Freeze Frame (19 page)

I
started to sleep better at night, but I'd always wake up really early in the morning. The mornings were the hardest. The house was so damned quiet and the neighborhood looked dead, like an empty movie set. Nobody'd show up until seven
A.M
. to bring it to life. I wished Mr. Cordoba would open the library at five
A.M
. or something. That would've helped. At least sometimes there was shoveling to do.

One morning, I couldn't take the quiet anymore, so I got dressed and stood outside Chase's window. “Chase,” I whispered and tapped on the window.

Nothing.

“Chase!” I flicked a couple of stones at the window.

His head popped up and he rubbed his eyes. “What?”

I motioned to the backyard and jumped the side fence.

The back door creaked open. Chase peeked his head out. “I don't pay overtime, you know.”

I shook my head. “You don't pay me at all. Remember? Pro bono.”

“It's dark. It's cold.”

I nodded. “I know. Get your slippers and robe on.”

It took a thousand years, but he finally came out all bundled up.

“What took you so long?”

“Had to brush my teeth.”

“No you didn't.”

“I always brush my teeth first thing when I wake up. Don't you?”

“Okay. Yeah.”

“Breathe on me. I betcha you don't.”

“I do, too, Chase.”

“Breathe on me.”

I breathed.

“You have smelly breath. You didn't brush.”

“Okay, so I forgot. It's early. I usually wait until after breakfast.”

“How many cavities do you have?”

“Not many.”

“How many?”

“I don't know.”

“Hmmph.”

We sat on the back porch and looked up at the stars. “Can you show me dandelion?”

“You mean
Taraxacum officinale
?”

“Yeah. I never remember the name.”

Chase looked around and pointed up to a cluster of stars. “That's it.” He turned to me. “That all you need?”

“Are you doing okay? About your dad and all?”

Chase turned away. He got up and said, “I'm going now.”

“Wait, Chase.” I patted the step beside me. “I read this book a little while ago. It was really weird. It was about this guy who woke up one morning as a bug.”

“What kind of bug?”

“Um, an insect.”

“More than one million species of insects have been identified. And in all, there are over ten quintillion insects in the world. So you might want to narrow it down.”

“Oh. Well, um, the book doesn't really say. But he goes to sleep as a man and wakes up a bug. An insect. But it's not science fiction or anything.”

Chase chewed his bottom lip and sat down. “Tell me more.”

So I told him about
The Metamorphosis
. We spent about an hour on the porch. The black night turned to the
purple dawn. Porch lights flickered off. “I'd better go, Chase.”

“See ya this afternoon, Kyle. Don't be late.” Chase pointed to my watch.

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Well, almost never.”

“Close enough. Don't forget to brush your teeth.”

“I won't.”

“And Kyle?”

“Yeah?” I had to get back before the Bishops came out, before Mom and Dad were up.

“You can come and tell me about your books whenever you want. You read good books.”

“Cool. I'll be back then.” I waved from the sidewalk. Chase looked a little like an old man in his tattered robe and slippers. I hoped he wouldn't be too tired at school.

D
r. Matthews strummed her fingers on her desk. She'd been losing weight and had gotten thin enough to stop wearing curtain-dresses. She was wearing pants and a sweater. She looked kinda nice. Chubby nice. “New journal?” Dr. Matthews pointed to my notebook.

I nodded.

“And?”

“I'm, um, trying to write the whole movie now. Like you said.” I cleared my throat and pretended to be really interested in the books she had on her shelves.

She smiled at me—a real smile. And I told her about the time Jase and I got grounded for taking his grandma's car down the street when we were twelve. How were we supposed to know it wasn't like driving bumper cars?

 

At first the memories came back one scene at a time. I'd find something, like my old Rollerblades, and that would remind me of the time Jase didn't brake right and he ended up with eight stitches in his forehead. After a while, though, the stories flowed. It was easy to go back in time and find a piece of Jason in practically every object I had in my room.

