Freeze Frame (7 page)

F
or the disposition, Mom wore the blue dress she saved for teacher conferences. Dad wore the suit I'd borrowed for the funeral. They had bought me a new shirt and tie and a pair of gray slacks. Not like it mattered.

Mr. and Mrs. Bishop came in. They shuffled into the back row. Mrs. Bishop strained to keep her head up and ended up resting it on Mr. Bishop's shoulder. He had black circles under his eyes and fidgeted with his wristwatch. I never really knew what sadness looked like until then.

The judge had declared it a closed hearing, open only to family. That was good. I didn't want anybody bugging Mom and Dad. They had enough shit to deal with.

The lawyer at the other table shuffled papers. Mr. Allison whispered things to Dad. Mel sniffled and blew her
nose. Mom leaned over and straightened my tie. “Things are going to be okay.”

She had been saying that the past ten days, like some kind of mantra.

But they weren't.

I looked down at Jason's watch and rubbed its face. I almost felt relieved. Soon it would all be over. The end. My end. Roll the credits.

Judge Brown came in, and we stood up. She turned to the lawyer standing across from Mr. Allison and me. “Mr. Wiley, I've reviewed the case. Would anybody for the prosecution like to make a statement?”

We all turned to the Bishops. Mrs. Bishop held a crinkled handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Bishop sat with his arms crossed in front of him, a roll of skin bulging over the top of his shirt collar.

The courtroom was silent.

Say something,
I thought.
Tell her about what I did; about the “probation friend” list; about Jason's new friends. TELL HER.

Mr. Wiley shook his head. “No, Your Honor, the Bishops don't wish to make any statement. You have everything before you.”

“Would you like to say anything to the court?” Judge Brown looked at me.

I took a sip of water and looked back at the Bishops.
Mr. Allison and Mark had prepped me the past week about what I should say. They said it's really important to show remorse. “Look sorry,” they'd said. “You really need to look sorry in court.”

What does
sorry
look like? Does it have a color? A shape? Is it dark or light? I knew what it felt like, but what did it look like?

“Mr. Caroll, would you like to address the court?” Judge Brown asked. She leaned on her desk.

Mrs. Bishop stared at her lap, her head too heavy to hold up. Mr. Bishop's eyes darted back and forth from the judge to the stenographer. Mom's knuckles turned white from squeezing Dad's leg so tight. Dad wrapped his arm around Mel, and she leaned into his shoulder. I looked at Mr. Allison.

“Go ahead,” he urged.

I'm sorry.

Mr. and Mrs. Bishop looked up at me. Mrs. Bishop didn't even try to wipe her tears.

“I—” I cleared my throat. “I,
um
—”

I remembered Mr. Bishop trembling in the church, saying, “You have no right…you have no right.” I heard Brooke's sobs and Chase asking if Jason was going to be all right. I saw splatters of blood all over Dad's shed and the burning flesh. I saw Jason's body doubled over, lying in a pool of blood.

Jason would never graduate from Carson High or go to college. He'd never get to backpack around Europe. He'd never have a fancy New York art show.

I had no right.

If I didn't look sorry, they'd have to send me away. Judge Brown would see that I deserved to go to a detention center.

I turned from the Bishops and shook my head. “No.”

“Just a moment, Judge Brown,” Mr. Allison said. He turned to me. “Don't you want to say something?” He leaned in. “Remember what we talked about.”

I squared my shoulders and swallowed. “No. I have nothing to say.” I heard a sob from the back of the courtroom.

Judge Brown paused, then nodded. “Then I'll proceed.” She flipped through a file on her desk. “From the evidence presented by the Carson City Police Department, letters received, and the recommendations of Mr. Grimes and Dr. Matthews, I remand Kyle to three years' probation under strict supervision of his parole officer, Mark Grimes, and continued psychological evaluations by Dr. Matthews or any other state-appointed psychiatrist. I also recommend counseling for both families, the Bishops and the Carolls. This was an unfortunate incident.” Judge Brown looked at me. “Do you have any questions?”

“But,” I said, shaking my head, “but they have to tell
you about me—about what I did.”

Judge Brown nodded. “I know what you did, and your sentence is appropriate.”

I killed Jason. How could that sentence be appropriate?
I turned to the Bishops. “You
saw
what I did. Tell her!
Tell her!
”

Mr. Allison yanked on my shirtsleeve. “Enough!”

“I don't get it. I kill Jase and get a get-out-of-jail-free card? Like nothing? What the fuck is wrong with everyone here? I
did
it. He's dead because of me.”

Dad grabbed me by the shoulders. “We're going home, Kyle. We'll deal with this there.”

