Flicker

by Melanie Hooyenga

  "Okay."

  I crawl back in bed and don't get up again until Amelia calls after school. She knows I won't answer texts when I feel like this.

  "So what's up? Are you and Cam playing hooky together?"

  A fresh wave of nausea sweeps over me. I still haven't heard from him.

  "Biz?"

  "He wasn't at school?"

  "You haven't talked to him?"

  "No."

  "Is everything okay with you guys?"

  I debate how much to tell her. There isn't much to say. I was a jackass after the football game and now he isn't talking to me. "I'm not sure. I got upset that his parents didn't want me to come over on Saturday and he basically hung up on me."

  "And you haven't bothered to call since then?" She knows me better than anyone. "Biz, this is Cam. You can't just blow him off."

  "I know."

  "I don't think you do. Look," she hesitates. "I'm your friend and I support you when you screw up every relationship you're in, but I love you too much to let you ruin this one."

  Ouch.

  "You're different with Cam. More yourself than I've ever seen you with a guy, plus you actually seem happy. I don't know what you said to piss him off, but you need to fix it."

  My stomach churns, but this time it's not nausea. It's fear. And nerves. And anxiety that Amelia's right and I need to be the one to make things right.

  "Hello?"

  "You're right. I don't know why I do this, but I don't want to screw this one up." I can hear her smile through the phone. "So, wise one, what do I say to him? This whole begging-for-forgiveness thing is new for me."

  "Just tell him you're sorry."

  "That's it?" That seems too easy.

  "It wouldn't hurt to also tell him how you feel. Not over-the-top mushiness, but guys are just as insecure as we are. They just hide it better. He's probably freaking out about this whole thing."

  "When did you learn so much about relationships?"

  She giggles. "While you were busy breaking hearts. I've tried to learn from your mistakes."

  Double ouch. "Well I'm glad my mistakes are helping one of us."

  "Don't be silly. They're helping both of us, it's just taken you a little longer to realize it. Now hang up with me and call Cam."

  "Okay, okay. I'll let you know how it goes." I disconnect and call him before I can chicken out, but the phone just rings and rings.

  I hang up without leaving a message. That's probably not what Amelia meant.

  *****

  A knock at the door wakes me. The beginnings of a sunrise peek through my curtains. Mom's hand finds my neck beneath the covers, her cool flesh searing my feverish skin.

  I roll over and wait for my skull to protest the movement. A vice grips both temples, sending shock waves through my brain and leaving a trail of pinpricks in its wake like my face fell asleep. But the severe stabbing doesn't last.

  "Do you think you can make it to school today?"

  I push myself onto an elbow. My stomach stays put. I rock my head from side to side, loosening something vital to my equilibrium, but nothing I can't hide from Mom. "I think so. We didn't present our photo projects yet and I'd really like to be there for that." And I don't want to go another day without seeing Cameron.

  Mom gives my neck a final squeeze. "I'll have toast waiting for you downstairs."

  "Thanks."

  I roll out of bed and shove my legs into the closest jeans I see, then pull a sweatshirt from the bottom drawer. I may feel like a railroad spike is stuck in my brain but I refuse to wear a dirty shirt to school. Jeans aren't such a big deal.

  The scent of burning toast reaches me in the bathroom. "Thanks, Mom," I mumble. After a quick swipe of goop my hair goes into a ponytail. Done.

  My giant sunglasses sit on the counter next to two slices of dry, unburned toast wrapped in a paper towel. Black coffee steams in a travel mug. Guilt edges through my haze. I don't mean to be so ungrateful.

  Mom appears in the doorway. "Do you need a ride?"

  I slide on my glasses and take a bite of toast, hoping she buys it. "I'll be okay. Thanks for breakfast." I step gingerly through the front door, close the door behind me, then throw up into the bushes.

  This is gonna be a long day.

  I stumble through school. I haven't seen Cameron but that doesn't mean he's not here. He might just be avoiding me.

