Freeze Frame (20 page)

E
very day I'd wake up hoping to find Mr. Bishop's car back in the driveway. It didn't make sense to me that he had left Chase and Brooke like that. Jason didn't have a choice, but Mr. Bishop did.

I walked down the winding path to Jason's grave one day and saw Mrs. Bishop on her knees. The snow had melted and the cemetery looked barren. There was a smattering of chalky conversation hearts left over from Valentine's Day. I walked away before she saw me.

I had turned sixteen. Jason never would.

Freeze frame.

The rest of February sucked. The snow was crusty and melted, black and yellow from exhaust fumes and dog piss. And all I did was write, trying to bring Jason back with
every object, every scene. Once in a while I thought about Scene Three, but I was afraid it would bring me back to the way I had felt that night in the shed.

Sometimes the scenes came back so quickly, I felt like I wouldn't be able to write them down fast enough. One afternoon I sat behind the Dumpsters writing about the time Jase helped me organize a B-movie marathon in the backyard. I had gotten seven of the best B-movies to show and was ready with Grandpa's old projector. When we threaded the first film, the movie that started to play definitely wasn't
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. We didn't get a chance to see too much before Dad ripped it out of the projector and canceled the showing until he reviewed all seven movies. All seven starred a girl named Roxy Lovelace. Apparently we had gotten the wrong shipment. I wrote the scene in a grind-house movie style—like those cheesy seventies movies with bad acting and hot chicks.

“Kyle. Hey, Kyle!
Psst!
”

Chase and Mike were standing together, peeking around the corner. “Hey, guys. Sorry. Didn't see you.” I shoved the notebook into my backpack.

“You didn't hear us hoot?” Chase asked.

“I guess not.”

Chase crossed his arms. “A little lackadaisical today.”

“Nice word, Chase.”

“Thanks. I learned it last week.”

“Yeah, and he says it every day, all day long.” Mike rolled his eyes. “Nobody in Mrs. Perrin's class knows what it means. I don't think she even knows what it means.”

Chase glared at Mike. “It means ‘lazy.'”

Mike picked at a scab. “Yeah. But who's gonna remember that?”

“I'm going to Mike's.”

“Cool.” I looked at the time—late for the library again.

“Anyway, I need your help with something,” Chase said, turning to me.

“What's going on?”

“Well, Mom is into this heaven–eternal-life stuff, telling me Jason's with me always.”

My throat felt dry. I rubbed my eyes. “What does your dad say?”

“Dad stopped going to church the day he left the house. I heard him tell Mom that there is no God.”

I couldn't believe I had taken God away from Mr. Bishop too. “Have you tried praying to him? Doesn't Pastor Pretzer help you with that stuff?”

He shook his head. “I saw this thing on the Light Up Your Life channel at Mike's house, that when people die, they leave a soul print.”

“A soul print?” I asked.

“There are even soul-print hunters who help people find the place where a person was at the very moment
when their soul left their body.”

“On
what
channel?”

“Mike has DISH.”

I nodded. “I remember.”

“Anyway, it's all really confusing and I can't afford a soul-print hunter. And I have something really important I need Jason to know. I need to get a message to him.”

“Jase is always going to be with you, Chase. Just because he's not here”—I motioned to the air—“doesn't mean he's not here.” I tapped Chase's heart.

“So do you know how I can talk to him? To feel him here?” Chase touched his heart right where I had.

I thought for a while. No clue. But I couldn't let Chase down again. “I think I might know a way.”

Chase's eyes got wide. “You really know how to talk to the dead?”

I did it every day. But I didn't figure that would be a good thing to tell Chase. “Well, I wouldn't say that exactly.”

Mike grinned. “Wow, Chase. This is big.”

Chase nodded. “How about this Saturday? March eighteenth. Oh seven hundred hours.”

“Oh seven hundred?”

“That's military time for seven
A.M
.”

“Oh. Yeah.” March 18? I wondered how it was possible that more than five months had gone by. “Oh seven hundred hours. You got it.”

Chase turned to Mike. “You've got to get me an invitation to stay over Friday night.”

Mike wrinkled his nose. “An invitation? Like a card or something?”

Chase rolled his eyes. “No. Just have your mom call my mom. Okay?”

“Oh. Okay.”

I laughed. “Where do you live, Mike?”

Mike gave me detailed instructions on how to get to his house. Chase interrupted, giving me the GPS coordinates.

“Got it, OD?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“You sure?” Chase asked. “I didn't see you write down the coordinates.”

It was like we were acting out some James Bond movie. “I'm sure.”

“So?” Chase asked. “We're on for Saturday?”

“We're on. I'll pick you two up at seven.”

“
A.M
?”

“Yes.
A.M
.”

“Do I need anything?” Chase asked.

I thought for a while. “Write down the message you need to get to Jason on a piece of paper.” It sounded good anyway—like I knew what I was doing.

Chase shook my hand. “I knew I could count on you, Kyle.”

I
pedaled as hard as I could, zigzagging puddles and potholes. Maybe Cordoba had some books on talking to the dead. Jesus, that wasn't a conversation I wanted to have with him.

