Freeze Frame

by Heidi Ayarbe

  “Whaddya wanna do?”

  “Whaddya wanna do?”

  I jerked awake and stumbled to the bathroom. The porcelain felt cool on my face. Everything was blurry. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled. Clutching the toilet, I retched, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to erase that day. What did we do in the shed? How did it happen?

  My nightmares were getting worse. It was easier not to sleep.

  I listened to the darkness and watched Jason’s house through the window. Mrs. Bishop had put a candle lamp in the window. She never turned off the light. I read that’s what people used to do for sailors or soldiers, waiting for them to come home.

  Didn’t she know he was never coming back?

  I walked out to the shed, locked with a padlock now. I touched its cold metal doors and leaned my face into it. Did it smell burned inside, like ashes and fire?

  I imagined Jason and me switching places, him having shot me. Things made more sense when I thought about it that way. People loved Jason and would understand. People would forgive. Dying wouldn’t be so hard.

  Then I thought about Jason gasping for breath, his eyes glazed over, the blood seeping through his T-shirt and pooling on the shed floor.

  It took him ninety minutes to die. Less time than a movie. Ninety minutes from the bang to time of death.

  How long did they work to revive him? Did he hurt the whole time?

  I sat in the shadows, writing in the dim light of the streetlamp, trying to remember, returning to the same place, the same moment, the same scene. I needed to remember.

  SCENE THREE: Take Two—Lynch style The theme song of Scene Three by Angelo Badalamenti plays softly in the background, leading Jason and Kyle to the shed. The light sputters on and buzzes, never giving the viewer a full view of the scene. The shed is bathed in green by the flickering fluorescent light that hangs from the shed’s rafters. The hum is barely audible above the haunting score.

  CUT TO: Man in a cowboy hat behind the shed, peering in through the window.

  POINT OF VIEW: Viewers see the shed through Kyle’s point of view. The camera pans the shelves of the shed. They are blurry because Kyle is trembling. The music fades out and changes to “Dance of the Dream Man.”

  FADE IN: Kyle’s pajama pants are wet, sticking to his ankles. He crouches down to squeeze out the dew. He breathes in deep. Jason holds the gun out for Kyle to get a closer look.

  25

  Lunchtime in the library was like a frame still. I could always count on the chess club taking over the back table; the skinny girl with glasses sitting at the table kitty-corner from me; Brady, the junior class president, coming in to read the newspaper; and Joaquín Sánchez, the center for the varsity basketball team, coming in twice a week to tutor his little brother in math. It would’ve made a great publicity shot.

  At the end of the period on a Friday, I handed Cordoba The Metamorphosis.

  “Mr. Caroll, do you need another book?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  He pulled down books from the shelves. “What would you like to read?”

  I picked up The Time Machine. “Maybe this one.” I looked at the names of those who had checked it out but didn’t see Jason’s. I wished I had asked him about more of the books he’d read. Maybe Mr. Cordoba knew.

  “That’s a classic, Mr. Caroll.” Mr. Cordoba stamped the book. “See you Monday.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I sighed, glad to have something to read over the weekend.

  Mel met me out on the porch that day with her you’re-in-deep-shit look. “Kyle, you messed up. They got your progress report today, and Mom freaked out. Big-time. She won’t even talk.”

  “What shade of red is she?”

  “God, Kyle. This is huge. It’s about as bad as it can get.”

  “Man, I didn’t think progress reports came until mid-November. That’s weird.”

  “Kyle, it is mid-November.”

  I imagined a scene where the camera cuts to pages of a calendar flipping through the days, stopping on November 11. Somebody tears out the date; the camera zooms in on the piece of paper drifting into the wastebasket. I go back and change the scene. It would be better to stop and tear out October 8.

  “Thanksgiving is in two weeks.” Mel snapped her gum and grabbed my arm. “Jesus, I sometimes wonder what planet you live on. What have you been doing all these weeks in your room after school?”

  Nothing, I thought. Absolutely nothing. Could Mel understand how much energy nothing took?

  I heard Dr. Matthews’s voice saying, “Inertia is deadly.” It echoed down the streets.

