Freeze Frame (15 page)

I
stared at the shed. It had been there since before I was born. The hinges never worked on the right-hand door, and the white paint had flaked off over the years, giving it a splotchy look, like it had psoriasis or something.

I looked for the key above on the ledge, but it wasn't there.

Maybe that was one of Mark's suggestions. “Hide the fucking key, man. Don't let your kid in there.”

Not a bad suggestion, really.

I stepped back and punched the doors. My knuckles cracked on the cold metal. The padlock rattled and clanged. I kicked and punched the doors again and again until my hands were bloody and numb. The metal dented and crumpled under the weight of my fists and boots.

Fucking piece of shit cheap shed.

I went around to the back, where a small window faced the neighbors' yard.

Crash!

The rock ripped through the flimsy glass, leaving jagged edges. I punched the glass and heaved myself inside.

It smelled the same. It smelled like damp wood and fertilizer. It smelled like grease and dry grass.

It smelled like death.

I pulled the cord hanging from the fluorescent light. The light sputtered on, and the whole shed glowed an eerie green.

The floor was filthy except for one really white spot.

I kneeled down and touched where his blood had pooled.

I tried to replay it all. But I still didn't know how it happened. How could something like that happen? It was just one second. Not even a second, really. Then the burn, the powder, the ashes.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

What had I done?

I circled the shed and moved toward a box of rope. Frayed ends and knots, lots of rope. Lots to tie. Lots to hang.

You're the one who shoulda died.

You're a nobody.

You did this.

You have no right.

You're a freak.

I hate Kyle. He ruined everything.

Stay away from my family.

Everything seemed clearer. My breathing evened out. I held the yellow rope in my bloody hands. They'd all be better off.

I just wanted to stop thinking about whether I had done it on purpose. How I had ruined everybody's lives that day. I wanted to get away from that scene—that moment.

I grabbed a pencil and scrap of paper and wrote:
The End.

My heartbeat steadied. I made a loop. The perfect size.

The rafters were too high to reach from the bench. God, I was so fucking short!

Jumping up, I tried to loop the rope around. Wood splintered and creaked, and the bench collapsed.

I crashed to the floor and felt the rope, raw in my fingers. I clenched the rope between my teeth and curled into a ball. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks and into my ears, my sobs trapped in my throat.

I couldn't even kill myself. I couldn't even do that right.

My body trembled.

What would Jason do?

What would Jason say?

Dude, Kyle, don't be a shithead. Don't do it.

But what else is there? What if I meant to kill you?

Shit happens, Kyle.

Shit happens?

Yeah. So what?

You come to me with the great philosophy of “shit happens”?

Man, you'll figure it out.

Cold seeped through my clothes. My teeth chattered; I shivered. My hands throbbed and bled.

Suppose,
I thought.
Suppose I lived.

T
he light in the shed wavered, dimmed, then died. Everything was bathed in night, and objects became formless shadows, lumps on drooping shelves. I don't know how long I stayed in the shed, replaying my death scene in my head. After a while, I slipped out the broken window and walked into the house, welcoming its familiar smells of toast, vacuum dust, and Mel's perfume.

My hands ached and shook when I cleaned off the blood, wrapping them in bandages. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, pushing my hair behind my ears. He said I'd figure it out. Maybe—just maybe—I would.

I walked up to my room and opened my shades. At night, snow made the world seem like day. The bright white filled the room with reflected moonlight.

I put my notebook back into my drawer and hid it under some CDs. I buried my head in Jason's duffel bag and breathed deep. It was losing its smell.

I didn't even hear the car pull into the drive.

Mom opened my door. “What are you doing?”

I looked up at her. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. “Are you feeling better?” She came in and put her hand on my forehead. Her breath smelled like peppermint. I shoved the duffel under the bed and hid my hands under the covers.

Dad came in with a steaming cup of peppermint chocolate. Mel bounded up the stairs. “We won, Kyle! Look!” She barreled into the room.

I smiled. “That's great, Mel. It really is.”

She plopped next to me. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Dad asked.

I think so. Maybe.
I nodded.

“Why don't we let Kyle rest?” Dad motioned Mel and Mom to leave the room. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

I shook my head, still hiding my hands.

“Sleep. Maybe you should get more sleep.” Dad looked into my eyes.

I looked away. “Yeah.”

He paused. “Can I sit here for a while?”

I concentrated on the streaks of peeling paint on my bedroom wall. “Sure.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. I felt him watching me, like he was looking for a sign that I was okay.

I turned and smiled. “I'll drink this when it cools down. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He got up. “I'm right down the hall if you need anything.”

“Sure.”

He left me alone. I flicked off the lights and stared at the glow-in-the-dark planets that Jason and I had pasted on my bedroom ceiling. We each got a set for Christmas when we were in fifth grade. When we were sticking mine up, Jason slipped on the ladder and pasted Pluto overlapping Saturn. My solar system was totally lame. We tried to scrape it off, but it stuck. So Saturn looked like it had an extra moon and Pluto didn't exist.

