Flash Burnout (27 page)

I feel like I'm falling, yet somehow I'm still standing.

Gus looks down at his right arm, where the inked memory of a little girl remains.

"What about your mom?" I say.

He shakes his head. "She wasn't around. She was in rehab."
Now
I'm out of words.

Gus straightens up. "I gotta go. Call me if you hear from Marissa, okay? Here's my number."

I take out my phone and punch in the numbers he recites. "You call me if you hear, too." I tell him my number, and he adds it to his phone.

A roar erupts from the crowd, and I hurry to get out of the way of the wheels.

Photography: Latin for "writing with light."

The week before the contest deadline I gather up my series and go to Mr. Malloy. I tell him everything. He takes off his beret and rubs his head absently while I talk.

"Do you have a signed release form?" he asks.

Oh. I never thought of that.

He sees the answer in my face. "We can't display them without her permission."

"Right. The thing is ... can I just show them to you?"

Yes," he says. "Please."

"Wait till I get them set up, okay? Don't look yet," I tell him, and he goes out of the room.

I lay out all of the photos in my series and then I call him back in.

He stands in front of the counter where I've laid out my shots.

The first photo is Marissa from last year, when we first met in the ninth grade. She's sitting in the grass with a shy smile on her face.

The second shot is Marissa's mother passed out in the street.

Mr. Malloy studies the shot, but he doesn't ask who it is.

"Marissa took this one," I say, pointing to the third photo. "I don't think she would mind if I use it." It's the ceramic angel sitting in the bird's nest, back in the fall when the leaves were just starting to change colors.

The fourth one is Marissa with a black eye.

There are several more of the black eye taken at different stages of healing and hue.

The next photo is Marissa at Hurtle, frowning at something in the distance, her expression a mixture of sadness and anger. I remember she was looking at that kid's mother, the jittery, jonesing woman.

The next one is a group shot of bikers taking off down the hill at Hurtle. Marissa is framed in the center of the shot, poised at the top of her bike pedals, her legs tense and the muscles of her arms standing out as she grasps the handlebars.

Then there's the photo of Marissa's mother standing next to the birdbath in their garden, looking like she's barely holding it together. And the shot of the two of them, Marissa's face shining white in the glare of the flash.

The next shot is Marissa's bruised arm. She's making a pretend stern face and holding her bruised arm bent in a "We Can Do It"
pose, like that woman factory worker in the World War II poster.

I included a couple of photos from the day we went on the field trip to the beach, one with Marissa smiling next to her crumbling castle, and one where she's listening to Nate play his guitar on the bus. Something about that last one makes me wonder if she had a crush on Nate. I wonder if everything—
everything
—might have turned out differently if Nate had looked up and seen the expression on her face.

Only three photos left in the series.

One is in my room, with Marissa sitting up in my bed holding the sheet over her breasts, looking into the camera. The second to the last one is Marissa getting out of my bed. I cropped and enlarged the photo so that it's just a head shot, focusing on her forlorn face.

And the last photo is the ceramic angel sitting in the wreckage of a nest, as if unaware that it might plummet to earth at any moment. The branches are bare of leaves.

Mr. Malloy studies each photo thoroughly while I wait and watch.

He turns from the last one and walks back to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

"There's the heart," he says.

Memory card full.
—Display message on Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3

Third Thursday Gallery has been around forever. Like fifty years. Every so often they show controversial art, and people walk around with picket signs outside the gallery downtown.

But this evening no one is picketing or indignant. I walk through the glass doors, my parents on either side of me, bursting with pride.

Mr. Malloy is already there. No beret! He looks cool, all dressed up in non-teacher clothes.

"Blake," he says warmly. "Good to see you."

"Hi, Mr. Malloy. These are my parents."

"A pleasure to meet you! And call me Connor, Blake. You don't have to be so formal when we're not in school." Smiling, he addresses my parents again. "Have you seen Blake's series?"

"No," says my dad. "He's been very mysterious about it."

"I can't wait," says my mom.

"Let's not keep you in suspense any longer," Mr. Malloy says, and leads them to a door marked
STAFF ONLY.