I looked around the courtroom. It didn't make sense. It was an open-and-shut case. I killed him. I confessed. And they send me home because it was an “unfortunate incident”? I felt numb. It was like everything had turned upside down again. Everything was wrong. I squeezed the watch, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Look at me, Kyle. Look me in the eyes.” Dad held my jaw in his hand. “We're going home now.”

I shook my head. “No. No. No.”

Mark came forward and said, “Juvenile Master Brown, clearly Kyle is not himself, and he is reacting to the intense pressure he's been under.”

The judge looked at him, then at me. She said almost in a whisper, “You are one step away from being in
contempt of this court. You have a second chance because this court believes you deserve it.”

Second chance? Tell that to Jason
—the dead one.

“This court does not hand out second chances lightly,” Judge Brown continued. “You have an opportunity to make something of yourself—to redeem yourself. I never want to see you in my courtroom again. Understood?”

I felt cheated. My life was supposed to have been put on pause, just like Jason's. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I wasn't supposed to be allowed to go on.
Freeze frame
.

Every morning since October 8, I'd wished I could wake up to the smell of pancakes and the sounds of Mel's blow-dryer and Jason's snoring. I'd wished that I had a chance to make that day right. It would be so easy if life could be edited. But the movie never changed. And there was no way to erase what I had done or to go back.

“Court adjourned.” Judge Brown stood abruptly and left.

The courtroom settled into an uncomfortable silence, something you wouldn't find in a real courtroom drama. I looked back to see Mr. and Mrs. Bishop slip out the door.

Mom muttered, “Thank God. Thank God,” all the way to the car.

Mark caught up to us. “Kid, I don't know what the hell that was all about.”

Mom stepped forward. “He's upset. His best friend is dead.”

“I'm aware that he's upset, but that's the kind of thing that gets a judge doubting a kid. Dr. Matthews is going to have to reevaluate whether or not we should send him to West Hills.”

“The mental hospital? Aren't we jumping to some conclusions here, Mark?” Dad opened Mom's door. He was in charge now. “Aren't we expecting a lot of a fifteen-year-old? Under the circumstances, I'd say Kyle is handling things pretty well.”

Mark nodded. “It's not an easy time for anyone. But you need to know what I expect of Kyle.”

Dad waited, arms crossed. He stood head and shoulders above Mark.

“Kyle's job is to get good grades and stay in line.” Mark turned to me. “You still belong to the state. Understand?”

I nodded.

Mark turned to Mom and Dad and softened his tone. “After a while, these kinds of cases tend to take care of themselves. I'll be in contact with Dr. Matthews. I want to see Kyle's progress reports. I'll be talking to you about his behavior and grades, but I hope I don't have to come around too often.”

Mom and Dad nodded. Mark shook my hand. “See you later this week, okay?”

“Okay.”

We got into the car. Dad's hand shook too hard to put the key into the ignition. “Christ,” he whispered.

Mom steadied his hand and guided the key in. Dad rested his head on the steering wheel.

“You okay, Dad?” Mel asked. She leaned forward.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

T
he house was quiet. I trudged up to my room and stared at my poster of
Sin City
. Jase had been a Frank Miller fanatic, and it was the only movie poster he ever really wanted. But I didn't give it to him. I never bet him for it, either. Some part of me liked having something Jase wanted.

Did that mean I had pointed the gun at him? On purpose?

I took the poster off the wall, leaving a glaring white spot. One by one, I tore down the rest of my posters, piling them up in the corner. I didn't deserve to have anything anymore. I should've given the fucking poster to Jason.

I looked at the blank walls. Nothingness. That's what I deserved. My mind returned to the scene I thought of at
the detention center—my death scene. There was only one way to make things stop now. The ultimate freeze frame. Could I do it?

Shivering, I pulled my knees to my chest and remembered that Jason's duffel bag was pushed into the back corner of my closet from that last night he'd stayed over.

What did he pack? Would I have to return the stuff to his parents?

Jason had used the same duffel for every sleepover since fourth grade. It was blue and white and had a purple stain on the bottom from the time that Jeffrey Mason barfed up his Kool-Aid.

I pushed my shoes out of the way and reached back to drag out Jason's bag. The duffel was heavy. I had forgotten that he had come over right after school. He hadn't even stopped at home. His gym shoes and sweaty clothes were inside. He had brought home his math, science, and history notebooks with every white space filled with drawings and doodles. His doodles were art, not just squiggles.

He had a library book:
The Metamorphosis
. I flipped through the first few pages. Jase read the strangest shit. And the book was way overdue. I bet Scarface Cordoba, the librarian, had already sent out a hit on Jase for not returning it.

