Freeze Frame (5 page)

I
walked to Dr. Matthews's office. She had a stack of pictures on top of the small desk. A guitar leaned against some boxes in the corner. “Hi, Kyle.”

“Hi.”

She smiled and motioned me to sit at the other end of the couch.

Then we had one of those weird silences that Jason told me happen a lot on first dates. Dr. Matthews wasn't a date, of course, but just sitting with her like that on the couch made me as nervous as hell.

“I like your couch.”

She smiled. “I've had it since my college days.”

“A long time, then, huh?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, Dr. Matthews. I, um, didn't mean it like that.”

She laughed. “Pretty long, actually.”

I nodded. I wondered if she'd ever changed the upholstery or anything, because it looked pretty ratty. I picked at a loose string and unraveled part of a faded purple flower.

“Can you tell me what happened last Saturday?”

“Again?”

“This time, I want you to close your eyes and talk about everything you remember—the color of your clothes, the smell of the grass—everything.”

I closed my eyes. The images came back to me in flashes—like I was looking at film negatives—and ended with the red-black pool of blood and the blue of Jason's lips. All I could smell was the burn. All I could hear was the ringing in my ears. I opened my eyes and shook my head. I gave her the abbreviated version—like a movie preview.

“Jason and I were cold. We went to the shed. Now Jason's dead. End of story.”

She laced her fingers together and sighed. I traced a bumpy leaf with my finger. I wished she'd say something; instead we sat there in that cramped office, listening to the ticks of the kitchen timer.

“Kyle, this is a place where you can say anything that's on your mind.”

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
My lip quivered and I took a deep breath.

“Or nothing, too. That's okay.”

Nothing. That was better.

Dr. Matthews looked at the time. She stood up and stretched a little. “I still want you to take your medication. It will help you feel better.”

“Okay.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Kyle.”

“Sure, um, see you tomorrow.”

Mark wasn't waiting for me in the hall that time. Some guy in a brown uniform took me back to my room. “Where's Mark?”

“He'll be here tomorrow. Some of the kids are going to play checkers and Parcheesi in the common room. You game?”

“No, thanks, sir.” I couldn't imagine playing Parcheesi with Colander.

I counted the bricks that lined the cell door until it got too dark to see. The next couple of days were gray. Everything seemed blurred, like in those old 8 mm home movies Mom and Dad had from when they were kids, the ones I had found in the shed. No sound. Just the snap of the film spinning around the reel.

 

When I was little, Dad once showed me his record collection. We sat and listened to music in the den. The sound was crackly, and one record got stuck. Just when I thought the song would continue, it moved back to the same spot.

“It's scratched here, you see?” Dad shook his head and pulled the needle off the black disc. He showed me the record, and I ran my fingers across smooth vinyl and felt a hairlike scratch. It didn't feel like anything big at all, but it was because of that tiny little mark that the song just wouldn't go on.

“Can't we fix it?”

“I don't think so.” Dad gently held the record in his hands. “Maybe I'll bring some records to the café. What do you think?”

It was the first time Dad had ever asked me what I thought about his café, The Hub. I imagined how cool it would be to have The Hub packed with people, listening to the crackly music. “I think it would be great, Dad.”

Dad smiled.

 

October 8 was the place where my needle got stuck. There was no way to go on. And it couldn't be fixed.

That Thursday, I stood before the judge again. Mark requested that I be put on house arrest and released to my parents until the disposition. I had to continue psychological counseling and was given a prescription for the gray pills. Dr. Matthews explained they didn't want me to have severe spikes and drops in my moods. The pills would level me.

But I hadn't felt anything but emptiness since October 8. And the pills didn't fill the hole in my stomach. They just
made the days gray, my nights black-red.

I had to check out of the Kit Carson Juvenile Detention Center like it was the Ritz. They made sure I didn't swipe any of the stained sheets or anything. At the counter, they handed me a list of my stuff: one
PEDRO FOR PRESIDENT

T-shirt, one pair of jeans, one pair of socks, one gray Wolfpack baseball cap, one navy blue Carson High sweatshirt, one watch. Beside the word
watch
, somebody had written “broken.”

