Flicker

by Melanie Hooyenga

  My stomach lurches. “Did they call you?”

  “They called my dad. Said they were just following up on leads, but they asked him where I was when she disappeared.”

  “Are you kidding me? How could they think—” I stop. I know why they think that. Everyone knows. Cameron is the closest thing to a suspect the police ever had, so of course they’re going to want to know if he has an alibi.

  He lets out a long breath. “At least this time I was at school.”

  "Shit, Cam. I'm sorry. Why didn't you tell me to shut up when I was going on and on about the game?"

  "Because I don't want to think about it. That's all we do here. Think about Katie. And now this other girl." His voice breaks and I can't tell if he's simply talking, or repeating his parents' reminders to not ever forget his sister.

  I don't know what to say. Anything will sound trivial. "Can I do anything?"

  He sighs, a slow, painful expelling of breath. "No."

  We hang up shortly after and I'm left staring at my phone. He says I can't help, but there has to be some way I can do more.

  My camera calls to me. I remove the card and slip it into the reader that's always connected to my computer. The photo app comes up and I click the button to download. A little voice scolds me for not deleting the bad ones before downloading them, but I'm too lazy. How else am I supposed to complain that I have so many pictures wasting space on my hard drive?

  The soccer game replays on my screen. Trace's goal looks even cooler now that I can see it. When I'm taking pictures it's like my subconscious is aware of the scene and lays out the composition for me, but I don't fully grasp what I've captured until it's full-size on my computer.

  The computer scrolls to the final image and I gasp. It's the man from the game. He's staring right at me. My hand flutters to my chest and I force a deep breath. I forgot I'd taken his photo.

  I save the album, then head downstairs in search of leftovers and find my parents side by side on the couch watching the news. The kidnapping is the lead story.

  "Did they find anything new?" I know the answer since Cameron just told me, but I'm curious if my parents will choose to spin it.

  Dad twists his neck to see me. "Hey, sweetie. No they still don't have any clues."

  I think of Cameron and try to imagine his house right now. He's probably sitting with his parents, comforting them, the TV silent in the background. To my family this kidnapping takes five minutes of our day, but to his it's a reminder of how terribly wrong your entire world can go in those five minutes.

  *****

  Thursday after class I linger by my locker before heading back to the soccer field. The cross country team runs a course that loops around the school and ends on the track, right where I interviewed Trace. Amelia promised she'd meet me there.

  Cameron rounds the corner—books in one hand, camera bag slung over his other shoulder—and my heart lifts. He's the same Cameron I've always known, but it's like a layer's been scraped away. Things I hadn't noticed before are suddenly all I see: the way his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt, the tilt of his head when someone else is speaking, the curve of his lower lip when he's concentrating. Right now his mouth is decidedly frowning.

  I fall into step beside him. "Everything okay?"

  He waits a beat before answering. "It's just been a long day." He slips on his jacket, then slides his arm through mine as we walk down the hall. He releases me to open the side door.

  A blast of cold air welcomes us and I'm grateful Mom insisted I bring my gloves. I zip my coat as we head for the track and flex my fingers. "This should make taking pictures interesting."

  "You need a pair of these." He holds up a pair of gloves with the fingers cut off. Loose threads dangle from where the scissors hacked through the yarn.

  Apparently I'm not the only one. Every single person from our class is sitting on the bleachers, and every one of them is either blowing on their hands or sitting on them. "You better hang on to those. Could start a riot."

  Several heads turn our way as we find an empty spot on the bleachers, but they keep to themselves.

  Cameron leans close. "So what's our game plan? I want to get close to the runners. My guess is most people are gonna stay here, so unless we want the same shots as them, we'll need to move. Plus—"

  "The sunlight." I interrupt, and he smiles. I point to the western corner where I camped out for the soccer game. "That's where I took all my shots the other day. The lighting is kick-ass."

  He stands. "Then let's go over there."

  We pick our way back down the bleachers just as the teams walk out to the track. I lift my camera and snap a couple candids—teammates talking to each other, the coach consoling one girl who looks like she might throw up—then follow Cameron to the corner.

  He sets his bag in the grass and sits next to it. I start to lower myself to the ground but he grabs me around the waist and pulls me into his lap. "I've missed you," he whispers in my ear. His strong arms wrap around me. My stomach flips, which makes my heart go all crazy, and I'm embarrassed to find myself completely breathless. I squeeze his bare fingertips and he pulls my hands to his mouth. A gentle kiss on each knuckle makes me flush.

  "I wish there was a way I could take pictures with you doing that."

  He laughs softly, and his breath sends ripples of excitement through me. He turns his head so my fingers brush his cheek. His eyes drift closed.

  Have I mentioned he's beautiful?

  I lean forward, but we're interrupted by a shout from midway down the field. "Hey you two! Get a room!"

  Amelia bounds towards us and I flinch, ready for the tackle that's coming. For as long as I've known her, she's never passed up the opportunity to—

  "Oof!"

  Her giggle pierces the relative quiet.

  Cameron dodged the brunt of it and lies on his side, laughing. "All these years, you think you'd learn."

