Flicker

by Melanie Hooyenga

  Two seconds later my fingers twitch. The tingling numbness sweeps through my hands and I fight to keep my foot steady on the gas. My eyelids flutter but remain open. Martinez's comment about my pupil dilating flashes through my mind, but it's gone just as fast because I'm sinking into my seat. My arms fight to let go of the steering wheel but I will them to hang on. I can barely see over the top of the dashboard. My head's so heavy…

  Then it lifts and I'm nearly hitting the roof of the car. Almost…

  I cling to the steering wheel, fighting for breath as my eyes roll back and—

  I'm choking on a fry. There's already a drink in my hand so I take a big sip and cough again.

  Cameron drops his burger into his lap and reaches over to pat my back. Concern darkens his eyes and I nearly forget the food lodged in my throat. "Are you okay?"

  I take another sip. "Yeah," I croak. "I'm fine."

  He smiles and his hair falls over his eyes.

  Better than fine.

  Chapter 14

  Flickering has its consequences. Most notably a pounding, piercing, vomit-worthy explosion that happens when I get back to the point before I flickered. It's Sunday morning and I'm on my bed studying when the pain hits me out of nowhere. I usually check what time I leave so I can at least be ready for it, but that doesn't lessen the severity.

  I push my book to the floor and bury my face in the pillow. It was worth it, it was worth it, it was so totally worth it. It sucks now but I chose to flicker and I have to deal with it. Besides, who else gets to relive a night like that?

  My phone beeps.

  I can't.

  It beeps again.

  And again.

  I drag myself out of bed and grab my phone off the floor. It's Amelia and she just acronym-ed all over my phone. I choose to call her instead of texting so I don't have to open my eyes. "So it went well?"

  "Ohmigod! He's so effing hot! Did you see him last night?"

  I pull the phone away from my ear. "Yes, I saw how hot he was." Both times. It's weird how no one else deviates from what they did the first time. Only me. "So what happened after we left?"

  She sighs dramatically. "We hung out for awhile and he put his arm around me. Thank you so much for leaving the blanket! I told him I was cold so he pulled it around us…" she trails off and I'm grateful for the quiet. I really am happy for her, I just wish she wasn't so loud about it.

  "Did you kiss?"

  "Yeah, when he drove me home. Holy crap he's hot. And you still totally have to do the interview. He's really excited about it and of course I'm going to his games."

  I smile. "That's awesome, Amelia. We'll definitely go Tuesday." I'm happy she's so excited and it's fun to be feeling this at the same time as her.

  "So what about you? I saw you guys making out before you left. Did anything else happen?"

  I think back to last night. I had debated changing things but it was already perfect. I can't imagine wanting anything different. "He just drove me home."

  "And…?"

  "Not much. But it was awesome." I've shared more with her about other guys, but I want to keep Cameron to myself.

  *****

  I spend the rest of the day in my room, alternating between sleeping and trying to study. Mom calls me down for dinner, but I can't eat. I force down a couple bites of apple—there's some theory that it helps migraines but I don't know if it actually does anything—then crawl back into bed.

  There's a text from Cameron waiting for me. "Thinking of you." I'd hug the phone if it wasn't so damn small and completely unhuggable.

  "Me too. Going to sleep soon."

  "Wish I was there."

  I'm melting. I'm literally melting into my bed right now. "Good night."

  I plug in my phone and flip off the light. I'm not letting trig destroy my good mood.

  *****

  Morning comes too soon. The ice pick in my ear has been replaced with a knitting needle—the pain is just as severe but in a more specific place—and it feels like half my brain leaked out overnight. I roll out of bed in search of another apple and coffee. And my meds.

  I fumble in the dark in the medicine cabinet. Bottles of lotion and hair stuff fall all around me, landing on my feet. "Shit!" I jump and hit my head in the open cabinet. "Are you kidding me?" I say to no one.