With my director's notes, I felt like I could edit the bullshit. I didn't care about the times Jase blew off my Friday-night movie marathons. The new notebook let me write about the important stuff.

It was like Kohana and his camera. He could choose which stories he wanted to photograph. It could be anything—from a spray-painted locker to the bottom of somebody's desk. He didn't have to take pictures of the bad stuff. Neither did I.

Kohana sometimes came to the library when he missed the bus. He never bugged me about where I went for a half hour after school, and I never asked him why he liked to sit outside so much. Sometimes I'd wait with Kohana at the flagpole after library time until his grandma came around. He'd show me his pictures. We'd talk about the best angle to take a shot, to film a scene. Or we wouldn't say anything at all.

I almost told him about the notebook a million times, but I didn't want to ruin the magic. It was almost like Jason was coming back to life in the notebook Mr. Cordoba had
given me. I wished, though, that I could take all those memories and bring him back to the Bishops—to Chase.

At the library I spent more time writing than doing homework. Homework was easy, so I usually got it done fast so I could do the other stuff. I had always been a “solid C” student until that last fall. Then I crashed to Fs and rose to Bs. My teachers almost glowed when they handed out semester grades.

“You're really reaching your potential.”

“Oh, Kyle, I am so pleased with your effort and academic success this term.”

And Mark was right there behind them—proud of
his
success story—his grade contract. Even Mel took me out one night with her new boyfriend, Hoover, after progress reports came. We went out for buffalo wings, then to a movie. Hoover paid for everything. And I ate a lot. I felt kinda bad and offered to pay for at least the movie, and he said something like, “No way. This is your night.” He was trying to be gallant or something, which was pretty cool, I guess.

After all the glowing reports and happy teachers, I could probably do milk commercials for Carson City wearing one of those freakish milk moustaches.

Mr. Cordoba was the only one who didn't congratulate me.

“I watched
Black Mask,
Mr. Caroll.” Mr. Cordoba was working his way through the media center, scanning all the computers for viruses.

“Really?” I was relieved to talk about something—anything—besides my miracle grades. “And?”

“He was quite an unusual librarian.”

I laughed. Most librarians probably didn't do kung fu stuff. Most librarians weren't boxers, either. “Did you like it?”

Mr. Cordoba paused. “Yes, I did.”

“Good.”

“So?” Mr. Cordoba peered over his glasses.

“So what?”

“I could use a recommendation for another movie.”

“Sure,” I said. It was nice to feel like I knew a lot about something.

“How about one of your favorites. Maybe by one of your favorite directors.” Mr. Cordoba said. “One you used in your notebook.”

My hands felt clammy. I hated thinking about that notebook. I hated thinking about that scene that none of the directors could get right. Whenever I thought about it too hard, I started questioning myself all over again. I couldn't have done it on purpose. Shit happens, right? Mr.
Cordoba looked up from the computer screen. He was waiting for me to say something.

“Okay. Maybe a Clint Eastwood movie? Not
Dirty Harry
or anything, even though those are pretty tight. You should see this western he directed and starred in.
Unforgiven.
”

Mr. Cordoba scribbled something down on a sticky pad. “Why do you like it?”

“Because it's everything you don't expect from a western, you know? It's about how bad somebody can feel doing what he used to do best.”

Mr. Cordoba waited.

“And it has the perfect line in it.” I cleared my throat and lowered my voice, trying to do Eastwood. “‘It's a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away all he's got, and all he's ever gonna have….'It's a good movie.”

Mr. Cordoba smiled. “Better than your Eastwood impersonation?”

“Much.” I grinned. Jase would've nailed it. There wasn't anybody he couldn't impersonate.

“I'll watch it this week.”

“Cool.” I went back to the tables and pulled out a book to read.

“Mr. Caroll, have you thought about what you're going to do after high school?”

I looked up. “That's another two and a half years
away. That's forever.”

“Two and a half years isn't that long.”

I shrugged.

“You're a good student. When you want to be one.”

