Flash Burnout (6 page)

"Just two cases today, guys. We should be out of here in a
couple of hours," says my dad. He clomps away in his clogs. Some people wear clogs when they garden. My dad wears them when he goes cadaver diving.

About forty-five minutes later I wake up when Dad clomps back into the room.

"Ready, Garrett?" he says.

"Yeah!" Garrett logs off the Internet and jumps up.

"Dad," I say.

"Yeah, bud."

What happened?"

He knows what I'm asking. He doesn't sugarcoat things. "Shaken baby syndrome," he answers, and walks away.

***

Mondays used to be a slow boat ride through the bowels of hell, until I hooked up with Shannon. But now I actually look forward to Mondays, especially if I haven't seen her over the weekend. I know, right? Looking forward to
school.
But I can't wait to get there and feel her up, I mean ask about her weekend.

We kiss and cuddle on the quad for a few minutes before the first bell, then head off to our separate classes.

I'm even looking forward to English today, and not just because Shannon's in my class. This book,
Dracula,
is pretty good. Sure, it's got all this veddy British writing in it, but come on. It was written forever ago, and it still has a great creep factor. Things
keep getting worse and worse for the people trying to hunt down the vampire.

When I walk into English with Shannon, I'm busy getting my stuff out and answering Riley, who just asked about my weekend, when I notice Marissa.

She has a black eye.

When you really need to fill up your frame,
there's no better lens than the fisheye.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

I stop in the middle of my sentence, staring. Riley turns to look where I'm looking.

"
Damn,
man, what happened to her?" he says.

I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. What
did
happen to Marissa? Wasn't her mom supposed to go to rehab this weekend? Did they have, like, a
brawl?

Marissa glances over at me. And grins.

I look away really fast, embarrassed to be caught staring.

"Oh my God, what happened to Marissa?" asks Shannon. She turns to me for an answer.

I shrug.

"Aren't you going to go talk to her?"

I shrug again, staring hard at my desktop. Somehow I can't get out of my chair.

Shannon gets up and goes over to Marissa.

"Okay, everyone," says Mr. Hamilton, clapping his hands in his oh-good-it's-a-new-day way. "Settle in. We've got vampires to dissect. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Jasmine, good morning. Shannon, take your seat, please."

Shannon comes back to her desk and sits down. I look questioningly at her.

"Hurtle," she says.

"Hurl?"

No. Hurtle."

"Hurdle? She was at a track meet?"

"No! Hurtle, with a
t.
" Then she shakes her head at me to indicate I should shut up. Mr. H. is looking right at me. I shut up.

WTF?
Hurtle?

I spend half the class wondering what "hurtle" stands for. I doodle on my paper:

Hork Until Real Tears Leak out of your
Eyes Hairy Underwear Risks The Loss of Ejaculation
Hurkin Unwashed Road Trout Look you in the Eye
Horny Uber Risk Takers Like Elevation

I tune back in to class, and in honor of the book under discussion, I scribble:

Horrible Unclean Renfield Takes Living things and Eats them

I sneak another look at Marissa. She seems like her usual self, despite the black eye. Not like someone has been smacking her around.

After class, I turn to Shannon. "What's hurtle?"

She looks puzzled for a second, then says, "Oh yeah. Marissa. Hurtle is ...
you
know. That biking thing. Where they start at the top of Tower Hill and go hurtling down that steep, winding road. People crash all the time." She gathers her stuff. "Are you ready?"

I follow Shannon, then stop at the door. "Shan, I'll catch up to you in a minute. I'm just going to check in with Marissa."

"Okay." Shannon gives me a crooked smile and says, "Don't be too long." She flirts one last look over her shoulder at me as she leaves.

Huh. Not sure what to do with that. Does she mean I'll be in trouble if I talk to another girl for too long? Or that she can't stand being apart from me? I need a translator!

Marissa finishes zipping her backpack as I walk up to her. "Dude, what the hell?" I say.

"What? Oh, this. It happened during Hurtle. My grandma was
so
upset."

