Freeze Frame (11 page)

“H
ey, Shadow!” Pinky came up to me and threw me into the wall. He kneed me in the stomach, over and over. I gasped and could feel my air shutting off like a valve.

Alex and Troy stood behind him, laughing.

“Dude, Pinky. We don't wanna kill the guy. Jesus Christ.” I wondered if it could end like this; then it would all be okay. It would be over.

But what about my promise? What about Chase?

I fought to hold on as his knee kept jabbing me. Major fade-out. Just as everything started to go black, he stopped. I slumped to the floor, choking.

“Yeah, real tough, punk,” Troy said. They walked off laughing, and the hallway cleared out.

Crash! Bang! Pow!
Back to reality, comic book–style.

Nice friends you've got there, Jase.

They're not bad, once you get to know them.

Not bad? Pinky just tried to de-entrail me.

They're just…They're probably bummed too.

Oh yeah. I forget you were Mr. Popular. You know, you didn't need them.

Dude, I wanted to do other stuff.

What's that supposed to mean?

I just didn't want to watch old cult movies with you every Friday night for the rest of my life. What's the big deal?

Sorry to have cramped your style.

Whatever.

“Murderer…murderer…” The sound track kept playing, like one of Dad's scratched records.

 

The days passed. It didn't take long for teachers to start giving me notes to take home. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Caroll: I'm concerned that Kyle has not turned in homework since his return to school.”

I shoved the notes into my backpack. I didn't figure my teachers would cut me any slack if I told them I was too busy rewriting that scene. Dr. Matthews was still on a big memory kick, wanting me to remember everything about Jason, but black thoughts crept through my brain, staining everything.

“Why don't you try thinking of it as a movie,” Dr.
Matthews had said. “Write the whole movie and see what happens when you get to that scene.”

But I didn't want to write the whole movie. I wanted
Run, Lola, Run,
a chance to redo that scene until I got it right.

 

SCENE THREE: Take One—Tarantino style “Comanche,” by the Revels, is blasting in the shed and fades out completely before fading in again when the action begins.

 

FADE IN: Kyle's pajama pants are wet, sticking to his ankles. He crouches down to squeeze out the dew. He breathes in deep. Jason holds the gun out for Kyle to get a closer look.

 

CLOSE-UP of Jason twirling the gun in his hand.

CUT TO: Kyle's mom framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the October light.

 

FADE IN: Jason lying in a pool of blood, then the camera cuts to the gun in Kyle's, alias Shadow's, hand. The camera pans the shelves of the shed and focuses on an old suitcase and a samurai sword.

 

WIDE-ANGLE SHOT: The Mexican standoff between Kyle, Jason, and Kyle's mom. Kyle holds the gun. Mom holds a pancake spatula.

 

CUT TO: CLOSE-UP of the gun in Kyle's hand.

 

WIDE-ANGLE SHOT: The entire shed is coated in blood. Blood sprays from Jason's bullet wounds like in a Manga comic strip.

 

FADE OUT: Jason lying in a pool of blood.

 

I reread the scene.

Wrong.

It was like failing a test about the memories of my own life. How pathetic could I get? Maybe I had early-onset Alzheimer's.

Dude, you're really calling it Scene Three?

Yeah. So?

So that last scene of my life is called Scene Three?

I can't think of anything else right now.

You've gotta do better than that.

Give me time and I'll come up with a name for the whole thing.

Jesus, Kyle. Scene Three.

 

My teachers' notes padded the bottom of my backpack. I looked at the blanks of missing homework. Egyptian pyramids just didn't seem all that important. When I woke up, the only thing that got me through the day was Chase. Lady Macbeth and her damned spot seemed pointless. All she needed was a little bleach. It had worked in the shed.

I had to be totally mental. Maybe I
did
need Dr. Matthews after all. Even if she didn't seem to help.

I saw Clock one day on my way back from the nurse's office. I was in a hurry to get to Chase's school.

“Dude, you okay?” Clock asked. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail and leaned against the wall, his arm outstretched.