So he had seen my grades too. I wondered if there was some kind of “underground Kyle network” that monitored everything I did. Maybe Mark was the big spy of the whole operation, and his secret 007 lover was Dr. Matthews, totally redefining the Bond chick look.

I closed my book. “I dunno. The only reason I had ever really thought about going to college was to room with Jason and try out a ramen noodle diet.”

“A ramen noodle diet?”

“Well, you know. Like that fat guy did eating sub sandwiches, and the other guy did for his documentary on McDonald's. Jason and I were going to see how long we could live on ramen noodles. I was going to direct a cool documentary and win awards and stuff. That was the only reason I would really want to go to college—the ramen noodle documentary.”

Mr. Cordoba arched his eyebrows. “So what's stopping you?”

“You can't do that kind of stuff alone.” I picked at a sticker somebody had stuck on the table. “Anyway, it was Jason's idea. It'd be pretty shitty to steal it. He had a lot of good ones, you know.” I bit my lip. “Excuse me. I didn't
mean to say
shitty
in the library. Twice.”

Mr. Cordoba returned to his desk and sat down. “I bet you have your own ideas as well.”

“Nah, not like Jase. I mean, Jason was an animal for insane ideas.” I laughed. “The only plan of his that backfired was trying to puff out pond frogs' croakers by sticking straws up their butts and blowing. We thought we were onto something until one of the frogs exploded. We were only seven at the time.”

“He sounds like he was a smart guy.”

“Yeah. Funny how I ended up being his best friend.” All of a sudden my throat felt like it was closing up. My nose burned. I swallowed and counted to twenty. I couldn't have done it on purpose.

“You don't think you were a good friend?”

“Not like in the books.” I pointed to
The Outsiders
. “Those guys stood up for each other through it all—never questioned each other.”

“And that's how Jason was with you—never questioning? Standing up for you?”

“Yeah. I guess.” I thought about Jason hanging out with Alex because I didn't want to go to the “cool” parties; how they called me Shadow and laughed at me and he let them. I glared at Mr. Cordoba. “Jason was a great friend. The best.”

“I don't doubt he was, nor do I doubt that you
are
.”

“Whatever.”

“So, Mr. Caroll, you still haven't answered my question. What would you think you would like to do? After high school?”

How would Jason like to see you?

It wasn't fair. How could I move on and leave everything behind when I stole that from Jase? I shrugged. “I haven't thought about it.”

“Think about it.”

All I knew was that I had to stick around. I couldn't leave Chase. I couldn't leave Jason and the old man who raked the leaves off his grave. I couldn't just up and go.

At four o'clock, I grabbed my things and took off. For the first time, I felt like the library was going to smother me.

I
heard hooting early one morning. Chase stood below my window and waved up at me. I threw on a sweatshirt and went outside to meet him.

He had on his bathrobe and slippers full of holes. His nose was bright red from the early-morning chill.

“You're supposed to hoot back.”

“What?”

“You're supposed to hoot back. That way I know you've heard the signal.”

“Oh. Next time, okay?”

He shook his head and sighed. “Fine.”

“What's up? You doing okay?” Mr. Bishop hadn't come back to the house yet. He sometimes came to pick Chase up after school. I wondered where he was living. I wondered if
he'd ever come back. But if I tried to talk to Chase about it, he'd cover his ears and turn away.

“Here.” Chase handed me a card. “Happy birthday.” He shivered and rubbed his shoulders.

“This is my first birthday card.” I traced the orange dragon.

“That was my intention. I was going to come at midnight, but I fell asleep.”

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

“And this, too.” He pulled a yellowed envelope out of his pocket. “I found this in Jason's room.”

I looked at Jason's handwriting:
Kyle
.

“Is your mom, um, cleaning out his room?”

Chase shook his head. “No.”

We sat on the porch steps, watching the last stars fade away.

“I sit there,” he said. “In his room.”

I nodded.

“It doesn't smell like him anymore, but I still like it.” Chase leaned on me. “I like to pretend he's coming home.”

