Freeze Frame (12 page)

T
uesday morning, Dad took me to school. “Kyle, you need to stay after school for a while today. We arranged for you to go to the library. Mom and I are having a big meeting with your teachers. You need to get back on track.”

Back on track.

Back on the bike.

Back from the dead.

The day sucked. I thought about all of them—my teachers, my parents, Mark, and Dr. Matthews—sitting in Principal Velásquez's stuffy office. I hoped
all
my teachers didn't have to be there.

After the last bell, I rushed to Chase's school and came back as fast as I could. It took longer running, since I didn't have my bike that day. I looked at the clock in the hallway
outside the library. I was forty minutes late. Maybe Mr. Cordoba didn't know what time I was supposed to get there.

I stood outside the library in the empty hallway. Lunchtime was one thing, but almost nobody went to the library after school. Nobody who didn't have to, anyway.

“You're late.”

I jumped. It was like the guy could see through his newspaper and the door. I cleared my throat. “Sorry.”

“Get in, then.”

I handed
The Time Machine
to Mr. Cordoba.

“Well?” he said.

“Well?” I echoed.

“Tell me about the book.”

I paused. “Really, I guess I was kind of disappointed. I expected to get answers, you know?”

“Disappointed? Answers?”

“It didn't help me much, Mr. Cordoba.” I cleared my throat and stared down at my shoes. The orange had faded, so they looked more like a dirty peach. I had to find a way to glue the peeling rubber back on.

“What do you want help with, Mr. Caroll?” he asked.

“Um, I dunno. It's just that I guess I wanted something else. Something about being stuck in time.”

Mr. Cordoba put his paper down. “Stuck?”

“Have you ever wanted something so bad, you thought there had to be a way for it to happen?”

 

That's one of the last things Jason had said to me. We ran into each other Thursday after school. He was hanging out by the flagpole, waiting for Alex to pick him up.

“Where're you guys heading today?”

Jase shoved his books into his backpack. “Nowhere.” He looked real down.

I sat next to him. “What's up?”

“Have you ever wanted something so bad, you thought there had to be a way for it to happen?”

I shook my head. “Whaddya mean?”

Jase pulled out a letter from UC Berkeley. He handed it to me. I skimmed it over.

“Oh, shit, Jase. I'm sorry.”

“I thought I could get into the winter comic-book art program for teens, you know? I've even been working on this new portfolio.” He pulled out a sketchbook of school superheroes and villains. “But I'm just not good enough.”

“Dude, there had to be major competition. Plus you submitted your old stuff. It's not as good as this.” I pointed to Infinity Detention, who shaped his body into the infinity sign, zapping his enemies to the detention room forever. Split Infinitive was awesome. Her body would divide in two, and she'd crush her enemy's brain if he messed up on grammar.

Jason smiled. “Check out Formaldehyde. He's the master villain. He doesn't even kill his enemies, but preserves
them in these massive jars and leaves them in the science hall on exhibit.”

“And you?”

Jason flipped the page. “I'm Sketch. I can draw anything the superheroes need. So if Kite Rider needs a kite that spouts fire and shit like that, I draw it and it comes to life. Or if Freeze Frame needs a stopwatch, I draw it up.”

“Freeze Frame?”

He turned the page. “Check him out. Look familiar?”

I grinned. “Freeze Frame rocks.”

He nodded. “I was debating between Freeze Frame and Director's Cut. I went for Freeze Frame so you could stop time. You're the only force that can stop the
zap
of Infinity Detention.”

I flexed. “Freeze Frame. This is sweet.” I skimmed through the notebook and saw Line Runner. Some lame-ass basketball guy who looked like Alex. I cleared my throat. “You should try again for next year.”

Jase shrugged. “I was thinking about the summer program, but that one's even harder to get into than the winter one. I'm not even gonna try.”

“Don't quit. You'll get in. I'm sure of it. Especially with this new stuff.”

Jason bit his lip. “Nah. You just like being a superhero.”

“Who wouldn't?” Alex probably did, too. “You'll get in.”

“Probably not.”

“For sure. What's worse: never trying and never knowing, or trying and getting your ass kicked once in a while?”

Alex drove up. He rolled down the window. “You tagging along, Shadow?”

I didn't get why Jase would even bother being friends with those ass wipes. I shook my head. “Nope. Busy today.” I got on my bike.

