Flicker

by Melanie Hooyenga

  My stomach turns and I close my eyes. I'm so fucking stupid. Why didn't I think of her sooner when I could have actually done something to help? I scroll down, my finger slowly moving over the touchpad until her freckles are gone. The words swim by; bits of information that could have been useful if I'd bothered to look it up last night. My finger stops. The police say there's definitely a connection with Katie. They're reopening her case.

  I don't know if that's a good thing or not. I mean it's good if they can find out what happened to her, but I don't know if Cameron and his parents have the strength to go through all that again. Sometimes it seems like they're barely getting by now.

  My gaze drifts to my phone. This explains why they don't want me over there. I roll over and grab my camera from the floor. I refuse to mope any longer. I need to go through my photos and I've only got—I check the clock—less than eight hours before the migraine hits.

  An energy zips through me as I start downloading my pictures. I love how immediate photography is. Turner keeps threatening to make us mess around with actual film so we have a ‘proper understanding of photography's beginnings blah blah', but it's the immediacy that draws me to it. Mom says I'm always rushing and can't sit still long enough to appreciate anything, but that's not true. I can sit for hours trying to perfectly capture a moment, which is tricky considering the moment is always changing, but once I've got the shot, I want to see it now.

  I pause on a shot of several players hunched on the bench. Their slumped shoulders speak more about their displeasure for being stuck there than the scowls on their faces, but I've managed to capture both. Regardless, there's still something missing. It seems flat.

  I skip to the next couple shots and my breath catches. That's it. I'd shifted my position so the overhead lights cast a stronger shadow on their faces, masking their unhappiness in darkness while at the same time revealing it to me. I try to recall if I'd made the adjustment intentionally. Yes, yes, of course you did, my ego insists, but I can't take credit for a fluke. I mean, I will take credit for it, obviously, but I know this effect wasn't on purpose.

  I hide the photo application and double-click a text file saved to my desktop. I scroll to the bottom of the list and type ‘include shadows'. Several items near the top of the list have a line through them—those reminders are already second nature—but I'm still working on the others. I reread the list, starting at the bottom.

  Tighter composition.

  Drastic angles.

  Stop making people smile.

  Faster setting for action.

  My last thoughts before falling asleep are a mix of irony and relief. Irony that I don't care enough about most of my other classes to try this hard, and relief that I care about something enough to try.

  Chapter 20

  The ice picks wake me up again. My eyes scrunch tighter. The pillow already cocoons my head, but I pull it closer, trying to block out the inevitable.

  The smell of bacon drifts upstairs and my stomach heaves. Acid churns in my stomach and the juices in my mouth start flowing. I yank the pillow off my head and fall out of bed. I haven't thrown up in awhile, but it looks like today is my lucky day.

  Fortunately the bathroom's close.

  I flush, then tiptoe back to bed. Mom knows better than to expect me for breakfast on the weekend, but I'd rather she not know about this headache. She's got enough to worry about with Dad.

  I cower deeper under the covers as the room grows brighter and brighter.

  "Biz, honey? You getting up?" Mom's voice drifts through the layers of cotton and feathers.

  "Ughhhhh."

  My door clicks open and glass clinks on wood. "I brought you some apple juice and toast. There's a pill next to the glass."

  I raise a corner of the blanket and peek at Mom. "How did you know?"

  She sits on the edge of the bed and slides a cool hand beneath the blankets, searching for my tender neck. Her fingers dig into the knots at the base of my skull. "I'm your mother. You think I don't know when you're sick?"

  My eyes close as she kneads the tendon beneath my ear. I'd purr if I didn't think it'd make my head fall off.

  She continues until my breathing slows, then presses a kiss to my temple.

  "Thanks, Mom."

  The pill touches my lips. "Drink up." A straw juts from the glass.

  I catch it with my lips, swallow.

  The pill does its thing and knocks me out for a couple more hours, until my phone dings. My hand shoots out from the covers to put it on silent.

  Don't check it. Keep sleeping.

  But what if it's him?

  I peek at the display. It's Cameron, apologizing again.

  I call him instead of texting back. That way I can keep my eyes closed. "It's okay. I read about Katie's case being opened back up."

  He's quiet for a minute. A clock ticks in the background. He must be in the kitchen. "Yeah." He says something else, but my mind wanders, the hazy loops of the medication clouding my thoughts and making me completely space out.

  "What?"

  He sighs, an angry sound that I don't expect. "Why did you call if you don't wanna talk?"

  My eyes snap open. My stomach plummets. "I feel like ass and didn't want to have to look at my phone."

  "Well I've got a lot on my mind right now."

  "What? Cam—"

  "Forget it."

  I think he's hung up but I can still hear the clock ticking. "Cam?"

  One more sigh and the line goes silent. He's hung up.

  Everything goes liquid inside and I run to the bathroom.

  *****

  Shadows creep across the wall. When dusk erases the last bits of color from the room, I roll out of bed. I do still have homework.