How
could
Chase talk to Jason? I had five days to figure it out.

I wondered if anybody in Carson City could do a séance at the last minute. Would that kind of shit be in the yellow pages? Or maybe I could use Mel's Ouija board. But how seriously can anybody take something made by Parker Brothers? I had to find some way for Chase to send a message to Heaven.

If there even was a Heaven.

Why had I promised those things to him? Jesus.

I threw open the library doors, trying to catch my
breath. Mr. Cordoba looked up from the paper.

“Sorry.” I looked at the clock on the wall and pinched my side.

Mr. Cordoba mumbled and continued reading the paper. I peeled off my sticky sweatshirt, found my seat, and brought out my notebook. The library was empty—the way I liked it. Sometimes it felt like it was there just for me. Then I closed my eyes and thought about the day we took Chase to Rancho San Rafael Park to watch the national kite festival. Colors and shapes dotted the sky like confetti. We lay on the grassy hills of the park, eating cotton candy, watching the kites cartwheel and somersault in the sky.

“KITE,” I titled the scene.

Mr. Cordoba cleared his throat in the way he did when he wanted me to pay attention. Phony phlegm. Maybe one day I could write that scene. I laughed to myself, imagining a suspense scene building up to the phony phlegm sound followed by a shrill scream from a beautiful blonde. Very Hitchcock.

“I watched
Unforgiven
,” Cordoba said.

“Really?” I put the notebook down. “What'd you think?”

“Interesting choice.”

“It's a great western—one of the best.”

“Why do you like it so much?”

I bit my lip. “It just makes sense to me. It was like the past was always with him.”

“So, a man is stuck with his past?”

I thought about my old notebook, the shed, and all the ways I had tried to write the scene. Jason ended up dead every time. I nodded. “Pretty much.”

“He can't choose to change?”

“He might change, but everybody else stays the same, you know. So he would have to leave everything to really change. Just like William Munny did in the end.”

“Though he left, did his past change?”

“Well, no. But at least he didn't have to face it every day. It's easier to forget that way.”

“And you think he'll forget his past?”

“I suppose not.”

“So what has changed? What changed in him?”

“Nothing. Everything.” I threw my hands up. “I don't know. It's just a movie I like, Mr. Cordoba.” A slow ache settled in my heart.

Maybe I could escape to San Francisco and set up a dry-goods store just like William Munny.

Mr. Cordoba pulled out the filmmaker brochure. “This fell out of your backpack yesterday.”

The edges of the brochure were curled in from the time I dropped it in the snow when I was visiting Jase. The glossy cover looked smudged and dull.

“Are you thinking about entering?” Mr. Cordoba asked.

“No.” I wanted to rip it out of his hands but instead
shoved my fists into my pockets. “It's just a dumb thing somebody gave me.”

“Who?”

“Jason.” It slipped out. “Um, his brother found it in his room.”

Mr. Cordoba raised his eyebrows. “It sounds like Jason knew you quite well.”

I shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Why won't you enter it?”

Because I have no right. Because I took away all Jase was and was ever gonna be. Because I don't know if I did it on purpose.
But how could I explain that to Cordoba? “I need to go.”

Mr. Cordoba stood in front of me, holding the brochure in his hands. “Take this. Think about it.”

“I don't want it. I gotta go.”

Mr. Cordoba didn't move.

“I gotta go,” I repeated. My face burned. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying. My fingernails bit into my palms.

Then he grabbed me and held my shoulders. “It was an accident.”

“Let me go. Let me go.” My voice got lost in my sadness. I tried to pull away, tried to stop the tears, but the harder I tried, the closer he pulled me in.

“Kyle, it was an accident.”

I pushed him.

“It was an accident.” Mr. Cordoba pulled me tighter.

“How do you know? How do you know I didn't kill him on purpose? How do you know what happened in that shed when I don't even fucking know?”

“I know you. It was an accident.”

Then it came—all of Jason flooded out of me. I couldn't push away anymore. Mr. Cordoba held me up. And I cried.

He repeated, “It was an accident.”

Was that it? Did that make it okay?

Mr. Cordoba let go of me and helped me sit down. His jacket was soaked. I couldn't look him in the eyes. Couldn't stop crying.

“Kyle, I have something for you.” Mr. Cordoba went back to his office and brought out my old notebook.

I pushed it away. “I can't do it. I can't think about that day anymore.”

Mr. Cordoba put it in my hands. “You have one director left to write the scene.”

I nodded.

“
You
write it. Face it. Find your peace.”

I looked at the notebook. “What if,” I whispered, choking out the words, “what if I remember, and it wasn't an accident?”

Mr. Cordoba looked really sad all of sudden. He rubbed his temples. His eyes clouded over. “Don't die with Jason.”

A
ll night I thought about how I would direct the scene. Even though Jase would never come back, it mattered. I needed to know what happened that day. Cordoba was right. I needed to make peace. I held the notebook close. One more take. It was time to remember, so I wrote:

 

SCENE THREE: Take Fifteen—Kyle style

 

FADE IN: Kyle and Jason are going through the shelves. Kyle sees his grandpa's old 8 mm film projector and takes down the box of home movies. He blows dust off the old reels and checks to see if the film is still good.