“Hey, Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“You still thinking about trying out for basketball?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, maybe.” Basketball was my latest lame-ass effort to keep up with Jase and his new friends. My friendship with Jase had become a pathetic game of follow-the-leader with him sitting in the director's chair.

Alex snickered.

Jason lowered his voice, like he didn't want Alex and those guys to hear. “Wanna shoot hoops after the homecoming game, then?”

“Cool.” Then it slipped out. “You can stay over tomorrow night if you want. I just got the uncut version of
A Clockwork Orange
.” Fuck, why did I invite him? He probably had a few parties to go to with Alex.

“Yeah. Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

 

I hadn't really known what Jase had meant when he said he'd wished for something so bad, but now I did. I wish I'd never seen Jason after school that day or that the dialogue was different. It would've been an easy scene to fix. All I had to do was leave it at playing basketball after the homecoming game. Easy.

Mr. Cordoba tapped a pencil on his desk, waiting.

Maybe he would understand. “Have you ever wanted to go back and edit something in your life?” I asked, staring at the carpet.

“Yes, I have.”

I looked up. “Really?”

Mr. Cordoba was nodding. “Really.”

I waited for a while, hoping he'd tell me. But he sat quietly behind his desk, watching me.

“So what did you do?”

“To what?”

“To change the past? Or”—I paused—“to delete it.”

Mr. Cordoba frowned. “Delete it?”

“I guess. I mean, I dunno. It's confusing.”

“The past will never go away, Mr. Caroll. But you can make peace with it.”

“How?”

“By facing it.”

I sighed and sat down. As if it were that easy. I pulled out the notebook and wrote:

 

SCENE THREE: Take Three—Hitchcock style A carnival organ pipes “It's a Most Unusual Day” in the background. FADE IN: Kyle's pajama pants stick to his ankles. He crouches down to squeeze out the dew, then sits next to Jason on the workbench. The contents of the shelves blur behind them.

 

DOLLY ZOOM/HITCHCOCK ZOOM: the shelves. The shelves overwhelm the foreground. The viewer's attention is taken away from Kyle and Jason and directed to the contents of the shelves. The viewer sees a newspaper clipping, with a picture of Hitchcock advertising a weight-loss product, lying on top of an old dollhouse.

 

CLOSE-UP of the dollhouse staircase.

 

WIDE ANGLE: Jason is facing the camera. The viewer sees the back of the murderer. He has shaggy brown hair. He is short and thin. He looks like Kyle from behind, but the viewer does not see his face. He breathes in deep. Jason holds the gun out.

 

CLOSE-UP of gun in Jason's hands.

A
fter Mom and Dad's conference with all the Carson City school district's employees, I became every teacher's project. I couldn't go anywhere without being mobbed by somebody who wanted me to be
involved
.

At home, things weren't much better. Uncle Ray came down from Reno at least once a week so he and my dad could have breakfast. They invited me once, but I couldn't stand the breakfast smells: syrup, pancakes, fried sausage. I felt nauseous and had to go sit outside. The only things I could stomach for breakfast anymore were cereal and Pop-Tarts.

I went to Dr. Matthews's office every Tuesday, the only day I had left to visit Jase because I got out of library duty for the shrink.

At Dr. Matthews's I hardly ever spoke. Every week she asked me to tell her about October 8. Over and again. Once I asked, “Tarantino or Hitchcock style?”

It threw her for a loop. That afternoon, neither of us said much.

The days dragged. At school, I couldn't understand how Karen Jacobs and Maria Ramirez were excited about Sadie Hawkins. I couldn't understand why nominating the winter homecoming court was so important. The only things that made sense were watching Chase, going to the graveyard, and the library.

Then I saw the flyers.

 

M
EMORIAL
A
SSEMBLY FOR
J
ASON
B
ISHOP
: 5
TH
P
ERIOD

 

How long had the flyers been up? Why hadn't I seen them before? They were pasted everywhere with a picture of Jason from freshman year, when he didn't have long hair. He hated that picture.

The sophomore class officers handed out flyers and balloons that read:
JASON
,
YOU'RE IN OUR HEARTS FOREVER
. They all wore black, and Sarah McGraw, class president, dabbed her eyes with Kleenex. I'd never even seen her talk to Jason. They swept through the hallway like storm-troopers.

Jesus, they were probably going to read some bad poetry, the kind you find on greeting cards and bumper stickers. I bet I was the only one who knew that Jason's favorite poet was e. e. cummings.

