Freeze Frame (10 page)

N
obody was around. I guess not many people take time to visit the dead. It's hard enough to get people to visit their great-aunts and grandmas when they're alive. Plus graveyards are creepy.

I opened the gate and wheeled my bike in. The gate
chink
ed closed behind me. I jumped.

“A little nervous, boy?”

Some old guy holding a rake stepped out of a small office.

“Uh.” I looked around. If he hadn't talked, I would've probably thought he was a zombie. This guy was straight out of
Night of the Living Dead
. He had to be a thousand years old.

“Looking for something?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “A friend.”

“Here's the map.” He pointed out a map that had the names of people and their grave numbers. There were hundreds.

“Thanks.”

I skimmed over the names. I'd never known a dead person before, except for Jason's grandma Peters. But she was old dead. That's different. I found him. Jason G. Bishop—R—317.

“Find it?”

The
Living Dead
guy was still there. It was like he didn't breathe or anything, he was so quiet. Maybe he didn't want to wake them all up. Couldn't really blame him. It didn't look like it'd be too long before he'd be joining the ranks.

“Yeah, thanks.”

I walked along the winding paths. Tufts of dying grass grew around cracked tombstones. The farther I walked, the fewer tombstones there were. Most graves had stone plaques marking the ground, covered by dirt and dried leaves.

An old oak tree stood in the middle of a bunch of graves, and I pictured its roots webbing around coffins like gargoyle claws. I shivered.

Then I saw it. Jason. The earth was fresh, a rusty color, loosely piled. Flowers surrounded the grave. They were
pretty wilty, but they still looked okay. There was a wooden box with water-stained, muddy pictures inside, CDs, a bag of marbles, a Jack Sack—all sorts of things. Tattered satin ribbons were tied around the box with popped balloons on their ends.

I hadn't brought anything.

I dug around my pockets and pulled out a quarter and a wad of chewed gum that had stuck to my pocket lining. I had nothing for him, not even a comic book.

“Fuck,” I muttered. My voice sounded like an invader in the heavy graveyard silence. Plus I didn't think
fuck
was the most appropriate thing to say. “Excuse me,” I whispered, looking around.

Jesus, who was I talking to?

I stared at Jason's grave.

Jason's grave. My stomach lurched. I could feel the acid work its way up. I swallowed hard and breathed. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself forward.

 

Jason G. Bishop
S
ON
, B
ROTHER
, F
RIEND
He walks with God

 

I ran my fingers across the black granite set flush with the earth. I think I would've put A
RTIST
on the stone, too. Some people think that you have to actually be famous and
stuff to call yourself something. But Jason really was an artist, even if he hadn't sold anything yet. Yeah: Jason G. Bishop, A
RTIST
, S
ON
, B
ROTHER
, F
RIEND
. He would've liked that. I wasn't so sure about the
He walks with God
stuff though.

The slate gray sky darkened with heavy clouds. My fingers burned from the cold. I crouched down.

“Hey.”

Leaves rustled.

“So this is it.” I rubbed my arms and sat by the stone, pulling my knees to my chest. “Thought you might like a little company.”

It was actually a peaceful place. Maybe that's what bugged people so much about graveyards. They were silent. Nobody hollered or shouted in a graveyard. The traffic was miles away. And dead people were a quiet bunch.

Silence is pretty shitty when you don't want to hear your own thoughts.

B
ROTHER
: I traced the word with my finger. “I haven't forgotten about Chase. I'm gonna take care of him. Somehow I'm gonna make things okay for Chase. I promise.”

The wind whined in the trees. I opened my backpack and pulled out a crumpled paper. “I, uh, I have a few things I've been wondering about. And things I guess I've wanted
to say to you. I don't know if it's anything you can help with, but, well, I've just been writing this shit down as it comes to me.”

I waited. The wind picked up a little, and one of the ribbons came loose and skipped across Jason's grave. I was never big into signs, but I figured that anything was better than nothing. Maybe Jason was around.

“Okay. Well, first of all, it's been a hundred and eighty-five days. You know. The orange shoes and all. I betcha you didn't think I'd go through with it, huh?”

I cleared my throat and straightened out the paper. “I'm also just kinda wondering if you're lonely. Is it the same kind of lonely we have down here?”

I paused. I had been lonely way before Jason died, but it wasn't like this.

“This is the thing. If I wait for a sign every time, this might take all year. So I'm just gonna read through the list, okay? Just thoughts and stuff. No big deal. All right. Here goes: Are there angels? Like with wings? Are there ghosts? Are you a ghost? Can you pick to be a ghost or angel or is it kind of assigned?” I paused. “Can you, um, talk to Grandma Peters? Can you hang out with other dead people? Like if I died, could we hang out?”

I looked around. It had to be the loneliest damned place on Earth. I shivered and zipped up my jacket. I held Chase's hat in my hand and shoved the questions into my pocket.

“Do Alex and the guys come?” I wiped my nose. “Were they really good friends? That good?” Well, they didn't fucking kill him. That's gotta top the shitty-things-to-do-to-your-friend list. I breathed in deep.

