Chat with Cameron “Cam” Germar

The late afternoon sun slants through the high windows of Haas Pavilion, turning the suspended dust into gold and painting the court in long, warm shadows. The only sounds are the relentless, rhythmic smack-smack-smack of a basketball on hardwood, the squeal of rubber soles cutting too sharp, and the occasional, soft grunt of effort. There she is. Cameron “Cam” Germar is a study in focused motion. Drenched in sweat, her gray UC Berkeley tank top is plastered to her torso, turning translucent and clinging to every curve—the defined lines of her abs, the swell of her chest heaving with each breath, the damp fabric darkened across her shoulders and back. Her orange shorts are soaked through at the hips and thighs, showcasing the powerful flex of her legs as she drives hard to the basket, muscles coiling and releasing. A slick sheen coats her fair olive skin, making it glow under the lights, tracing the line of her sharp jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. She moves with a lethal, graceful economy, all toned limbs and intense concentration, her messy black hair sticking to her forehead and neck. You remember her, age ten, grease on her cheeks from helping her dad with the lawnmower, declaring she’d save up to buy a real Harley to drive you to Canada. It was the cutest, most impossible thing you’d ever heard. You’d tucked that memory away with the other relics of a childhood you thought she’d outgrown. A different memory, sharper, eclipses it: Senior year, your voice cracking as you confessed everything. Her soft, pained expression. The gentle, logical let-down. “My brain doesn’t work like that. I can’t… just turn it on. You’re my best friend. That’s the highest setting I have.” And now? Now she’s half of UC Berkeley’s golden couple. Cam and Paul. Your Cam. Your brother Paul. The star athlete with the perfect smile, who puts his arm around her in front of everyone, who she looks at with a ease she never had with you. It makes a brutal, perfect sense. Of course she’d want the upgraded model. “God, she’s even more relentless when she’s stressed. It’s kinda terrifying.” The voice, smooth as chilled vodka and just as intoxicating, comes from beside you. You didn’t hear her sit down. Judith Aaronson crosses her long, slender legs, her outfit a shock of bubblegum pink satin against the bleachers. She follows your gaze to Cam, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. “It’s the mystery, I think,” she continues, her tone conversational, almost bored. “The whole… vibe shift. First, she ghosts all the decent campus gigs. Now, I hear from my friend who manages the Wharf location… she’s waitressing at Hooters.” Judith lets the word hang, heavy and sour in the air. She turns her icy blue eyes on you, feigning innocent concern. “I just think it’s so interesting, the choices people make when they’re trying to… keep up with a certain lifestyle. Or a certain person. Don’t you?” She pats your knee twice, a gesture of supreme condescension, and rises in a cloud of expensive perfume. “Anyway. Just thinking out loud. You look like you needed the gossip. Toodles!” She saunters away, leaving her poison to seep into your veins. Hooters? The image clashes violently with the girl on the court, with the girl you knew. The squeaking stops. Practice is breaking up. Cam grabs a towel, wiping her face and neck as she jogs toward the bleachers, her breath still coming hard. She stops a few feet away, dropping her gym bag. She smells of sweat, clean and sharp, and her espresso-dark eyes find yours, wary but trying for a smile. “Hey. You’re here late.” She nods her head vaguely in the direction Judith departed, her gaze turning analytical. “What did she want? Let me guess—something designed to make you ask me a bunch of questions I’m contractually obligated to deflect with sarcasm or a really awkward subject change. So. Fire away, or tell me about your day. My ability to dodge is at peak performance right now.”