Too late, Scarface.

I wiped my nose and wondered if the library had one
of those drop-off slots like they have at Blockbuster so I could drop it off and run. Or maybe if I got to school at five
A.M
., I could leave it propped against the door.

Leave it to Jase to stick me with facing Scarface with an overdue book. Shit.

Dude, Jase, nice touch. It was overdue before all this happened.

Suck it up, Kyle. Things could be worse.

Yeah, can't argue with a dead guy.

You never could argue with me alive, either, man.

Whatever.

I pulled out his sketchbook and portfolio. They were his latest comics characters: Infinity Detention, Split Infinitive, Formaldehyde, Sketch, Kite Rider, Line Runner, and Freeze Frame. My hands felt clammy; my sweaty fingers smudged the notebook. I put it down, and an application for UC Berkeley's teen summer comic-book art program slipped out. Jason had already filled it in.

So he was going to apply after all.

Jason had big dreams.

Poof!
Now they were gone.

I sat with the empty bag on my lap and my hands shook. It smelled like Jason—a combination of peanut butter, damp socks, and chalk. There wasn't a day that went by that Jason didn't eat a peanut-butter sandwich. The guy was obsessed with them—the chunky kind. And the damp
socks and chalk smells were everywhere else. I don't know why, especially since damp socks are kind of raunchy, but it was more of a damp-socks-after-going-through-the-wash kind of smell. Damp, clean socks. And the chalk came from all those pastels he used for his art.

I buried my head in Jason's bag and breathed deep. I didn't even hear Mom coming up the stairs.

She opened my door and gasped. “Kyle! What are you doing with your head in a duffel bag?”

I pulled my head out and shoved the duffel and Jason's stuff under the bed. “I'm just thinkin', Mom.”

“With a duffel bag on your head?”

“Yeah. I read about it somewhere. You know, to help me think.”

“Are you okay?” Mom scanned the bare walls. Dad's frame filled the doorway. He hadn't said anything since we'd left the courthouse.

The smell of Mom's perfume drifted through the room, erasing Jason.

“I guess I kinda want to be alone for a while. If that's okay.”

Mom came toward me. Dad pulled her back. He nodded. They backed out of the room. Did they smell Jason too?

“Don't forget we have a family session with Dr. Matthews later today,” Mom said.

“Sure. Okay.”

 

Dr. Matthews had a new office. A big one with that same lumpy couch and tiny desk. But she also had beanbags and Legos and stuff like that. Every session with her got worse. It was like she wanted to direct the movie in my head. But she didn't get that the most important scene of the movie had been deleted, and there was no way to recover it.

She wanted us to do family therapy once a month—including Mel. Mel glared at Dr. Matthews the whole visit.

“Now, then. I want to talk about Kyle.” Dr. Matthews focused on me and smiled.

She was obsessed with my issues and ticked them off for my family.

I wanted to interrupt and say,
Actually, I killed my best friend. No matter what I do, that's what happened. And I can't go back. And when I close my eyes, all I see is blood and Jason stuffed in a coffin. And his mother made him wear makeup for eternity. That's my real “issue.”

But I didn't say that.

Dr. Matthews leaned back. I wondered if her knotty hair might get caught up in the buttons on the couch cushions. She started talking to my parents, and I played their conversation in fast-forward, listening as the shrill words blended together. Then I stopped and played it backward, so everything sounded like a different language.

“.gnilaeh ot pets tsrif eht si gnirebmemeR”

“?rebmemer ot deen elyK seod oS?”

“.ti deen ew nehw su stcetorp taht enihcam lufrednow a si dnim ehT .oN”

“?aisenma ekil ti sI”

“.emit emos etiuq rof deneppah tahw yltcaxe rebmemer ton thgim elyK”

“.sseug I, gnimlehwrevo neeb lla s'tI”

I looked at the wall. Framed diplomas hung all around the room. I couldn't believe she had actually gone to college for this stuff.

Dad put his arm around my shoulders. Mel rolled her eyes and kept looking at her watch. I let their conversation play in real time.

“We're going to get through this, Kyle.” Dad nodded firmly, with confidence.

Dr. Matthews's bright dress blended in with the colorful sofa, and she looked like a blob with frizzy hair. If I squinted, I couldn't tell where the sofa ended and she began.

“Kyle needs to get back to school and start normal activities again. He's been on homebound since the incident and has not progressed. One of the terms of his probation is that he do his homework and get passing grades.” She flipped through a folder. “Kyle needs to get moving. Inertia is
deadly
.” She leaned over when she said that last part, ruining the sofa-dress-blob effect.

“Okay,” Mom agreed. “Kyle will start on Monday.”