  "Hey, chica, you look like shit." Amelia sidles up next to me. "I take it you're not eating today?"

  My stomach turns just thinking of lunch. "I'll be in the library." Trying to sleep. I could take a nap in the nurse's office, but then she'll want to call my parents and I don't want to get into it with them. The quiet rows between the unused reference books will have to work.

  "Okay, I'll see you in Trig." Amelia turns to go, then stops. "Cam's not here?"

  My shoulders sag. At least he's not ignoring me. "I haven't seen him."

  "What'd he say last night?"

  "He didn't answer."

  She tilts her head. "And what'd you say in the message you left him, since you surely wouldn't hang up on your boyfriend who you hadn't talked to in two days."

  "Uhh…"

  "Biz! Please don't screw this up. Call him from the library. No one will be in there anyways."

  "Fine."

  "You promise?"

  She knows I can't break a promise. "Yes."

  The table in the far corner of the dusty room calls to me. I settle into a chair so I'm facing the room, then dig my cell phone out of my bag. Cameron still doesn't answer, but this time I wait through the voicemail recording. "Hey, Cam, it's Biz. I just want to make sure you're okay. Text me when you have a minute."

  That done, I toss my phone onto the table as my head falls onto my arms.

  Chapter 23

  "Crap!" I know I set the alarm on my phone, but it never went off. I scramble from the library. The halls are deserted. How many classes did I sleep through?

  Looks like I have to go to the nurse's office after all.

  I hurry down the hall, crafting an excuse that will cover the fact that I accidentally skipped Trig but keep the nurse from calling Mom.

  Becky, the nurse, smiles when she sees me. "Haven't seen you in a couple weeks. How's the noggin?"

  "So-so." I hold up my phone. "I took a nap in the library at lunch and my stupid alarm didn't go off."

  "What'd you miss?"

  "Trig. Bishop."

  Becky scribbles on a slip of paper and hands it to me, but doesn't let go when I try to take it. "You know I'm supposed to call your parents."

  "I swear I just overslept. I was up late working on homework."

  She hesitates. "I don't believe you, but I'll let you go. Do me a favor though?" Her compassionate eyes catch mine. "Please take care of yourself."

  "I'm trying."

  I head towards Bishop's class, fingering the note. Excused from fifth period. I feel bad for ditching Amelia, but if I'm going to present my project for Turner I need to get my head together. I settle in a stairwell at the end of the hall and mentally run through my project. There isn't much to say. The story part isn't that great, and I'm hoping Turner sticks with what he said and doesn't make that a big percentage of the overall grade. Especially since the pictures turned out really well.

  Careful not to fall asleep again, I lean my head against the cool cinderblock wall and let my thoughts wander. They don't go far. Cameron seems to be the first thing I go to the minute I sit still. I check my phone. Still nothing from him. I start to text, but footsteps sound on the stairs above me and I slip my phone back into my bag.

  When the bell rings I throw my bag over my shoulder and make my way to Turner's class. I see Amelia up ahead in the hallway and give her a sheepish look. "Sorry. I fell asleep in the library."

  She rolls her eyes. "I need some freakish headache disorder so I can get out of sucky classes too." She hands me a sheet of paper. "Another test tomorrow."

  "Great."

 
; She waves goodbye and I let the flow of bodies carry me into Turner's room.

  I smile when I see him. He's standing in front of his desk, bouncing on the balls of his feet. A lot of my teachers seem resentful that they have to waste day after day with hundreds of teenagers, but it's like Turner looks forward to each class, relishing the opportunity to teach us, to shape our opinions and the way we look at the world around us.

  His class is the reason I come to school.

  I glance at Cameron's empty chair. School policy prohibits cell phones during class and while most people disregard that rule, I don't want to disrespect Turner. Besides, I doubt Cameron's written back in the five minutes since I checked in the stairwell.

  "I've put your names in random order. Half of you will present today, the rest tomorrow. Ms…" Turner checks the slip of paper in his hand, "VanStrein. If you'll please start us off."

