Flash Burnout (8 page)

I shrug and open my mouth to make a joke.

Nothin'. I got nothin'.

I hope this is a temporary condition, or I have no future as a standup comic.

"Well, I'm happy for you, sweetie. Love is such a treasure."

I'm still trying to figure out how to word my question—
Am I supposed to say it to her every day now?
—when Mom asks, "I was wondering how your friend is doing. Marissa."

"Marissa?" I say, puzzled. "Fine."

"How's her eye?"

"Oh! Cool!" I say, brightening. "It's all healed now, but I got some amazing shots of it. Wait till you see."

A look of professional patience comes over her face, and she says, "I was wondering if you think she's really okay, Blake. Does she have a boyfriend?"

Blink. Blink.

"Someone who might have a temper? I was wondering if you believe her when she says she got that black eye from someone bumping into her."

Ohhhhh.

"Mom," I say, relieved. "Yes. She wouldn't lie to me. She went to that Hurtle biking thing."

My mom's expression remains skeptical.

"Really. Don't worry. She doesn't even have a boyfriend."

"All right," she says. "That's good to know. I'm glad she's got you for a friend. I'm sure you would know if things weren't right with her."

"Um. Sure," I say. Is now the time to tell my mom about Marissa's tweaker mom? Or would that be breaking my promise to Marissa?

***

Marissa's the first person I see at the football game.

"Hey," I say.

She's sitting with her friend Bree and a couple of other girls I don't know. "Hey," she answers. Her face is blank and empty, as if the real Marissa has gone away.

I scan the rows of people in the stands. Shannon texted me that she was sitting with Riley and a bunch of other people. I glance back at Marissa. "You okay?"

"Shhure," she slurs.

I look at Bree, who gives me a challenging stare. "Her cat got run over," she says.

"Your cat got run over?" I say, looking back at Marissa.

Her face stays blank; she doesn't look at me. "She was old," she mumbles.

In my mind I see a picture of a black cat with a pink tongue. "Wizard Kitty died?"

Marissa's face crumples, and Bree throws an arm around her shoulders. "Don't make her talk about it," she says.

"Okay," I say. "Sorry."

Bree pats her coat pocket. "Don't worry. We're getting her drunk on."

I stand there for a second. "Sorry," I say again, and move away from them.

I wander around for a minute, looking for my peeps but thinking about Marissa.
First a tweaker mom, now a dead cat. Could you possibly give her a break, God?
I think. And now her friends are getting her hammered. I hope she'll be okay.

I've only been drunk once before. I yakked all over Riley's dad's car, which made the fun-drunk part seem less fun.

Then I see Riley and George and Bald Jake and oh! hottie Dez and Aisha and ... my heart does a trembly thing I've never felt before ... Shannon.

She's sitting between Aisha and some guy I don't know. I feel a spurt of Neanderthal possessiveness. Both girls are turned toward the strange guy, but they look polite, not fascinated. Probably like, "Hi, what's your name again, what school do you go to, etc."

I make my way up into the stands. When Shannon catches sight of me, her face lights up. I'm not even kidding.

One minute she's normal, the next minute she's beaming light. Even the strange guy notices and turns to see what she's looking at.

Me. That's right, Guy We Don't Know.
I
made her look that happy.

Is she going to say it again? Are we going to say I love you all the time now? I'm not sure I'm ready for that.

But I can't wait to get to her.

Saturation:
The dictionary definition says, "to soak, impregnate, or imbue completely." That's
not what we're talking about in photos. The brighter your colors, the more
saturated they are; the duller your colors are, the less saturated they are. Get it?
You can adjust those levels in Photoshop, but try not to get them pregnant
especially the skin tones, because you can wind up making people look weird.
—Blake Hewson, homework, Photo II

Ahh, the weekend.

Time for sleeping in, racking up new high scores on the Mind-bender, and hanging out with friends in RL instead of IM. Unless you've got a mother like mine, who is
way too involved
in your schoolwork. Then the weekend involves being woken up before you're ready, fed a healthy breakfast, and herded toward your desk. Tyrant!