  Or I thought no one. Mom is standing in the doorway, the light from the hall casting her face in shadow. "I wasn't sure if you'd go to school today. How are you feeling?"

  I shrug. Same old, same old.

  "Are you sure you don't want to stay home?" She moves closer and places her cool hand on the back of my neck.

  I purr against her. "Can't. Trig test."

  "You can't make it up?"

  I can't even explain how grateful I am to have understanding parents. Someone seriously needs to punch me the next time I'm bitching about them worrying too much. But they aren't understanding about failing grades. "I'm already cutting it a little close in that class. I don't think I can miss today."

  Her fingers knead my neck, working on a knot wedged just beneath the base of my skull.

  "That feels good."

  She places her other hand on the side of my face and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Just don't overdo it. I'd rather you have to take this class over than end up in the hospital."

  I shudder.

  With one last squeeze, she releases me and steps into the hall. "Black coffee?"

  I nod weakly. "Yes, please." I scrounge through the jumble of bottles on the floor and come up with my beacon of hope. The directions read "One as needed" but I'm tempted to take two. If I need one now, then another in five minutes, who's to say I'm not following the directions? I place one on my tongue, but hesitate. My doctor's gone on and on about overdosing and the increased risk of bleeding to death if I accidentally walk into a wall or some other inanimate object. Which isn't unheard of given the fact that my meds make me a little loopy.

  Taking a deep breath, I put the second pill back in the bottle. I do want to be able to concentrate for this test, otherwise what's the point of dragging my ass out of bed?

  Still in the dark, I pull my hair into a loose ponytail, then go back to my room to throw on some clothes. My trig book laughs at me and I kick it across the floor. Bastard. I sigh and fish it out from under my bed. I can probably study a little more before class.

  Downstairs Mom's already poured coffee into a travel mug. An apple and an apple-flavored granola bar sit on the counter next to my car keys, along with a sticky note that reads ‘Good luck'. I shove everything into my backpack and head out the front door.

  Chapter 15

  "How'd you do?" Amelia heaves her book into her locker and slams it shut.

  "Better than I expected. I studied my ass off yesterday but I think I'm lucky if I got a B."

  She leans the back of her head against the bank of lockers, her eyes closed. "I totally bombed it. Trace and I were texting all day and I couldn't concentrate."

  Regret courses through me. If I hadn't flickered on Sunday I could still repeat today, then I could help Amelia. She doesn't know how I sometimes know exactly what will be on the tests, and she doesn't ask. Once last year she dropped hints about an older student selling answers, but I didn't bite and she hasn't asked again.

  She opens one eye. "Have you talked to Cam?"

  "A little." I smile, and I hope it's not the same dreamy one that's plastered on Amelia's face. I'm all smooshy inside but that doesn't mean I want everyone else knowing that. "I have a migraine so I slept most of the day."

  "I didn't want to say, but you do look a little… awful."

  I swat her shoulder, then wince at the movement. "Thanks."

  She blows me an air-kiss and turns to walk down the hall to her next class. "Anytime, babe."

  I head the opposite way and a hand slides around my waist.

  Cameron nuzzles my neck as we walk, one hand planted firmly on my lower back. "I wasn't sure if you'd be here today."

/>   "I'd rather not be." I smile up at him. "But my day just got considerably better."

  He chuckles, a low sound from deep in his chest, and my insides stir. For a second I forget about the pain and nausea and I feel surprisingly lucid. I don't realize I've stopped walking until Cameron pulls at my arm. "We're gonna be late."

  "Right." I don't know what just happened, but I want more of it.

  By the next day I’m feeling almost back to normal. Good thing, because the soccer game is today and I have to be Ms. Sports Photographer and run all over the place taking pictures.

  I'm waiting at my car for Amelia. The last bell rang ten minutes ago but she still hasn't shown.

  My phone buzzes. "Coming!"

  Two minutes later she bursts from the side entrance, her face flushed. The red deepens when she sees me. "Sorry!"