  The lanky girl with spiky black hair who never talks to anyone strolls to the front of the room and collects her project from Turner's desk. Her face blurs as she begins, as do the rest of my classmates. A warm sheen settles over my skin, and a moment later my mouth starts to water. I don't think I'll actually throw up; bonus side effects are just part of the fun.

  I keep one ear open for my name, but thankfully he's put me in tomorrow's group. Of course I don't know that until the end of class because he likes to keep us guessing. If there's anything I'd change about his teaching style, it's that. But it does force us to be prepared.

  The bell rings as a guy named Tim is rambling about how long the soccer field is, and everyone stands up.

  "Don't forget about the new assignment," Turner shouts over the instant chatter that erupts as soon as class is dismissed. "You only need one photo, so you only get one week this time. Don't wait until the last minute."

  Chapter 24

  It feels weird to be sneaking out in the middle of the day. Mom let me stay home but migraine or not, I can’t let Amelia fail trig. One benefit to being a freak is I can help my friends—besides, I can only lay in bed waiting for Cameron to text while an elephant chews on my head for so long. Dad's napping on the couch and as much as I hate deceiving him, I'd rather he not know I'm gone than have to lie to his face.

  The sun is ridiculous. My brain screams for me to hide beneath a hat and fourteen pairs of sunglasses, but that would defeat the point. I steer the car towards the Strand, doing my best to squelch the nausea that's stirring in my gut. Did I mention I get carsick, too? It's worse when I'm in the middle of a migraine.

  The light turns green and I move my foot to the gas, then slam on the brakes. Two ambulances and a police car fill my review mirror, their lights stark against the blue sky. I wait until they fly past, then slowly pull through the intersection.

  I don't get far.

  They screech to a halt a block before the Strand—the ambulances on the shoulder on the opposite side of the street, the cop blocking oncoming traffic—and I have no choice but to stop. A car behind me honks. I twist around to flip him off but he's already pulling a u-ey. The cop looks up at the sound of squealing tires, then turns back to the reason they're all there.

  Two cars—or what I assume are two cars—lie twisted against the row of trees. Metal and glass shimmer in the grass from the edge of the road to the tree line. Black tire marks start from somewhere beneath one of the ambulances and stop directly in front of where I'm parked.

  My hands flutter from the steering wheel. I can't sit here. I turn off the engine and step onto the street. I glance at the cop but he's focused on the people inside the cars. Two pairs of EMTs already surround the cars, kneeling in front of the shattered windows.

  I drift around my car, not wanting to intrude but unable to sit still. Suddenly I remember my camera. Turner keeps pushing us to get into the habit of carrying our cameras everywhere we go, but I'm shocked I actually remembered to put it back after downloading my last set of pictures.

  I grab the camera, then hesitate. Someone could be really hurt. Dying even. Who am I to just waltz up and start taking pictures?

  But this is exactly what Turner keeps talking about. Our assignment is to capture real news. I can almost hear him telling me to get over my insecurities and get to work.

  My hands react before the rest of me. I take half a dozen shots before I realize I'm walking across the street. Other cars have stopped—curious moms in their fancy tracksuits, frustrated businessmen yelling into their cell phones, delivery guys grateful for a change in the daily routine—and I capture the sadness, horror, and I'd swear a hint of eagerness, on their faces. When a woman with too much makeup and a two-year old on her hip gives me a dirty look, I focus back on the accident.

  A woman about Mom's age kneels over a small boy. The cop has her by the shoulders, keeping her back far enough to let the EMT work on her child. The man's hands pump up-down-up-down and I stare, transfixed, thoughts of my assignment gone.

  Honking from the street snaps me out of my daze, and I lift my camera. Zoom. Click-click-click. Strong hands urging life back into a chest too tiny to endure such trauma. Tears coursing down the mother's face, mingling with blood and dirt and glass. The muscles in the cop's arms as he continues to hold her, no longer keeping her back, but comforting her as she sobs over her son.