I was pissed at the time, but now I actually liked my Pluto all wrong. It was better. It made me remember something other than the shed. I let the memory wash over me and I held on to it as long as I could, hoping it wouldn't disappear into blackness. I was just about to remember what Jase sounded like when he laughed when I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I
woke up to the sound of pebbles hitting my window. Chase stood below with his hands cupped over his mouth, hooting like an owl.

“What are you doing here?”

He held up an orange card, then hid it under a rock in the yard. He waved and ran away. I slipped out the front door and opened up the card.

I smiled. Getting through the day “unscathed” took a lot of energy. They had included a drawing of me with my orange shoes, a hole in the left one.

My stomach growled, and I went inside to get breakfast. Mom dropped the raw turkey on the kitchen floor when she saw my hands.

We spent the rest of Thanksgiving morning in the emergency room getting X-rays and a cast for my broken left hand.

“Sorry about Thanksgiving, Mom.”

“It doesn't matter. We'll order Chinese.”

When we left the ER, Dad and Mom walked ahead of me, whispering to each other. They looked like an old 1920s silent movie, their black jackets a stark contrast to the fresh-fallen snow. Dad wrapped his arm around Mom's hunched shoulders. The snow muted the sound of our footsteps.

He opened the car's back door for me and helped me tuck my head in so I wouldn't whack it on the doorframe. I clicked my seat belt and turned to look out the back window. Everything looked the same as that day. The outside of the emergency room had the same concrete walls, painted white and stained with exhaust fumes and who knows what else.

We walked into the house. Melanie was watching the Macy's parade. She flicked off the TV. “What happened?”

I covered the cast with my jacket. “I'm fine.”

Dad shook his head. “I just don't know what to say.”

“I think we might need to see Dr. Matthews. Maybe today? Should I call her?” Mom tipped my chin up so she was looking into my eyes.

“Dr. Matthews. Sure, Mom. That sounds good.” Not like she helped any.

Dad pulled the note out of his pocket. “What does this mean, Kyle? ‘The End.' I found it in the shed beside the broken bench.”

“I just had a bad night, Dad. No big deal.” I turned my face away from Mom and took the note. I crumpled it up and tossed it in the garbage. “It didn't mean anything.”

Yesterday I'd wanted to die.

Today I didn't.

How can you explain that to your dad?

“I'm just gonna hang out in my room until we go.”

“Okay, honey. Sure.” Mom stepped forward like she was going to hug me, but I moved back. I felt like I was directing a part in a movie where the camera goes from close-up to wide angle, pulling away from the actors. I saw Mom, Dad, and Mel at the end of a long tunnel, far, far away. I went up to my room.

Mel knocked on my door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated, then came and sat on the bed. “What do you think Dr. Matthews and Mark will say?”

I shrugged.

She puffed out her cheeks. “Kyle, how do you feel about what happened? Would you like to talk about it?” She actually did a pretty good impersonation of Dr. Matthews.

I tried to smile.

Mel grabbed my hand—not the broken one. “Do you want talk about it? For real?”

“Not really.”

“Those guys roughed you up pretty bad.”

“Nah. I'm okay.”

“What happened last night?”

I pulled my hand away. She scooted closer to me.

“Just a bad night, I guess.”

Mel looked into my eyes. “Don't do that, Kyle. Ever. Okay?” She laid her head on my shoulder. “Promise me,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

I squeezed her hand. “I promise.” Somehow I knew this was a promise I'd keep.

She looked up and moved my bangs out of my eyes. “Growing your hair long?”

“Maybe.”

She wiped her nose. “Looks cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Talk to her, Kyle.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Matthews. Or Mr. Cordoba. Anyone, really. Just talk, okay?”

 

Dr. Matthews leaned back and laced her fingers around a steaming cup of tea. I sat across from her in a retro chair shaped like an egg. The orange plastic was pretty hard on my ass, and she kept asking me questions I didn't want to answer. “How would Jason like to see you today?”

“Whaddya mean?”

She pointed to the notebook I always carried around: the one with Scene Three. “What would Jason like to see you doing? Maybe you can write about it.”

“Writing doesn't help.”

“What do you write about?”

“That day. I need to figure out if I—” I stopped.

“If you what?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe you could write about other things.”

I chewed on my lip. The edges of the notebook curled in. I had filled every page but one with that scene.

“Just think about it, Kyle. What would Jason wish for you?”

“Does it really matter?”

“I think it does.”

I glared. “Why? Why would that matter?”

“Because you were friends. I think you forget that sometimes.”

I shook my head. “I never forget that Jason was my best friend.”

“No. But you do forget that you were
his
.”

I
t was weird to be alive. Everything was under my control that night in the shed. I was even relieved. It made sense to me. I wanted to die.

Then I didn't.

I had Chase. I had books and Mr. Cordoba. And I didn't want to leave them. But I was stuck. I didn't want to be Freeze Frame anymore. I didn't want to live my life in Scene Three. But I didn't know how to move forward, either. Jase had said,
Shit happens
. Maybe that was his way of telling me I hadn't killed him on purpose. Jase would be the first to hold that against me if I had. He'd have probably found a way to haunt me, like in
The
A
mityville Horror
, or possess me like in
The Exorcist
, if that were true. And so far I hadn't projectile-vomited green baby food.

