Freeze Frame (14 page)

T
hey wanted to take me to the ER to make sure I wasn't brain damaged or something. But they calmed down once my head stopped bleeding.

We dropped Dad off at the Hub. He had to relieve some worker who'd called in sick. Everybody called in “sick” around the holidays, especially Thanksgiving.

When we got to Richmond Avenue, I looked in the Bishops' front window. Mrs. Bishop still had that candle lamp lit, waiting for Jason to come back. Mom didn't talk until we walked in the door. “Sit. Now.” She pulled out a kitchen chair. “We need to talk.”

Not that again.

“Look at me.” Mom crossed her arms.

I rolled my eyes. “It's not a big deal.” I went to the
fridge for some peanut butter and jelly.

“Kyle Michael Caroll, I want to know what's going on with you. You're distant, withdrawn, and now this? I'm worried about you.”

“So, what? I can't defend myself?”

“You know that's not what I'm talking about,” she said. “It's…it's everything.” She paused. “That boy was terrified, Kyle.”

My jaw muscles tightened. I clenched my fists around the jar of jelly, feeling an electric surge shoot through my body. It was like I was at the edge of a cliff and any minute, any second, I could jump and crash to the ground.

“We just—” She sighed. “We want things to be normal for you again.”

“Why? Why do you want things normal for me? So life can be easier for you?” The burning started up in my stomach again.

“Kyle…” Mom's voice trailed off.

“Why doesn't anybody have the balls to say that things will
never
be the same again? How come that's so hard to say?” I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. I swallowed and bit my lower lip.

“You keep pushing us away. You won't let us help. You won't move on. We don't know what to think, Kyle.”

Move on? Move on? I have no right to move on.

I felt the heat creep up my body and fill everything with
crimson red. The edge of the cliff was a step away. I jumped into the void. “I'm sick of all the bullshit.” I clutched the jelly jar. “You have no idea how I have felt every single day since then. You have no idea,” I whispered. Sweat beaded on my forehead. “And you want me to move on? Tell that to Jason. Tell that to Chase. Tell that to the Bishops!” I squeezed the jar. It shattered and fell to the floor. I looked down. Drops of blood mixed with globs of raspberry jelly.

Everything went into slow motion. Mom and I looked from the blood to my hand to outside the front window. We watched Mel drive up and run into the house. She came into the kitchen and looked from me to Mom. “Oh, wow, Kyle. Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“Can I help?” She came forward.

I shook my head. “I'm fine.”

“Okay.” Mel stepped out of the kitchen.

Mom grabbed a towel. “Put your hand over the sink. I need to pull out the glass.”

I wanted to close my fist and grind the pieces into my palm. But Mom looked horrified, so I held my throbbing hand over the sink, watching the blood trickle out of the cuts.

“Kyle?” Mom said. “What can we do? What can we do to help you?” Mom held my hands in hers.

I looked down at where my orange sneaker tips poked out from under my pants. I didn't know if I'd make it another 144 days. I didn't know if I could even make it
one more day. “Nothing.”

Mom ran her fingers through her hair. “Okay. I, um, maybe we should call Dr. Matthews?”

I sighed. They hadn't realized that my visits with Dr. Matthews were a waste of time.

On the way to my room, I turned around at the top of the staircase. Mom looked so far away, like I was seeing her through a camera lens.

In my room, I flicked off the lights, threw myself onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Somehow, I finally fell asleep.

 

The rope burns, scraping across my neck. “Nah, you do it.”

“Fuck, why do I always have to do things first?”

“You're taller.” I loop it around his neck.

“See, that's not so hard. Watch this.” He jumps, swinging back and forth, back and forth, a happy grin on his face.

Then his body jerks.

Hiccups.

Spasms.

He smiles.

I watch the smile fade—first the lips disappear, then nose, eyes. A blank face. Nothingness.

 

I jerked awake and gasped for air. I grabbed a blanket and crept into the hall. Lying outside Mel's door, I waited until the first light of morning.

W
hen light from Mom and Dad's room spilled into the hallway, I tiptoed back to my bed.

“Kyle? It's time for school.” Mom called through my door.

I faked a horrible cough and lay under the covers, working up a sweat.

Mom knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” I said in my most gravelly voice.

Mom came in and placed her hand on my forehead. “You have a fever.”

I nodded. It wasn't too hard to look sick, since I'd lost about fifteen pounds over the past eight weeks and had hardly slept in days. My face had taken on a kind of skull-and-crossbones look.