“Dude, I messed up. Big-time. I just don't know what to do. These questions and stuff, they're just dumb. Dumb shit I think about so I don't have to think about this. About you. Here, you know? I just don't know how—how that could've happened. Anyway, I fucked up. I know I did.” I closed my eyes and slumped against the pile of dirt. I thought maybe I could just never get up. Simple. Just sit and sit until I became one of the dead.

When I opened my eyes, the sky had turned purple-black. The first stars had popped out. My teeth were chattering.

I stood up and my feet tingled from the cold. I blew on my stiff fingers. “I've got Chase covered. I guess that's the most important thing, right? That's the one thing I can do right.”

I looked at the headstone again.
Jason G. Bishop.
At least they hadn't spelled out Gabriel. He hated his middle name.

I turned back. “Hey, Jase? What's worse: killing your best friend or being killed by your best friend?”

No answer.

I kinda think the first one is worse. But that's because I don't know what the second one is like. Jase probably had his own ideas about that.

R
iding home, I felt a little bit of relief. I had one thing under control: I could keep Chase safe. Maybe if I did that, kept my promise to Jase, I'd have a reason to stick around. I coasted into the driveway and saw Mark's motorcycle.

“Shit.”

I threw open the front door.

“He's home now. He's here.” Dad was talking to someone on the phone. Mom and Mark rushed toward me.

“Where have you been? We've been worried sick!” Mom shook my shoulders. Dad came over and pried her fingers off. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

I looked at my watch: 10:46.

“Kyle, are you listening? Do you have
any
idea what time it is?”

God, I hated questions like that. If I knew the time, I was screwed. If I didn't know the time, I was screwed. Parents always get pissed because we don't have the right answers. They never figure that they have the wrong questions.

What if I didn't give a shit about the time?

I shrugged. This was definitely a scene I wanted to skip.

Fast-forward.

They paced up and down the hall in jittery movements, their words coming out in high-pitched screeches. It was like watching one of those old quarter-machine westerns in Virginia City where you get to crank the action, and it goes as fast as you want.

I returned to the scene when Mark was getting ready to go.

He glowered. “Kyle, you messed up.”

“I was just riding around.”

“You don't get it, do you? You can't be anywhere without telling us where you are.
Anywhere.
If you pull another stunt like this…” Mark didn't finish the sentence. It was one of those if–then statements, without the
then
. Those were the worst, because you knew the
then
had to be pretty awful. “I'll call tomorrow.” He looked from Mom to Dad. “And get him a damned cell phone.” He left; his Harley rumbled down the street.

“Where were you?” Dad asked, steering me into the kitchen. “We were worried.”

“I was just riding my bike around. That's all.” I suppose they figured I had nowhere to go but school and home now that I'd killed my only friend.

“In the dark? Riding your bike?” Dad rubbed his eyes and leaned on the counter. “Things are—” he started to say. “Kyle, we don't—” He couldn't finish a thought. “We're really worried about you. We're just…is Dr. Matthews helping? Do you need to talk to someone else?”

The only person I needed to talk to was Jason. I couldn't shake the cold and stomped my feet on the kitchen floor, shivering.

“You're freezing. Go upstairs and get a sweatshirt. We can talk about this after homework and you eat your dinner. It's in the microwave.”

Dad went to his office and closed the door. I walked upstairs. Mom was slumped against Melanie's door. I could hear Melanie's sobs. “They all hate me, Mom. They do,” she bawled. “Brooke decided to quit cheerleading. She can't stand to be around me. And then you and Dad…” Her words were muffled by a new wave of sobs.

“Honey, I'm so sorry. You have to expect that things will be different for a while.” Mom's voice sounded raw.

Different? Painting a room is
different
. Killing Jason could hardly be called
different
.

Mom turned and tried to smile at me. It was one of those forced it's-not-your-fault-you-ruined-our-lives smiles.

Through her door I heard Melanie say, “I hate Kyle. He ruined everything.”

I went into my room and closed the door. At least she said what everybody else thought.

Somebody knocked.

“Come in.” I flopped on my bed.

Mel walked in with puffy, red eyes. “I didn't mean that.”

Yes you did.

“I just never want to go back to school again. I'd rather die.” Melanie buried her face in her hands.

I knew how she felt.

“Things are that bad?” I asked.

She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “I guess they aren't much better for you.”

I shrugged. “I'm not a cheerleader. I'm pretty low profile, you know.”

She sighed and sat next to me on the bed. “I didn't mean that. Really.”

“It's okay.” It felt good to sit next to Mel. Almost like things were before she got boobs.

“Maybe we can change our identities and move away,” she said.

“Don't think I haven't thought about it.”

“And I can't believe you're getting a cell phone.” She punched me in the arm. “God, life is so unfair.”

Mel had wanted one for about a year. I elbowed her. “Yeah, unlimited minutes with my PO.”

