Freeze Frame (9 page)

T
he hallways hummed with that prelunch electricity. I walked into the cafeteria. Everybody sat in the places they had staked claim to at the beginning of the year. Plastic trays banged on tabletops. Students ripped into their utensil packs, dropping the plastic bags on the floor beside them. The smell of greasy synthetic cheese permeated the air.

I scanned the tables, looking for a place that looked safe. Kids stopped eating. They whispered. They stared at me until I looked over, then they pretended that I wasn't there. Backpacks filled empty chairs, and guys spread their stuff out, marking territory like dogs pissing on trees.

Alex slammed into me. “Sorry, Shadow. Didn't see you there.” Pinky and Troy laughed. “Doesn't look like there's
any place for you here.” He said it loud.

Everybody looked up and focused on me, the one-man freak show. It was a classic scene, starting with a shot of me holding my lunch bag and a library book. The camera swish-panned the cafeteria, and all I could see was a blur of faces. Then the camera swiveled back to me for a closeup.

Sweat trickled down my temple and back. My face felt flushed.

Fade out. Fade out. Fade out.

That's what I wished I could do. Fade out and go away. Forever. I couldn't handle this anymore.

But the cafeteria stayed the same, with all those faces looking at me. Everyone knew that I wasn't the one who should be standing there. The wrong guy had died.

Rewind, then. Back up. Get out. I reversed into the hallway.

“Hey, kid. Where are you going? Lunch is that way.” The hall monitor pointed to the cafeteria doors.

“I, um, I forgot I have to return a library book. And I don't have time after school.” I pulled
The Metamorphosis
out of my backpack. “I can't return it late. Mr. Cordoba will have my head.”

The monitor laughed like he understood. Nobody returned books late to Mr. Cordoba. “Okay. Go ahead.”

I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath, and hurried away. I stood outside the library in the empty
hallway, opening the door a crack. Scarface sat hunched over the newspaper. Rumor had it he was in the Witness Protection Program; the Feds wouldn't let the school get rid of the guy.

 

Some seniors had told Jase that when Scarface was young, he worked with one of the largest cartels down in South America smuggling drugs and shit. That's where he got the nasty scar that ran from his left eye down to his jaw. He was offered a shitload of cash and lifetime protection to testify against the
patrones
.

“Yeah, but why'd he become a librarian? Man, Jase, they'd never give a guy like that a job with teenagers. That's, like, well…Couldn't happen.”

“I don't know, but that's what I heard,” Jason said. “Some seniors said they saw five passports hidden in his office.”

No seniors ever talked to me, so I didn't know that kind of stuff.

“Yeah, like the school board would hire him with that past. Don't you figure they at least ask for references—noncriminal ones?”

“Don't be a shithead. The Feds always create these new identities. It's not like his real name is even Cordoba.”

Jason had a point. We kept an eye on him freshman year, but in the end, Scarface Cordoba didn't have any of
the telltale mob-assassin signs. He didn't even wear nice suits.

“I think he's just a regular old librarian, Jase.”

“Maybe.”

 

“Are you in or out, Mr. Caroll?” Mr. Cordoba asked. His left eye sagged a little, pulled taut by the scar. I followed the bumpy, purple skin from the corner of his eye down to his jaw. It zigzagged by his nose, then stopped right below his chin. “Mr. Caroll, are you going to stand there gawking at me all day? In or out?”

“In?” I answered. I couldn't believe he knew my name.

He nodded. A group of students played chess in the far corner of the library. Almost every table had somebody at it. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Caroll?”

I pulled
The Metamorphosis
out of my backpack. “Mr. Cordoba, this is late. Um, a friend of mine had it, and I, uh, just found it.”

Scarface took the book from my hands.

“I'm sorry.” I figured the late fee would be, like, $245. I'd have to empty my savings to cover Jason's stupid book.

Scarface scanned the book into the system and nodded. “You're set.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“For what?”

“The late fee. It's about four weeks late, I think.”

