Fireball (35 page)

The footage goes all jerky again as the lady rushes to the side of the cliff. By the time she gets there he's already hit the water. The whole car goes under but doesn't stay under – not at first. It bobs back up, then sinks down a second time, more slowly. The camera zooms in, super tight, as the hood disappears, and the roof, and the police lights. For a few seconds you can still see the white shape beneath the water, like a miniature submarine. Then all these air bubbles burst on the surface. After that you can't see anything, but the camera holds on the water for a long time, almost like she's expecting him to come back up.

He doesn't, of course.

Later on, that forensics expert in the turtleneck confirmed it: they'd shot him all right. They'd hit him twice in the chest and once in the arm. But the bullets didn't kill him. Neither did the flames, or the impact. They figured that out because his lungs were full of water and bits of seaweed and crap. He'd drowned after all.

60

Like I said, Chris got his fireworks.

Each paper wrote the story differently, and each managed to screw it up in some totally pointless way. The headlines were the worst of all. There was the one in the
Province
that read:
‘Hero' Loses Control
. That was bad enough, but the
Sun
was even worse:
Delinquent Driven To The Edge
. If there's one thing I can't stand about newspapers, it's the stupid puns they put in their headlines. These days, whenever I see them playing around with words like that, I want to buy up every single copy and burn them in my backyard. I did that, too, with some of the articles they wrote about Chris. I burned as many as I could get my hands on except for this one small-press paper, the only one that tried to tell it straight. They ran a pretty simple headline, something like:
Teen Dies After Stealing Squad Car
. That didn't piss me off so much. I mean, he had stolen a squad car. Also, he'd died. So at least that much was true. Those guys were the only ones who actually printed a picture of Chris, too. All the other rags went with photos of the roadblock, or the car being dragged out of the water. None of them cared about what he'd looked like when he was alive.

The hilarious thing is, the most recent picture this paper could find was a copy of his school yearbook photo – from the time he decided to dress up as a sweet seventies porn star. At Keith Lynn, they don't give a shit what you look like on photo day, so long as you bother to show up. I tried the same thing at Seycove and the photographer made me take off my wig and change my jacket. Chris got away with it, though, and he looked awesome. In the picture he's wearing one of my dad's old shirts, unbuttoned to the chest, with the collar flipped up to his ears. A super fake gold chain dangles around his neck and his eyes are covered by a huge pair of aviator glasses – those ones with reflective lenses. It's hard to say whether he's supposed to be a porn star or a cop or a pimp. I laughed so fucking hard when I saw that in the paper. Anybody who bought a copy must have assumed he was a harsh nutcase. I remember thinking how badly I wanted to show him, and that was when it really hit me. That he was dead, I mean.

They've repaired the guardrail he went through.

I saw it when I was driving around up there – this new bend of bright and shiny steel. Somebody had hung a bouquet of flowers on it. I have no idea who. His mom, maybe. Or one of his relatives. I guess it might have even been Karen. Either way it doesn't matter, because the flowers aren't there any more. I tore them down and threw them over the edge. I mean, Chris would have hated that crap.

It's the same with the website they've put up – this website in his memory.

The school district sponsored it, apparently. Kicking him out of all those schools wasn't enough. They had to get in on the action, too. So they created this site with a few photos of him, and a wall that any idiot can write on. Now, out of nowhere, all these treats are leaving messages like ‘Miss you, bud', and ‘He was such a cool guy', and talking about how they were in the same English class as him. It's the most fucked up thing I've ever seen. I can't look at it any more. Actually, I'm not allowed to look at it any more. I got in tons of trouble for writing threats on the wall to anybody who tried to post something. I said I'd track them down using my computer and firebomb all their houses. I wouldn't, obviously. I hardly even know how to use my computer, let alone track people down with it. But they didn't realise that. It was pretty sweet. For about a week the wall was totally blank. I'd completely scared the shit out of all those posers.

Then somebody reported it and I got banned. They phoned our house and tried to make me apologise and shit, but I wouldn't. Now you need a password to get on, and for obvious reasons they won't give it to me. It's pretty hilarious, actually. I'm the only one who really knew him, and I'm the only one not allowed to visit the stupid website set up in his memory. Not that I care.

61

I'm lucky I didn't end up in juvie. I mean, my dad said they could have charged me with a lot of things. As in, even though I didn't touch Bates they could have prosecuted me as an accessory, or an accomplice, or something like that. You know – just for being there and shit. Also, I got in the car with Chris. For some reason that was a huge deal. The way they saw it, it didn't even matter who was driving. We were both in the car so we'd both stolen the car. That's the bizarre thing about the law. They can always cook up some half-baked offence to pin on you. They probably would have, too, if it weren't for my dad. Instead they just kept me locked up for a couple of days. They questioned me a bunch of times, too.

‘What if there'd been an accident?'

‘You and your pal might have killed somebody.'

It was always those same two guys: Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Apparently they could talk to me alone since I hadn't officially been arrested or charged with anything.

‘Hear that, bud? Somebody could have died.'

‘There was an accident,' I pointed out, ‘and somebody did die. Chris.'

That stopped them. Whenever you said something they didn't expect, they took a couple seconds to get over it. It was like they had super slow processors in their brains.

‘Don't get lippy, bud.'

‘Yeah – we're not talking about that.'

‘We're talking about innocent people.'

‘A little boy, or a pregnant mother.'

‘Anybody could have been killed.'

‘Your pal didn't even have a licence.'

