Flash Burnout (7 page)

"Let's eat, I'm starving." I head for the kitchen. We power down some milk and cookies, like hungry kindergartners, and Marissa looks around the room rather than at me. She gets up to examine a photo hanging on the wall by the window over the kitchen sink—it's Garrett when he was a baby. His face is covered in some kind of orange baby food—carrots? squash?—and he's clutching a little spoon. My dad is at the edge of the frame, grinning at Garrett.

"Cute," she says. "Is that your dad?"

I nod.

"Look at his hair! It's so big and
springy.
"

Yep. It still looks the same." I munch a cookie, thinking that Marissa never talks about her dad. I'm just about to say, "What's your dad like?" when she comes back to the table and reaches for the package of cookies. "Do you mind if I take some of these?"

Take them where?"

For later."

"Oh. No. Take as many as you want."

She wraps up a handful of cookies in a napkin and slides them into the pocket of her backpack.

Strange.
"Okay, tough girl. Let's get started," I say.

The walls in the kitchen are pale yellow, perfect for a neutral background. I shoot a bunch of pictures of Marissa's eye from various distances and angles, then take her outside for a few photos in natural daylight. I even attach a telephoto lens for some of them, so the bruise will really fill up the frame. These are going to be good.

Marissa borrows my camera, since hers is at home, and wanders around the backyard shooting close-ups of plants. There's not a ton of stuff blooming, since it's September, but she finds some frilly girly purple ones and a few tall white ones. She asks me for a ladder, which I'm pleased to locate in the garage—who knew?—and climbs up a few rungs to take pictures of an abandoned bird's nest in a tree. After she takes a couple of pictures of the nest, she stares at it for a minute, then takes off her rings and bracelets. She arranges the jewelry in the nest and takes photos of that.

"Do you have any glass animals?" she asks suddenly.

"What?"

"You know, little glass figures? Or ceramic. They give them away in those boxes of Red Rose tea."

I look at her blankly.

"Never mind. My grandma drinks Red Rose tea, and she saves the little ceramic figurines that come in the box. I was thinking I could put a hen or some other animal in the nest. Oh! A cat would be funny."

I have an idea. "Wait here," I say.

I go inside the house and head for my mom's desk. Sitting on the windowsill above her desk is a little ceramic angel I bought her for Mother's Day about five years ago.

I carry the ceramic angel outside to Marissa. I hold it up for her to see. "Will this work?"

She gasps and says, "Ohhhh!" She stares down at it for a moment, then reaches into her jeans pocket. She pulls out a tiny silver-gray charm. Pewter, I think it's called. "Look."

I take it from her. It's an angel.

"Whoa," I say, and hum the
Twilight Zone
music. "Do you always carry this around?" I examine it more closely. Engraved on the back of the angel's wings is a word:
KAT.

"Kat?"

She doesn't answer, and I glance up at her.

Her eyes ... they've got that heartbroken look really bad right now. "Um, I don't feel like talking about that. But yeah, I always carry my angel around with me." She holds her hand out for the charm, and I give it back to her. She puts it in her pocket.

"Here," I say. "You can use this one for your photo." I hold out the ceramic angel.

"Maybe we better not."

"Why?"

"I'm scared I might drop it."

"Just be careful. Here."

She takes it out of my hand and positions it as carefully as if the fate of the world rested on that angel being safe in the nest. Then she zooms in and out, trying various distances for effect.

"Hello," calls my mom from the back door. "What's up?"

Marissa jumps so hard the ladder shakes.

"Easy!" I say.

"Oh, no! Is that your mom? She's going to be mad!"

I steady the ladder. "What? No, she won't."

We took her angel!"

It's okay. Hi," I call back to Mom.

"Oh. A girl is what's up," says my mom. "What are you guys doing?"

"Taking pictures."

"I see." She comes outside and squints up at Marissa. "Hi. I'm Benita."

"Nice to meet you," says Marissa. "I'm Marissa." She giggles at the awkwardness of her position and comes down the ladder to shake Mom's hand.

"Don't stop what you're doing on my account," says my mom.

"No, we're finished," says Marissa. "Blake, do you need help with the ladder?"