I pulled all the items out of the yellow plastic bag, one at a time. Everything smelled burned. The cap still had splotches of brown blood on the inside. The watch was at the bottom of the bag.

October 8, 10:46.

“Everything there, Kyle?”

I held the watch in my hands. The brown smudges flaked off.

10:46.

I wished I had set it at 10:45—at 10:45 Jason was still alive. I rubbed the face of the watch, smearing the brown spots with my sweaty thumb.

“Is there a problem?” Mark looked at the inventory and the clothes that I had pulled out of the bag. “Kyle?”

“No.” I shoved the stuff back into the bag and put the watch into my pocket. Mom had brought me fresh clothes to wear.

Mark shook my hand. “We have a week before your
disposition, where I'll be making a sentencing recommendation. As long as you're doing what you need to be doing, you and I won't have problems.”

I nodded. But I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing. Maybe not killing any more friends. Everything else, though, was pretty vague.

When we got home, Mel ran up to her room, closed the door, and turned on the radio full blast. I went upstairs, too. Everything looked the same. My
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!
poster hung on the door, taped together from the time I had torn it up after my cine club had failed in eighth grade.

 

“Kyle, that's a cool poster, and you just ruined it.” Jason shook his head.

“Nobody else seems to think it was cool. Nobody even came.”

“I was there.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

“Dude, most kids want to see
The Lord of the Rings
or something. It was pretty out there to debut with
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!
”

I threw the scraps of the poster in the trash. “Whatever. I just wanted to try something different.”

“Nobody knows how good that movie was. You're just a visionary, man.”

“A visionary, huh?” I bit my lip, not wanting to cry in front of Jason. Not all guys would be so cool about their best friend being a total loser. “Want a tomato?” I had bought twenty pounds of cherry tomatoes to sell during the movie instead of popcorn.

Jason laughed. “Dude, let's tape this up.” He picked up the pieces of the poster out of the trash.

 

The poster got all hazy and I pushed the memory away. How come I could remember that but not the shed?

I shoved the yellow plastic bag of clothes from the detention center into my dresser, put the watch on, and went downstairs. Five days of unread
Nevada Appeal
s were piled on the coffee table.

I flipped through them until I saw Jason's picture on the front page of Tuesday's paper. “C-11” was printed under his picture. The headline read “Tragedy Puts Carson City on the Map: Is Any Community Immune from Gun Violence?”

My hands trembled as I opened to page C-11.

Obituaries.

The words blurred on the page.

You're dead. You're really dead.

Yeah. Big surprise?

It's here. In writing.

Well, you can't believe everything you read.

I tore out his obituary, crumpling it up and shoving it into my wallet.

“Kyle?” Mom hollered from the kitchen.

Stay cool. It's just the fucking newspaper. Keep your voice steady. I walked into the kitchen, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. “How come Mel's not at school?”

“We thought we could all take a break this week.”

I slumped into a chair. Maybe they all hoped that things would change if we stopped our lives, too. But the same Carson High was there with the same teachers, same students, same secretaries—same, same, same. All except for Jason. None of us could escape that.

Dad went out to the shed. I sat in the kitchen while Mom worked.

“Do you want to help me out?” She passed me a bowl.

I squished the ricotta cheese and eggs between my fingers. Mom had made two lasagnas and was starting her second pie and a batch of cookies by midafternoon.

Melanie slumped into the kitchen. “Is there anything to eat? I skipped lunch.”

“I don't have anything prepared. You'll have to get something on your own.” Sweat trickled down Mom's temple. She concentrated on her egg whites.

Melanie looked at the table, heavy with food. “Where's Dad?”

“He's in the shed.” I stirred the chocolate chips into the
dough. Dad had spent the whole day there since we got back from the courthouse. He'd taken a bucket and bleach. The police had taken all the photos they needed and said Dad could clean it up.

Mel sat next to me. I handed her the bag of chips.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “I'm kinda hungry.”

“Me, too.” It felt strange to want to eat something. Wrong.

