Flash Burnout (22 page)

"Do you have any pie at your house?" I ask.

She laughs. "No. Well, maybe. My grandma bakes sometimes. Or
we
could make a pie."

This kind of silly conversation gets us through the bus ride and most of the walk home to her house. As we get closer, though, she falls silent. Half a block away, she stops.

I stop, too. "What?" I say.

"I don't want to go home," she says, so quiet I almost can't hear.

"You don't?"

She shakes her head. Then she looks up. "I'm really sorry, Blake. You must think I'm losing it. I just feel so—" She lifts her hands and lets them fall.

"I know." I give her arm a nudge. "I really know."

We stand there for a second, and I look back down the sidewalk the way we came.

"Come on," I say.

She doesn't ask me where we're going; she just walks with me, relieved.

We take the bus to my house.

"Hellooo," I call as we walk in. I'm ready for the shit to hit me square in the face. My mom must be out of her mind with worry.

The Dog Formerly Known as Prince comes running from the kitchen, one of my mom's shoes in his mouth. He wags and wails and dances with happiness while I pet him. Marissa gives him a few tentative pats.

"Maybe no one's home," I say. I know my dad and Garrett are at work, but where's my mom?

Marissa and I walk into the kitchen; sure enough, there's a note:

Blake—

Dad and Garrett are at work. They should be home in time for dinner, so you won't have to eat alone. But I'm not happy with you and your brother at the moment. You may not disappear from the house in the middle of the night without repercussions. Actions have consequences.
[I groan loudly.]
I'm going out for a bike ride and then a movie. Finish your homework.

Love, Mom.

P.S. Shannon called for you, wondering if your cell phone was off. She wants you to call her.

Who knows what Garrett told them?

"Everyone's gone," I say. "Par-tay!"

Marissa giggles.

We stand there for a second.

"Hey," I say.

"What."

"Want me to get my camera? We can take turns shooting photos."

She considers. "Um, not really. I think I wouldn't take very good shots today." She spins around. "This is stupid. I'm really sorry, Blake. You probably have homework or other stuff to do. Shannon's looking for you. I shouldn't have come." She takes a step toward the door.

"Marissa."

She stops moving and takes a deep breath, exhaling heavily.

I touch her hand. "You don't have to keep saying that you're sorry. I don't have anything else I have to do. Or anyone I have to call. Okay?"

She stares at me.

Our eyes lock, and for once, we don't look away. We don't make sure to keep things friendly and simple.

We don't look away.

We don't look away.

Her lips quiver. Is she going to start crying again? I don't want her to cry anymore. I move closer, and without even thinking about it, I kiss her.

Design is all about lines. Nature is all about curves.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

People say, "One thing led to another."

It's true.

People say, "We got carried away."

Not true.

There's always a point when you can stop. More than one point, as a matter of fact. Think about it: with each piece of clothing that comes off, you can choose to stop. When it's time to take "precautions" (a buzz-kill if there ever was one), you can choose to stop.

So when people say, "We got carried away," what they mean is, "I didn't want to stop."

Your heart and mind might protest a couple of times. Weakly.
This isn't Shannon. This should be Shannon. I should stop.

Then your mind goes blank.
It doesn't matter who it is. I just want this to go on and on and never stop.

Your body wants what bodies have wanted since the beginning of time.
I don't care, I don't care.

And eventually it's over. That's when you have to explain it to yourself.

Because you have to explain it to yourself before you can explain it to others.
One thing led to another. We got carried away.

***

When I wake up, Marissa is lying on her side with her back to me. I'm kind of afraid to move. Either she's asleep, and I don't want to wake her, or she's awake and doesn't want to look at me.

I turn my head very carefully to see the clock radio on my desk. It's three thirty. We should get up.

Was it really just this morning that we snuck into the morgue? This day wins the grand prize for random. It started off so bad, so reallyreallyreally bad. But now I'm lying in bed with a naked girl next to me. I'm a sex machine. Like the song says.

How can that be bad?

Er, well, except for the fact that she's not my girlfriend.