  I sit up and push Amelia off me. "I guess I keep thinking that maybe this once she won't do it."

  Amelia grabs my camera. "So what do you got so far?" She flicks through the display. "Ooh, that girl totally just threw up."

  Cameron lifts an eyebrow at me. I shrug.

  "Man it's freezing out here. Biz, can I borrow your gloves? You can't use them while you're taking pictures anyway."

  I reluctantly hand them over and the chill settles into my skin.

  "Thanks." She leans back on her hands. "I can't stay long. My parents weren't too happy with my last trig grade and decided I need some quality time listening to music—I mean, studying—after school. Although they probably have a point. Unless I want to spend my post-high school days at community college, I need to get my grades up."

  Again, I feel guilty that I couldn't help her on the last test. I silently promise to flicker for the next one.

  As if I summoned it, my fingers start to tingle. I press the tips together.

  Cameron looks over his shoulder at the setting sun. "What time exactly does ‘after school' start?"

  "Eh, in a little while."

  The sun is barely peeking through the clouds. And I'm sitting still. There's no way I'm flickering. But the tingling grows stronger. I brace myself for the weight when Cameron rubs his hands together.

  "Biz, do you want to use my gloves? It's getting really cold."

  Color rushes to my cheeks and I slap my hands over them to hide it. Duh, I'm cold. Not flickering. I'd forgotten that's a normal sensation. "Sure, thanks." I shove my fingers inside the unraveling yarn.

  Amelia juts her chin down the field. "Hey, isn't that them?"

  Cameron and I scramble to our feet, cameras ready. His breathing slows as his shutter click-click-clicks, and I catch myself watching his hands. He and I are drawn to photography for different reasons: for me it's about capturing the light and its effects on the world around me, but for him it's about preserving a moment in time so he can relive it whenever he wants.

  I focus on the runners
and I'm moving towards them. Zooming. Squatting low so the angles are sharper, more defined.

  "Good call." Cameron's a few feet away. Close enough so he's with me, but respecting my space.

  Runners streak by, fists in the air as they cross the finish line. A guy whose locker is near mine falls in a heap next to his coach. Two girls from opposing teams high-five each other.

  Click-click-click.

  I turn my attention to the spectators. The majority of the people in the first couple rows have cameras glued to their faces. A couple have gloves like Cameron's. I'm definitely gonna have to do that. I zoom in on the front row, ready to document my class documenting the race, when I freeze for real this time.

  That man is here again. And he's staring at me.

  I take a step back, knocking into Cameron.

  "Hey!"

  "Sorry."

  He lowers his camera. Concern darkens his features. "You're really pale. What happened?"

  "Nothing. That man is here again and he just freaked me out."

  His head whips towards the bleachers. "What man?"

  I tug his arm to make him turn away. "Don't stare. It's just some guy we saw the other night at the soccer game. I'm sure he's someone's dad. I mean, why else would he be coming to high school sporting events? He doesn't even cheer…" my voice trails off and a shudder passes through me. The more things I say out loud the creepier this guy sounds.

  Cameron's staring at me, his mouth agape. "Why didn't you say anything? He obviously freaked you out."

  "But he didn't do anything. He's just watching the games." And me, apparently.

  "Still, it seems weird. Maybe we should tell one of the coaches."

  "I don't know, Cam. What if it's just my imagination?"

  He looks at the crowd.

  "I know we’re supposed to report anything weird because of that girl, but I don't want to get him in trouble if he’s not doing anything."

  "Which one is he?"

  I focus in on the spot where I'd just seen the man and a chill runs up my spine. "He's gone."

  "Okay, but if you see him again will you promise to tell someone?"

  I nod. "I got a picture of him the other night."

  He stops and looks at me. "You did?"

  "Not intentionally, but yeah." An uneasy feeling settles over me at the memory. I'm sure I'm overreacting—people are always telling me I have an overactive imagination. Maybe they're right. "Anyway, I'm sure it's not a big deal."

  When we get back to the parking lot, Cameron leans me against Old Berta and rests his hand on the side of my face. "So are we on for the football game Friday night?"

  I wave my hands above my head. "Rah, rah."

  He laughs and looks around the deserted parking lot. "I'm sure it won't be all bad. At least there'll be more people to talk to." He brushes his lips over my nose. "Not that I really want to talk to anyone else."

  I tilt my head back and he presses his lips lightly against mine. We haven't kissed like we did on Saturday, and I kinda want to drag him into the backseat and, uhh… warm up. "Do you have to go right home?"

  He sighs, a long drawn-out sound that tells me his answer.

  "Your parents?"

  "Yeah. I don't know how long this is gonna go on, but for now I need to be home when I can. Hey," he tilts his head, "why don't you come over Saturday?"

  I try to fight the smile that plasters itself to my face, but there's no point. Standing on tip-toe, I wrap my arms around his neck. "I'd love to."

  He kisses me again, lingering just long enough to make me forget everything around us, then squeezes me tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  I climb into my car and wave as I pull away, my mind already on my computer. As anxious as I am to check out my pictures, I want to do a little research on Cameron's sister first.