"The owners of Third Thursday Gallery are friends of mine. They use this smaller gallery to display works that are under consideration by private collectors. In this case, they allowed me to hang Blake's series away from public viewing."

"That's very kind of them," says my mom.

"Well, they agreed with me that this series deserved to appear in a setting befitting its beauty and depth. Had the photos not included a model who"—he hesitates—"is unable to sign a release, we would have shown them to the public. As it is, however, at least you and Blake can view them in a proper gallery setting."

He opens the door and we step inside.

My photos, matted and framed, hang on three walls. A sign hangs above them, in the center. It reads
HURTLE.

"I'll leave you to enjoy these," says Mr. Malloy. He closes the door behind him as he leaves.

My parents take a long time to study my series, and they both cry.

My dad cries at sad commercials, so that's no surprise. But my mom doesn't cry very often.

When we finish viewing the photos, we walk around the rest of the gallery, taking in the other displays. I'm really drawn to a series under a sign that reads
BENTWOOD.

They are all black-and-white, and they have the same subject in each shot: a spindly-looking chair. Bentwood, I guess. Sometimes the chair is sitting in the middle of a field or stuck in the
sand at the beach. Other times there's a guy sitting in the chair, or contorted underneath the chair. Always the same guy. He looks young in some shots, wearing a weird hat and grinning or trying to drag a big black dog up onto the chair with him. There's one shot of him, and he looks like he's forty or so, slumped in the chair with his eyes closed, halfway in shadow, halfway in sun. Chiaroscuro. In the last few photos, the guy looks thin and pale, even in black-and-white. It's clear that he's sick. The very last shot is shocking: he sits on the edge of the chair, wearing a robe, which has fallen open to reveal his ribs sticking out. His knees are just knobs jutting out of his skin. His hair has mostly fallen out and he has sores on his face. But he's looking at the camera with a small wry smile, as if to say,
Can you believe this shit?

In some ways, this series reminds me of my series about Marissa. I look for the photographer's name.

Connor Malloy.

***

When I go down to breakfast, I'm greeted by an autopsy saw lying in the middle of the table. You would think my dad would at least have the courtesy to keep his disgusting tools at work, where they belong. It resembles a handheld kitchen appliance, except that it's got a wicked little double-edged saw on the end.

I decide to stand at the counter to eat my cereal, so I don't have to look at that thing or think about where it's been.

A snore floats out of the family room.

Mom comes into the kitchen, her hair wet. "Morning, honey." She cocks her head at me, as if wondering why I'm eating at the counter, then glances at the table. She sighs and reaches for the coffeepot. "You didn't touch it did you?"

"No! Eww!"

"It's too early for drama, Blake. I'm just saying you wouldn't want to touch your dad's work tools without gloves on."

Dad shuffles into the kitchen, his hair artfully styled by the couch. The sound of Mom's voice acts like an alarm clock on him, I guess. They smooch for a minute. Get a room, 'rents!

"What's up, funny man?" says Dad, pouring his coffee.

"Not much," I say. "Just trying to avoid cutting off any fingers this morning."

He blinks. Then he looks at the table. "Ohhh, the head saw. Sorry, bud. I brought it home to fix it, but I fell asleep."

"Why do
you
have to fix it?" asks Mom.

"Eh." He shrugs. "Spending freeze. You know the routine: state-of-the-art facility, not enough money for gloves."

"What?" I say. "Not enough money for
gloves?
"

"No." He smiles. "It's not that bad yet. Just joking. But I figured I could fix the head saw myself, so why waste time sending it out?"

Garrett and The Dog Formerly Known as Prince amble into the kitchen.

"Morning, honey," Mom says, then hurries away, taking her half-finished cup of coffee with her.

"Why is the head saw here?" asks Garrett.

I feed The Dog while Dad explains.

"Good idea," says Garrett. "Can I help?"

"Sure. I'll wait till you come home from school."

"Great!" Garrett's day is off to a happy start.