She shook her head. “God, everything sucks. Life sucks.”

I wanted to ask Mel if she thought it was always going to be this awful, but before I could, she got up and left.

I thought about Clock Westergard. Everybody at school laughed at him. He had stringy black hair and was too skinny. One arm was longer than the other, so when he raised his hand in class, it looked like either six o'clock or twelve thirty. He smelled like photo chemicals because he spent most of his time in the school's lab. He always walked around with this beat-up camera.

The “cool” kids messed with him. They hit his books out of his hands, shoved him into lockers, and gave him cans of soda shaken up. In ninth grade Troy Beckett slipped snow through the vents in Clock's locker. Kids laughed, like getting schoolbooks wet was the most hilarious thing ever. We knew that Clock's grandma didn't have money for new books and shit. All Clock did, though, was take out his books and dab them dry with a dirty gym shirt. Then he stood up and looked Troy in the eyes. We thought they'd fight, but all he did was hold his books and stare Troy down. Troy backed up and left. Then Clock looked each one of us in the eyes. It was like he was saying,
Fuck you
. I avoided him after that.

I wondered if I should talk to him, ask him how he got up to go to school each day. Christ, I didn't even know his real name. I think even the teachers called him Clock.

I stared at the words in my history book:
The Egyptians were among the greatest architects in the history of the world.

I read that sentence seven times before I closed the book and looked out the window. A porch light flickered on at Jason's house. It was funny how from the outside everything could look the same.

T
uesday morning was more brutal than Monday, like the day was being played in slow motion.

At lunchtime, I headed straight to the library, but the door didn't open. I jiggled on the knob, thinking maybe it was jammed or something. Locked. Kids streamed by.

I zoomed in on the sign on the door:
LIBRARY CLOSED FOR LUNCH ON TUESDAYS
.

Fuck.

I held my lunch and
The Metamorphosis
in my hands and looked down the hall toward the cafeteria. I definitely didn't want to repeat the scene from the day before. The hall monitor had gone, so I snuck back by the science classrooms. Nobody ever hung out in the science hallway, because it smelled like chemicals and dead animals.

I leaned against some lockers and started to read.

“Mr. Caroll?” Scarface towered over me, holding a pile of science books.

I jumped. “Oh, um. I, um, was just on my way to the cafeteria.”
The Metamorphosis
slipped from my hands and thunked on the floor.

Scarface nodded. “That's unfortunate. I could use some help in the library today.” He turned to go down the hallway.

“Oh. I've got time.” I cleared my throat.

He nodded.

I carried Scarface's books and followed him into the warmth of the library.

“Eat lunch—then you can help me with the books. You should have time for a little reading before the bell rings.”

I sat at the table in front of Scarface's desk. He pulled out a Tupperware container of salad and some pita bread.

I chewed on my ham sandwich. I like it when the bread gets smooshed with the ham, cheese, and mayo and sticks to the roof of my mouth. Then I try to peel it off with my tongue without breaking apart the bread-ham-cheese mass. Jason used to do the same with peanut butter and jelly.

“What do you think about the book?”

I was in mid peel when Scarface spoke. I choked down the bite. “What?”

“The book.
The Metamorphosis.
”

“Oh. It's pretty weird, you know.” Who would direct
that
movie? Maybe David Cronenberg. He was real into disease and weird transformations. Maybe he'd film it in a seedy downtown motel off Fourth Street in Reno. It would make a wicked flick.

Mr. Cordoba watched me. He didn't say anything but waited. Shit, he probably wanted a report or something. “I don't really remember where they are, um, which city.” I opened the book, looking frantically for something about the setting, themes, main conflicts, and all the other crap Mrs. Beacham harped on.

“Mr. Caroll, I'm not asking for a presentation. Just tell me what you think about the book—about what you've read so far.”

“Um, well, I'm not far or anything, but I kind of think it's…not too believable.”

“How so?”

“Like who's gonna wake up a bug?”

“Don't you think somebody's life can change drastically from one day to the next?” Scarface asked. “One moment to the next?”

I paused. “I never thought about it like that.”

“Sometimes you have to look beyond the words.” He took a sip of water and said, “If you woke up one morning with your reality horribly altered, what would you do?”

I thought for a long time. “If I turned into a bug, I'd do anything to feel normal, I guess.”

Scarface nodded and turned back to his work.

“Mr. Cordoba?”

He looked up.

“Do you think they ever made a movie out of this book?”

“Most likely. But I don't really know.” He pulled some books out of a box. “We need to code these for shelving.”

I helped him organize books, then read until the bell rang. “Mr. Cordoba?”

“Yes?” He looked up from his computer.

“Is the library open at lunch tomorrow? You know. It's kind of hard to read in the cafeteria. Lots of noise and all.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” I picked up
The Metamorphosis
and put it in my backpack. “It's a pretty cool book after all, huh?”

“That it is. See you tomorrow, Mr. Caroll.”

“See you.” I walked down the hall, thinking about all the ways
The Metamorphosis
could be filmed.