  At least it was a better voice-over than murderer…murderer…murderer.

  “C’mon, Kyle.” Mel pushed me through the door. Mom held on to Dad’s hand so tight, you could see the white in her knuckles, just like at the disposition. Freeze frame: Mom and Dad on the couch.

  I wondered if they were trying the whole stay-still-so-the-Earth-swallows-me-up thing. I could’ve told them that it doesn’t work. Mark had his arms crossed in front of his chest. I concentrated on the bulging Chinese tattoo. Jesus, the guy even had muscular wrists. I hadn’t even noticed his Harley at first. It was as if all my life scenes were blurry.

  “Kyle, we need to talk.”

  Nothing good ever follows We need to talk.

  “We received your progress report today.” Mom rubbed her temples.

  “We didn’t realize things were this bad.” Dad leaned on the coffee table.

  Mel shoved me into the easy chair and sat down on the arm next to me.

  “You haven’t turned in one homework assignment for over a month, since October.” Mark’s temple vein pulsated. His tattoo twitched. What if the tattoo guy had written Dog shit in Chinese instead of Control, Determination, Peace, or whatever the hell it said? How would anybody know? Anybody not Chinese, I mean. I pictured Mark visiting Carson City’s Golden Chopsticks Chinese Palace and having all the waiters laughing at his Dog shit wrist. “You’re failing every class.” Mark looked back at the progress report. “Every class but PE.”

  Mom clenched her jaw and glared at Mark.

  I looked from Mom to Dad. How could I explain to them how pointless homework seemed?

  Dad said, “Remember what Dr. Matthews said? Remember how important it is to get back into life?”

  Back into life? As if I ever got out of it. That was Jason. Out of breath. Out of time. Out of life.

  It was like somebody had shouted, “Cut! That’s a wrap!” as soon as that ER doctor walked into the waiting room at 10:46.

  That’s a wrap, Jase.

  Yeah. Scene Three.

  I don’t have time for this shit right now, okay?

  Whatever. Scene Three.

  “What work did you bring home this weekend?” Mom asked, and reached for my backpack. She opened it and pulled out The Time Machine, my notebook filled with Scene Three, sixteen tardy notes, seven notes from my teachers, and a detention warning. “What the—Jesus, Kyle. n Why didn’t you give me these notes?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why didn’t your teachers call? What the hell is going on with the school? What happened to open communication?” Mom paced back and forth, reading through the notes.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I muttered.

  “Being sent to a juvenile detention center? Not a big deal? Is that what you want?” she cried.

  To go away forever and never have to face anyone again? Never have to look at the shed again? Never have to look at the Bishops’ house again?

  But then again, I had Chase. And a promise to keep.

  Plus, I had seen some raunchy movies about prisons. Maybe I’d end up being some fat guy’s bitch. That would suck. Alex and “the guys” were better than that.

  Mark leaned in and skimmed through some of the notes. “You’ve been given a second chance here, and look what you’re doing.” He pulled a faded piece of paper out of his pants pocket. “This is a grade contract. Sign here. If you blow your grades again, w
e’ll have to come up with some alternative plans.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Alternative plans?” Mom clutched my backpack.

  Alternative plans probably mean a place in the Willow Springs or West Hills psych wards. White walls. White tiles. White jackets. White noise. Stanley Kubrick.

  He turned to Mom and Dad. “Kyle needs to learn that he is responsible for his own actions and poor choices.”

  Did I choose to point and aim and shoot?

  Dude, I still can’t believe you’re calling it Scene Three.

  Ah, fuck you, man.

  Mark glowered at Mom and Dad. “Probation is about monitoring, listening, keeping track of what’s going on. And that’s obviously not happening here.”

  “So we’re supposed to know everything about a fifteen-year-old boy who hardly speaks? He walks into his room and sits there all afternoon until the next morning. What am I supposed to do about that?” Mom turned a deeper shade of red.

  I could’ve made a sweet documentary about what happens to parents after their only son fucks up their lives.

