Freeze Frame

by Heidi Ayarbe

  “Can you remember anything at all between finding the gun and Jason being shot?”

  Scene Three. All I saw were split-second images, like in the old days when the movies flashed subliminal messages of popcorn and Coke on the screen. Nobody saw the popcorn or Coke images—they just got really hungry. That’s what I saw when I tried to remember Scene Three. Flashes that I couldn’t splice together to make the scene whole. And it made me feel sick.

  I shifted on the couch. “I’m trying.” I picked at a callus.

  She laid her hand on my arm. “That’s okay. You’ll remember.”

  But what if I don’t want to? What if I really did it? On purpose? What if I’m a killer?

  “I’m here to help you fill in the blanks—put the pieces of that day back together.”

  I looked up at her and clenched my jaw.

  “Why don’t you tell me how you feel about what happened?”

  Everybody wanted explanations. Everybody wanted to “get” it. Get me. I never had to explain myself to Jase. He got that on Tuesdays I’d always be late showing up to his house to go to school because I had to watch the first five minutes of the re-reruns of The X Files to make sure it wasn’t episode 6X07, “Rain King,” where Mulder is almost killed by a cow that’s dropped into his hotel room—the only one I haven’t seen in all nine seasons. A fucking cow, of all things.

  Most people would just think I should rent it and get it over with. But Jason understood. He knew that renting it would be like giving up. He just got stuff. Or he used to.

  Dr. Matthews cleared her throat. “Can you tell me how you feel about yesterday?”

  It’s like I hit the fucking delete button. Zap! He’s gone. How was I supposed to feel about that? I looked at Dr. Matthews and shook my head.

  “Okay, let’s try this. What’s the first thing that comes to your mind as we speak?”

  Sorry.

  “It doesn’t have to be anything you think I want to hear. Feel free to let your mind wander and grab onto the very first thought you have.”

  Sorry.

  I started to feel pretty hot in that closed-in office. It was about the size of Grandma Nancy’s linen closet—with a lumpy couch and schoolroom desk squashed into it. There were no windows, just the one that was on the aluminum door. Sweat stung my eyes, and I wiped it off my forehead.

  Dr. Matthews cocked her head to the side. “Are you okay?”

  No. I mopped the sweat off my forehead and stared at my shoes.

  Then we sat quietly until Dr. Matthews said, “We’ll have a chance to get to know each other better. If you need to see me, even when it’s not your appointment time, you can always ask for me. Do you have any questions?”

  How long will it take the state to build up the case so they can put me away forever? What will it be like to live in prison? Did I do it? Did I kill Jason on purpose?

  She had a kitchen timer on the desk. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket. “Our time’s up for now, Kyle.”

  Mark knocked on the door. Dr. Matthews invited him in. Some kid stood in the hallway with a brown-uniformed cop. The kid had piercing holes all over his face: eyebrows, lips, nose, chin. He stuck out his tongue—split down the middle like a snake’s to match the tattoo that coiled up his neck to his ear. He glared at me.

  “I’ll be right with you, Simon.” Dr. Matthews smiled a tired smile.

  Simon? Talk about the wrong name. A kid like that should be named something meaner, tougher, like Damian. But then again, Arnold Schwarzenegger doesn’t look much like an Arnold.

  Dr. Matthews closed the door behind Mark.

  “It’s my turn, you mad cow! It’s my hour! The judge said.” Simon had a high, piercing voice, like it had never gotten around to cracking. The door didn’t do much to muffle his shouts.

  Dr. Matthews winced and sighed. She turned to Mark. “Please take a seat.”

  Mark looked really uncomfortable sitting behind the small desk.

  “We need more time,” she said. “I want to see him every day.”

  Mark looked at me. I shrugged. I kinda figured that Simon could use more Dr. Matthews time than me; he was a human colander, for God’s sake.

  “Kyle’s not quite ready to talk.” She smiled at me. “The mind is a wonderful thing. It has a way of protecting us from the truth sometimes.”

