Flash Burnout (15 page)

I've been harboring a secret fantasy that Shannon's Christmas present to me will be ... Shannon. And I could give her every inch o' my love, in the immortal words of Led Zep.

Ever since her casual "who knows?" comment, and now
especially
after she's had her talk with Ellie about "things," Houston and I have been on high alert, all systems go, waiting for the countdown to blastoff.

Dang. I guess I'd better buy her a real gift.

When attaching accessory lenses, be sure to attach securely
If the lens becomes loose and falls off, it may crack,
and the shards of glass may cause cuts.
—Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007

I hate to contribute to the swelling of Garrett's head. He already thinks he's an expert on women. But Christmas is coming up fast, and I still have no idea what to get for Shannon.

Finally I break down and ask him. "Man, what do girls want?"

He looks up from the book he's reading. "Huh?"

"For presents. What do girls want?"

"Oh," he says, putting down his book. "For a second, I thought you meant something more profound. In which case, my answer would have been: no one knows. And also: no one will ever know. And finally: don't even try to figure it out."

"Garrett," I say with a pained look. "Buddy. Leave the comedy to me, okay? You're gonna sprain something. Seriously. That looked like it hurt. You okay, man?"

He narrows his eyes and goes back to his book. Maybe I should have let him have his "joke."

Because now I'm on my own again for gift ideas.

***

"Mom, what should I get Shannon for Christmas?"

Mom is lying on the floor in corpse pose. Not that she's pretending to be a corpse; that's what they call it in yoga.

"Blake, I'm in
savasana.
"

"I know. Corpse pose." It's like I'm the only one in this family not obsessed with corpses.

"That means I'm trying to be completely still and achieve mental balance."

"Right!"

"So can it wait?"

"Sure." I sit down on the couch.

After a minute Mom opens one eye and looks at me.

"Are you almost balanced?" I whisper.

She closes the eye again. "Blake!" Then she sighs and says, "Think about what Shannon likes to do."

Hmm. I ponder. What
does
Shannon like to do? She plays soccer, but soccer is finished now. She likes to read, but buying her a book seems boring. She does something musical ... piano, maybe? "I think she plays piano."

"You think she does, or she does?"

"Um."

Mom opens her eyes and sits up.

"Are you balanced?" I ask hopefully. Maybe she can give me some ideas now.

"I'm as balanced as I'll ever be. Blake, you know Shannon better than I do. Better than most people, probably. Think of what she likes to do—not what you think she likes to do—then go to the mall and see if you get any ideas."

"But I hate shopping!"

"Then don't get her anything," she says impatiently. She gets to her feet and rolls up her yoga mat.

Strike two.

***

"Hey, Dad?"

Yeah, bud."

What do girls like?"

He looks bewildered for a moment. "Uh..."

For presents. I'm trying to think of a Christmas present for Shannon."

"Oh!" The relief on his face would be funny if not for what he says next: "Go ask your mom. I have no idea."

***

"Mrs. DeWinter?" Truly: I am
that
desperate.

"Yes?"

"Hi, it's Blake."

Silence.

"Shannon's b—...uh, friend."

"Yes."

Nothing. She gives me nothing! No "Hi," no "How are you?" not even a "What the hell do you want?"

"I wondered if I could, um, ask you something."

"Yes?"

Ohmygod, she has said only one word so far. Three times.

"I was wondering if you ... what you think, um ... what Shannon might like for Christmas."

Silence.

"From me, I mean." I wipe my hand across my forehead. This is a first: a phone call making me sweat.

"Oh. From you." Her voice is as flat as a pane of glass.

"Yeah. For Christmas."
Oh, please,
I think.
Have a heart. Help me out here.

"There is something," Mrs. DeWinter says reluctantly. "Her father and I were going to get it for her." She pauses. "But maybe ... yes, maybe it would be nice coming from you."

I wait, holding my breath.

"There's a necklace she saw in the mall."

"Oh?" Now we're getting somewhere!

"Do you know that jewelry store in the mall? Metals?"

"I can find it."

"She saw a necklace in the window that she liked."

