Freeze Frame (4 page)

M
ark and I walked down a hallway. We passed by other cells and a social room. Everyone wore the same blue-gray jumpsuits, like the kind auto mechanics use. There were some kids lying down on bunk beds playing cards. A skinny girl lay on a cot facing a concrete wall. Her shoulders jerked up and down like she was crying.

“What's wrong with her?” I asked.

Mark looked at her, then back at me. “Not my case.”

“Are there a lot of us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cases? A lot of cases?”

Mark nodded. “Too many, I'm afraid.”

“Oh.” My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. I was glad they had let me keep my orange sneakers. It was this
pair of knockoff Vans I'd won when I went to the International Chili Cookoff with the Bishops last spring. I was the only one who could eat the whole bowl of Tasmanian Devil–Breath Chili from Down Under without asking for a glass of water. After winning, I couldn't feel my mouth, and I guess my lips and tongue looked pretty swollen, because the Bishops rushed me to the emergency room. Jason was pretty pissed.

“I didn't even get a chance to eat my Indian fry bread.”

“Thanks for your concern, asshole.”

“Man, Kyle, you did this for a pair of butt-ugly shoes.”

“They're not ugly. They're tight.” I was sucking on ice, so when I spoke, drool dripped down my chin.

“They're orange.”

“So. Orange is tight.”

“You'll never wear 'em.”

“Yeah, I will.” I pulled off my high-tops and put on the orange chili shoes.

“You'll never wear 'em in public.”

“Wanna bet?” By that time, a tingling numb feeling had crept into my throat. Blisters popped out on my lips. I have to admit I was a little worried. I chomped on the ice and let it trickle down my throat.

“Yeah. I bet you won't wear 'em.”

“I'll wear 'em. Every day.”

“For how long? A weekend?”

“A year. I'll be the fashion trendsetter this year.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Bet your 1948 Captain Marvel Adventures number eighty-one.”

Jason paused. “And if I win?”

“You get any film collection I have.”

“Any?”

“Yep.”

“You're not gonna stick me with that Bollywood shit.”

“Like I said. Your pick.”

“Okay. I want your David Lynch collection, including
Twin Peaks
.”

I paused. This was big.

“What? Stakes too high?”

“Deal.”

“You're on.” Jason grinned.

 

I looked down. The orange sneakers contrasted with the gray jumpsuit thing. They were pretty dirty. So far I'd worn them for 170 days straight.

“Kyle!”

I turned around and saw Mark standing in the middle of the corridor, fifty feet away.

“Have you been listening to me?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.” I looked down at my shoes. “I was just thinking.”

Mark nodded. “Come on. Dr. Matthews is going to help you work through some things now. She'll be good to talk to.”

It was better to think about my shoes.

“You seem like a pretty good kid, Kyle.” Mark clapped me on the back. He liked back clapping. I guessed it was the manliest way he could hug a guy. “You're going to be okay,” he said.

Who cares if I'm okay? What about Jason? What about Chase? What about Mom? It was like the world had taken a freaky turn and I'd ended up with all cameras focused on me.

We arrived at a dinky office at the end of a long hallway. It didn't have the doctor's name on it or anything, so I kind of figured she just came every now and again. I peeked in the window.

Dr. Matthews's matted hair was swept up into a knot on the back of her head. It actually looked like a spider-webby doorknob from a 1930s horror flick—like in an old Boris Karloff film. Wisps of gray around a rubber band, smack in the middle of her head. She wore a shapeless dress with bright colors and jungle prints. She jingled when she walked because of the loads of jewelry that covered her body, head to toe. The office smelled like burned cinnamon.

I looked at Mark. “She's the one who's going to
decide if I'm sane?”

Mark pushed me through the door and introduced me to Dr. Matthews. “I'll be waiting for you when you're done.”

“You'll have to excuse the makeshift office. I'm getting mine redecorated. It should be done sometime next week.” Dr. Matthews smiled, and lines webbed from the corners of her eyes to her temples.

She cocked her head to the side and said, “We have a lot to talk about. Why don't we just jump right in.”

 

Jump.

“Jump!”

