Freeze Frame (13 page)

I
stood behind the Dumpsters. The bell rang and kids came running out with construction-paper turkeys in their hands. Some class had made stick mobiles with glittery winter scenes dangling from the tips. A little girl tripped and crushed her mobile. Poor kid. She couldn't stop crying.

I saw the circus act. They looked over at me. Julian looked especially pale and ran to his bus, leaving Bowling Pin and Twitchy behind.

No Chase.

Kids piled into the buses. The crusty snow looked dirty and tired after being trampled by little feet. The buses pulled out.

No Chase.

My heart raced.

Maybe he's sick. Yeah, he's probably sick.

An icy tightness gripped my stomach. I had missed yesterday and now there was no Chase. I stood up to leave when I felt somebody tugging on my coat sleeves.

“Chase, what are you doing here?”

“I didn't see your orange shoes yesterday.” Chase had a huge bruise on his left cheek. His eye was a little swollen.

“What happened? Who did this to you?”

Chase shrugged. The kid could talk a thousand miles a minute, but only when he wanted to. “What happened to your neck, Kyle?”

I had gotten so bruised and beaten lately, I had lost track. A few days earlier Alex had elbowed me in the neck and left a huge black-and-blue mark that was fading to a yellowish green. I'd been wearing turtlenecks so my parents wouldn't see. They didn't need anything else to worry about. But there was no fooling Chase. Looking up at me, the way he was, he saw the bruise where it poked above my shirt.

“So? What happened to your neck?”

“It doesn't matter. Are you okay? What are you doing here? Why aren't you on the bus?”

“Where were you?”

“I blew it. I didn't come.”

“Yeah, they didn't see you and kicked my butt. Plus it was a GCP day. Not good.”

“GCP?”

Chase nodded solemnly. “Green corduroy pants day. Whenever Julian wears his green corduroys, somebody gets beaten up. Usually me.” Chase pulled out a piece of paper. “This charts the days Julian beats me up. Here, you see what he wears. Sixty-two percent of the time he beats me up, it's a GCP day. You can't refute the facts.”

I studied the chart. “Maybe it's a coincidence.”

“Kyle, in life there are no coincidences.”

“Maybe he doesn't have a lot of pants.”

Chase took the chart back and tucked it into his notebook. “So where were you?”

Chase looked so small. I crouched down. “I'm so sorry,” I said, trying to control my voice. “It won't happen again. I'll always be here.”

“Even if you're sick?”

“Even if I'm sick.”

“Even if you have to have an emergency appendectomy?”

“Oh. In that case, maybe not.”

“So you won't always be here.”

“I'll always…” I sighed. “I don't know. Chase, buddy, you can't let them do this to you. You've got to stand up for yourself.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you stand up for yourself?” Chase pointed at my turtleneck.

“That doesn't matter.”

“Do as I say, not as I do?”

I tried to smile, but only one side of my mouth curved up. Chase was one of a kind. “Do you know how to throw a punch at least?”

Chase shook his head. Another boy came around from the Dumpster. Chase nodded at him. “This is Mike. He's my best friend. He has a GCP chart, too. His is forty-one percent.”

Mike shrugged. “They just kick my butt a lot.” He gawked at me. “Geez, you're big.”

I stifled a laugh. I was 5'8" and weighed 120 pounds. Real big. “Nice to meet you, Mike.”

“How much do you charge?”

“For what?”

“To be Chase's bodyguard?”

Chase looked at Mike as if he'd asked the dumbest damned thing. “He does my work pro bono.”

Chase killed me. Where'd he come up with this stuff?

“Okay, this is the thing, guys. These kids—that freckled guy, Julian, and his friends—they'll never leave you alone if you don't stand up for yourselves.”

“Maybe they'll grow out of it.” Chase shrugged. “Maybe he won't buy any more GCPs after this year.”

“No, Chase. They won't grow out of it. Never. You have to stand up for yourself. I'll be here. But what if I'm not here forever?”

“Will you go away like Jason?”

Tears stung my eyes. “No, not like that. But maybe I'll have to get a job or something.”