"Great! Which one?"

"Oh, you'll know it when you see it," says Mrs. DeWinter. Is she smiling? Her voice sounds like she's smiling.

"I will?"

"Yes. If you know Shannon, you'll know immediately which necklace she likes."

"Heh-heh. Okay, thanks. Thanks, Mrs. DeWinter."

Either she's screwing with me or she really believes I'll take one look at a necklace in a store window and know that it's meant for Shannon.

***

I cannot tell you how happy I am that Metals has only! one! window!

Houston and I concentrate all available brainpower on analyzing the selection of necklaces.

Gah! There are a million of them. I'm in Necklace Hell! Gold ... silver ... is that bronze? Some with blue stones, some with red stones, some with little diamonds. Real diamonds? Surely Shannon's mom doesn't think I can afford to buy her daughter a diamond necklace. But which one is the one I'm supposed to "know immediately" that she'd like? My eyes jump around in a panic. I start to hyperventilate, fogging up the window.

When I lean my forehead against the glass in despair, I see a necklace near the front corner.

And she's right. Psycho-Mother is right. I look at it, and somehow I know immediately that it will look amazing on Shannon.

It's silver, and it looks gypsyish. Or maybe belly dancer–ish. Tiny silver disks cascading down in links that end in blue teardrop jewels. I can't describe it very well. But I can picture her wearing it, with her blue eyes picking up the color in the jewels.

I cup my hands around my eyes, trying to make out a price. Crap. It's the kind of necklace that doesn't have a price tag on it!

I straighten up. Oh well.
At least I found it,
I think, heading into the store.

I am the best boyfriend ever.

***

Shannon and I arrange to give each other our presents the night before I'm supposed to leave town. It won't be a full-blown date, more like half an hour at her house, but at least we'll have some time together. Since it's going to be such a short visit, my mom will hang out with the DeWinters while Shannon and I exchange gifts. I can't wait to see her face when she opens my present.

Mom lets me drive the car over to the DeWinters'. She only gasps once on the way. Really, pedestrians should not wander around in the dark without reflective gear.

Shannon opens the door and smiles, inviting us inside. We walk in, and I can smell cinnamon and some other holiday-type spices. Mrs. DeWinter gives me a smile that is less pained than
usual; it's on the verge of looking natural. Mr. DeWinter creaks out of his chair for the sole purpose of greeting my mother. I almost expect to see some kind of hydraulic lift maneuver him out of the chair. Then he sinks back down and resumes watching ESPN.

The two moms head off to the kitchen, talking about "mulled wine" or something, and Shannon and I escape to her room.

We crash into each other as soon as we're safe inside her room, staggering in our tight embrace.

"I'm going to miss you so much!" says Shannon.

"Me, too," I say, covering her mouth with mine.

"Blake," she gasps.

"Mm."

"The door." We're pressed against Shannon's closed door.

"Oh, right," I say. With one hand I fumble at the doorknob, locking it.

She giggles into my neck. "Blake. You
know
my mom will be up in a hot second if I don't open the door."

"Let her try to get in," I say, maneuvering Shannon over to the bed.

She giggles some more, even after I throw her—gently—down on the bed.

"Blake, come onnn."

"As you wish." I lay down on top of her, bracing myself on my arms.

She's not giggling anymore. She's not smiling, either, but the expression on her face is not fear. If I thought she was scared, I would stop. Her eyes bore into mine.

I can feel her heartbeat flutter against my chest.
Someday,
I think.
Someday we won't stop.

After a long moment I move to stand up.

Shannon grabs me and pulls me close. "I love you," she whispers.

"I love you, too," I say. What better time to say it?

There's some kissing, and then I drag myself away from her warm softness with a stifled groan. "Sucks to be fifteen," I grumble, opening her bedroom door.

I pick up her present, which ended up on the floor. "Here. Merry Christmas."

She claps her hands and takes the box from me. "Wait! You first. I'm so excited." She reaches for a flat gift-wrapped present on her desk and hands it to me. "I hope you like it."

