Freeze Frame (16 page)

O
ne morning, Mr. Cordoba was busy in his office. I wandered around the library, browsing the shelves, looking for other books Jason had checked out. I'd already read
The Catcher in the Rye
twice but didn't want to let it go just yet.

The back windows of the library faced the track. The cheerleaders were practicing some pyramid thing. Mel's cheeks were flushed in the chilly December wind, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I didn't see Brooke anywhere.

Kohana walked by with his camera hanging around his neck, his black hair sticking out of the bottom of a stocking cap, green jacket flapping in the wind. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy jeans. He'd stop and stare at something for a while, fidget with his camera, then snap a picture. After a while, he made his way to the
flagpole and sat at its base.

The radiator clicked on, its heat fogging the windows. I leaned against the pane, icy glass cool against my forehead. I returned to the tables and started on the day's assignments.

“It looks like you need a new notebook, Mr. Caroll.” Cordoba held my notebook in his hands. “I found this in the garbage.”

It was like the damned scene was chasing me. “Did you read it?” I grabbed it from him.

“No.”

I sighed, relieved.

“I noticed that you write a lot.”

“This? It's just, um, director's notes.” How lame did that sound?

“Director's notes?”

“Yeah. It's a dumb thing I started to do. Writing out a scene from my life, but trying to figure out how some of my favorite directors would direct the same scene.”

“So that entire notebook is just one scene from your life?”

I flipped through the pages. “Yeah.”

“That's impressive.”

“Not really.”

“How many directors did you use?”

“Fourteen.”

“Is it finished?”

“No. I still have room for one more director.”

“And?”

“Couldn't think of one.” I moved to throw the notebook back in the garbage and hesitated. “Besides, no director can edit the past. These directors can't even remember it.”

Mr. Cordoba took a sip of coffee. “Why don't you just set it aside?”

I walked to the garbage can. “That's what I tried to do until you took it out of the garbage.”

“I see. You're throwing away the past.”

“I'm trying.”

Mr. Cordoba went back to his desk and opened up a book to read.

“What?”

He looked up from the book. “What, what, Mr. Caroll?”

“Aren't you going to come at me with one of your philosophies? About making peace with the past?”

“What would you like me to say?”

“I don't know.”

Mr. Cordoba closed his book. “Will the past make sense if you throw it away?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. Maybe.” I chucked the notebook in the garbage.

Mr. Cordoba's fingers slid over the bumpy scar. He went back to his office and returned with a notebook.
He handed it to me.

“I can't write that scene anymore, Mr. Cordoba.”

“Then don't. New notebook. New scenes.” He returned to his book.

What scenes? I was already a master of forgetting, not even counting the shed. It was like in
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
, when a guy gets his memories erased. One by one, and no matter how hard he tries to hold on to them, his memories disappear.

That had started to happen to me. I was forgetting what Jason looked like. His face got blurry in my mind, like in those old family photos. You knew who the people are, but they aren't in focus. Same with his voice. I tried to remember how he sounded when he laughed. I didn't think I'd ever get his voice back.

It made me so sad to see that Jase was fading away. Fade out. Jason.

Mr. Cordoba had put his book on the desk. He watched me and motioned to the notebook in the garbage. “Can I hold it for you? If by the end of the year you don't want it, you can throw it away.”

“Whatever.” Cordoba could be really weird sometimes, fishing old notebooks out of the garbage. I flipped through the blank pages of the new notebook. “So which director should I use for the new scenes?” I asked aloud, kind of to myself.

“Why not you? You could direct your own memories.” Cordoba looked at the clock. “It's time to get to work, Mr. Caroll.”

I worked through my day's assignments. The new notebook lay on the desk, hundreds of blank pages before me. I had a lot of scenes to write.

“New notebook,” I whispered, crossing out what I wrote. “New scenes.” Now I just had to remember.

I
n-house suspension were some of the best weeks I'd had. I finished my work early, then read. Sometimes I'd practice remembering. Something—anything—about Jase that didn't have to do with the shed. But all the memories got mixed up, out of order—just like that guy in
Memento
. He had to write notes all over his body to remember, and he still got it wrong in the end.