I slump at my desk, flipping through my homework assignments. Biology ...
so
don't care ... history ...
zzzz
... photo ... hey. I wonder how Marissa feels today after getting tanked at the game last night. I pull out my cell phone and scroll through the names, looking for her phone number. She doesn't have her own cell yet; she uses her grandma's land line, like some kind of pioneer girl trapped in the 1990s.

She answers. "Hello?"

"Marissa! Hi. How are you?"

"Fine. Blake?"

"Yeah. I wanted to see if you were okay."

I'm fine. Why?"

"I just thought, you know, you might be feeling bad today." A thought strikes me. "Do you even remember talking to me at the game last night?"

"I talked to you? Oh." She gives a bitter laugh. "No, I don't remember. I barely remember being at the game."

"Dude, I'm sorry about Wizard Kitty."

Silence. I'm about to ask if she's still there, when I hear a quiet sound that makes me realize she's crying. "I had her a long time," she says finally. "I got her when I moved in with my grandma."

"Oh, Mariss."

She takes a big breath and gets herself under control. "Sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to bawl all over you."

It's okay."

"I just miss her. I keep thinking I'm going to turn around and she'll be there."

"Yeah." I look around for the Dog Formerly Known as Prince. I have a sudden urge to pet him.

"And I miss my mom!" she bursts out.

"Aw, dude, sorry." It's weird to think that Marissa misses her mom, even though her mom was gone for so long before. "Can't you call her at"—
rehab,
I almost say—"that place?"

"No. She's not allowed to have calls."

"That sucks."

"I know. Thank God for Grandma. She helped me"—Marissa struggles with her voice for a second—"bury Wizard Kitty. In the garden."

"Aww."

"So at least she'll be near flowers and stuff." She chuckles a little. "Her ghost can haunt the birdbath."

"Does your grandma, um, know that you got loaded last night?"

"No," says Marissa. "She was asleep when I got home. I had the bed spins for a while, but I didn't throw up."

"Whew!" I say. "That's good. You wouldn't want to wake up dead from choking on your own vomit!"

"Uh..." says Marissa uncertainly.

"Of course, better your
own
vomit than someone else's."

Pause. "
What?
" she says.

"It's a line from
This Is Spinal Tap.
"

"What's that?"

I clutch my head. "What's that? Don't tell me you've never seen
Spinal Tap.
"

"Nope. Is it a movie?"

"Marissa," I say. "Get your ass over here right now. You need to see this movie. It is pure comic genius, and ... and I can't even talk to you until you've seen it."

She laughs.

Ahhh. I made a sad girl laugh.

She asks for a rain check on the movie, and we say goodbye.

You are hereby forbidden to clutter up your shot.
Unless the shot demands chaos.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

Talk about gritty. Mr. Malloy calls my photos gritty, but he's never actually been to the grit-a-palooza that is Hurtle.

I'm surrounded by bikers. Not the ponytailed, leather pants–wearing, Harley-driver kind. The kind who ride flimsy, naked-looking
bicycles
and, for some reason that is still not clear to me, want to go kamikaze-ing down this steep, winding hill so fast that if anything goes even the slightest bit wrong, they will end up as red smears on the pavement.

Marissa convinced me to come. She wanted to see her brother Gus again, and she knew he would be at Hurtle.

"Are you going to do it? Ride your bike down that crazy hill?" I asked.

She looked at me like I had asked something completely random, like "Are you really a female?"

"Of course," she said. "But you don't have to. Just bring your camera. It's wild. You'll love it."

She was so right. I do love it. I couldn't take a boring photo here if I tried.

I zoom in on a trio of skateboard dudes with baggy pants and scabby legs. I guess people on skateboards can Hurtle, too. Then I shoot a tall blond goddess girl who looks like she should be granting wishes or frolicking in a meadow instead of pushing her bike through a crowd of tough guys. Here comes a bunch of people with a combined total of piercings that could stock a small jewelry store. There's a guy with his whole face tattooed! I inhale audibly over that.

"What?" says Marissa. She's sitting astride her bike, hanging back with me. After the elbow in the face, she's decided not to go near the front.

I flick my eyes in the direction of Tattooed Face Boy.