‘Didn't know the first thing about driving.'

They loved to finish and repeat each other's sentences, talking in circles. It wasn't like I didn't tell them anything, either. I answered all of their stupid questions, but they weren't really interested in my story. They just wanted to confuse me and trip me up.

‘Maybe you should think about getting a lawyer, bud.'

‘Yeah – a lawyer will probably come in handy.'

‘I've got a lawyer.'

That was kind of a lie, but I figured my dad counted as my lawyer.

‘Good for you, bud.'

‘If we charge you, you'll need your lawyer.'

‘He'll have to be present for your statement.'

They waited, as if they expected that to really shake me up. I shrugged.

‘It might not come to that if you tell us what you were doing at the beach.'

‘You were looking for Officer Bates, right?'

‘No.' I shook my head. ‘We were playing frisbee.'

‘Frisbee, huh?'

‘You and your pal liked frisbee?'

‘Yeah.' Since they were being complete idiots, I decided to act like one, too. ‘Chris loved playing frisbee. His real dream was to go professional and join an ultimate frisbee league. Sometimes, if he didn't get to play enough frisbee, he became incredibly angry.'

They both nodded together, lapping it up. One of them had a notepad. With his pencil, he jotted down the word ‘frisbee' and underlined it three times. The most hilarious part was that some of the newspaper articles actually mentioned Chris's frisbee fixation.

Between sessions I was put into a holding cell on my own – just like the ones they'd locked us up in after the riot. I'd been detained, apparently. Every so often food came through the cat flap, but I never ate any. It was always a raunchy microwaveable dinner – stroganoff or lasagne or some shit – and it was always burnt on the outside, frozen in the middle. I'm pretty sure it was all part of their plan. You know – they thought they could sort of starve me into submission and get me to confess. It didn't work, though. I wasn't hungry in the first place. I mean, Chris was gone. The last thing I wanted to do was try and eat something. All I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and die.

Anyways, after forty-eight hours my dad got them to release me.

‘Did they treat you all right in there?'

‘Yeah. They didn't hit me or anything.'

‘Hell, I hope not.'

We were in the Civic, cruising along. I assumed we were heading home, but instead of turning down the Parkway, my dad drove up towards Capilano College.

‘What's going to happen?' I asked.

‘I convinced them to stay the charges, under the circumstances.' When I didn't say anything, he added, ‘It's on your record until you're eighteen, but you don't have to go on trial or risk facing a detention centre, thank God. You might have to do community service.'

‘Oh.'

We kept driving, past the college and all the condos up there.

‘Where are we going?'

Instead of answering, my dad turned through a set of large, wrought-iron gates. I thought he was taking me someplace to scream his head off at me. Then I saw this sign that read. ‘Boal Chapel and Memorial Gardens'. We pulled into a parking lot surrounded by stiff rows of square-cut hedges, looking bright and green as pieces of Lego.

‘What is this place?'

‘You'll see.' My dad opened his door. ‘Come on.'

He led me past a small, pink building with a cross over the door. There was a courtyard out front. From the courtyard all these little paths wound into the surrounding gardens, like a maze. We followed one path around a pond filled with scummy water and dotted with lily pads. Heat waves wriggled above the surface, and flies and mosquitoes were zipping about in manic circles. A dragon statue crouched at the centre of the pond, spitting streams of water from its mouth. It reminded me of the cheap sculptures you see in tourist shops around Chinatown. You know – those fake Buddhist sculptures. Everything looked a bit familiar, as if we'd stepped into a dream I'd totally forgotten about.

‘I've been here before,' I said.

‘I used to bring you when you were little.'

Then I knew why we'd come. Pretty soon we reached a small alcove beside the path. Dozens of bronze plaques were arranged in a grid across the stone walls. Each of the plaques had a name and date etched on it. Some of them even had little phrases – just like the ones on tombstones. My dad stopped there, in front of a tarnished plaque off to the left. He was sucking wind from our short walk. Beads of sweat had gathered near his hairline.

‘Your mother hated the thought of being buried,' he said.

We stood and gazed at the square of shining metal. My mom's engraving didn't include any little quotation or proverb. I guess my dad thought that stuff was too cheesy. Or maybe she'd just wanted it this way. I didn't ask him. But basically, for my dad's sake, I did my best to concentrate super hard. I tried to think of my mom and what it would have been like to actually know her. But the sun was crushing me from above, and all these bugs were biting me on the neck, and staring at the bright bronze plaque made my eyes ache. Also, I hadn't eaten for about two days and felt pretty light-headed. I didn't know what the hell we were doing there. I'm not sure my dad really knew, either. He just stood with his hands clasped in front of him, looking solemn and a little confused. But at least he was still trying.

On the ride home, I cranked the air conditioning way up, so high that we could barely hear ourselves talk. With the heat locked outside again, I started feeling a bit better.

‘Are they going to cremate Chris?' I asked.

‘That depends on his mom.'

I thought about it for three or four minutes.

‘I guess it doesn't matter. Not to him, anyway.'

‘No,' my dad said. ‘I suppose not.'

We cruised down the Parkway in silence. We passed an old man jogging and a young mother pushing her two kids along in a baby carriage. As we came up to Parkgate Shopping Centre, I started feeling super thirsty. All they'd given me in jail was warm water that tasted like it had been stored in plastic bottles for about fifty-eight years. The liquor store near the corner looked better than an oasis.

‘Pops?'

‘Uh-huh?'

‘How about we pick up a couple of cold beers?'