Dad came in. “He'd better stay home today.”

Mom looked worried. “I can't miss another day of work. Are you covered at the Hub?”

Dad shook his head.

“I'll be fine,” I whispered. “I just need sleep.”

Mom bit her lower lip and scowled. She looked at her watch.

“It's just a few hours. I'll come home after the lunch rush,” Dad said. “And he can call me if he needs anything. You'll call, right, Kyle?”

I closed my eyes and pretended to drift back to sleep.

“I'll tell the school.” Mom's heels clacked down the stairs.

The familiar sounds of breakfast drifted to my room. Mom burned Dad's eggs again. I heard Mel laughing at something Dad said. They actually sounded happy. Free. Free from Kyle.

Before leaving for work, Mom slipped into my room and kissed my cheek, her eyes filled with concern. “Will you be okay for a few hours?”

I grunted. “Yeah. Don't worry.”

She put my cell phone on the bedside table. “You call Dad if you need anything, and he'll be home before you know it.” She bit her lip. “You know how much we love you, right?”

I listened as they left the house, the front lock clicking
and car doors slamming. Then I got up and grabbed my notebook. Maybe if I remembered, it would be okay.

 

SCENE THREE: Take Eleven—Chinese fantasy (Zhang Yimou) style

Dissonant violins play in the background. The sound of bullets ricocheting off objects overtakes the score. FADE OUT score.

 

WIDE-ANGLE SHOT of the scene. The shed is at the left-hand corner of the shot. It's a high-contrast color shot; the white of the shed stands out against the green grass and bamboo in the background.

 

CUT TO: Kyle crouching down to squeeze out the dew from his pajama pants. He pauses, catches his breath, then stands again.

 

CUT TO: Jason, holding the gun, twirling it, and shooting at various targets in the shed.

 

The camera ZOOMS OUT, and we see light streaming into the shed like crisscrossing strings, surrounding Jason. Kyle is in the background, hardly visible in the shadows.

 

ZOOM OUT: Jason shoots, the bullet piercing the roof of the shed.

 

CLOSE-UP of Kyle. He pauses, then does a martial-arts triple flip and pokes his finger through the bullet hole in the ceiling, landing safely on the ground.

Silence. The ricocheting bullets have stopped. We hear a sickening sound as the bullet pierces Jason.

 

ZOOM OUT. The shed is in the left-hand corner of the shot. Fall turns to winter to spring, then summer, then fall.

 

ZOOM IN. Jason lying in a puddle of blood.

 

CUT TO Kyle, staring at Jason.

 

CUT TO the gun in Kyle's hand.

 

The dissonant sound of violins begins again, accompanied by the sound of the wind through the trees. FADE OUT.

 

I reread the entry. More dialogue, but still incomplete. I closed my eyes.
Remember,
I thought.
Just remember.
But nothing came. Just the shrill sound of the bullet as it left the gun's barrel, and Jason buckling over. I put my notebook away and got dressed. I walked out to the shed and held my hands against the door. The cold seeped from the metal surface through my gloves. Snowflakes tumbled from the sky. Gusts of wind whipped them into a whirling frenzy. I clasped my hands in front of me and closed my eyes.

What are you doing out here?

The whine of the wind grew. My teeth chattered.

I blew it, you know. With Chase.

The snow fell faster, like it was in some kind of hurry to get where it needed to go. A film of snow covered my body. My teeth knocked hard against each other. Jason didn't say anything,
Do you believe in signs? Like dreams that tell you what to do?

I waited.

What am I supposed to do?

Silence.

It doesn't matter anymore, anyway, does it? Nothing matters anymore.

Silence.

Asshole.

God, I'm such a freak show. I'm pissed off at a dead guy. I brushed the snow off my coat and pants. “See you soon,” I whispered.

Chilled, I walked back inside, changing out of my snowy clothes into dry ones before Dad got home to check up on me.
You'll catch your death,
he would say.

That's the point.
But that's the kind of stuff a kid really shouldn't say to his parents.

I
woke up to Mom and Mel arguing in the hallway.

“But Mom, you guys promised you'd go.”

“We can't leave him here alone. One of us has to stay.”

“He's just sleeping anyway. And you promised,” Mel cried.

My door opened a crack. “Kyle?”

I didn't answer.

“Don't wake him,” I heard Dad say. “How long is the program, Mel?”

“It's just a couple of hours. And we've been practicing since September.”