Six fifteen, three thirty, six fifteen, three thirty.

Clock stared at the bag of ice I was holding to the back of my head. “What happened?”

My head throbbed. The nurse had said ice would stop the swelling, but the ice was melting, dripping all over me.

Clock shrugged and left. I didn't get how anybody could be like Clock. Carson High was a school of sheep, but Clock didn't give a shit.

“Clock!” I shouted, and ran after him. “Man, I'm sorry.”

“About what?”

“Dude, I don't know. Just stuff, just life.”

He turned to go.

“Clock, uh, what's your name, anyway?”

He grinned. “Clock.”

I had to get to Chase's school, but I needed to know who Clock was. “Your real name, I mean. What's your real name?”

“What's it to you?”

“I dunno. It's just…” My voice trailed off. What
did
it matter? “I guess I'd just like to know.”

He leaned against some lockers and didn't say anything for a long time. He just stared at me, like the time he had stared at Troy, with his black eyes. Icy eyes.

But I didn't look away.

Then he smiled. “It's Kohana.”

“That's different.”

“It means ‘fast' in Lakota.” Clock zipped up his coat and walked away. “I'm gonna be late.”

I looked at my watch: 10:46.

“Shit, what time is it, uh, Kohana?” I called after him.

He looked back at me. “Time to get a new watch.”

“Yeah, yeah. What time is it?”

Clock pulled out one of those old-fashioned pocket watches on a rusty chain. He flipped open the lid.

“That thing works?”

“Better than yours. It's two fifty-five.”

“Shit! I've gotta go.”

I rode as fast as I could and got to Chase's school just as the lines of kids were piling into the buses. Chase got on and found his favorite seat, three rows from the back on the right-hand side next to the window. He sat with his head leaned up against the pane, his breath fogging the glass.

He was okay.

I
shade my eyes, trying to block the glare of the fluorescent light.

All I can hear is the spinning of a gun cartridge and a click when it's shoved back into place. “One bullet; one chance.” Jase holds the gun out to me, twirling it in his fingers. “Take it, you fucking pansy. Do it.”

Canned laughter from an audience. My eyes adjust and I see Alex, Pinky, Troy, and Jase sitting in a circle. Each holds a gun to his neighbor's head. The entire school is watching us.

“Sit the fuck down, Shadow,” Alex sneers.

Sweat beads on my forehead and I take the last empty chair. Jase shoves the gun into my hand. “What're you gonna do?”

The lights dim and it's just Jase and me, facing each other
in the shed. “Whaddya wanna do?” he asks.

“Whaddya wanna do?”

“Whaddya wanna do?”

 

I jerked awake and stumbled to the bathroom. The porcelain felt cool on my face. Everything was blurry. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled. Clutching the toilet, I retched, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to erase that day. What did we do in the shed? How did it happen?

My nightmares were getting worse. It was easier not to sleep.

I listened to the darkness and watched Jason's house through the window. Mrs. Bishop had put a candle lamp in the window. She never turned off the light. I read that's what people used to do for sailors or soldiers, waiting for them to come home.

Didn't she know he was never coming back?

I walked out to the shed, locked with a padlock now. I touched its cold metal doors and leaned my face into it. Did it smell burned inside, like ashes and fire?

I imagined Jason and me switching places, him having shot me. Things made more sense when I thought about it that way. People loved Jason and would understand. People would forgive. Dying wouldn't be so hard.

Then I thought about Jason gasping for breath, his eyes glazed over, the blood seeping through his T-shirt and
pooling on the shed floor.

It took him ninety minutes to die. Less time than a movie. Ninety minutes from the bang to time of death.

How long did they work to revive him? Did he hurt the whole time?

I sat in the shadows, writing in the dim light of the streetlamp, trying to remember, returning to the same place, the same moment, the same scene. I needed to remember.

 

SCENE THREE: Take Two—Lynch style The theme song of Scene Three by Angelo Badalamenti plays softly in the background, leading Jason and Kyle to the shed. The light sputters on and buzzes, never giving the viewer a full view of the scene. The shed is bathed in green by the flickering fluorescent light that hangs from the shed's rafters. The hum is barely audible above the haunting score.