“Me too.”

“But he's not.”

“I know.” I put my arm around Chase.

He got up. “See you this afternoon.”

“See you.”

“Don't be late.”

“Never.”

“Almost never,” he corrected me, then walked down the street, leaving padded footprints in the crystal frost.

Kyle

Jason's writing.

I turned the envelope over in my hands and slipped out a brochure.
Voices of Youth Filmmaker Contest.
Jason had highlighted the application due date: May 7.

I lay on the porch, my shoulder blades digging into the concrete. The first rays of sunlight crept across the street until they worked their way up the steps. Tears pooled in my ears.

 

“Happy birthday, man,” Kohana said, coming up to me before lunch.

“Thanks. How'd you know?”

He held out the
The Carson High Tribune
. “They always print up the birthdays here, a week ahead of time.”

“I never noticed.”

“I have a lot of quality reading time waiting for Gram when I miss the bus.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I read my name: Kyle Michael Caroll, February 2.

“Dude, so are you getting your driver's license today?”

I shook my head. I felt kind of stupid.

“So are you having a party or something?”

“Nah.”

Kohana took back the paper. “Well, happy birthday.” He walked down the hall toward the cafeteria. I was on my way to the library.

“Um, Kohana?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you maybe want to come over for dinner tonight? Just if you can, you know.”

He grinned. “Sure.”

“We can pick you up and take you home, if you need.”

“Cool.”

“Um, seven o'clock okay?”

“Definitely.”

On the way out of the library, Mr. Cordoba handed me a small package. “Open it.” I guess he read the
The Carson High Tribune
too.

The whole birthday thing is way overrated. It would be cool if we had a system where birthdays were earned. Like if you lived the year right, then you could get older by one year, or even two if you lived the year really perfect. If not, you'd end up staying the same age until you did. That would've made more sense than giving somebody a present just because they happened to get born on some particular day. Especially if that person didn't deserve it.

Mr. Cordoba leaned on the desk.

I opened up a tattered book in Spanish:
Crónica de una
muerte anunciada.
The name
Edgar
was scribbled inside.

“That's the first book I ever owned,” he said.

“Your very first book?”

He leaned his elbows on the desk. “It's
Chronicle of a Death Foretold
, in Spanish.”

“You read
this
as a kid?”

He laughed. “I got it when I was nineteen.”

“Nineteen? You didn't have your own book until you were nineteen?”

“No, I didn't.”

“What about school? Didn't they give you books?”

“I didn't go to school in Colombia.”

“Really?”

“I had to work. I boxed.”

I shook my head. “They let you box instead of going to school?”

“No. I boxed because my family needed money. School didn't come with a paycheck like I got from the ring.”

I cradled the book in my hand. “So how'd you learn how to read?”

“When I was eighteen, I was given a few years to think about a lot of things. That's when I decided to study and learned to read. That's when I learned to make peace.”

“Peace?”

Mr. Cordoba eyed my notebook. “To make peace with the past.” He got up from his desk and motioned me to sit
down. He sat down across from me at the table. He pointed to his scar. “This is a memory, a reminder of who I was. I take this to bed with me every night.” He scanned the library. “And this is who I am.”

“Who were you?” I looked at the scar.

Mr. Cordoba smiled. “A foolish young man who was given a second chance at life.”

I stared at the scar on his face. I wondered if Kohana had ever taken a photo of Mr. Cordoba's scar, if he had ever captured that story.

Mr. Cordoba watched me intently, then said, “I choose not to live my life based on one moment.” He rubbed his scar.

I ran my fingers over the soft edges of the book, worn like velvet. “So you didn't learn how to read until you were eighteen?”

“No. And I've been trying to catch up ever since.”

“And after you learned, this was the first book you ever bought?”

“Actually, my best friend gave it to me.”

“And you're giving it to me?” I blushed.

He smiled.

“I don't know what to say. About this.”

“‘Thank you' will do.” He got up from the table.