“Nothing.” Scarface set the book on top of a pile of books. “Find a seat if you'd like. But don't eat and read at the same time. When you're done eating, wash your hands; then you can read. Don't make a mess of my books.”

I looked around. Nobody stared at me. Most kids were already reading and doing homework. The only empty table was the one right smack in front of Scarface's desk. I sat down and pulled out my lunch, staring out the window while I ate. The last leaves clung to the spindly branches of the birch trees in front of the school. The grass had already turned yellow from the cold.

 

When we were in seventh grade, Jason and I went around and raked people's lawns for cash. I was saving up to buy a video camera, and Jase wanted some vintage comic book. But we ended up wasting more time than working, because once we'd raked up the leaves, we couldn't resist jumping in the piles. We came up with some sweet moves: the half pike, the forward flip, the back bend, and the cannonball. I once did a cannonball on a leaf pile in Mr. Bachman's yard and bit through my lip. It bled like hell, and he called my mom, flipped out because he thought we'd sue him. I think he spread the word, because after that, nobody would hire us. My lip swelling to the size of a basketball didn't help with our corporate image. Neither did the fact that I walked all messed up because my ass hurt.

“What's worse, Jase: not being able to eat or not being able to sit?”

Jason laughed. “Well, you've got them both. You tell me.”

I would've laughed, too, if my lip hadn't hurt so freaking much.

 

“Mr. Caroll, are you going to sit there daydreaming all day or actually get something done?”

I jumped. Scarface peered over the top of his newspaper.

“I'm, um, sure. I'll read something.” I grabbed the first book I could reach from the shelves.

The Baby-Sitters Club.
Shit. I looked over at Scarface. He buried his head in the paper. I sighed, relieved he hadn't noticed.

Scarface cleared his throat. “Mr. Caroll, I didn't know you were a babysitter.”

“I, um. I just grabbed something.”

“Okay.” He went back to his paper.

“Mr. Cordoba?”

“Yes?”

“I don't really know what to read.”

“What do you usually read?”

“I don't.” I shrugged. “I watch movies.”

Scarface raised his eyebrows and peered over the top of the paper. “Well, then, try this.” Scarface handed me back
The Metamorphosis
. “I assume you haven't read it.”

I sat down and started the book. I was still on the first page, where some guy wakes up as a bug, when the bell rang. The library cleared out. I took a deep breath and got ready to go, tucking
The Metamorphosis
into my backpack.

“See you around, Mr. Cordoba.”

“I look forward to it, Mr. Caroll.”

As I headed out the door, Mr. Cordoba swept through the library, cleaning crumbs off the tables, straightening books, tucking in chairs.

The last two periods dragged. Pinky Deiterstein, the genetic mutant, sat behind me in math. He had enormous thumbs, almost as long as his pointer finger, twice as wide, and really hairy. During the eighth-grade Thumb War Finals, Pinky broke Tim Preston's thumb. We heard the crack when the bone was crushed.

If Pinky hadn't flicked me in the head and whispered, “Murderer…murderer,” I might've been able to pay attention.

Murderer…murderer…murderer…murderer…
I replayed the words over in my head. It was the voice-over to my movie—one line, one word:
Murderer…murderer…murderer…murderer.
It echoed against the walls of my mind.

Don't forget about Chase.

Murderer…

Don't forget about Chase.

Murderer…

I rubbed my temples; my head ached.

While everyone around me was working on some complicated problem with tangents and cosines, I leaned as far forward as I could, out of Pinky's reach, and pulled out one of the notebooks Jase had left at my house.

I thought about
Run, Lola, Run
, the perfect movie. Lola gets this call from her boyfriend, and everything is messed up. So she gets to do the scene over and over again until it turns out the way it's supposed to, always starting with the phone call. I closed my eyes. I remembered my pajama pant legs sticking to my ankles. That's where the scene would have to begin.

Since I couldn't remember that scene in the shed, maybe another director could, like Tarantino, Lynch, or even Hitchcock. Yeah, Hitchcock. That would be sweet, to have him direct a scene in my life. He'd probably get it right.

Don't forget about Chase.

I won't.

You already did.