 

CUT TO: Man in a cowboy hat behind the shed, peering in through the window.

 

POINT OF VIEW: Viewers see the shed through Kyle's point of view. The camera pans the
shelves of the shed. They are blurry because Kyle is trembling. The music fades out and changes to “Dance of the Dream Man.”

 

FADE IN: Kyle's pajama pants are wet, sticking to his ankles. He crouches down to squeeze out the dew. He breathes in deep. Jason holds the gun out for Kyle to get a closer look.

L
unchtime in the library was like a frame still. I could always count on the chess club taking over the back table; the skinny girl with glasses sitting at the table kitty-corner from me; Brady, the junior class president, coming in to read the newspaper; and Joaquín Sánchez, the center for the varsity basketball team, coming in twice a week to tutor his little brother in math. It would've made a great publicity shot.

At the end of the period on a Friday, I handed Cordoba
The Metamorphosis
.

“Mr. Caroll, do you need another book?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He pulled down books from the shelves. “What would you like to read?”

I picked up
The Time Machine
. “Maybe this one.” I looked at the names of those who had checked it out but didn't see Jason's. I wished I had asked him about more of the books he'd read. Maybe Mr. Cordoba knew.

“That's a classic, Mr. Caroll.” Mr. Cordoba stamped the book. “See you Monday.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I sighed, glad to have something to read over the weekend.

Mel met me out on the porch that day with her you're-in-deep-shit look. “Kyle, you messed up. They got your progress report today, and Mom freaked out. Big-time. She won't even talk.”

“What shade of red is she?”

“God, Kyle. This is huge. It's about as bad as it can get.”

“Man, I didn't think progress reports came until mid-November. That's weird.”

“Kyle, it
is
mid-November.”

I imagined a scene where the camera cuts to pages of a calendar flipping through the days, stopping on November 11. Somebody tears out the date; the camera zooms in on the piece of paper drifting into the wastebasket. I go back and change the scene. It would be better to stop and tear out October 8.

“Thanksgiving is in two weeks.” Mel snapped her gum and grabbed my arm. “Jesus, I sometimes wonder what planet you live on. What have you been doing all these weeks in your room after school?”

Nothing, I thought. Absolutely nothing. Could Mel understand how much energy
nothing
took?

I heard Dr. Matthews's voice saying, “Inertia is deadly.” It echoed down the streets.

At least it was a better voice-over than
murderer…murderer…murderer
.

“C'mon, Kyle.” Mel pushed me through the door. Mom held on to Dad's hand so tight, you could see the white in her knuckles, just like at the disposition. Freeze frame: Mom and Dad on the couch.

I wondered if they were trying the whole stay-still-so-the-Earth-swallows-me-up thing. I could've told them that it doesn't work. Mark had his arms crossed in front of his chest. I concentrated on the bulging Chinese tattoo. Jesus, the guy even had muscular wrists. I hadn't even noticed his Harley at first. It was as if all my life scenes were blurry.

“Kyle, we need to talk.”

Nothing good ever follows
We need to talk
.

“We received your progress report today.” Mom rubbed her temples.

“We didn't realize things were this bad.” Dad leaned on the coffee table.

Mel shoved me into the easy chair and sat down on the arm next to me.

“You haven't turned in one homework assignment for over a month, since October.” Mark's temple vein pulsated. His tattoo twitched. What if the tattoo guy had written
Dog
shit
in Chinese instead of
Control, Determination, Peace
, or whatever the hell it said? How would anybody know? Anybody not Chinese, I mean. I pictured Mark visiting Carson City's Golden Chopsticks Chinese Palace and having all the waiters laughing at his
Dog shit
wrist. “You're failing every class.” Mark looked back at the progress report. “Every class but PE.”

Mom clenched her jaw and glared at Mark.

I looked from Mom to Dad. How could I explain to them how pointless homework seemed?