I can't think about that right now. It will kill my, what do people call it? My afterglow.

Finally I really have to pee, so I sit up more slowly than a human being has ever sat up before, praying not to wake or disturb Marissa. I venture a peek over her shoulder; her eyes are closed.

Okay. I stand up and grab my boxers from the floor, then tiptoe out of the room and across the hall to the bathroom.

When I come back, she hasn't moved. Should I lie back down next to her? Put my arm around her? Put my clothes on? Wake her? What? I wish I could quickly Google some FAQs about what to do after you've had sex for the first time.

I'm getting cold, so I grab my shirt and slip it over my head. My gaze falls on my camera sitting on the desk. I pick it up and focus on Marissa's smooth shoulder. So pretty. One photo won't hurt. And I'll show it to her. If she wants me to delete it, I will.

I've shot about ten photos of Marissa from different angles and shutter speeds when she wakes up and rolls over. She sees me with the camera, and God love her, she laughs.

"You are such a goof, Blake," she says.

And just like that, we're okay. I thought we would be weird with each other. But she's still Marissa. My friend. Even though she's, um, lying in my bed without any clothes on.

I kneel down next to her. "Here, you can look at the shots. I'll delete them all if you want."

She scrolls through the shots on my camera, commenting, "That's a great angle. Ugh, could you have made my ass look any bigger? Oh, I like that. It's so close up you can hardly tell it's skin."

She hands the camera back to me and sits up, holding the sheet in front of her. "Do you want me to pose for you?"

Uh.

"I could be your first nude model."

Gulp.

"I mean, not
really
nude," she says. "I'm not crazy. Just a few tasteful shots."

I can't answer, so I just nod.

She turns around and fluffs the pillows, then switches on my bedside lamp and adjusts the lighting. Marissa is so businesslike about it that I stop feeling like a perv and look through the lens, deciding how I want to shoot her.

She sits cross-legged, holding the sheet in front of her, then lets it drop just low enough that her breasts are barely covered. It's an awesome pose, with her looking straight at the camera, her head lowered slightly. She looks shy, as if she's waiting, like a bride or something.

"God, Mariss, that looks great," I say.

"Let me see!" She bounces up and down, and I move closer to show her the shots. "Wow, those
are
good. You do good work, Blake."

I stand up and perform a little swagger, then act like I'm tipping my cap to her. "Why thank yew, ma'am."

She giggles. Then she lies down on the bed and drapes the sheet across her body artfully, so that her arms and legs are exposed, but the area between her belly and her thighs is covered. She pretends to be asleep while I shoot; then she rolls over and I shoot the length of her bare back, with her ass covered up. I remind her about that famous photo by Bill Brandt of the woman on the beach with her ass filling up most of the frame, but Marissa refuses to go there.

"We could do one like the Manuel Alvarez Bravo shot," she says.

"Okay. But you'd have to be on the floor, I guess," I say. "Unless you want to go outside!"

She laughs and gets down on the floor, pulling my bedsheet with her. She stretches out long, like the girl in the photo, then covers her, um, private bits with the sheet, leaving the rest of her body exposed. "Her arms were up, right?" she says.

"Uh-huh." I step back as far as I can to get her framed right. She looks lovely. Not as peaceful as the girl in the photo, because I think that girl was really asleep, but Marissa brings her own self to the pose.

"Great, Marissa."

"Let's see!" She sits up, and I kneel down next to her. "Ohh," she breathes. "I
do
look like her."

I nod.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Huh?"

"Don't leave them on the camera! I don't want to end up 'The
Bad
Reputation, Sleeping.'"

We chuckle nervously.

"I won't," I say.
Note to self: hide a new folder on the laptop.

Marissa stands up and climbs back into my bed.

Hmm.
I thought she would get dressed now. I glance at the clock. Four fifteen.

My heart gives a lurch. Shannon's recital.
Okay, but I didn't say I would definitely be there,
I think.

Any minute, though, someone is going to come home.

"Mariss, we should get dressed," I say.