That's what Jase and I shouted to Mel and Brooke when we went barreling down Elm Street in Dad's rickety firewood wagon. We were in fourth grade and thought it would be fun to tear down the street. We just never thought about the steering part. Or the stopping part. Jason took the helm, and just as we hit the turn going onto Richmond, Jase shouted “Jump!” He knew we'd never make the turn, and a wall of rosebushes was straight ahead. Jase and I jumped, but Mel and Brooke didn't. They catapulted forward into the rosebushes, and it took about three hours for Mom to dethorn them. That time neither of us was too bugged about getting busted because it was worth a lifetime of laughs to watch them fly into the bushes—a
classic Buster Keaton moment. But I kind of think Brooke still holds a grudge because of some lame-ass scar she has on her forehead.

They should've jumped.

 

“Jump,” I whispered, and shook my head. “Jump.”

“Kyle?” Dr. Matthews raised her right eyebrow. “Would you like to take a seat?”

She sat on a colorful couch and leaned against the pillows. I sat on the far end of the same couch. There was nowhere else to go.

“Can you tell me how you're feeling right now?”

I looked down at my sneakers. God, I was glad to have those orange sneakers.

“Okay. Maybe you could walk me through what happened yesterday.”

So I told her the same stuff I'd told the police. She just listened and nodded. When I finished, she didn't say anything for a long time. I kinda thought she was asleep until she sighed. It wasn't a regular sigh. It had kind of a hum to it. Maybe it was a hum and not a sigh. I really couldn't tell. She might've just had some kind of respiratory problem.

“Can you remember anything at all between finding the gun and Jason being shot?”

Scene Three. All I saw were split-second images, like in the old days when the movies flashed subliminal messages
of popcorn and Coke on the screen. Nobody saw the popcorn or Coke images—they just got really hungry. That's what I saw when I tried to remember Scene Three. Flashes that I couldn't splice together to make the scene whole. And it made me feel sick.

I shifted on the couch. “I'm trying.” I picked at a callus.

She laid her hand on my arm. “That's okay. You'll remember.”

But what if I don't want to? What if I really did it? On purpose? What if I'm a killer?

“I'm here to help you fill in the blanks—put the pieces of that day back together.”

I looked up at her and clenched my jaw.

“Why don't you tell me how you feel about what happened?”

Everybody wanted explanations. Everybody wanted to “get” it. Get me. I never had to explain myself to Jase. He got that on Tuesdays I'd always be late showing up to his house to go to school because I had to watch the first five minutes of the re-reruns of
The X Files
to make sure it wasn't episode 6X07, “Rain King,” where Mulder is almost killed by a cow that's dropped into his hotel room—the only one I haven't seen in all nine seasons. A fucking cow, of all things.

Most people would just think I should rent it and get it over with. But Jason understood. He knew that renting it would be like giving up. He just got stuff. Or he used to.

Dr. Matthews cleared her throat. “Can you tell me how you feel about yesterday?”

It's like I hit the fucking delete button.
Zap!
He's gone. How was I supposed to feel about that? I looked at Dr. Matthews and shook my head.

“Okay, let's try this. What's the first thing that comes to your mind as we speak?”

Sorry.

“It doesn't have to be anything you think I want to hear. Feel free to let your mind wander and grab onto the very first thought you have.”

Sorry.

I started to feel pretty hot in that closed-in office. It was about the size of Grandma Nancy's linen closet—with a lumpy couch and schoolroom desk squashed into it. There were no windows, just the one that was on the aluminum door. Sweat stung my eyes, and I wiped it off my forehead.

Dr. Matthews cocked her head to the side. “Are you okay?”

No.
I mopped the sweat off my forehead and stared at my shoes.

Then we sat quietly until Dr. Matthews said, “We'll have a chance to get to know each other better. If you need to see me, even when it's not your appointment time, you can always ask for me. Do you have any questions?”

How long will it take the state to build up the case so they can put me away forever? What will it be like to live in prison? Did I do it? Did I kill Jason on purpose?

She had a kitchen timer on the desk. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket. “Our time's up for now, Kyle.”

Mark knocked on the door. Dr. Matthews invited him in. Some kid stood in the hallway with a brown-uniformed cop. The kid had piercing holes all over his face: eyebrows, lips, nose, chin. He stuck out his tongue—split down the middle like a snake's to match the tattoo that coiled up his neck to his ear. He glared at me.

“I'll be right with you, Simon.” Dr. Matthews smiled a tired smile.

Simon? Talk about the wrong name. A kid like that should be named something meaner, tougher, like Damian. But then again, Arnold Schwarzenegger doesn't look much like an Arnold.