  My breathing quickens and I give my head a quick shake. The narrowed focus that takes over when I'm taking pictures stutters, and suddenly I see the other car, the other ambulance, the other horror playing out in front of me.

  Two teenagers sit quietly in the grass while the EMTs poke and prod them. I had English last year with one of them. Brian. He can't tear his eyes away from the kid. His friend seems less aware of what's going on and I can't help but wonder if they were already partying this afternoon. It seems a little early, but right after school, when parents are still at work, is the easiest time to screw around.

  I quietly take their picture, vowing not to let that one see the light of day. I'm not trying to get anyone in trouble, but the little voice that sometimes tells me I'm actually good at this photography thing and could even make a career out of it says that it'd be stupid not to get the entire story.

  Another police car arrives, sirens blaring, and Brian stiffens. That can't be good.

  One of the cops eyes me as he rushes by but doesn't question my being there so I take pictures until my battery dies.

  *****

  "Hey, what's your name?"

  I turn around to find the cop—the one who held the mother—staring at me. "Am I in trouble?"

  He looks puzzled. "Why would you be in trouble? I need your information in case we need any of your photos. You got here pretty fast and they could help with the recreation."

  "Recreation?" I realize I sound like an idiot but I have no idea what he's talking about.

  "For the accident investigation." He steps closer and holds out his hand. "I'm Officer Roberts."

  "Biz." I shake his hand and my unease fades.

  "Just Biz?"

  I smile. "Yeah."

  "Okay, Biz. Do you have an email or phone number where I can reach you?"

  I look around, my nerves humming. No one's paying any attention to us. The ambulances have already left and the other police car is starting to pull away.

  He rests his other hand on my arm.

  I flinch, and he backs away.

  "I didn't mean to scare you." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet, from which he retrieves a business card. "Here's my card. You can have your mom or dad call if you're not comfortable, but your photos could be a big help."

  I take the card. Officer Jake Roberts. Yes, I believe what he's saying. Yes, I understand that I could help with an investigation. So why are my instincts screaming at me to get away from him?

  He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm one of the good guys."

  I finally find my voice. "I'll have my dad call."

  "That's all I'm asking." He sticks out his hand again but I just stare at it. "Drive safely,
Biz."

  I wait until he reaches his cruiser before heading to my car. The adrenaline from the past hour evaporates in a rush, bringing my headache back with it. I climb into the car and am just turning the key when I slam my hand against the steering wheel.

  "Shit!"

  The sun is setting. It's too late to flicker. Amelia failed, again.

  Chapter 25

  "Where'd you go?"

  I freeze with one hand on the railing. So much for sneaking in quietly.

  Dad's standing in the living room, arms crossed. Doing the waiting thing.

  I give him the closest to the truth that I can get. "I was sick of being in my room all day so I drove around to take pictures for my next photo project."

  His shoulders relax. "What's the project?"

  I join him in the living room and hand him my camera. "Real news." I run upstairs to get an extra battery, then hurry back down.

  He replaces the battery and the camera whirs to life in his hand. "And you already found something?"

  A shudder races through me. "Yeah." My mouth goes dry. I'm not sure I can stomach looking at that scene again. At least not yet.

  Dad flips through the pictures, the crease between his eyes growing deeper and his jaw dropping further with each beep of the camera.

  I dig the cop's card out of my back pocket. "One of the cops asked me to call. Said they might want to use some of my pictures for the investigation." The words feel heavy, surreal. My gaze drops to the carpet. "I haven't looked through them yet so I don't know if they're any good. They probably won't be much help."

  "Biz, these are really good."

  "Whatever."

  "No, really." He lowers to the couch but his eyes never leave mine. "They’re also pretty graphic. Are you okay?"

  For once, I don't mind the question. I shake my head as tears slip down my cheeks.

  The camera thuds on the coffee table and his warm hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me to his side. I lean into him. No matter how frail he gets, I still feel safe when I'm next to him.