Her eyes widen and we exchange appalled looks.

There's a grandmotherly type of woman pedaling sedately around behind the scary hardcore types. Who in the what now? What is Granny thinking? She's going to be toast once these people take off.

"Oh my God," I say.

"Now what?"

"Some people brought their kids!"

I see parental types milling around with little kids whose bikes still have training wheels on them. Some of the kids are even on
tricycles.

"What the hell?" I say.

"Turtle," says Marissa.

I blink at her.

"It comes after Hurtle. People who don't want to Hurtle can Turtle."

"Wha—?"

She grins. "Even you could Turtle."

"All right, enough with the digs at Frosty!" I say, patting my snow-white bike. "And I get it. Turtle is for geezers and little kids. But no way. It's still a steep hill, no matter how slow you're going!"

"Blake, the people who do Turtle turn off at Roseway Drive and circle the park. They don't blitz down the hill." She gives me a friendly punch on the shoulder. "You could follow behind and get some string-cheese shots."

I make a face at her. We call photos of little kids and old people doing cute things string cheese, because they're cheesy and they tug at your heartstrings. Marissa kind of likes it when she comes across a string-cheese photo op. I, on the other hand, would lose my gritty reputation if I took shots like that.

"I'm going to wheel on home after everyone takes off," I say. "Thanks for bringing me."

"Sure."

"So where's your brother?" I ask.

"I don't see him yet," she says. "But he'll be here. He's always here on Fridays."

I train my lens on a couple of wiry-looking guys in yellow bike shirts bending and contorting really slowly. My mom does yoga, and that's what it looks like.

"Who would put their kid in a shirt like that?" says Marissa. "Get a shot of that little boy. Poor kid."

I aim in the direction she's looking and see a cute kid, maybe five years old, wearing a black T-shirt and sporting an unfortunate haircut—you know, the kind where the hair is short in front and then there's a "rat tail" hanging down in back. The shirt says V.I.M.F. in big silver letters. I can think only of one interpretation for that: Very Important Mother ... well, you get it.

The kid is accompanied by his ... dad?...a tough guy with a shaved head and hooded eyes. Where's the mom? Oh, there she is: standing a bit farther back smoking a cigarette and fidgeting. Her eyes jump all over the place, and she nods nervously every few seconds. I shoot some photos of the happy family, then turn to Marissa.

"Poor little—" I start to say, but stop. Marissa is staring at the mother, tears welling up in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she whispers, and turns away. "I wish the thing would start."

I glance away from her.
Should I ask her again what's wrong? Or leave her alone?

Marissa lifts the front of the bike by the handlebars and slams it down again. Before I stop to think about it, I raise my camera and snap a picture of her.

She turns back to me, rolling her eyes. "Okay. That's enough." She gives a little smile. The moment has passed.

"Do you see your brother anywhere?"

Marissa scans the crowd again. After a moment she grins widely. "There he is!"

I look in the direction she's focusing on. "Which one is he?"

"See the tall guy? The one with the messenger bag with the sticker on the back that says
free Tibet?
"

That guy? He's
huge.
Must be six three and built like a lumberjack. But he wants to free Tibet, so maybe he's nonviolent.

"Gus!" yells Marissa, and I can't help thinking,
Don't call him over here!

The guy looks our way, and when he sees Marissa, he gives a grin that looks just like hers. He pedals over to us.

They both lean across their bikes and hug. Marissa looks doll-size next to him.

"This is my friend Blake," says Marissa after they separate.

"'S up," says Gus, no longer smiling.

"Hey," I say. "Nice to meet you."

He doesn't answer, just studies me. "Nice bike," he says finally.

I stand there. I know that's a cut ... but I don't know how to respond.

"How do you know my sister?" he asks.

"Gus," says Marissa.

"We go to school together," I say.

"Yeah? Are you trying to hook up with her?"

"Oh my God!" says Marissa. "Gus! Blake is my friend from photo class. We're not
together.
Be nice to him." She turns to me. Sorry.

Gus nods. "All right. Nice to meet you, man." He holds his right fist out, and I bump knuckles with him, hoping never to see those knuckles again.