  I laugh. How can I be mad when she's so happy? I open my door. "Let's go."

  She pouts at me from over the hood. "Are you sure you don't want to watch them warm up? Trace has a new formation he's trying and—"

  I roll my eyes. "I need food. Trace will still be here in twenty minutes."

  With a dramatic sigh she climbs in the car and starts texting.

  At this rate I may not need to interview him after all, although it's an easy way to fill in the story part of the project. "I refuse to ask him questions if you're hanging all over each other."

  "Me?" She flattens her hand against her chest. "I don't hang, I support. I—" she bursts out laughing. "Okay fine, I'll give you five minutes."

  Half an hour later we're camped on the bleachers, surrounded by thirty or so students and about as many parents. The game hasn't started yet and I hope for the guys' sake that more people show up. Having never been to a game myself, I don't know how many people usually attend soccer games, but I figured there was a fan club or something.

  Trace runs onto the field, followed by the rest of the team.

  Amelia's on her feet. "Go, Trace!"

  "He hasn't done anything yet."

  "Legs that hot deserve screaming."

  She's got me there.

  I pull out my equipment and scan the field. The sun is in the west, obviously, so I'll probably move so it's behind me. Although I could get some cool shots with the shadows…

  "Do you want me to walk around with you?"

  "No, you stay here and scream your little heart out."

  She throws a napkin at my head and glances at my uneaten sandwich. "I thought you were starving."

  I touch my stomach. "I was." My headache's fading, too. The anticipation of an afternoon taking pictures has completely distracted me. The heft of the camera in my hand draws my focus away from Amelia and back to the field. I'm anxious to start.

  When the first whistle blows I step over the seats and walk towards the western corner of the field. The ball sails to the opposite end, so I plop on my butt and get comfortable. They're bound to come this way sooner or later.

  A couple of my classmates are on the side opposite the bleachers, cameras glued to their faces. Their shots will all be shit from that angle. I should probably say something, but who am I to tell them what to do? Maybe they're going for a contrasted silhouette.

  I watch for Cameron, but he's either out of my line of sight or he's not here. My stomach sinks. Something must have come up. But I don't have time to dwell on it because the whistle blows again and sixteen boys are running straight at me. Two break away from the pack and race after the ball, which is bouncing into the corner.

  My corner.

  They jostle for position, elbows knocking into ribs, and a guy from the other team sticks his leg out in front of him. I scramble out of the way just as they fall in a tangle on top of my bag.

  Whistles and shouts and screams surround me.

  "You okay, miss?" The referee holds his whistle inches from his mouth, paused as he waits for my reply. I nod, embarrassed to suddenly have the entire field staring at me. The tripped player picks up the ball and throws it into a cluster of teammates, who jump as one, then fall as one. Miraculously, or so it seems to me, the ball flies over the outstretched hands of the goalie and into the net.

  And I'm still sitting on my ass.

  The rest of the game is less eventful, although we do score three more times. Trace scored the third—and game-winning—goal and I manage to take a series that, if they turn out as good as I hope, will be my lead story. For the second half of the game I turn my attention to the crowd.

  I press zoom and faces fill the display. Toddlers covered in ketchup and ice cream, mothers licking their fingers, ready to spit-bathe their kids. Two girls from my English class sitting close, giggling and pointing at the field. Fathers looking bored, then jumping up every time their child touches the ball, their faces lighting with pride.

  Not everyone looks excited to be here. Two or three men stare at the field as if out of obligation, while another at the end of the bleachers is angled so he's watching the spectators.

  And still no Cam.

  "Ohmigod, that was so awesome! Biz, did you see Trace's goal? It was so fast no one even came close to stopping it!" Amelia's waiting for me at the bottom of the bleachers. Waiting may not be the right word. More like bouncing.

  I wave my camera at her. "I got some kick-ass shots of that goal no one could stop." Her eyes widen and I laugh. "Yes, I'll email them to you. But you can't post them until after I turn in my project."