I had forgotten it was Mel's regional cheerleading competition. Carson High had made it to the finals.

“We need to go, Maggie,” Dad urged Mom.

“But you didn't see him.” Mom's voice sounded strained. “You didn't see the look in his eyes yesterday.”

“We were all tired. It was a long day, and he was coming down with something. I've been here all afternoon, and he hasn't moved. He just needs sleep.”

“Please,” Mel begged. “Please, Mom.”

Mom came in and touched her cool hand to my forehead. I lay still. She walked back into the hallway.

“Well?” Mel's voice had a whiny pitch to it.

“He was fine alone this morning,” Dad said.

“How about if I stay just through your performance, Mel?”

“That's perfect.”

I listened as they put on their heavy jackets and winter boots. Downstairs, Mom, Dad, and Mel shuffled out the door and got into the car. I took out my notebook and read through each scene. The words ran together. Tears smudged the writing.

I can't do this anymore.

Then don't.

You always have the answers, huh?

Depends on the questions.

Fuck you.

I threw the notebook across the room. The lamp teetered on the edge of my nightstand and shattered on the floor. I crawled to the corner and squeezed my head
between my knees. The pounding had to stop. The hurt had to stop.

“Go away,” I said. I rocked back and forth.

Every time I closed my eyes, the walls closed in.

“Breathe. Just breathe,” I whispered.

I looked around the room, desperate, and pulled out the phone book. “Cordoba, Cordoba, Cordoba.”

Fuck, what's his first name?

I dialed the first number I saw under Cordoba. Maybe we could talk about books. I just needed to talk—to hear somebody besides Jason.

Three rings. Four rings.

“Hello?” Out of breath, low humming voice.

Deep breaths, slow deep breaths. Count to ten.

“Hello?” she repeated.

“I—” I cleared my throat. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…

“You kids have nothing better to do than this?” She hollered to somebody, “It's another one of those prank callers. We need to get caller ID.”

“Please,” I whispered.

Click.

I went to sit at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Schneibel had already strung up her Christmas lights. The glow of the colorful lights reflected off our living room windows.

'Tis the season. Fucking holidays.

Mom had left the radio on in the kitchen. It was a crackly old radio—you had to turn the dial and mess around with a duct-taped antenna to hear anything. And if you moved it, even the tiniest bit, you lost the station and had to start again.

I walked into the kitchen and cranked up the staticky Christmas carols the radio stations had been playing since October. I stared out at the Bishops' house. The candle was lit. A warm light glowed between the slats of the blinds. They were home. Shadows moved behind the Bishops' curtains. Maybe they were watching TV.

“'Tis the season to be thankful. 'Tis the season for forgiveness and love. It's time to reach out.” The DJ was really caking on the love and forgiveness stuff. He was taking calls and listening to everybody's sappy reconciliation stories.

I bit my lip and looked at the calendar.

November 23.

Last year at this time, Jason and I were probably eating the crust off Mrs. Bishop's homemade apple pie. Last year Jason and I had a Coen brothers movie marathon. Last year, as soon as Jason got back from church, we spent the rest of Thanksgiving weekend sledding up on C-Hill.

I laid my head on the cold countertop. Tears pooled on the tiles.

The DJ ho-ho-hoed in some hokey Santa voice. “Come on, everybody! What are you waiting for? I challenge each
and every one of you to—” I bumped into the radio and it went fuzzy.

I pulled on my winter hat and coat and walked down the street. I fought to steady my breathing. My stomach burned when I saw that Mrs. Bishop had hung up her old wooden turkey. It was the same one she hung up every year.

My hand trembled when I rang the bell.

I heard shouts inside and Brooke opened the door.

Freeze frame.

I opened my mouth. The words got trapped in my throat. I struggled to breathe, fighting to push the words out.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

But nothing came out. As soon as I tried to say them, I knew the words wouldn't change anything. They wouldn't bring him back. Sorry was the cheap way out.

Brooke narrowed her eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming here? At Thanksgiving?”

“Who's there, honey?” Mrs. Bishop hollered from the kitchen. The house smelled like pumpkin pie and apple cider.

I tried to say something, but nothing came. Not even tears.

Mrs. Bishop came out from the kitchen with a plate of cookies. “Kyle!” she said. She dropped the plate and it shattered on the hardwood floor. Her mouth quivered
and her eyes closed. She covered her face with her hands and muffled a sob.

The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the shed again. I had no clue how I'd gotten there.