Leaving the library one afternoon, I ran into Kohana sitting at the base of the flagpole. “Miss the bus?”

He nodded, cleaning the lens of his camera.

“How long do you have to wait?”

He pulled out his watch. “Just a few more minutes. Then my grandma will be here.”

We sat for a minute in silence. I messed with my bike gears.

“You still stuck at the library with Scarface? I heard what happened with Alex and those guys.”

I leaned my head against the flagpole. “I'm not suspended anymore, but I go to the library a lot.”

“Does Scarface ever talk to you?” Kohana asked.

“Cordoba? Sometimes. I don't think he likes to talk, though.”

Kohana wasn't big on talking, either. He looked at my cast. “What happened to your hand?”

“I, um, punched our shed.”

“Shitty day?” He put his camera away.

“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“So how do you ride your bike?”

I smirked and showed him how I managed to balance and steer with my cast while using my bandaged hand for brakes.

“Impressive.” He nodded. “Very Cirque du Soleil.”

“So”—I motioned to his camera—“what do you take pictures of?”

He arched his eyebrows. “Everything. Some might say nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I take pictures of things—things most people don't pay attention to. Objects tell stories, you know.” He
shrugged. “You probably don't get it.”

“Yeah, I do.” I touched the Dimex in my pocket.

“Maybe your shed has stories,” he said.

The metal from the flag clinked against the pole. “Too many.”

He zipped up his backpack. “You get it.”

“So, um, who started calling you Clock?” I asked, just to get away from the shed's stories.

He smirked. “I did.”

I must've looked pretty shocked, because he laughed aloud. “Irony, man. Irony. You're the only one at school who calls me by my name.”

“Really?”

“You're the only one who knows it.”

“Why?”

“No one else ever asked.” Kohana shivered and leaned against the flagpole. I sat next to him and picked at the tape on my shoe.

His grandma pulled up in an old two-tone Dodge Dart. She had long black hair clipped behind her ears, and black eyes. She wore tight jeans and a tighter sweater. Kohana's grandma was hot.

“Dude, that's your grandma?”

Kohana nodded. “It kinda sucks to have a grandma better-looking than me. Like, she's way out of my league.”

I cracked up. “And I thought a cheerleader for a sister was bad.”

“Yeah, Melanie's pretty sweet-lookin'.”

I cringed.

“Well, you're the one checking out my gram.”

Then we both laughed.

Kohana's grandma leaned her head out of the car. “Kohana, are you ready?” she asked.

He turned to me. “Gotta go. Thanks for the company.”

I was biking off when Kohana shouted, “Wait! Just a sec.” I pedaled over to him. He pulled out his camera, lay on the asphalt, and snapped a picture.

“What'd you take the picture of?” I asked, looking on the ground.

“Another story,” he said, getting in the car. “Maybe someday you'll tell it to me.”

I looked under the bike and all around.

“See you tomorrow, Kyle.” He waved.

“See you.”

I
held Jason's Dimex in my hand, just one of the many things he had left behind—one of the many stories. I liked how Kohana thought about objects.

The planet set on the ceiling told a story—like the
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!
and Frank Miller posters, my orange shoes, a ton of things I hadn't thought about. I scanned my bedroom and saw the pieces of paper sticking out from the pages of the R volume in the encyclopedia set my parents were so excited to get me for my thirteenth birthday—now with one volume missing. All I wanted was the original poster from Mel Brooks's
Silent Movie
that Jase and I saw on eBay. That or a dog. Hell, even a T-shirt would've been okay. But Mom and Dad had gone on a
better-my-mind-and-purge-it-of-popular-culture kick. Probably because I had gotten four Cs the first semester. I pulled the pieces of paper from the encyclopedia and smiled.

Only Jase could turn a disastrous thirteenth birthday into something cool.

I brought out the notebook and wrote.

 

UNTITLED: SCENE ONE—PTBP Syndrome (Post-Traumatic Birthday Present Syndrome) A blazing cake glows through the window. A family gathers around the table singing “Happy Birthday.”