“Oh. This isn't your job?” Mike asked. He was even smaller than Chase. “Is that why you come late sometimes?”

Chase nudged him. Then he pulled a red Spiderman watch out of his pocket and handed it to me. “This is for you. I bought it with my allowance.”

I held the watch in my hands. “For what?”

“To tell the time, Kyle.”

“I've got a watch.”

“Oh.” He inspected my wrist. “That's Jason's old watch—the one you traded. It's broken. I knew the watch was the problem—why you come late.”

“It's not—,” I said.

“Did you really think it was ten forty-six?” Chase asked.

10:46.

“Anyway, I had to decide between Spiderman and the Hulk and decided Spiderman fit your profile better. The Hulk is entirely too conspicuous. This should help you get here on time, every day.” Chase took off my old watch and fastened Spiderman around my wrist. “It's already set and has a new battery. Do you want me to throw this one away?”

“No!” I snatched the watch from his hands. “I, uh, maybe I can fix it.” I stared at the two watches. One stopped at 10:46. The other ticking away, like nothing had ever happened.

“Okay.” Chase looked at Mike, and they both shrugged.

The Bishops' minivan was idling in the school driveway. “There's Mom. She wanted to come pick me up today because of yesterday. I don't think you're supposed to be here.”

I bit my lip and ducked back down behind the Dumpsters. “I know. I know.” I swallowed hard. “Go on. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Chase's eyes got really big.

“I promise, Chase,” I said.

A large shadow blocked the sunlight. Mr. Bishop towered above me.

“Dad!” Chase said. “Kyle was just—”

“Chase, Mike, get in the car.”

“Dad, but—” Chase said. He reached out for my hand.

Mr. Bishop pointed to the minivan. “I said
‘Get in the car!'
Now.”

Chase nodded. He and Mike looked back at me.

“What the hell are you doing here? At Chase's school?”

I couldn't even begin to explain. “I, um. I…”

Mr. Bishop clenched his fists. “You are to stay away from my family. Understood?”

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't hold me. I swallowed.
I'm so sorry,
I wanted to say.
I'm sorry.

My hands burned with the icy snow. Mr. Bishop kept talking, but I couldn't hear him. I only heard a buzzing in my ears, like when I shot the gun. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Someone had muted the movie.

I finally got the strength to stand and get to my bike. Mr. Bishop stood behind the Dumpsters staring at me, fists by his sides.

I rode to the library as hard and fast as I could, the cold air piercing my lungs. My hands trembled, and I could barely open the library door. I sat in the first chair I found with my head between my knees, trying to control my breathing.

Mr. Cordoba peered over his newspaper. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. Yeah.” My voice wavered.

“Do you need anything?”

“I just want to sit right now, okay? Just sit,” I whispered. Vertigo. The floor spun, the colors of the carpet blending. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that life could stop, but all I could see was Jason's dead body crumpled up in Dad's shed.

I hugged my knees, listening to my heart thud against my hollow chest.

Mr. Cordoba set his newspaper down on his desk and
half read, half watched me.

The minutes ticked by. Fiery orange light streamed through the windows, and pink clouds streaked from behind the mountains. Everything became blanketed in purple. I got up and started to pull down book after book, searching for Jason's name. Which books did he take out? What did he use to read?

Cordoba watched as the tables piled with books.

“Are you looking for something?”

“I just need to find,” I said, choking out the words, “I just need to find a book. That's all. I don't need your help. I don't need anybody's help. I'm just looking for a…” The titles blurred before me. My voice cracked.

“Why don't we call your folks?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I just need a book.”

Mr. Cordoba approached me. “Can I help you pick one out?”

“I don't want
your
books. Don't you get it?”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Caroll, it's time to go home.”

“No.” I pushed him away.

“Why don't you get your things out of your locker and come back here? We'll find whatever book you want.”

“We will?” I whispered.

Mr. Cordoba nodded. “We can look all night if we have to.”

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay.”