All of last year, Jason had refused to capitalize his name in English class. The student teacher, Miss Torrence, marked Jase down for bad capitalization one day. He brought in e. e. cummings's poems and said, “If he doesn't have to, why do I?”

A few months ago, I saw Miss Torrence working at Costco. I think she decided not to be a teacher after all.

The flyer felt like lead in my hand. The first bell rang for fifth period. “Shit,” I muttered. I crouched down between some lockers, behind a trash can, waiting for the tardy bell to ring. The halls emptied as kids rushed to the gym. I had to get out of school before the assembly began.

When I stood up, prickles of light ripped through my skull. For just a second everything went grayish black. Steadying myself on the lockers, I walked down a side hallway nobody used except for the smokers. They had rigged the door of the emergency exit so the fire alarm wouldn't go off. The hall smelled like potpourri spray and old cigarettes. I saw Clock walking across the field and thought I could catch up to him. I almost made it through the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Caroll?”

Cordoba.

“Mr. Caroll, are you lost, perhaps?”

There was no escape. My eyes darted around the hallway.

Cordoba leaned over and picked up the flyer. “I need some help reshelving books in the library. I think you just got the job.”

He didn't smile. He didn't give me one of those bummer-you-killed-your-friend looks. He didn't give me a Mrs. Beacham–style sympathetic shoulder squeeze. He just pointed toward the library. Relieved, I followed Cordoba down the hall. I took out
A Separate Peace
and handed it to him.

“You finished quickly.”

“Yeah.”

Cordoba raised his eyebrows. I knew the drill; it was book confession time.

“It was so-so.”

“Why so-so?”

I sighed. “I dunno. I didn't get it. How could Finny be so okay with everything after what Gene did to him?”

“So Finny shouldn't have forgiven Gene?”

“I think there are some things…” I cleared my throat. “Some things aren't forgivable.”

“Even between best friends?”

I thought for a bit. “Especially between best friends.”

“How so? What isn't forgivable?”

Living. Being alive. Breathing, eating, sleeping, jacking off.

I heard “The Star-Spangled Banner” blaring out the gym speakers. Mel slumped into the library and sat next to me. “Didn't feel much like an assembly today.” Her mascara was smeared underneath her eyes. I was relieved to see her. I didn't want to talk about Cordoba's books anymore.

“Me neither,” I whispered.

“They're all assholes, Kyle. You know that.”

I didn't know who “they” were, but I figured it had to do with her cheerleader friends. It sucked to see Mel so sad all the time.

Sorry,
I wanted to say. But it just seemed like such a copout.

“The Bishops are coming. They're planting a tree with a plaque or something.”

The knot in my stomach moved up to my throat. My eyes burned. It was like everybody wanted to relive it over and again. But they weren't there. They didn't know how awful Jason had sounded—gurgling, gasping, dying. It wasn't like it was in the movies. It was final. It was over. What good was a fucking tree? Trees died too. And it was November. You can't plant a tree in November.

They should've made some kind of cockroach memorial. Those prehistoric fuckers never die. They'll live way longer than the whole human race. It could be the cockroach memorial to Jason Bishop. It would've been perfect
because of
The Metamorphosis
. Jase would've liked that.

Mr. Cordoba watched Mel and me whispering. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Caroll, why don't you help me reshelve these books? Miss Caroll, I assume you've got a note.”

Mel handed it to him.

“Are you ready to work too?”

Mel nodded.

I liked the smell of the library. I liked the feel of the book pages between my fingers, and the crinkly sound of the plastic covers. We spent the afternoon sorting and shelving books.

“It's time to go now.” Mr. Cordoba pointed toward the clock: 5:00.

It was weird how the library was the only place where time meant nothing to me. There were no ticks or pings. I felt like I could sit there forever without wanting to go backward or forward.

“Let's go home, Kyle.” Mel grabbed her keys and put on her coat.

“Yeah. Wait a sec. Um, Mr. Cordoba. Do you have a book by that poetry guy, e. e. cummings?”

“Poetry guy,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Interesting choice.” He pulled a book down and handed it to me. I should've taken the time to read e. e. cummings while Jason was still alive.

All evening, something didn't feel right. As I listened to
the sounds of nighttime, I saw the jar of red M&M's on the nightstand and realized what it was. Chase. I'd forgotten about Chase. I couldn't even keep the simplest promise.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered. “I'm so sorry.”