  We head towards the sideline where Trace and several guys are talking to their coach. I meant to prepare a few questions, but between the latest headache and the trig test, I forgot.

  Trace waves at us, and I've gotta give the guy credit; he smiles at both of us. Amelia never dates the same type of guy and it's hard to tell who's just trying to get into her pants and who's actually a nice guy.

  We wait at the edge of the track until the coach slaps them all on the back and Trace approaches.

  "So, uh, what do you need to ask me?" His damp hair is plastered to his forehead and a streak of dirt runs the length of his neck.

  I raise my camera. "Just about the game, how long you've been playing, that type of thing. It shouldn't take long." I move around him so the fading light casts a dramatic shadow on his face. "Do you mind if I start with the pictures while the sun's still out?"

  "Yeah, sure." He glances at Amelia, who giggles. His arms hang limp at his sides.

  "You know what you need?" I look around and point at a soccer ball wedged beneath the bench. Amelia tosses it to him and his body conforms around it: arm looped lazily against the ball, hip cocked, shoulders relaxed. "Perfect." I fire off a dozen shots before he can blink, then move to the other side.

  He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. "That thing takes pictures fast. My phone takes forever between shots."

  I smile, impressed he noticed. "Birthday present. It took a lot of convincing, but I love it."

  "Biz is an awesome photographer. I bet these can get published in the real paper."

  I throw a look at Amelia. Just because I told her what Turner said doesn't mean I want anyone else knowing.

  "Really? You think these might get published?" Trace's smile grows broader.

  "I wasn't thinking about that. This project comes first. If Turner likes it, then I can submit them." Those last words are heavy on my tongue. Saying it out loud makes my dream seem a little less like a fantasy. I squat so I can get a different angle, and Trace drops the ball and rests one foot on top of it.

  "Oh, babe, that looks so great!"

  I ignore Amelia and concentrate on the composition. The sun must've been behind a cloud because with the shift in the breeze his features suddenly seem to glow. Please let these turn out as good as I think they will.

  A movement from the other end of the bleachers catches my eye. I adjust the zoom so I can look without being obvious, and my eyes narrow as I snap a picture. "Hey, Trace, is that your dad over there?"

  They both turn. The man continues watching us.
/>
  "No, my parents don't usually come to games."

  "That's weird. I wonder who he's waiting for."

  Amelia moves to Trace's side and laughs. "Maybe he's as impressed with your moves as I am." Trace slips his arm around her waist and the three of us start walking towards the gym.

  An unsettled feeling sweeps through me as we near the man. He's sitting on the lowest row, playing with his cell phone. He looks up as we pass by.

  "Nice game, Trace."

  My stomach lurches but Trace just lifts his hand in thanks.

  Chapter 16

  I'm still weirded out on the car ride home. He was probably someone's dad, but why was he still sitting there after everyone left?

  The thought continues to bother me when I get home, but I push it away. I need to sort out Trace's answers and more importantly, I want to find out what happened to Cameron. "I'm home!" I call on my way up the stairs. The phone's already in my hand. I hit send the second my bag hits my bedroom floor.

  Cameron answers on the third ring. His voice is scratchy and he sounds exhausted. "Hey, how was the game?"

  I get the impression he's just asking out of obligation, and it stings. "It was fine. I almost got trampled but I think I got some good shots. Plus the interview with Trace." My tone falters, I can't help it. I suck at interviewing.

  "I'm sure it went better than that. You don't give yourself enough credit."

  "Yeah, well, I'll have to take your word on that." I pause. He's sounding a little more normal and I don't know if bringing up his afternoon will change that. "So… where were you? I thought you were coming to the game?"

  There's a rustling over the phone, followed by a thump. "I was planning to, then my mom called and asked me to come home."

  I sit up, my nerves singing. "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"

  "No. Well, nothing new." He sighs. "There's been more updates about that little girl. The one who was kidnapped. The police don't have any leads so…" he trails off.