Dr. Matthews closed the door behind Mark.

“It's my turn, you mad cow! It's my hour! The judge said.” Simon had a high, piercing voice, like it had never gotten around to cracking. The door didn't do much to muffle his shouts.

Dr. Matthews winced and sighed. She turned to Mark. “Please take a seat.”

Mark looked really uncomfortable sitting behind the small desk.

“We need more time,” she said. “I want to see him every day.”

Mark looked at me. I shrugged. I kinda figured that Simon could use more Dr. Matthews time than me; he was a human colander, for God's sake.

“Kyle's not quite ready to talk.” She smiled at me. “The mind is a wonderful thing. It has a way of protecting us from the truth sometimes.”

Why can't I remember?

I dunno.

Dude, do you remember?

I'm the dead one.

So dead people don't have memories?

I haven't really thought about it.

Some help you are.

You could cut me some slack here. I
am
the dead one.

Yeah. You mentioned that.

Dr. Matthews stood up. She looked like a prism; her body shattered into thousands of colors. If she were one of Jase's superheroes, she'd be Mega Matthews, the huge psychiatrist who wraps her enemies in straitjackets, then poisons them with cinnamon incense, erasing their memories.

“Kyle, are you listening?” Dr. Matthews asked.

I looked up and shook my head. I had forgotten where I was for a moment and squinted. Dr. Matthews was pretty “mega.”

God, I'm such an asshole.

“I'm going to give you some medication for a few days to keep you on an even keel. It's nothing to worry about. Just standard procedure, okay?” Dr. Matthews swayed in the middle of the room, and I focused, pulling all the color back together to make her whole again.

“Okay. Sure. Standard procedure.”

She squeezed my arm. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

Great. Mega Matthews, take two. How many takes would I need to get it right? I guessed as long as the state wanted to pay for it.

Mark led me back to my cell. “I'll see you tomorrow morning. We have the detention hearing first thing. I'll come for you at seven forty-five.”

Tick, tick, tick.

Everything kept moving forward.

Stop. Just push the stop button.

But Mark's lips moved. People walked by us in the hallway. The afternoon light grew dim. And I was stuck on play.

That night they gave me Dr. Matthews's pills with my food. My world lost its colors. The brightness turned to shades of gray and forms lost their edge. But my dreams were filled with red, black, and deep purple. Veins, tendons, arteries, muscles, and blood, pumping, flowing, and then clotting and stopping. I woke up when the room was so
black, I couldn't even see my own hand. I stayed awake and listened to some girl cry down the hall. Another kid tapped a pencil or something against the wall.

I counted backward, wondering if I could turn everything around if I concentrated hard enough, but I couldn't. The sun rose, and I was two days away—farther from Jason than I ever thought I'd be.

T
he courtroom smelled like lemon furniture polish and old men's cologne. It was too small for a jury. And the judge was a surprise. You always think judges are gonna be some balding fat guys with mustaches or something, but not this one. Jason and I used to talk about what jobs would be good for meeting hot women. Judge would've been one of them.

 

“You know what would be cool?” Jason said one day when we were in seventh grade, out of nowhere. We were just hanging out in Jase's room. “Teaching.”

I looked at Jason. “Teaching what?”

“Art…or something.”

“C'mon! That's so lame. What teacher have we ever had that's hot?”

Jason shrugged. “I dunno. I think Miss Simpson isn't too bad. And Mrs. Carmichael is a pretty good-lookin' old bird.”

“Mrs. Carmichael? She's gotta be at least thirty-five! And way far away from being Hooters-hot. You need a job where you meet Hooters-hot chicks. Like a cop or fireman. Think
Backdraft
, not
Stand and Deliver
. Plus, when I get picked for Carson City's hottest firemen calendar, the chicks will be all over me.”

“Hottest firemen calendar?” Jason shook his head and cracked up. “Whatever, Mr. December.”

“Dude, why not?” I did my Mr. Universe pose.

“You're hopeless.”

I punched him, and he put me in a headlock. “C'mon, Jase.” I tried to break free, but he had me tight. “It's way better than playing school with Miss Simpson in her plaid vests.”

He let me go. “Okay, seriously. Have you ever thought about what you wanted to do? I mean for real?”

“Not Mr. December?”

“Kyle, I'm serious.”

I thought for a while. “Not really. It just seems so far away. Plus, all I like are movies. And I don't think having a managerial position at Blockbuster is a babe-magnet kind of job.” I shrugged. “What about you?”