  Why can’t I remember?

  I dunno.

  Dude, do you remember?

  I’m the dead one.

  So dead people don’t have memories?

  I haven’t really thought about it.

  Some help you are.

  You could cut me some slack here. I am the dead one.

  Yeah. You mentioned that.

  Dr. Matthews stood up. She looked like a prism; her body shattered into thousands of colors. If she were one of Jase’s superheroes, she’d be Mega Matthews, the huge psychiatrist who wraps her enemies in straitjackets, then poisons them with cinnamon incense, erasing their memories.

  “Kyle, are you listening?” Dr. Matthews asked.

  I looked up and shook my head. I had forgotten where I was for a moment and squinted. Dr. Matthews was pretty “mega.”

  God, I’m such an asshole.

  “I’m going to give you some medication for a few days to keep you on an even keel. It’s nothing to worry about. Just standard procedure, okay?” Dr. Matthews swayed in the middle of the room, and I focused, pulling all the color back together to make her whole again.

  “Okay. Sure. Standard procedure.”

  She squeezed my arm. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Great. Mega Matthews, take two. How many takes would I need to get it right? I guessed as long as the state wanted to pay for it.

  Mark led me back to my cell. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We have the detention hearing first thing. I’ll come for you at seven forty-five.”

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Everything kept moving forward.

  Stop. Just push the stop button.

  But Mark’s lips moved. People walked by us in the hallway. The afternoon light grew dim. And I was stuck on play.

  That night they gave me Dr. Matthews’s pills with my food. My world lost its colors. The brightness turned to shades of gray and forms lost their edge. But my dreams were filled with red, black, and deep purple. Veins, tendons, arteries, muscles, and blood, pumping, flowing, and then clotting and stopping. I woke up when the room was so black, I couldn’t even see my own hand. I stayed awake and listened to some girl cry down the hall. Another kid tapped a pencil or something against the wall.

  I counted backward, wondering if I could turn everything around if I concentrated hard enough, but I couldn’t. The sun rose, and I was two days away—farther from Jason than I ever thought I’d be.

  9

  The courtroom smelled like lemon furniture polish and old men’s cologne. It was too small for a jury. And the judge was a surprise. You always think judges are gonna be some balding fat guys with mustaches or something, but not this one. Jason and I used to talk about what jobs would be good for meeting hot women. Judge would’ve been one of them.

  “You know what would be cool?” Jason said one day when we were in seventh grade, out of nowhere. We were just hanging out in Jase’s room. “Teaching.”

  I looked at Jason. “Teaching what?”

  “Art…or something.”

  “C’mon! That’s so lame. What teacher have we ever had that’s hot?”

  Jason shrugged. “I dunno. I think Miss Simpson isn’t too bad. And Mrs. Carmichael is a pretty good-lookin’ old bird.”

  “Mrs. Carmichael? She’s gotta be at least thirty-five! And way far away from being Hooters-hot. You need a job where you meet Hooters-hot chicks. Like a cop or fireman. Think Backdraft, not Stand and Deliver. Plus, when I get picked for Carson City’s hottest firemen calendar, the chicks will be all over me.”

  “Hottest firemen calendar?” Jason shook his head and cracked up. “Whatever, Mr. December.”<
br />
  “Dude, why not?” I did my Mr. Universe pose.

  “You’re hopeless.”

  I punched him, and he put me in a headlock. “C’mon, Jase.” I tried to break free, but he had me tight. “It’s way better than playing school with Miss Simpson in her plaid vests.”

  He let me go. “Okay, seriously. Have you ever thought about what you wanted to do? I mean for real?”

  “Not Mr. December?”

  “Kyle, I’m serious.”

  I thought for a while. “Not really. It just seems so far away. Plus, all I like are movies. And I don’t think having a managerial position at Blockbuster is a babe-magnet kind of job.” I shrugged. “What about you?”