"What? No! No, I got it," I say, stepping forward to take the ladder into my capable hands. "Go on inside."

My mom and Marissa go into the house while I wrestle the ladder into the garage, bruising both shins in the process. Right
after I hoist the ladder onto its pegs, I remember the angel sitting in the nest. Shit. I'll go back for it later.

By the time I get inside the house, Marissa and my mom are standing in the Hall of Shame. It's the hallway leading from the living room to the family room, where about a dozen photos hang from the walls. "Who took all of these?" asks Marissa.

"Mostly me," says my mom.

They're all color shots, framed with white matting in black frames. Marissa examines them. My mom stands next to her, adding comments like, "That was our trip to Japan four years ago. We're standing in front of the Big Buddha. That's really what it's called, isn't that great? There's Garrett in his Little League uniform. Look at him getting ready for the pitch. Doesn't he look kind of terrified and focused all at the same time? He was about seven in that one. There's Blake meeting Captain Hook at Disneyland. See how he's posing for the camera with his hand on his hip, just like Captain Hook? He loved Captain Hook."

Marissa doesn't make polite oohs and ahhs like most of the captives who are forced to look at the Hall of Shame. She studies each photo intently, as if they're images of some primitive tribal culture.

"Of course, there's the obligatory wedding photo," says my mom, waving her hand at the eight-by-ten of her and Dad. It's not one of those posed wedding shots, though. It's a casual shot of the two of them grinning at each other, pieces of wedding cake in their hands. They look as if they're about to paste each other with cake.

"I'd better get going." Marissa turns to me suddenly. "Thanks for letting me take pictures in your garden."

"Thank
you
for letting me take pictures of your eye," I say.

"Oh, Blake," says my mom. "Did you really?"

I realize that my mom has not even asked about Marissa's eye. She's got mad diplomatic skills! "She got an elbow in the eye," I explain.

"Oh, dear."

Marissa zips up her backpack. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, then turns to my mom. "Nice meeting you."

"You, too, Marissa. Do you need a ride home?"

"No thanks, I'll take the bus," says Marissa. "Blake, will you e-mail me those photos?"

"Yep."

"Great!" She heads for the door. "Bye."

My mom follows her. "How far away do you live? I'd be happy to drive you."

Thinking about Marissa's grandma's house reminds me: I keep forgetting to ask about her mom going to rehab. But I don't want to ask in front of my mom.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hewson," says Marissa. "I can read on the bus."

"Benita. Call me Benita, please."

"Benita. Thanks. Bye."

And Marissa is gone.

Aside from being a guitar player or an athlete, there's no better profession
than that of photographer for attracting women.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

Have I mentioned how much I love summer?

Okay, technically, September is not summer, it's back-to-school time. But we've been having a heat wave lately, so it feels like summer. Girls are wearing small clothes, and that is beautiful.

Summer is bare legs in shorts and painted toenails peeking out of sandals and
yesss
... shoulders. Shannon's shoulders are the only ones I'm allowed to touch, but there are so many others to admire. Ahh.

As long as I'm discreet.

"Think they're real?" asks Shannon.

"Wh-what?"

She puts her face about an inch from mine. "That girl by Coffee Jones. The one in the white top. Nice rack, huh?"

I feel my eyes wanting to roll wildly, like a spooked horse, because I know I'm trapped. "Uh—"
Houston, we have a problem. Please advise.

"That girl you were looking at," she clarifies.

The Houston in my head reminds me that the best defense is an offense. "Oh,
that
girl!" I exclaim, smacking my forehead. "Yeah.
Nice.
" I waggle my eyebrows. "You want me to see if I can find out her name? Maybe we can get her number!" I start to move in the direction of Coffee Jones.

"Blake!" says Shannon, grabbing my arm.

But I keep moving, saying loudly over my shoulder, "Good eye, baby! You're right, she does have a nice rack!"

Shannon gasps and giggles, clawing at me. "Stop! Blake, stop!" she whispers. "Come back!"

"Excuse me," I call. The girls in front of Coffee Jones look over at me. "Hi," I say. "My girlfriend was wondering—"

Shannon squeals and races around in front of me, laughing and trying to cover my mouth with her hand.