Dad leaves the room, and Garrett grabs the milk from the fridge. He chugs for a minute, then replaces the cap and wipes his mouth. "Ass-wipe," he says. "I need to get to school early, so be ready to leave in five."

I pick up my cereal bowl and drink the dregs. Then I open the fridge and grab the orange juice for a drink.

"Did you hear me?" says Garrett. "Get moving."

"Dude," I say. "You had me at Ass-wipe."

Garrett's lips curl, and against his will, he laughs.

Ah, the first laugh of the day. Those hard-won points are the sweetest.

***

Friday evening I meet Gus at the top of Tower Hill.

We shake hands kind of awkwardly. He looks at Frosty but is too nice to comment.

"Got your helmet, I see," he says.

"Yep." I pat my bike helmet.

"And your kneepads."

"Yep." I look down at my knees.

"And your elbow pads."

"Yep." I lift my arms and bend them at the elbows.

"Good," says Gus with a straight face.

What a nice guy. I know I look like a farb, but I truly do not want to die.

"I heard from someone," he says.

"Marissa?" My heart leaps.

"No. Someone who
knows
Marissa, though. She's okay."

Why doesn't he look happier?

"What else? What did the person say? Where is she?"

He stares down the hill. "The girl told me Marissa is in Seattle."

"With—?"

Yes."

He faces me, and all six feet three of him is full of resolve. "I'll find her," he says. "As soon as I can. And I'll make her come back with me."

"Okay," I say. "Good."

We stand there for a long time. I stare at him. He stares down the hill.

I miss her,
I want to say.

But his expression keeps me silent.

We mill around, waiting for Hurtle to start.

I didn't bring my camera, of course. I was afraid it might get damaged. But now I wish I had it so I could take Gus's picture. I can always come back some other time to Hurtle and get
a shot of him, but I have a feeling I'm not going to come back here again.

Gus walks his bike toward the middle of the crowd, indicating that I should follow. We end up surrounded by hurtlers.

"Shouldn't I be in the back?" I say. "I don't want to slow people down. I've never done this, you know."

"You? I'm stunned. You seem like such a risk taker," he says with a grin, and all of a sudden I see Marissa in his face. He doesn't have the same heartbroken eyes, but I see her.

Oh God. Where is she?

How did this happen?

A couple months ago I had a girlfriend and a friend who was a girl. One of them loved me. The other one needed me. And I failed them both.

I think of Gus's angel tattoo, a constant reminder of his loss. I don't need something etched into my skin to remind me. I've got tattoos on my heart.

"We're fine right here," says Gus. "This is the spot. You don't want to be in front. Obviously. But you don't want to bring up the rear, that's no fun. It's just a crawl if you're in the very back."

"But—"

"Trust me," he interrupts. "I know you're a little nervous, but once you get started, you'll love it. You don't have to scream down the hill, but you do have to ride fast enough so that the people behind you don't crash into your ass."

"I—"

"Put your helmet on."

I jam the helmet onto my head and fasten it.

"And your fear, man?"

"What?"

"Just let it go," he says.

A yell goes up from the spike-haired guy in front, and the crowd roars. I jump.

"Come on!" Gus calls, and takes off.

I stand up on the pedals to get my momentum going. People are wheeling away in front of me, and I pedal faster, envisioning the bikers behind me ramming into Frosty.

Gus whips his head around to look at me and turns back to the front, shouting, "You got it! Keep it up!"

I'm pedaling so fast I can feel wind against my cheeks, and I'm breathing hard.

Houses and yards and telephone poles blur by in my peripheral vision, but no one passes me, so I must be keeping up the right speed. I do
not
look down, because I know the ground is whipping by so fast that it will make me dizzy.

My legs and lungs are pumping, straining in a wild rhythm. I'm flying down the hill so fast my belly swoops like I'm on a roller coaster. There's a turn coming up in warp speed and I'm scared I'm going to miss it and plow into that big hedge.

I grit my teeth and let out a low animal growl as I focus on making the turn. My arms are glued to the handlebars, as if they're
part of the bike. A gush of relief floods my body as I realize I'm past the turn, and I'm
not crashing.