  My computer whirs to life. I slide my finger over the trackpad and freeze. The picture of the man at the soccer game stares back at me. I quickly flip backwards until I find a shot I like, then save it in a folder for my project. If I use two photos from each game, plus the feature section on Trace, I won't need to write much. Turner can't actually expect us to have full articles.

  I save a couple more, the layout for the page arranging itself in my head, but my finger pauses over the folder for the football game. Cameron hasn't called or texted. I double-click the folder and sigh in relief. It's just the game. I couldn't remember if I'd taken a couple of him—crap, there's one of him focusing on the players on the bench. It's probably the same shot I was admiring earlier, but better. The ache in my stomach gets worse. "Not now." I press a hand against my belly and try to focus on the pictures. Maybe I should just delete the ones of him so I won't have to keep looking at his face.

  A flutter in my throat surprises me. Not really a flutter, but a knot that makes it hard to swallow. What the hell? My eyes start to burn. "Are you kidding me?" I don't cry over boys. Not even if they are as wonderful and beautiful and hilarious as Cameron. I clear my throat and quickly click through the rest of the pictures, saving two without really paying attention to which ones I've chosen.

  I take more care with the layout of the page. Even with my head staging a mutiny and my emotions urging me back into bed, I want to do well on this project. Besides, I've never let a migraine stop me before.

  The design comes together easily—I group the photos from each game, overlapping a tighter action shot over one that covers more of the field, and add a colored section for Trace's interview—but the story itself won't budge. I know what happened, I was there, but sentences refuse to form.

  My gaze shifts to the closed door. Maybe Dad can help.

  I creep down the stairs as fast as I can without causing my brain to leak out of my ear. The scent of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes wafts from the kitchen. My comfort food.

  Mom and Dad look up from the television when I enter the room. Mom smiles. "We weren't sure if we'd see you today. Are you feeling any better?"

  I shrug, and hope they don't push it. I hate dwelling on my limitations. I face Dad. "I ne
ed help with my photo project."

  He sighs, a weary sound that seems to deflate him. I notice for the first time how withered he looks.

  "Are you okay?" I look between him and Mom.

  He ignores my question. "You need my help with a photo project? You know far more than me."

  "It's not the photos, it's the writing." I explain the project and give him my best puppy dog eyes. Which given how crappy I feel, isn't difficult.

  "Can you bring your computer down here?"

  Mom trails her fingers over his shoulder, trying to be casual, but I see her check his pulse.

  "What's going on?"

  "I'm just more tired than normal. Nothing to worry about." I've heard that line before. "Go get your computer and we'll work on this while Mom finishes up dinner."

  "Are you sure?"

  He squeezes my knee. "Stop babying me."

  I hurry upstairs, wincing on each step, then return with my computer and a notepad, which I hand to Dad. He hates computers. I point at the screen. "I have the pictures figured out, but I'm supposed to write a story to go along with it."

  He considers the images, the pencil lodged firmly between his teeth. He traces the edge of a shadow with his finger and sets the pencil on the couch next to him. "I really like the way you've worked the shadows into each shot."

  I resist the urge to slap his hand off the monitor and wait for him to finish his thought.

  "But that's probably not a good angle, huh?" He chuckles at his pun and I roll my eyes. "You could tell a story from the perspective of a non-sports fan." He pokes my side. "A stretch, I know. Explain that even though you don't understand the rules, you can still appreciate the determination and hard work." He pauses. "Do you appreciate that?"

  I look down. How did he manage to work a lecture into this? "I'm trying Dad."

  He touches my cheek. "I don't want you to miss opportunities. You never know when things could change. I know it seems like you've got your whole life in front of you, but…" He shakes his head.

  "Is that what happened with you?"

  He waves his hands at his body, his lip curled with displeasure. "I wasn't always like this. I went out with friends, went to work, helped around the house." He sighs. "I worry that I'm setting a bad example for you because you never knew the person I was."

  "So you didn't always have seizures?" Over the years I'd picked up that they started after he and Mom got married, but I'd never asked for details. Now I'm realizing maybe I should have.

  His eyes close and he leans back. "No, I didn't." He turns his head to look at me. "They started the night you were born."

  My mouth drops. "What do you mean?" I knew he hadn't always had them, but I had no idea they were that closely tied to me.

  "Just what I said. I never had a seizure before you were born." His lips press tightly together, like he wants to say more.

  I wait.

  His eyes never leave mine, but he doesn't continue.

  "Did I somehow…" I can't finish. I don't think I want to know if I somehow caused him to be sick. It makes absolutely no sense.

  "No!" He grabs my hand. "Biz, no. It isn't your fault." He lets go and his head droops. "It's mine." The last words come out so softly I wonder if he actually said them.

  "Your fault?"

  Tears glisten in his eyes. "I didn't know that would happen."

  "You've lost me."

  "I know. I'm sorry." He closes his eyes for a moment and rubs the back of his neck. "How frequently do you get headaches?"

  The sudden change in topic catches me off-guard. "I don't know." Just when I flicker. "Why?"

  He stares past me, unfocused. "I got headaches when I was your age, too."

  My heart stutters.

  "I remember how awful they were, and I hate to think that you're suffering that way. I know you don't tell us every time you have one, and I wish there was a way I could make it… less excruciating."