CUT TO: Jason jimmying the lock of a metal box. Jason doesn't pay attention to Kyle.

Jason whistles.

 

ZOOM IN: The gun in Jason's hand.

CUT TO: Jason twirls gun around his thumb, a confident smile on his face.

 

WIDE ANGLE of shed. Kyle's pajama pants are stuck to his ankles. Kyle crouches down to squeeze out the dew. He takes a deep breath
and stands up again. Jason still twirls the gun around his thumb.

ZOOM IN: Shot of gun in Jason's hands.)

Kyle hesitates. He squeezes his pajama pants again. Jason holds the gun out to him.

Kyle swallows. He takes the gun from Jason, but it slips from his frosty hands. His fingers are stiff. He tries to grab the gun, to stop it from falling to the ground, so he grips it tighter, his fingers squeezing the trigger. There's an explosion in the shed. Kyle looks at the gun. He touches the barrel of the gun and jerks his hand back. He looks up, confused, not quite understanding that the gun has just gone off.

CUT TO: CLOSE-UP of Kyle's face. Kyle closes his eyes and his lips move, forming the words “Please, God. Please don't let this have happened.”

 

CUT TO: the watch on Kyle's wrist.

 

ZOOM IN: The time is 9:16 a.m.

 

FADE OUT: Jason slumped against the workbench, then slowly falling to the floor of the shed. Blood pools beside his body.

 

I felt a wave of relief.

It was an accident.

It was an accident.

 

I biked in the chilly spring afternoon to visit Jase. His grave hadn't changed much. The marker had been washed recently. All the spring mud was cleared away. I pulled the Dimex out of my pocket and set it on his marker.

10:46.

I got out the notebook. “I was worried, you know?” I
sat and faced the marker. “But you knew all along. You knew I didn't mean to.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “It's been pretty shitty thinking all this time that—Well. You know.” I brushed dirt off my knees. “And no, ‘shit happens' was not enough information.”

I stretched back with my arms under my head, watching the clouds drift by. A cloud covered the sun, blanketing the cemetery in soft shadows. The last rays of sunlight finally broke through, warming my face.

“I'm so sorry, Jase. I'm sorry to have taken your life away like that.” I wiped the tears from my eyes and sighed. It felt good to say that. Sorry. It made a difference.

How would Jason like to see you today?

I sat up. “Hey, Jase. I thought maybe I'd write the scene about what I think you'd want for me. If that's okay?”

Spring afternoons were pretty windy, and I had forgotten my jacket. I shivered. “You know, it sure would help if you had one of those standing-up gravestones, because then I could lean on something. Or even a tree.”

New shoots of grass pushed through the soil, covering Jason's grave with what looked like tiny green polka dots.

“Maybe we can write this together.”

 

H
OW
W
OULD
J
ASON
L
IKE TO
S
EE
M
E
T
ODAY
:
Scenes to write
…

• Getting action of any kind
  
• Cruising the strip up in Reno
  
• Getting a sweet summer job at the Rage
  
• Wearing out the orange shoes so I don't win his vintage comic books
  
• Making a movie instead of just talking about it
  

I read the last line over.

“See, Jase. That's kinda tricky. I'd need your mom and Chase for this movie I've been writing, and things with your family are pretty bad. Your dad left.” The words hung in the air. “I'm sorry about that, too.”

“Does he talk back?”

I looked up. Chase held a jar of red M&M's in his hand. “Chase! You don't usually come here during the week.”

“Does he answer you?”

“Um, no. Maybe just in my head. Sometimes. I dunno.” I closed the notebook and stuffed it into my backpack. “Are you alone?”

Chase shook his head. “Mom's talking to Mr. Peoples.”

“Mr. Peoples?”

“The caretaker.”

“The rake guy?”

“She's coming, though.” He looked behind him. “I'm not allowed to go to Mike's this weekend. It's a Dad weekend. Brooke's with Mom. We alternate. So I can't talk to Jase.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“We'll do it another day, Chase.”

“When?”

“Chase, I gotta go.”

Chase grabbed my hand. “But it's important.”

“I know.” I rubbed my neck. “But you gotta see your dad. That's important too.”

“Well, they never ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“What I wanna do.”

I sighed. “We'll do it another day. I've really gotta go.”

“When? When will we do it?”

“Whenever you can.”

“But I never can. They made this calendar of “Chase days.” So every weekend I have to go to Virginia City, Ichthyosaur State Park, Sand Mountain, and the Tahoe Rim Trail either with my mom or with my dad. I'll never stay at Mike's again. They're just big bullies disguised as parents.”

I squatted down next to him. “Give it time. And when you can, we'll go.” Chase looked so small. I squeezed his hand. “I promise. Just say the word.” I grabbed the watch and turned to go.

“But it's important. His soul print!” he called after me.

Mrs. Bishop walked up the path. I rushed past her with my head down, staring at the ground.

“Kyle?” Mrs. Bishop said.

I didn't turn around. My throat felt dry and my heart hammered in my chest. I made it to my bike and didn't stop pumping until I was home.