 

CLOSE-UP: Kyle has his eyes closed.

 

CUT TO: scene in Kyle's head: He's hanging up Silent Movie next to his Blazing Saddles poster to complete the Mel Brooks movie poster collection.

 

WIDE ANGLE: Camera pans the faces of everybody at the table, brimming with expectation. The gifts are passed down the table and Kyle rips open a comics-wrapped DVD of Plan 9 from Outer Space.

 

FADE OUT: “Happy Birthday” music, then, like Ravel's “Bolero,” background starts softly with John Williams's theme to Jaws. The music gets louder and louder.

 

CUT TO: Scene where Kyle's parents unveil the encyclopedia set.

E
verybody was psyched for Christmas break and the Winter Ball. The school looked like it had been transformed into some kind of
Hallmark Hall of Fame
movie set. But those movies always had happy endings. It had never occurred to me before that the holidays could suck for some people.

Later that week Mark came over and said, “Your grades are better. You're up to date on your homework. Your teachers say you've never been a better student. What's up?”

I couldn't win with this guy. “Nothing. Just studying.”

“Spending lots of time in the library, they say.” Mark flexed his biceps. I wondered if he did it subconsciously. “What about sports? What about extracurricular activities?” Mark rubbed his head.

“I dunno, Mark. I don't think I'll be elected class president anytime soon.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I like the library.”

Mark leaned against the doorframe. “Dr. Matthews says you still don't talk about any of it.”

“Isn't there a law against doctors talking about their patients?”

“Not when they belong to the state of Nevada. So what's up? Why don't you talk?”

I'd seen a show called
Taxicab Confessions
. The cabdriver just drove around like normal, but people told him everything. It's not like he even asked them anything. They started blabbing and blabbing about all their problems and stuff. It was funny, but weird.

“Maybe I should take a ride in a taxi.” I shrugged.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck. “It's Christmastime. It's a tough time for everyone, I know.”

 

Shit happens
. That's what Jase said. But just because it happens doesn't mean it's okay.

I looked down the street at the Bishops' house. “Maybe I'll make some popcorn strings to wrap around the tree.”

People on Richmond Avenue strung up their holiday lights as if nothing had happened—all except for the Bishops. Mrs. Bishop hadn't even put out her nativity scene.

I held the poinsettia in my hands. I had bought it the week before but couldn't bring myself to face them, especially after what happened when I went over at Thanksgiving. The leaves had gotten pretty wilty, even though I'd watered it every day.

Sorry about Jason.

No.

I thought you might want a poinsettia. And, well, sorry.

No.

Every time I tried to cross the street to go to their house, I'd feel a dizzying wave of nausea and would have to lie down on the ground until my world stopped spinning. It took me an hour, but I finally worked up the courage to go. I stepped off the porch and faced their house, clutching the poinsettia.

But the movie got all messed up again. I had almost made it to their house when I saw Mr. Bishop walking out, carrying a suitcase in each hand. His shouts echoed down the street. “There's no way to get him back! He's dead!” The last word hung in the air like one of those cartoon bubbles.
Dead!

I pictured Mrs. Bishop holding on to fifteen years of birthdays, Christmases, family holidays—fifteen years of memories and photos. They'd all fade away, though. And maybe a day would come when we wouldn't think about him. Not once.

Then he'd really be gone—dead.

The camera panned down the street. Chase sat on the corner, rocking back and forth, his hands covering his ears. Brooke hugged him, begging him to go back inside.

It was a slow-motion shot of all of them turning to look at me—Jason's killer—holding a half-dead plant. Pause. Nobody moved. Nobody said anything. Mr. Bishop looked like he was suspended in time.

Play. Brooke ran at me. She screamed, “A poinsettia! You come to us with a fucking poinsettia!” She ripped the poinsettia from my hands and threw it at me. The pot shattered on the street, the plant's roots curling in the dirt.

Mr. Bishop pulled out of the driveway. Mrs. Bishop looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. I couldn't let Jason be gone forever. I had to find a way to bring him back to them—to Chase. And Mrs. Bishop.

I'd be the one to remember.