"But what happened? I didn't know you did that Hurtle thing."

"I've never done it before. My brother invited me to go," she says, walking into the hall. She says it as casually as she might say, "Bree and I went shopping." I've known Marissa a whole year, and she's never mentioned brothers or sisters.

"You have a brother?"

"Sure. His name's Gus."

Really? How old is he?"

"Eighteen. He lives in a house with a bunch of other guys. He's a bike messenger. Anyway, I called him to tell him about"—she glances around at the streaming students, then lowers her voice—"our mom. I asked him if he wanted to come see her before she went to rehab, but he said no." She frowns.

We've arrived at the cafeteria. There's an awkward moment where we look at each other, then into the caf madhouse. We're supposed to go our separate ways now—me to join Shannon, Marissa to join her girls. I wish we hung with the same group. Then I could hear more about this Hurtle thing.

"Your poor eye." I can hardly stop looking at it, all the purple and green shades. I kind of want to take a picture of it.

"I know. I thought my grandma was going to cry when she saw it. And she's got enough on her mind, you know what I mean?"

"How did it happen?"

"It was at the very beginning, so I didn't even do the Hurtle. A bunch of other riders were pushing and shoving for a better spot. I was right next to them, and one of them elbowed me in the eye.
Jerk.
You wouldn't believe how many people there were."

Just then Riley bumps into my shoulder as he jogs past, calling, "Flake, you in? It's the Texas hold 'em finals today. Or do you need to join the little woman?"

"I'll see you in photo," Marissa says, and walks away to join her friends.

I enter the caf.
Do
I need to join the little woman? And do I have to ask permission to play poker?

I search the crowd for Shannon. Ah, there she is—standing with Ellie and Kaylee. What's she
doing?
The other girls are giggling while Shannon makes this face: her upper lip is pulled back weirdly above her front teeth, and she's kind of hunched over, twiddling her fingers.
What the—

As I approach, Shannon straightens up and grins at me, her cheeks reddening.

"Hey," I say.

"Hi."

"I'm, uh, gonna go play poker with the guys today." I point to Riley's table. "Okay?"

"Sure," she says. "I'll see you later."

As I walk away, she mutters, "
Ex
-cellent."

The other girls bust out laughing.

Ahhh.
She was doing Mr. Burns. Who knew my girl could do impressions, too?

***

That afternoon at photo, I sit down next to Marissa and we pick up right where we left off. "How come I've never heard of this Hurtle thing?"

She considers. "It's kind of fringe. A bunch of bike messengers
started it a couple of years ago. Nowadays anyone can show up. They start at the top of Tower Hill every Friday night and race down Laurel."

"That's so insane! Laurel is ... what do they call it?
Hairpin
turns all the way down the hill."

"Right. And sometimes people crash, which is partly why they call it Hurtle. I mean, yeah, you're
hurtling
crazy fast, but you might also get
hurt
really bad."

"And you did."

"Phhft! This is nothing! A black eye from just
sitting
there. Stupid biker and his stupid elbow. Some people end up with broken bones and half their skin peeled off."

"Erghh. Doesn't anyone wear protective gear?"

Marissa laughs. "Listen to you, Mr. Safety First. Nah, not really. A few. The hardcore hurtlers are extreme biker types. Like my brother."

Mr. Malloy sets down the chalk and turns from the chalkboard. He looks out over the class, freezing for a moment when he sees Marissa's black eye.

She smiles, and he raises his eyebrows.

"Hurtle," she says with a shrug.

Oddly, Mr. Malloy seems to understand her immediately. "You crashed?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "No. I never made it down the hill."

Ahh. Okay, everyone. I've written another term on the board.
'Saturation.' I want you to look up the definition and write down some ideas about how you can use saturation in your photos. We'll discuss it Friday." He starts fiddling with the overhead projector, and I whisper, "Marissa." She looks at me.

"Can I take a picture of your eye?"

No!" But she laughs. "Come on," I whisper. "
You
come on!"