I stop, and she falls against me so hard we almost end up on the ground. The girls by Coffee Jones turn away.

"I can't believe you!" Shannon is cracking up—a big belly laugh that fills up a space in my heart as well as the control center in Houston.

We stand there for a minute, just holding on to each other and grinning like loons.

Then she squeezes me tighter and says, "You're so fun. I love you."

Gulp.

The first "I love you."

I open my mouth.

There's a silence that is stuffed full of hope and dread and held breath.

"I love you, too," I whisper.

***

I go quietly insane the rest of the day.

My mom has been on a rampage about chores lately, so she makes me wash The Dog when I get home. I'm up to my elbows in soapsuds and wet dog when I suddenly think,
Ohmygod, I said I love you to a girl!

Houston seems to have been shocked into silence.

Then my mom forces me to help her fix Nonna's famous minestrone for dinner. While I'm chopping carrots and green beans and leeks (heh ... leeks), I'm thinking,
Ohmygod, I told Shannon I love her!

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Mom is frying bacon.

Maybe I should tell her.

Then again, she's been unnaturally cool about the whole girlfriend issue. I still remember what she said last month when I told her that Shannon and I were officially boyfriend and girlfriend: "That's great, honey. Can you hand me the USB cable?"

Here I'd been thinking we were going to have a soft-focus Mother-Son Moment. I'd confess I had fallen in love, and she would hug me. Maybe even cry. Then she'd tell me she was happy
for me and couldn't wait to meet the young lady, and we would share a plate of cookies while we talked about Love.

Instead she asked me for the USB cable. She wanted to update her iPod, and I was blocking the drawer where we keep the cables.

"Hi," says Garrett, strolling into the kitchen.

I look at him. I wonder if
he's
ever told a girl he loves her.

"How was school, sweetie?" asks Mom.

He opens the refrigerator and grabs an energy drink. "Good." He chugs his drink, then strolls over and gives her a hug. "Mmm, baaaacon," he says in a Homer Simpson voice. "What are you making?"

"Blake is helping me fix Nonna's minestrone," she says. "It will be ready in about an hour."

"Nice," he says, and sidles up to me. "
Mommoni,
" he whispers. (That's "Mama's boy" in Italian.)

I kick him, but he leaps away just in time. For such a big dude, he's fast.

The Dog Formerly Known as Prince barks, excited by the scuffling.

"Next time,
you
wash The Dog and make dinner," I say. "I have to do everything!"

"Blake," says Mom. "Garrett does his share around here."

Garrett bumps me hard on his way out of the kitchen. The Dog follows him.

I fume, chopping carrots.

Then the love thing smacks me in the head again:
Ohmygod, I told Shannon I love her!
A new worry is attached:
Does this mean I'm supposed to say it all the time now?

Mom would probably know the saying-I-love-you rules. I should ask her.

I heave a big sigh. "What a day," I say.

Mom lifts each piece of bacon out of the pan and lays it on a paper towel.

"Wow," I add.

She glances at me, smiles, and goes over to the sink to start washing a bunch of kale.

"What a really, really crazy day," I say.

Mom turns off the water and puts the kale in her salad spinner. She does the spinning thing to get all the water off. It makes a lot of noise, so I say a little louder, "Man. What a—"

"How's it going, Blake?"

Finally.
The suspense must be killing her.

"Good," I say. So how should I tell her?
Mom, you probably don't remember your first love, but—

"Almost finished?" she says, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Uh—"

"You get the beans and tomatoes. I'm going to fry the veggies in the bacon drippings." She takes the cutting board full of chopped veggies and dumps them into the pan.

I grab cans of pinto beans and tomatoes from the cupboard and open them.

"Thank you, Blake. You've been a big help. I can take it from here."

"ItoldShannonIloveher." It comes out in a rush before I even know I'm going to speak.

Mom stops moving and smiles at me. "Honey. How wonderful." She turns off the stove.

Silence.

"So did she say she loved you back?" she asks after a moment. "No! I mean yes. She said it first. Then I said it."

"Ah."

My mom can mean a million things with that one syllable. She reaches out and gives my cheek a mom-like caress. "My young man. How do you feel now?"