  He’s told me what happened a thousand times, but I’ve always been afraid to read the stories myself. Letting the police think I was with Cameron when Katie disappeared was an impulse, something neither of us considered a big deal at the time, but now the doubt I’ve always pushed aside is resurfacing.

  The house is dark when I get home. There’s a note on the kitchen counter.

  "We're stopping for dinner after Dad's appointment. Leftovers are in the fridge."

  The note is tucked beneath the new pill bowl, a small white dish that replaced the one that broke. Its lack of personality offends me. At least the Mexico bowl pretended to be festive.

  I open the fridge and pull out the leftovers. After popping a plate of what looks to be breaded chicken and mashed potatoes in the microwave, I run upstairs to my computer.

  I type Katie's name into the search field. Within seconds, link after link fills my screen and I feel kind of stupid for never looking her up before. I click the first link and I'm thrown back to that horrible night four years ago.

  "Police still have no leads in the disappearance of Katie James. The seven-year old was last seen by her brother, Cameron, age thirteen, and a schoolmate, also 13. No witnesses have come forward who may have seen what happened.

  It is presumed that she was taken by a person or persons who saw her in the front yard and lured her into their car. A white sedan was seen driving erratically in the neighborhood, but the license plate was not noted."

  Katie's class picture runs alongside the article, her dark hair clipped away from her face with a pink plastic barrette that matches her pink sweater. An excruciating sense of sorrow pulls my stomach in fourteen directions. The memories of playing with her at Cameron's house are so vivid… I can still remember the way her hair smelled like strawberries and how she always had a stuffed animal in her hand.

  Cameron found one of her favorites at the end of the driveway once he realized she was gone. The red and black ladybug she'd gotten for Christmas the previous year lay discarded in a pile of damp leaves, the only indication she'd been near the street.

  That was when he called me.

  I click back and Katie's dimples are replaced with more articles that say the same thing. White sedan, no witnesses, no sign of her ever again. Then the accusations against Cameron. A picture of him leaving the police station, his parents shielding them with his arms. The police eventually dropped the case against him due to “lack of evidence”, but that just meant they couldn’t prove anything, and the kids at school never forgot it.

  There were a couple leads the following spring when a human skull was found in the woods on the other side of the state, but it turned out to be a boy that disappeared ten years earlier. I scroll through the rest of the list but there isn't anything new about her case. She's been missing four years and is, as most of the articles say, presumed dead.

  My finger hovers over the trackpad on my laptop as a thought whispers through my subconscious. I can't imagine they have anything to do with each other, but I wonder… I type in ‘kidnapping' and last week's date. A dozen articles pop up, many with the same foreboding headlines. No Witnesses. Girl Missing. Long Brown Pigtails.

  Wait, what?

  I click the link.

  The similarities to Katie's case are eerie. The little girl was playing down the street from her house with several other kids and no one noticed when she left. She was just gone. Two boys remembered a white four-door car that drove by a couple times but neither noticed the driver; they were more concerned with getting out of the street like they'd been taught.

  My senses hum. I can't be the only one who's noticed the similarities. The police probably pulled up Katie's file the second this girl disappeared.

  So why are the police bothering Cam?

  Chapter 17

  "Biz, please see me after class."

  My stomach sinks as Bishop places my test facedown on my desk. I try to read the expression on his face but he's already moved on to the girl behind me.

  Groans follow in his wake.

  The one time I actually try. I thought I did better on this one but I'm terrified to look.

  Amelia waves
at me from across the room. She hasn't gotten hers back yet and raises her eyebrows at my test.

  I turn it over. 91. What?

  I look over my shoulder. This can't be right. He must have given me someone else's test. Although that's clearly my name scrawled across the upper right corner.

  91?

  I give Amelia a thumbs up just as Bishop slaps her test in front of her. She flips the paper over and her shoulders crumble.

  Crap. I know it's not my fault but I feel responsible. If I hadn't been so selfish she might have had a chance.

  She catches my eye, then turns away. With a shake of her head the playful mood from moments before evaporates.

  Bishop returns to the front of the room and drones on and on about inverse functions, but it's not his lecture that's confusing me. If he knows the test is wrong, why did he give it to me?

  When class is finally dismissed, Amelia stops in front of my desk.

  "I have to stay."

  She glances over her shoulder at Bishop, who's sitting at his desk watching us. "What for?"

  "Don't know." I get up and she heads towards the door.

  "I guess I'll see you after school."

  Bishop watches her go, then steeples his fingers beneath his chin, studying me.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes." He drops his hands and leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world.

  I eye the clock.

  "Biz, I'm proud of how well you did on this test, but I'm concerned with how sporadic your performance is." He straightens. "Your grades are all over the place, which tells me you're just not applying yourself. Now I know trigonometry isn't the most interesting subject but—"

  My eyes glaze over. I can't help it. Is he really spouting the glories of trig? I interrupt him. "So you want me to apply myself?"

  "Yes and no. It's frustrating as a teacher to see a student who's clearly smart, but just doesn't care."

  "It's not that I don't—"

  He holds up a hand. "I know you're smarter than what the majority of your test scores show. I'd like to see this kind of effort continue."