The hallways were empty. Most teachers had gone home. Sometimes after the library I could hear a vacuum in the distance. Sometimes, if varsity basketball practice was running late, I could hear the pounding of rubber balls on the court and the squeak of basketball shoes.

Something felt wrong. It was later than usual, too dark. Too quiet.

I was walking down the hallway when I heard glass shatter; then I felt thunderous pain in my head.

“Fucking pansy. Hiding out in the library behind that freak, Cordoba. Didn't even have the balls to show up at the assembly.”

I staggered back and felt blood trickle down behind my ear, matting my hair. Dripping. Clumping.

“What's the matter, Kyle? Not so tough without your gun?” Troy asked.

“You're the one who shoulda died,” said Alex. “You're the fucking loser who followed Jason around. You're the fucking shadow.”

A quiet rage surged through me. Troy, Pinky, and Alex turned crimson, erasing the gray of the hallway and the purple of the evening light. I reached for Alex's neck and shoved him against the locker.

He trembled, his breath rank with fear.

“H
ow could you do this, Kyle? This isn't you.” Mom paced back and forth. “This is—Jesus, I need some air.”

Who am I, then?

I held an ice pack to my head.

I didn't remember the explosion. I didn't remember anything but Cordoba holding on to me. Holding me back. Bringing back the gray. And Alex. Whimpering, crying, begging, pissing.

That would be some mess for Janitor Parker to clean up.

Principal Velásquez tapped her fingernails on the desk.
Tackity-tackity-tackity…
pause…
tackity-tackity-tackity.

Mark stormed in through the door. “What happened?”

My head throbbed. Alex's mom held him in her arms. He sobbed in the corner of the room, far away from the rest of us.

We waited for Troy's and Pinky's parents to come. When they arrived, we all sat around an oval table in the meeting room, Alex included. Mom and Dad stood behind me.

“Kyle, why don't you begin?”
Tackity-tackity-tackity…
pause.

“I, um—”

“He was gonna kill me!” Alex shouted. “That's what was gonna happen. He had me in a choke hold. He wouldn't let go. He's a freak. A killer. He probably killed Jason on purpose too.” Alex wiped his nose.

The hair bristled on the back of my neck and my breathing became shallower. Maybe he was right.

Mrs. Keller hugged Alex and stroked his hair. “My baby, my baby,” she whispered. She was one of those hairspray casino moms. Lots of makeup, glittery jewelry, and high heels.

“Kyle,” Dad said, moving forward. “Can you tell us anything at all?”

Indiana Jones was named after George Lucas's dog.
Fuck
or derivatives of the word are used 272 times in
Reservoir Dogs. The Blair Witch Project
was filmed in eight days.

“Kyle, I'm talking to you.” Dad pulled up a chair beside me and put his hand over mine.

I jerked my hand back, then felt embarrassed for Dad. His only son couldn't stand to be touched.

Jesus, I'm a freak. They're right. They're all right.

Dad crossed his arms and sighed. “Kyle, can you tell us anything?”

I thought of the soft library light, the quiet dark hallway, and the thundering pain. “I don't know.”

The other parents started to talk at once about my mental instability; my obvious psychopathic tendencies; my explosive temper. “I demand that he be expelled today, right now. I will
not
have my son go to school with such a violent boy.” Pinky looked really small next to his parents. Even his thumbs. So much for genetic engineering. They were a family of mutants.

What's worse, Jase: being a freak or a mutant?

What's the diff?

Good point.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Mr. Cordoba said. “As I said before, he was protecting himself. Do I have to point out that Kyle is the only one here bleeding?”

Nobody said anything. The meatheads' parents glared and stayed quiet for a while.

“Who, then, hit you with the bottle today?”
Tackitytackity-tackity…
pause.

“I don't know.” That was the truth. It was too dark. “One of them, I guess, since they were there and all. But I don't know who.”

“Principal Velásquez, every student has a right to defend him-or herself from harm. Kyle was, in my opinion, doing just that.” Mr. Cordoba crossed his arms. He looked even bigger than Mark.