It's got to be a book. I hold it up and shake it, pretending to listen for a rattle. "It's not a puzzle," I say. "It's not a chess set. What could it be? A bar of solid gold?" Shannon waits tensely while I tear off the paper.

It
is
a book. About us. There's a photo of Shannon and me on the front, taken at Ottomans that day we were goofing around with the camera. We look so smiley and cute. I turn the pages slowly. Shannon
made
this book. She put in pictures of us, and ticket
stubs from a movie we went to, and some preserved petals from the corsage I gave her for the homecoming dance, and all kinds of other stuff that is special to us. There are stickers of shooting stars and hearts and captions on all the pages.

"Wow!" I say.

"It's a scrapbook," she says. "Do you like it? Is it lame? Am I such a
girl?
"

"Shannon," I say, "it's great! I love it. And yes, you're such a girl. That's the thing I like best about you. Now your turn." I point to the present, still in her hand.

She wiggles happily and peels off the wrapping paper. She looks up at me when she sees the velvet jewelry box. "Oooh," she breathes. She opens the box, and I wait for her to shriek and cover me with kisses.

"Ohh!" she says. "How pretty." She lifts the necklace out of the box. "It's beautiful, Blake! Thank you." She kisses me. "Put it on me."

I take the necklace from her, my heart sinking. She didn't react like I thought she would. "Don't you recognize it?"

"What?"

Stupid little ant-size links! I struggle with the clasp, sweat popping out on my forehead. "From Metals? Don't you recognize it?"

"Metals? Oh, that's where I've seen it! I thought it looked familiar."

"Isn't it—?"
It's the wrong one,
I think. "Never mind." I give up trying to fasten it around her neck. "I can't get this hooked."

"Let's go show my parents!"

"Er!" I jump up, wanting to stop her.

She turns back curiously. Of course she wants to show her parents. I can't hide in here forever.

I got her the wrong damn necklace.

She likes it, but it's not The One. The one I would
know immediately
was meant for Shannon.

If I knew Shannon.

She skips to the living room to show the parents.

While Mrs. DeWinter fastens the necklace around Shannon's neck, she looks right at me. In her cold eyes I read the judgment,
I was right. You don't really know my girl.

I am the worst boyfriend ever.

Your first ten thousand photographs are your worst.
—Henri Cartier-Bresson, French photographer (1908–2004)

I feel like punching something.

Or
someone.

It takes all of my concentration to sit politely in the DeWinters' living room and squeeze out words that are not curses. I can't look at Shannon's mom again, or I will shriek, "Bitch! How could you do this to me? Why didn't you just
tell
me which necklace to buy?"

Maybe she really thought I would know. Maybe she thought I
might
know, and she wanted to test me. How sick is that?

Well, I hope she's happy now. I fucking failed.

Shannon doesn't know the difference; she's smiling and putting her hand up to touch the necklace every couple of minutes.

But
I
know the difference.

It's the difference between giving your girlfriend a nice gift—"pretty," she called it—and giving your girlfriend something that would take her breath away and maybe make her so happy that
she would remember getting the gift for the rest of her life, because it was something she wanted and
you knew!

After a few minutes Shannon notices my silence and takes my hand. In front of her parents! Take that, Mrs. DeBitch!

There's more chitchat: flying to New York tomorrow ... Grandma's health issues ... blah blah blah ... do we think it will snow?...what's the forecast in New York ... blah blah blah...

I zone out and focus on caressing Shannon's hand.

When it's time to go, I say goodbye to the Evils, I mean the DeWinters, as quick as I can. I just want to be away from these people.

Then all three parents stare at Shannon and me, waiting to see whether or not we will kiss in front of them.

I move in close and put my arms around my girl and give her a smacking kiss.

Take that, olds!

I stomp down the driveway to the car. I turn back and wave goodbye to Shannon. As soon as she closes the front door, I slap both hands down on the hood of the car as hard as I can. It hurts. I'd like to leave dents.

My mom raises her eyebrows as she approaches. She clicks the remote to unlock the car. "I was going to ask if you wanted to drive home," she says, "but as your father likes to say, 'Don't drive angry.' And you, my friend, seem a little angry."