skyped his parents– who would have met him at Heathrow– to spill the news. The second night they tried Skyping him again and he refused their call. In the events to night nine he’d landed a permanent job at a pub and a room to rent with a student at UC Berkeley. Of all the cities he’d seen in America, Berkeley was his favorite. There were trees at least, thank God. But the city was relaxed, and funny. Twinkle lights remained on porches and lit the summer evenings, and beautiful artwork paved the sleepy little craftsman bungalows that reminded him somehow of Cotswold cottages. But it was that view, the one beyond the greenery and out over an unrivaled bay and bridge, deep orange and flickering out of whipped-like fog. It was his last camp of the summer he taught up in the hills, and in ending up there what ever knew in England had ended.
He’s illegal because he wanted all of this.