We heard the shed doors screech closed. Dad put a padlock on the outside and snapped it shut; then he stood and stared. He held a bucket of water in his hands. Bloody rags hung over the side. Dad looked like a frame still. He didn't even move.

“Mel.” Mom's sharp voice interrupted my trance. “Come with me. We're going to take this food over to the Bishops'.”

Mel looked at Mom. “What am I supposed to say to Brooke?”

Mom paused. “I don't know, Mel.” She shook her head. “We need to take things one day at a time.”

I remembered how when I was little, Mom and Dad had the answers to everything. Or maybe I just thought they did.

It was easier being little.

Mel and Mom left with two baskets filled with food. I tried imagining the conversation on the Bishops' porch. I
watched out the front window as Mom and Mel walked down the street, slowly, deliberately. They returned fast. Mel ran up to her room, crying. Mom put the still filled baskets down on the table and dished out lasagna.

She knocked on Mel's door, screaming over the latest boy band's music, “Mel, turn that down! Come out and eat some lasagna!”

“I'm never leaving my room again.” Mel had said this millions of times before, but this time I believed her.

Mom came back downstairs. She went to the door and hollered at Dad. “Michael, come inside! It's late. It's cold. You and Kyle need to eat.”

I looked at the wavy noodles, doused in tomato sauce and melted cheese. “I don't know, Mom.”

Mom sat across from me, dark circles ringing her eyes. “I love you. We love you. You need to know that.”

Dad came inside from the backyard and stood behind Mom.

I shrugged and took my lasagna into the front room. I looked down the block at Jason's house. It seemed so weird that just yesterday…no, not yesterday, but—I counted on my fingers—five days ago…

Dong, dong, dong, dong.
Four o'clock. Too much time had passed. I ran upstairs to the grandfather clock and held the pendulum in my fingers, watching the hands come to a halt.

STOP. I needed to stop time.

I
returned to my plate of cold lasagna and watched the cars line up in front of Jason's house. People streamed in and out.

They looked down the street. Some pointed. A couple of high school kids tried to get into our backyard. Dad hollered at them and threatened to call the police. The phone rang nonstop. Dad finally unplugged it.

Streetlights blinked on. I went out and sat on the porch. It was really cold for October. Colder than the morning Jase died. I hid in the shadows and listened to the slow crunch and scuffle of sad footsteps on chewed-up asphalt. People walk differently after somebody dies. They speak in whispers.

It's not like you're gonna wake the guy up,
I thought.
Man, you couldn't even wake Jason up when he was alive.

I bit my lip and clenched my fists. I hadn't realized how hard it was to be alive. Since it had happened, I'd been in a cell, going through the motions. But here I was, looking at Jason's house, breathing, living. And it hurt. It was wrong. Jason's life had stopped. So should mine.

It wouldn't be long before they sent me away again, though. “I don't remember” is about as lame a defense as anybody can present. And Mr. Allison was no Atticus Finch. At least from a prison cell I wouldn't have to look at the Bishops' house. In prison, I was just as good as dead.

 

In eighth grade, when Jason's grandma died, I spent the day with him. He was pretty down. Grandma Peters wasn't a blue-haired kind of grandma. She took country-western dance classes, wore leather pants, and sometimes smoked cigars. And she taught Jason how to draw. She always said stuff like “I wonder how the hell I got a Bible-thumping daughter” when we were about to say grace at the table. Grandma Peters seemed too young to have a stroke like that.

Jason and I watched everybody come in with those same plates of cream-colored food—something Grandma Peters would
never
have served in her life. We called it “dead food” and wondered why, when somebody died, people didn't bring pizza. Or at least that person's favorite food. Maybe it had too much color. Pizza was way better
than some chicken hot dish made with cream of mushroom soup baked dry in somebody's oven. Even Mom's soupy lasagna was better than that.

That day, I couldn't get a smile out of Jason until I bet him my new Swatch that I could drink seven Cokes and hold out on going to the bathroom longer than he could. I got to the point that my sinuses burned from holding it. I ran to Jason's bathroom, but his old aunt pattered up behind, tapped me on the shoulder, and stepped ahead of me.