Dad said, “Remember what Dr. Matthews said? Remember how important it is to get back into life?”

Back into life? As if I ever got out of it. That was Jason. Out of breath. Out of time. Out of life.

It was like somebody had shouted, “Cut! That's a wrap!” as soon as that ER doctor walked into the waiting room at 10:46.

That's a wrap, Jase.

Yeah. Scene Three.

I don't have time for this shit right now, okay?

Whatever.
Scene Three.

“What work did you bring home this weekend?” Mom asked, and reached for my backpack. She opened it and pulled out
The Time Machine,
my notebook filled with Scene Three, sixteen tardy notes, seven notes from my teachers, and a detention warning. “What the—Jesus, Kyle. n
Why didn't you give me these notes?”

I shrugged.

“Why didn't your teachers call? What the hell is going on with the school? What happened to open communication?” Mom paced back and forth, reading through the notes.

“It's not a big deal,” I muttered.

“Being sent to a juvenile detention center? Not a big deal? Is that what you want?” she cried.

To go away forever and never have to face anyone again? Never have to look at the shed again? Never have to look at the Bishops' house again?

But then again, I had Chase. And a promise to keep.

Plus, I had seen some raunchy movies about prisons. Maybe I'd end up being some fat guy's bitch. That would suck. Alex and “the guys” were better than that.

Mark leaned in and skimmed through some of the notes. “You've been given a second chance here, and look what you're doing.” He pulled a faded piece of paper out of his pants pocket. “This is a grade contract. Sign here. If you blow your grades again, we'll have to come up with some alternative plans.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Alternative plans?” Mom clutched my backpack.

Alternative plans probably mean a place in the Willow Springs or West Hills psych wards. White walls. White tiles. White jackets. White noise. Stanley Kubrick.

He turned to Mom and Dad. “Kyle needs to learn that he is responsible for his own actions and poor choices.”

Did I choose to point and aim and shoot?

Dude, I still can't believe you're calling it Scene Three.

Ah, fuck you, man.

Mark glowered at Mom and Dad. “Probation is about monitoring, listening, keeping track of what's going on. And that's obviously not happening here.”

“So we're supposed to know everything about a fifteen-year-old boy who hardly speaks? He walks into his room and sits there all afternoon until the next morning. What am I supposed to do about that?” Mom turned a deeper shade of red.

I could've made a sweet documentary about what happens to parents after their only son fucks up their lives.

Mom's eyes darted between Mark and me. “Kyle, we want to help you. I'm afraid—” She gripped the notes in her fist. When she realized that they had formed a sweaty ball, she let them drop to the table, then tried to straighten them out. “You're just so disconnected,” Mom said. She kept her head down. Mom didn't like to cry in front of anybody.

Dad cleared his throat. He sat on the end table next to my chair. “It's not just the grades.”

Then the room fell silent. No comic relief for this scene. Finally Mark stood to go. “I'll set up a meeting with Kyle's teachers and Dr. Matthews for next week.” He shook
Dad's hand. “We'll get things worked out.” Mark thumped my shoulder. “Last chance, kid.” He motioned to the grade contract.

Mom finally looked up from the crumpled notes on the table. She nodded. A solution had been placed on the table. A meeting. With adults. Talking about how to fix me—the one who broke everything else.

Mark left and Mom returned to my backpack. She picked up the copy of
The Time Machine
and ran her fingers along its crooked spine. Her voice trembled. “Are you reading this book for a report?”

“No.”

“Okay. Then what are you studying in your classes?”

“I don't know.”

She sighed. “Okay. Okay. This is my fault.”

Why did they always want to take the blame for the things I did wrong?

“We need to get this homework in order,” Dad said.

We, we, we, we, we…
I wondered if Hannibal Lecter's parents said shit like that. “Hanni, honey, we need to try to stop killing people, then doing nasty things like broiling them for supper….”

“Can't you call a classmate to ask for some assignment—any assignment?” Dad asked. He rubbed Mom's shoulders.

I shook my head. “I don't have anyone to call.”