Over the weekend, most of the snow melted, leaving patchy spots of dirt and ice all over the graveyard. If I squinted, it almost looked like a winter quilt. I brushed a pile of slush from Jase's marker.

“Chase left me this great drawing.” I sat on the least snowy spot near Jason's grave. “He might be an artist like you someday.” I pulled out the drawing. “See? He even drew the orange shoes.”

I tucked the drawing into my pocket. “I guess I just wanted to tell you I'm still here. That's pretty dumb, I know. If I weren't, you'd probably be the first to know.” I tapped my fingers on his grave. “And, um, thanks, you know, for the message. I think I get it.”

When I got up to go, I left a piece of apple pie on his grave, without the top crust. “I miss you, Jase,” I said.

I returned to the library early Monday morning to start my in-house suspension.

“Mr. Cordoba?” I peeked in the door.

Cordoba sat reading the
The Nevada Appeal
, sipping his morning cup of coffee. “Nice to have you back, Mr. Caroll.”

Relief flooded my body.

“Well, get in and close the door.” He handed me a pile of worksheets and instructions from my teachers. “It looks like you'll be busy.”

“Yes, sir.” I picked up my assignments and took them to the table.

“What happened to your hands?”

“Just an accident.”

Mr. Cordoba looked at my cast and bandaged hand, then back into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think I am.” I sat down and stared out the window. The buses pulled into the parking lot, spewing students out into the winter grayness. My notebook lay in front of me. One page left to fill—one director left to use. And then I'd need a title. I'd written fourteen different versions, from Tarantino to Iñárritu. None of them, though, had turned out quite right. I flipped through the pages, scene after scene, until I got to the last page. Blank.

“You returned the book of poems,” Cordoba said.

I nodded.

“What did you think?”

I shrugged. “I've never really read poetry before.” I looked around the library. This was definitely not something any self-respecting fifteen-year-old guy would want people to know about him.

“Most people don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Read poetry.”

I nodded. “I can see why.”

“Why is that, Mr. Caroll?”

“Well, um. It's kinda weird. Words missing. A little confusing. No connectors. Mrs. Beacham is big into connectors.”

“Connectors?”

“
And. But. However. Whereas.
You know.”

“Were there any poems you liked?”

I thought for a while. “I liked the one called ‘Suppose.' I really liked the title.”

“Why?”

I leaned close to the radiator, warming up. “Because
suppose
means, I dunno, I guess it means there're other possibilities.” I remembered the shed.
Suppose I lived.

Mr. Cordoba nodded.

I got up and tossed my notebook into the garbage.
Suppose. Suppose I forgot about it. All of it. Suppose it didn't matter if I remembered.

That afternoon, I crouched behind the Dumpsters and peeked around the corner, watching the kids trudge to the buses.

“Hey Kyle.
Pssst!
” Chase stood in front of the Dumpster.

“Chase! What're you doing here?”

“What happened to your hands? How come you're wearing a cast?”

“Nothing.”

“Did they do that to you?”

“Who?”

“The ones who hurt you before?”

“No, Chase. I don't think I have to worry about them anymore.”

“Oh.” He let out a slow whistle. “Then what happened to your hands?”

Unless I told him, he'd never quit asking, and we'd be out there all afternoon. Chase could go on for hours, and I had to get back to the library. “I punched the shed the other night. No big deal.”

“Oh. That's not a smart thing to do.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Is it scratchy?”

“What?”

“Your arm.”

I knocked on the cast. “No. Not really.”

“That's good, then.” Chase looked relieved.

“Anyway, thank you. For the card and the drawing.” The buses started to pull out of the lot. “You're going to miss the bus, Chase.”

Chase shook his head. “I'm going to Mike's today. He's over there keeping watch.” I peered around the corner. Mike was on his hands and knees staring at something in the grass with a magnifying glass. Great lookout.

Chase opened his backpack and pulled out some duct tape. “We noticed you could use this.”

“For what?”

Chase pointed to my shoes. “The sole is coming off. And neither of us are cobblers. But we saw on the FX Channel that duct tape is great for everything.”

“You're allowed to watch FX?”

“Mike's family has DISH, and his big brother let us watch it the other day. We watched
The Man Show.
It was quite informative.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Chase pulled out some scissors, and the two of us taped the sole of my left shoe back together. He stood back and admired the patch job. “That stuff is really great.” He eyed the tape I held in my hands.

“Why don't you keep it? If I need more, I'll borrow it.”

He grinned. “Good idea. I think I'm more organized than you, anyway.” He looked down at my shoes. “I've been thinking you need a bodyguard name,” he said. “Like…Orange Dragon.”

“Orange Dragon, huh?” It sounded like a superhero Jase would've drawn. “I like it.”

“Me, too,” said Chase. “Very scary.”

A car pulled into the parking lot. Mike whistled three times, then hooted like an owl. Chase hooted back. “That's our signal.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Listen closely. Mills Park. Saturday. Noon. Fly kites.”

“On the sly?”

He nodded. “It's BYOK.”

“BYOK?”

“Bring your own kite.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Mike hooted again and Chase left.