  “An artist.”

  “An artist? Like painting and art galleries and shit?”

  “More like graphic design and comics. Grandma Peters is teaching me to draw with charcoal. She said I had to get the basics first. It’s pretty cool.”

  “Dude, so that’s what you’ve been doing. I mean, when you say you’re busy and don’t want to watch old movies.”

  Jason nodded.

  “Will you show me your stuff?”

  “It’s not any good.”

  “C’mon, just show me.”

  “Don’t laugh.” Jason pulled out a notebook of chalky black drawings. At first they weren’t so great, but then by mid notebook, the apples really looked like apples. He had even drawn a picture of an old tennis shoe with the toe worn through. “Check these out.” He had a separate notebook filled with Marvel comic characters.

  “You drew these?”

  He nodded. I flipped through the pages and started noticing familiar faces. “Dude, that’s me.”

  Jason cracked up. “Yeah, I drew you as a movie director.”

  I whistled. “And check out the actresses. Nice, Jase.”

  He grinned. “I thought you’d like that.”

  “You know, you could draw those caricatures of people—like they do at Disneyland.”

  Jason shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Definitely. These are good.”

  “You think?”

  “Shit, Jase. You’re going to be the hottest new name on the comic-book market.” I already pictured his stuff in a series. Or maybe he’d even have drawings hanging up in some kind of cool New York art show with people milling around eating cheese and crackers off silver platters.

  “Grandma Peters signed me up for art classes after school this year, three nights a week. Dad’s pretty bummed I won’t be playing basketball or anything. His oldest son, an art pansy.”

  “Drawing superheroes is definitely not pansy. It’s cool, Jase. Really. When are your classes?”

  “Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

  I felt a twinge of sadness. What would happen to our Friday Night Flicks club? “Then you really must like this.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Before Jason closed up the book, he tore out the sketch of the movie director. “Here.” He handed it to me. “Only if you want it.” He scuffed his shoes against the wall, leaving a black smudge.

  “Yeah, I want it. This will be worth a mint someday.” I still have it hanging up on my bulletin board. He never signed it, though.

  The judge cleared her throat. “What do we have on the agenda today?”

  A lady tapped things on a black machine, and a man sat in a little box next to the judge. He handed her a file. She flipped it open.

  Mark stood up. “Juvenile Master Brown, at this time I don’t think we need to remand Kyle to West Hills Hospital because I don’t believe he is a suicide risk. I do, however, request that he be placed in the juvenile detention center until I can better assess the situation.”

  “Where’s the jury?” I asked.

  Mr. Allison leaned in. “There is no jury. You’re in juvenile court. You will have a disposition before Juvenile Master Brown in the next two weeks. She’ll review your case and then determine your…” His voice faded. “Your sentence. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. Twenty to life without the possibility of parole. I tried to remember how the defendants acted in all those movies when they’re sent away. Most of them don’t even cry. They’re just stone-faced.

  How will I react?

  I looked at all the people crowded into the small courtroom.

  “Do you have any problem with that, Mr. Wiley?” the judge asked the other lawyer across the room.

  “No, Juvenile Master Brown, I don’t. When should we meet again?” Mr. Wiley shuffled his papers and nodded at me. He wore a much nicer suit than Mr. Allison.

  “Can we meet Wednesday afternoon or Thursday morning?” Mark said, looking at his calendar.

  “So soon?” Judge Brown raised her eyebrows.

  “The Carolls, from what I’ve seen so far, are good people. My main concern is the psychological welfare of Kyle, and I don’t think that the juvenile detention center can offer him more support than his family. I do, however, want to take the time I need to visit the home and make sure there is no longer a risk factor.”

  “Mr. Wiley?” Judge Brown looked over her glasses at the other lawyer.

  “That’s fine. Thursday morning?”

  The man who sat next to the judge said, “We will meet here Thursday at ten-thirty A.M.”