“Thank you, Mr. Cordoba.”

“Happy birthday, Mr. Caroll.” He patted my shoulder
and headed back to his office.

That afternoon, even Mark stopped by with a card. “Happy birthday, Kyle. Now that you're sixteen, gotta get you up on a motorcycle one of these days.”

Mom set her jaw and scowled. The last thing she needed was for me to join a biker gang.

“Just kidding, Mrs. Caroll.” Mark laughed and winked at me. The last of his Cancun sunburn had flaked off. For a while his head had looked like a blotchy billiard cue ball.

 

We picked Kohana up at seven o'clock. Dad grilled burgers out on the deck. Mom made sweet potato fries. Kohana had three helpings of everything. He turned red every time Mel said anything to him. It was the first time I ever saw the guy flustered.

Mom brought out a double-chocolate fudge cake with chocolate-chip ice cream, my favorite since forever. Everybody sang.

“Make a wish, Kyle,” Mel said.

I closed my eyes and blew out all the candles.
I just want things to be okay again. I want Chase and the Bishops to be okay.

Mom and Dad gave me a key chain and keys to both their cars. Mel gave me a
TEAM DUDE BIG LEBOWSKI
T-shirt.

Kohana pulled out his photography portfolio. He handed me a photo. “This one's for you.”

It was a black-and-white of my shoes, hand-tinted orange. “This is really cool.”

Mom, Dad, and Mel crowded around to look at the pictures Kohana had taken. “Those are so good, Kohana,” Mel said. “I never thought those shoes of Kyle's would be photogenic.” She pinched her nose, and everybody laughed.

Kohana turned magenta. “Thanks.”

“They're stories,” I interrupted. Then I explained Kohana's philosophy of photography.

“Maybe one day you can tell us the stories,” Mom said.

“Sure, Mrs. Caroll.” Kohana chewed on his lower lip and fidgeted with the zipper on his portfolio.

Mom smiled at Kohana. “Only if you'd like.”

Mom, Dad, and Mel looked at every one of Kohana's pictures, then headed into the kitchen. I got up to help with the dishes. “I got 'em, Kyle,” Mel said.

Kohana reorganized his portfolio, leaving a blank spot.

“What picture goes there?” I asked.

“Your shoes.”

“You can keep this if you need it.” I handed him the photo.

“I have a copy,” he said.

“So? Why leave it blank?”

“This is like an anthology. But it can't be complete without your story. No story. No photo.”

“Oh.” I swallowed.

“Maybe another time.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Dad and I took Kohana home. He talked the entire way about how much he had loved dinner. Mom had made him a leftover bag so he could share with his grandma.

As he was walking into his house, he shouted, “You owe me a story!”

On the way home, Dad turned on the radio and hummed along to some jazz solo. He looked over at me and said, “Anything else you'd like to do?” He motioned to the slice of cake I'd wrapped in aluminum foil and brought with me at the last minute.

“Do you think we could stop by the cemetery?”

Dad nodded. We drove in silence and parked outside the gate. “I think it's closed.”

“I know a way in.”

“Do you need company?”

I shook my head. “I'd rather go alone. If that's okay.”

“Sure.” He lit up a cigarette and winked. “Don't tell your mother.”

“I won't.” I rolled my eyes. It would be easier if they just smoked together.

I slipped through the shadows of the cemetery, unwrapped the cake, and left it next to Chase's M&M's jar.

Happy birthday, man.

Thanks, Jase.

Make a wish?

Yep.

Hope it comes true.

Me, too, Jase.

“Okay.” I ran up to Dad. “I'm ready.”

I got into the car and Dad cranked up the heat. “It's cold outside.”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. It had felt pretty scratchy all day. “Can you maybe not tell anybody we came by?”

He turned off the radio and touched his forehead to mine, just like he used to do when I was little. I leaned into him and it felt good, like I was ten years old again.

When we got home, I hung Kohana's picture up next to Chase's Orange Dragon drawing. The walls didn't seem so empty anymore.