“An artist.”

“An artist? Like painting and art galleries and shit?”

“More like graphic design and comics. Grandma Peters
is teaching me to draw with charcoal. She said I had to get the basics first. It's pretty cool.”

“Dude, so that's what you've been doing. I mean, when you say you're busy and don't want to watch old movies.”

Jason nodded.

“Will you show me your stuff?”

“It's not any good.”

“C'mon, just show me.”

“Don't laugh.” Jason pulled out a notebook of chalky black drawings. At first they weren't so great, but then by mid notebook, the apples really looked like apples. He had even drawn a picture of an old tennis shoe with the toe worn through. “Check these out.” He had a separate notebook filled with Marvel comic characters.

“
You
drew these?”

He nodded. I flipped through the pages and started noticing familiar faces. “Dude, that's me.”

Jason cracked up. “Yeah, I drew you as a movie director.”

I whistled. “And check out the actresses. Nice, Jase.”

He grinned. “I thought you'd like that.”

“You know, you could draw those caricatures of people—like they do at Disneyland.”

Jason shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Definitely. These are good.”

“You think?”

“Shit, Jase. You're going to be the hottest new name on the comic-book market.” I already pictured his stuff in a series. Or maybe he'd even have drawings hanging up in some kind of cool New York art show with people milling around eating cheese and crackers off silver platters.

“Grandma Peters signed me up for art classes after school this year, three nights a week. Dad's pretty bummed I won't be playing basketball or anything. His oldest son, an art pansy.”

“Drawing superheroes is definitely not pansy. It's cool, Jase. Really. When are your classes?”

“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

I felt a twinge of sadness. What would happen to our Friday Night Flicks club? “Then you
really
must like this.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Before Jason closed up the book, he tore out the sketch of the movie director. “Here.” He handed it to me. “Only if you want it.” He scuffed his shoes against the wall, leaving a black smudge.

“Yeah, I want it. This will be worth a mint someday.” I still have it hanging up on my bulletin board. He never signed it, though.

 

The judge cleared her throat. “What do we have on the agenda today?”

A lady tapped things on a black machine, and a man
sat in a little box next to the judge. He handed her a file. She flipped it open.

Mark stood up. “Juvenile Master Brown, at this time I don't think we need to remand Kyle to West Hills Hospital because I don't believe he is a suicide risk. I do, however, request that he be placed in the juvenile detention center until I can better assess the situation.”

“Where's the jury?” I asked.

Mr. Allison leaned in. “There is no jury. You're in juvenile court. You will have a disposition before Juvenile Master Brown in the next two weeks. She'll review your case and then determine your…” His voice faded. “Your sentence. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Twenty to life without the possibility of parole. I tried to remember how the defendants acted in all those movies when they're sent away. Most of them don't even cry. They're just stone-faced.

How will I react?

I looked at all the people crowded into the small courtroom.

“Do you have any problem with that, Mr. Wiley?” the judge asked the other lawyer across the room.

“No, Juvenile Master Brown, I don't. When should we meet again?” Mr. Wiley shuffled his papers and nodded at me. He wore a much nicer suit than Mr. Allison.

“Can we meet Wednesday afternoon or Thursday
morning?” Mark said, looking at his calendar.

“So soon?” Judge Brown raised her eyebrows.

“The Carolls, from what I've seen so far, are good people. My main concern is the psychological welfare of Kyle, and I don't think that the juvenile detention center can offer him more support than his family. I do, however, want to take the time I need to visit the home and make sure there is no longer a risk factor.”

“Mr. Wiley?” Judge Brown looked over her glasses at the other lawyer.

“That's fine. Thursday morning?”

The man who sat next to the judge said, “We will meet here Thursday at ten-thirty
A.M
.”

“Good. Next.” The judge didn't even have a gavel to pound on her desk.

Mr. Allison patted me on the back. “See, it's going to be okay,” he whispered.

I glared at him. How was it possible that things would ever be okay after what I had done? I needed to edit that day. It didn't matter about Jase and the guys. We didn't have to hang out anymore. I just needed to go back and edit that one day—one scene. Scene Three.

But how could I edit what I couldn't remember?

Mom and Dad rushed over to me. “We'll get you home Thursday.”

Mark was waiting for me outside the holding room. “Let's go,” he said. “Back to Dr. Matthews.”