  “Good. Next.” The judge didn’t even have a gavel to pound on her desk.

  Mr. Allison patted me on the back. “See, it’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

  I glared at him. How was it possible that things would ever be okay after what I had done? I needed to edit that day. It didn’t matter about Jase and the guys. We didn’t have to hang out anymore. I just needed to go back and edit that one day—one scene. Scene Three.

  But how could I edit what I couldn’t remember?

  Mom and Dad rushed over to me. “We’ll get you home Thursday.”

  Mark was waiting for me outside the holding room. “Let’s go,” he said. “Back to Dr. Matthews.”

  10

  I walked to Dr. Matthews’s office. She had a stack of pictures on top of the small desk. A guitar leaned against some boxes in the corner. “Hi, Kyle.”

  “Hi.”

  She smiled and motioned me to sit at the other end of the couch.

  Then we had one of those weird silences that Jason told me happen a lot on first dates. Dr. Matthews wasn’t a date, of course, but just sitting with her like that on the couch made me as nervous as hell.

  “I like your couch.”

  She smiled. “I’ve had it since my college days.”

  “A long time, then, huh?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Sorry, Dr. Matthews. I, um, didn’t mean it like that.”

  She laughed. “Pretty long, actually.”

  I nodded. I wondered if she’d ever changed the upholstery or anything, because it looked pretty ratty. I picked at a loose string and unraveled part of a faded purple flower.

  “Can you tell me what happened last Saturday?”

  “Again?”

  “This time, I want you to close your eyes and talk about everything you remember—the color of your clothes, the smell of the grass—everything.”

  I closed my eyes. The images came back to me in flashes—like I was looking at film negatives—and ended with the red-black pool of blood and the blue of Jason’s lips. All I could smell was the burn. All I could hear was the ringing in my ears. I opened my eyes and shook my head. I gave her the abbreviated version—like a movie preview.

  “Jason and I were cold. We went to the shed. Now Jason’s dead. End of story.”

  She laced her fingers together and sighed. I traced a bumpy leaf with my finger. I wished she’d say something; instead we sat there in that cramped office, listening to the ticks of the kitchen timer.

  “Kyle, this is a place where you can say anything that’s on your mind.”

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. My lip quivered and I took a deep breath.

  “Or nothing, t
oo. That’s okay.”

  Nothing. That was better.

  Dr. Matthews looked at the time. She stood up and stretched a little. “I still want you to take your medication. It will help you feel better.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kyle.”

  “Sure, um, see you tomorrow.”

  Mark wasn’t waiting for me in the hall that time. Some guy in a brown uniform took me back to my room. “Where’s Mark?”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow. Some of the kids are going to play checkers and Parcheesi in the common room. You game?”

  “No, thanks, sir.” I couldn’t imagine playing Parcheesi with Colander.

  I counted the bricks that lined the cell door until it got too dark to see. The next couple of days were gray. Everything seemed blurred, like in those old 8 mm home movies Mom and Dad had from when they were kids, the ones I had found in the shed. No sound. Just the snap of the film spinning around the reel.

  When I was little, Dad once showed me his record collection. We sat and listened to music in the den. The sound was crackly, and one record got stuck. Just when I thought the song would continue, it moved back to the same spot.

  “It’s scratched here, you see?” Dad shook his head and pulled the needle off the black disc. He showed me the record, and I ran my fingers across smooth vinyl and felt a hairlike scratch. It didn’t feel like anything big at all, but it was because of that tiny little mark that the song just wouldn’t go on.

  “Can’t we fix it?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dad gently held the record in his hands. “Maybe I’ll bring some records to the café. What do you think?”

  It was the first time Dad had ever asked me what I thought about his café, The Hub. I imagined how cool it would be to have The Hub packed with people, listening to the crackly music. “I think it would be great, Dad.”

  Dad smiled.

  October 8 was the place where my needle got stuck. There was no way to go on. And it couldn’t be fixed.