  That's a good word.

  "If it's ever more than you can handle, will you tell me?"

  No. "Of course."

  "I'm serious, Biz."

  "I know." I lean forward to accept his embrace. "Thanks, Dad."

  His grip tightens. "I know you don't like to hear it, but I worry about you. More than you know."

  I pull away. I love my dad and it means a lot to me that he cares so much—most of my friends don't have that kind of relationship with their parents—but tonight he's hit a little too close to the truth.

  "Thanks, Dad." I gather my stuff and leave him on the couch. Upstairs, I shut my door and flop onto the bed.

  I still have no idea what to write for my project.

  Chapter 21

  As a rule, Mondays suck. But this Monday sucks more than usual because it’s the first time I'm nervous about turning in a photo project. Plus I still have lingering effects from my headache. And Cameron's not in school.

  The day passes in a blur. My friends know enough about my headaches to give me space when I feel like crap, but I make an effort not to dump my shitty mood all over them. Everyone's too distracted by the second kidnapping to pay much attention to me anyways.

  One small blessing: I get to skip Trig today. The bad news: it's for another assembly. The police are back to talk to us about safety and juniors get to miss fifth period. I sit next to Amelia and we pass the time coming up with reasons why Cameron isn't here today.

  "I get that his parents are upset, but why would he stay home?" Amelia wonders. "I mean, do they sit in a circle being all sad, or what?"

  "I asked him that." Or did I? I think I managed to keep that comment to myself the second time around.

  Her mouth drops. "You did not. What did he say?"

  "He didn't react very well."

  "I bet."

  "I wonder what will happen now that the police have said there's a connection between these kids and Katie."

  "I didn't hear that."

  I nod at the stage. "Maybe we should actually pay attention." Since Cameron isn’t talking to me this might give me a little more understanding about what Cameron's going through.

  Amelia shrugs, and a shudder passed through me. Is anyone else is aware of Cameron’s absence? A surge of protectiveness sharpens my focus; I want to shield him from the police, from the rumors, from ever suffering like that again.

  Stride Right comes back on stage. "I know you think this has nothing to do with you, but we're all a part of this community, and what happens to one or two or three families affects us all." Several people snicker and Stride Right scowls. His ‘community' talk gets a little old. "This is important. Someone is taking our children and it makes me sick to think that tomorrow it might be one of you."

  That shuts everyone up.

  We file out quietly. My thoughts are on Katie and the chaos those first days after she disappeared. Are these other families going through the same thing? From the dejected expressions on my classmates' faces, I imagine they're thinking the same thing.

  The rest of the day passes quickly. We turn in our assignments in photo class, but Turner doesn't have us present them. Instead he introduces the next project.

  "Photojournalism, at its core, is about telling stories through photos. The sports page was an introduction to that concept, albeit a limited one. For your next project I'd like you to find something that qualifies as real news. Something you'd see on the front page of the newspaper, as a lead story online, or even on the evening news. I'm not saying you need to become ambulance chasers, and I realize that you're in school most of the day, but you might be surprised at how changing the filter through which you observe the world will open your eyes to things you've previously overlooked."

  My mind whirs to life, headache funk be damned. No more sitting on the sidelines at staged events. We're being told to go out and explore. I never would have put it in those words, but based on the physical reaction I'm having, this is exactly what I've been waiting for.

  It’s like my eyes have been opened. A
fog I never realized surrounded me lifts as I'm driving home and I'm seeing things I've never noticed before. An almost accident at the intersection in front of school. An excess of For Sale signs in front of houses. A dead cat on the side of the road. Everything has become a possible story.

  I'm eyeing a front door that's been left ajar when my fingers start to tingle.

  No!

  But it's too late. The flicker comes fast. In the time it takes me to roll down the street, my hands and feet go numb, I'm crushed into the seat, then I'm floating out of my body. My subconscious registers a rubber ball bouncing in front of my car and—

  Dad's hugging me on the couch.

  Fuck. The hazy dizziness that lingers a day or two after a headache is still there, and now I've gone back again. This is gonna suck. Maybe I can leave school early tomorrow and be home before it hits.

  I promise Dad I'll let him know if the headaches get worse, hoping he doesn't notice that I can't look him in the eye and make a mental note to avoid him tomorrow afternoon.

  Chapter 22

  I convince the school nurse to let me skip my last class and am home in bed, a pill in my gut, when the railroad spike drives through my brain.

  Mom knocks on my door a few hours later. "Biz, are you coming down for dinner?"

  This is where my acting skills come in. I don't want them to know I have another headache, so I need to act normal. Or close to normal. "I'll be down in a minute." I slowly peel the covers off my head and do a quick mental inventory. Ice pick in skull: check. Dizziness: check. Nausea: not so much.

  Maybe I can make it through dinner.

  Or not.

  Midway through my mashed potatoes my stomach heaves. I sprint up the stairs and make it to the bathroom in time.

  Mom's right behind me. "You still have a headache?"

  Sure, that works. I nod, my head still draped over the toilet.

  "Maybe you should stay home tomorrow."