Mr. Cordoba's defense propelled Dad and Mom into action. They were exempt from guilt—from having to live with the possibility that their only son was a serial killer, stalking popular kids throughout high schools everywhere, ruthlessly murdering them. “Kyle, have they attacked you before? Do they bully you?” Mom asked.

I wasn't gonna rat. Rats sucked more than the fucking jock squad. “Um, in PE things get a little rough sometimes. Normal stuff, though. No big deal.”

“Bullying?” Pinky's mom pushed her chair out and stood tall. Everybody else followed suit, leaving me alone at the table. It was like a scene from
12 Angry Men
. I could've renamed it
12 Angry Parents, Parole Officers, and School District Employees
. Pinky's mom towered over everyone except for Mr. Cordoba. “There's no proof that my son has ever laid a finger on your son.” She glared at me. “And only one boy in this room has a parole officer.” She flashed Mark a look.

I kept my mouth shut.

“Well, if there's bullying going on at this school, I think we need to address it, Principal Velásquez. Here and now.” Mom was on fire. She didn't even reach Pinky's mom's shoulder. I hoped she'd be able to run fast in case we needed to bolt. I looked at Pinky's mom's thumbs. Huge. And she had the arm span of an ape.

“Bullying? In this school? It has never been brought to my attention.”
Tackity-tackity-tackity, tacka-tacka-tackity.

The only thing separating these guys from gangsters was their letterman jackets.

“Are these boys the perpetrators, Kyle?” Mom asked.

Perpetrators?
“It's just PE class. No big deal.”

“But he tried to choke me,” Alex whined.

I didn't remember that part. I just remembered the red—the anger.

“All of you get in-house suspension. All four of you.”
Tackity-tackity-tackity
.

“What about basketball? We haven't lost a game all season.” Alex jumped from his chair. Snot bubbles formed and popped.

Principal Velásquez crossed her arms in front of her. “Well, I guess you'll enjoy watching it from the stands. You're all off the team until after your suspension.”

“Oh, you'll be hearing from us, Principal Velásquez.” Pinky's mom stomped toward the door. Principal Velásquez's diplomas rattled against the walls. “We're not through here.”

“Oh, Ms. Deiterstein, I do believe we are finished.” Principal Velásquez didn't take shit from anybody—especially parents. “And all of you will complete these anger-management and conflict-resolution packets. Due after winter break in January.”

Nobody said anything.

“Tomorrow you gentlemen will begin your in-house suspension. I've got a couple of phone calls to make tonight—including one to Coach Copeland. Thanks for coming, everybody.” She grabbed each parent's hand. I wondered if her nails dug into them when she squeezed.

Mark nodded triumphantly and shook Mr. Cordoba's hand. “Thanks.” Then he clapped me on the back…again. “Never again, Kyle. This can never happen again. Got it?”

“Sure, Mark. It won't.”

“You've got to let it go. Let it go when these kids go after you like that.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Okay, Kyle. Good. We're good now.” Mark put on his jacket.

Pinky, Troy, and Alex followed their parents out the door.

“I can't believe she thinks she can kick me off the basketball team,” Alex muttered.

Mr. Cordoba cleared his throat. “I don't think it would be prudent for the four of them to be together. Kyle had
better do his suspension in the library.”

Tackity-tackity-tackity…
pause…
tackity-tackity-tackity.
“Sounds reasonable.”

Mom, Dad, and I walked to the parking lot. It was like the reels of our lives had been taken and filmed over—just blurry images were left on the film. I wondered if Jason's death would eat us away, bit by bit, until we crumbled into nothing.

Mark rumbled off on his Harley. Mom and Dad got into the car.

Mr. Cordoba walked next to me. I half waved and said, “Thank you.”

He stopped and looked me in the eyes. “A book must be an ice axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul.”

I sighed. “What?”

“Kafka,” he said, and handed me a book.

My head hurt too much to even think about some nutty novel. I looked down.
The Catcher in the Rye
. I flipped it open and saw Jason's crooked signature—no caps. Tears burned my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered.

Mr. Cordoba put his hand on my shoulder and nodded.