"Dude, I don't get to see many black eyes up close. You look like a fighter. A tough chick."

I
am
a tough chick."

"A tough chick would let me take a picture of her eye."

"Blake. Marissa," says Mr. Malloy. "The discussion is up here." He taps the overhead projector.

We stop talking and focus on the image on the screen. After a second I scribble a note to Marissa:
Come on.
I pass it to her, and she scribbles back,
You
come on!

I add:
I'll let you take a picture of
my
eye.

She covers her mouth with her hand to hide her grin. After a moment she writes a longer message, then passes the note back to me:
Do you have a garden? I'll let you take a picture of my eye if you'll let me take pictures in your garden. You know I love to shoot flowers.

I read the note and hesitate.
Do
we have flowers? I try to get a visual of our backyard. Yep, I'm pretty sure we have flowers.

Seems like my mom is always sticking some blooming thing in a vase. I write back:
It's a deal. My camera is at home. After school, I will immortalize your battle wound. Then you can shoot flowers.

She reads the note and nods.

Cool. I can't wait to get my pixels on her face.

Macro photography is usually associated with nature.
—Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007

"I don't understand," says Shannon. "You're going to take pictures of her?" We're walking to the bus stop.

"Of her eye, yeah! I can't wait! I might even do a series—you know, take pictures of it every day while it's changing colors."

"Huh. And she's going to your house?"

"Yeah. She likes to shoot flowers."

"Shoot flowers?" says Shannon.

"Take pictures of them. She's going to take pictures in our garden."

"But—"

"But what?"

Shannon shifts the straps of her backpack. "But I mean, even
I've
only been to your house once."

You've only been—"

"I know it sounds stupid, but I'm your girlfriend, and I've
only been to your house once. Now Marissa gets to go?" Shannon's lower lip trembles a little bit.

I'm not following this at all, but she seems to be getting upset, and I can feel things moving into Not Good Land. "Wait," I say carefully. "What do you mean 'Marissa
gets
to go?' What's the big deal? You can come over to my house anytime you want."

She crosses her arms. "Uh, no I can't, Blake."

"Why not?"

Okay, now she's getting
mad
instead of sad. I'm trying to keep up.

"I was taught to wait for an
invitation
to someone's house, rather than inviting myself over."

"Oh." I feel like crossing my arms, too, and mimicking,
I was taught to myeh myeh myeh myeh myeh.
I take a deep breath. "Shannon?"

"What."

"Would you like to come to my house?"

"When? Today?"

"Sure. If you like. With Marissa and me. She won't care."

I have soccer!"

Blow it off."

"I can't blow off
soccer.
" She looks truly appalled.

We're stuck. I'm pushing, she's pulling. The door won't budge.

"How about tomorrow?" I say.

"I've got—"

I reach out and pull her close. "I know. You've got soccer. But you also have an
open
invitation to come to my house. Okay? So if you ever want to blow off soccer and come home with me"—I put my lips close to her ear—"I would love that."

She relaxes against me. I inhale her flowers-and-rain scent. "I wish I could," she says. "You know my mom would kill me, though."

"Why?"

"She worries about us being alone together."

I squish her against me even closer. "Are
you
worried?"

She shakes her head, her hair tickling my neck.

"Forget Marissa," I say. "Why don't you and I sneak away someplace?"

Ahh! Turns out that's the right thing to say.

***

No one is home yet when Marissa and I get to my house, so I dig my key out and unlock the door. The Dog Formerly Known as Prince dances around and whines his welcome-home song. Marissa pets him gingerly; it's clear that she's a cat person.

"What's his name?" she asks.

"Well, it used to be Prince," I explain. "We got him from the Humane Society. But he didn't seem like a Prince to us, so we decided it should be The Dog Formerly Known as Prince."

She looks blank.

"You know, like the singer?" I say. "Never mind, it's a lame family joke."

"Wow, you guys have a piano," she says. "Do you play?"

Nah. My mom made Garrett and me take lessons, but they didn't stick. She plays, though."

"I wish I could play an instrument."