I was just…I didn't…I just…

I closed the notebook, hoping I could turn off Jason's voice. Announcements crackled over the loudspeaker before the final bell. I gathered my stuff and decided to
head over to Chase's school just to make sure he was okay.

It was Monday. I'd see Dr. Matthews the next day and Mark on Friday. All these people had become a huge part of my life because of just one scene. The final bell rang. Pinky brushed by me and pushed my books off the desk. Jason's notebook flipped open to a page where he had drawn Sketch, his latest superhero version of himself. A sinking feeling settled over me.

There was no editing real life.

I
picked up all my papers and stuffed them into my backpack. I left without stopping at my locker for homework.

Orange doors opened and slammed. The halls filled with students, but I pushed my way through. Buses lined up and I darted between them, ignoring the teachers' shouts, “Hey, you, get back over here! Hey! Stop!”

I got onto my bike and rode as hard as I could. My lungs burned from the cold air. I looked at my watch: 10:46.
Shit!

I knew I only had about ten minutes, so I pumped hard until I got to Chase's school. The buses were already lined up, idling, belching out puffs of black smoke. I hid my bike behind a bush and walked between the buses until I found bus 12. It was the first in line. There were some Dumpsters
right at the corner—perfect for hiding.

The bell rang and kids spilled out of the school, running around with macaroni art projects in their hands and winter hats with pom-poms on their heads.

Then I saw a familiar green hat with multicolored stripes. Chase was walking and reading a book at the same time, probably science fiction or something about kites.

Every year he picked a new thing. Last year it was dinosaurs. Two years ago it was space travel. He was a walking encyclopedia. The kid would be great for
Jeopardy!
someday.

The same bullies who had been giving Chase shit since kindergarten walked behind him, stepping on the heels of his shoes, shoving him along. Jesus, those kids were only eight, but they were already total jerks. Didn't their parents know? Do parents know when their kids are shitheads?

Julian, the leader of the pack, was a short, freckly punk with greasy red hair. He had buckteeth and warty hands. It was kinda sad, really. I didn't remember the others' names. One looked like he had flunked a few grades. He was shaped like a bowling pin. And the other kid looked pretty normal except for this really irritating eye twitch. I listened for the trill of the whistle from that old Clint Eastwood western. This one would be called
The Warty, the Fatty, and the Twitchy.

Bowling Pin pulled off Chase's hat. “Thanks for the hat, Chase-Basket-Case. I needed a new one. Tomorrow I'll need a scarf.”

Chase didn't do anything. He didn't turn around. He didn't stop them from taking his stuff. He just dropped his head and walked on.

Keep your head up, Chase. Keep it up.

Tears stung my eyes. I hated those kids for making Chase feel so small. I scanned the area. None of the bus-duty teachers were looking my way, so I stepped from behind the Dumpster, cutting the three off.

“Hey, cool! It's a high-school guy! What are you doing here?” Julian wiped his hand across his face. A glistening trail of snot stuck to his jacket arm.

Why are the snottiest kids the bullies?

I didn't say anything. I looked over at Chase getting on the bus and looked back at the three kids. “Leave Chase alone. Got it?”

Bowling Pin stepped forward, then looked like he changed his mind mid stride and stared at the ground. “Okay.” His voice cracked at the end.

Poor kid.

Twitchy stood behind. I noticed his lip quivering.

Jesus, they were just kids. I felt like such a tool messing with eight-year-olds. But they were mean little shits. And Chase didn't have anyone else.

“Leave him alone.”

They nodded, turned, and ran to their buses. Julian dropped the hat.

The buses chugged out of the lot. I picked up Chase's hat and waited for all the teachers to go back to the building.

I looked across the empty field, remembering how big I used to think the playground was. I walked over to the swings and sat down for a second, the chains pinching my fingers. They were the same swings we'd played on; the same ones Jase had fallen off and gotten a concussion.

I had about two hours until Mom and Dad would be home. I hated counting hours and minutes. I needed someone to talk to. I wanted to see a friend. So I got on my bike and rode until I got to the cemetery.