"Oh." She sighs and lets go of the sheet, preparing to get out of bed. I can't resist; I click one more picture. She's so naked and sad. "Blake," she says. "Enough."

"Okay." I set down the camera, and we get dressed in silence.

Then we stand staring at each other. We'll probably never look at each other this way again. We're wearing clothes, but our feelings are naked. Our affection nude.

What do we say? There are about a million unspoken words floating around us.

"I won't tell anyone," she says finally. "I know you've got a girlfriend."

What the hell do I say to that?
Good?

"Okay," I say. "But I don't know, I mean, yeah, I've got a girlfriend, but..."

She touches my arm. "It'll be okay, Blake. You'll be okay. And we're fine." She lifts her hands up. "I'm not going to act weird around you. And you'd better not act weird with me, either." She shoves her hands in her pockets. "Today was just—"

I nod.

She puts her arms around me, and we give each other one last hard hug. Then we go downstairs.

When my mom gets home, Marissa and I are working our way through a bowl of caramel-cheese popcorn and watching
This Is Spinal Tap.

"Hey, Mom! How was the movie? Who'd you go with? Did you buy anything? Can I borrow the car?" I say really fast, hoping to stun her with my speedy words.

"Blake," she says, narrowing her eyes at me. But she won't punish me in front of Marissa. My mom is cool that way. "You're not supposed to drive anyone alone yet."

"Please, Mom?"

"Not to mention that you are extremely grounded," she adds.

I slump.

She looks at Marissa. "Blake is not allowed to drive anyone under twenty years old yet, with his provisional license. I'll take you home. Are you ready to go?"

Marissa looks at me and nods. "I'm ready."

There's no chance to say anything private before she leaves, but I think it's okay. We're back to normal. "See you Monday," I say as they walk out the door.

Marissa smiles. When she reaches the car, I open the back door and call out, "Mariss!"

"What?" She turns around.

"Did you like
Spinal Tap?
"

She shrugs. "It was pretty good." Then she climbs into the car.

Pretty good?
I shake my head. Poor thing. It's almost six o'clock. Shannon's recital must be over. I should call her.

And say
what?
I think I'll take a shower first.

Grabbing a bag of Chex mix, I head upstairs and turn on the water.

I stand there munching chips and nuts while the day replays in my mind. Not the bad part. I've stashed the bad part in a steel vault. I replay the good part. The part with skin and sighs.

I step into the shower and let the hot water pelt me, washing away the last traces of Marissa.

"Blake, phone," yells my dad.

"What?" Who would be calling me on my parents' line? "I'll call them back."

A few seconds later my dad opens the bathroom door and walks over to the shower. He slides open the door and says quietly, "It's Shannon. She sounds upset. You'd better come talk to her." He holds out a towel while I turn off the water.

My heart thuds. Upset? What could have happened? Marissa just left, so there's no way she could, well,
know.

"Where's the phone?"

My dad takes the phone off the counter and holds it out to me. Then he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

"Shannon?"

"Blake!" she says, her voice high and tremulous.

I stare into the mirror, shivering in my towel. "What's going on?" My eyes are guilty. I've never seen myself look that way before.

"Blake," she says again, this time with a sob.

There's a red mark on my shoulder. I lean closer to the mirror. Teeth marks. I turn my back on the mirror, the phone shaking in my hand. "Shan, I'm sorry I didn't go to your recital."

"Didn't you get any of my messages? I called you, like, fifty times!"

You did?"

"No! Well, not fifty. But a lot."

I open my mouth, but what can I say?

"My grandma died," she cries out.

"Ohhhh," I moan. Relief and sympathy flood my brain, and I have to sit down before my knees buckle. I perch on the edge of the tub. "Oh, Shan, I'm so sorry."

She cries and mumbles things about her grandma for a while.

I keep telling her I'm sorry.

Finally she remembers her frustration. "Where
were
you today? Why didn't you call me back?"

"Oh, I'm really sorry," I say again, stalling. What the hell do I say?
Well, the first thing I did today was go to the morgue, and then I went to the movies, and later on I did it with Marissa.
"I, um, had to help someone out."