I couldn't wait, ran out back, and peed right on Mrs. Bishop's rosebushes—two seconds before Jason joined me.
Two seconds.

“Dude, I thought you'd never go. I was dying.”

I sighed. “Two seconds. Two seconds, man. That sucks.”

Jason laughed. “Yeah, but how much would two
Matrix
seconds cost? You're getting off easy.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking more along the lines of two
Brick
seconds.”

“You and your movies. Is there a movie you haven't seen?” Jason held out his hand.

“Plenty,” I muttered, unclasping my Swatch. Jason unhooked his cheapo Dimex and we traded.

“It looks good on me.” Jason whistled. He stuck out his wrist and did his victory dance—the same dance he'd been
doing since we were five.

Later that evening, I helped the Bishops clean up. We sat down to watch
The Amazing Race
when Mom called. I heard Mrs. Bishop laugh and say, “I've got three, what's one more? No. No. You know, Maggie. They're like brothers. Yep. He's on his way.” Then she hung up.

“Time to go.” Mrs. Bishop got my coat. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem, Mrs. B.”

Jase walked me to the front door. “Hey, Kyle, um, it was a shitty day. Thanks for hanging out. I mean, I feel better.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Dude, Jase. Are we having a greeting-card moment?”

“Forget it, man.” Jason shook his head and laughed.

I started to leave but then turned back around. “You're welcome,” I said.

He grinned. “Okay, Hallmark. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

 

I looked at the Dimex on my wrist: 10:46. I was glad to have it—something of his.

Jason would be bummed to think everybody, even my mom, was bringing dead food to the house because of him—because of me. Maybe next week I'd have pizza sent over there—Jason's favorite. Pan-crust five-meat supreme with extra cheese. Maybe Dad would spot me some cash.

My breath came out in cloudy puffs. I didn't realize I was shivering until Dad sat down next to me on the porch and threw his jacket over my shoulders. He fidgeted. Then he lit a cigarette and puffed. I kind of wished I could smoke. I wondered if it made him feel better.

“You haven't smoked for a long time.”

He exhaled gray smoke. “Some things might change, you know. A lot of things, actually.” The cigarette glowed.

I nodded.

“I don't blame you. But sometimes, when things happen, people want to blame someone.” He looked at me and inhaled, deep and long. The ashes burned crimson and crept toward Dad's fingers.

“The Bishops have the opportunity to talk at your disposition. They might say some things you don't want to hear.” Dad snubbed out the cigarette. His breath smelled burned. Everything smelled black. “It's cold, Kyle. It's late. Let's go inside. We can talk tomorrow.” We went back indoors.

I wanted to tell him not to worry. I wanted to show Dad I could be a man and handle being sent away to prison. The words caught in my throat.

“Tomorrow is school,” I said. I thought about walking in through those same front doors as if nothing had changed. I wasn't supposed to be here. Not like this. My stomach churned.

“We're all going to take a few days off.” Dad squeezed my shoulder.

He gave me one of Dr. Matthews's pills, but I spit it out after he left. My mind raced. I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything, but all I saw were pools of blood and Jason's blue lips. I got up to go to the bathroom. That's when I heard them.

“You forgot about it? You
forgot
about it? Jesus Christ, Michael. It's a gun, not a goddamned dental appointment.” Mom was sobbing.

“I don't understand why we have to go over this every night. You don't think I've asked myself this? You don't think that's the first thing I thought about?” Dad sounded like he was crying, too. “Blame me. Blame me for everything, because I already blame myself.”

“That's not fair.”

“Our son shot his best friend with
my loaded gun
. He will be sentenced in a week, and we don't know what will happen to him.
That's
not fair.”

I heard someone rummaging around the room. “Where are you going?”

“Out. I need some space right now. I need to clear my head.”

“Michael, don't.”

“I need space.”

I slipped back into my bedroom and closed the door,
putting on my headphones and pumping my stereo up as loud as I could stand. I ripped my clock from the wall; its red numbers blinked and faded to gray. I crushed it under my foot.

Jason's watch glared at me from my bedside table.

10:46.

I'd stop, too, once they locked me away. Freeze frame. Just like Jase.