  Mom’s eyes darted between Mark and me. “Kyle, we want to help you. I’m afraid—” She gripped the notes in her fist. When she realized that they had formed a sweaty ball, she let them drop to the table, then tried to straighten them out. “You’re just so disconnected,” Mom said. She kept her head down. Mom didn’t like to cry in front of anybody.

  Dad cleared his throat. He sat on the end table next to my chair. “It’s not just the grades.”

  Then the room fell silent. No comic relief for this scene. Finally Mark stood to go. “I’ll set up a meeting with Kyle’s teachers and Dr. Matthews for next week.” He shook Dad’s hand. “We’ll get things worked out.” Mark thumped my shoulder. “Last chance, kid.” He motioned to the grade contract.

  Mom finally looked up from the crumpled notes on the table. She nodded. A solution had been placed on the table. A meeting. With adults. Talking about how to fix me—the one who broke everything else.

  Mark left and Mom returned to my backpack. She picked up the copy of The Time Machine and ran her fingers along its crooked spine. Her voice trembled. “Are you reading this book for a report?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Then what are you studying in your classes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sighed. “Okay. Okay. This is my fault.”

  Why did they always want to take the blame for the things I did wrong?

  “We need to get this homework in order,” Dad said.

  We, we, we, we, we… I wondered if Hannibal Lecter’s parents said shit like that. “Hanni, honey, we need to try to stop killing people, then doing nasty things like broiling them for supper….”

  “Can’t you call a classmate to ask for some assignment—any assignment?” Dad asked. He rubbed Mom’s shoulders.

  I shook my head. “I don’t have anyone to call.”

  26

  Tuesday morning, Dad took me to school. “Kyle, you need to stay after school for a while today. We arranged for you to go to the library. Mom and I are having a big meeting with your teachers. You need to get back on track.”

  Back on track.

  Back on the bike.

  Back from the dead.

  The day sucked. I thought about all of them—my teachers, my parents, Mark, and Dr. Matthews—sitting in Principal Velásquez’s stuffy office. I hoped all my teachers didn’t have to be there.

  After the last bell, I rushed to Chase’s school and came back as fast as I could. It took longer running, since I didn’t have my bike that day. I looked at the clock in the hallway outside the library. I was forty minutes late. Maybe Mr. Cordoba didn’t know what time I was supposed to get there.

  I stood outside the library in the empty hallway. Lunchtime was one thing, but almost nobody went to the library after school. Nobody who didn’t have to, anyway.

  “You’re late.”

  I jumped. It was like the guy could see through his newspaper and the door. I cleared my throat. “Sorry.”

  “Get in, then.”

  I handed The Time Machine to Mr. Cordoba.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well?” I echoed.

  “Tell me about the book.”

  I paused. “Really, I guess I was kind of disappointed. I expected to get answers, you know?”

  “Disappointed? Answers?”

  “It didn’t help me much, Mr. Cordoba.” I cleared my throat and stared down at my shoes. The orange had faded, so they looked more like a dirty peach. I had to find a way to glue the peeling rubber back on.

  “What do you want help with, Mr. Caroll?” he asked.

  “Um, I dunno. It’s just that I guess I wanted something else. Something about being stuck in time.”

  Mr. Cordoba put his paper down. “Stuck?”

  “Have you ever wanted something so bad, you thought there had to be a way for it to happen?”

  That’s one of the last things Jason had said to me. We ran into each other Thursday after school. He was hanging out by the flagpole, waiting for Alex to pick him up.

  “Where’re you guys heading today?”

  Jase shoved his books into his backpack. “Nowhere.” He looked real down.

  I sat next to him. “What’s up?”

  “Have you ever wanted something so bad, you thought there had to be a way for it to happen?”

  I shook my head. “Whaddya mean?”

  Jase pulled out a letter from UC Berkeley. He handed it to me. I skimmed it over.

  “Oh, shit, Jase. I’m sorry.”

  “I thought I could get into the winter comic-book art program for teens, you know? I’ve even been working on this new portfolio.” He pulled out a sketchbook of school superheroes and villains. “But I’m just not good enough.”

  “Dude, there had to be major competition. Plus you submitted your old stuff. It’s not as good as this.” I pointed to Infinity Detention, who shaped his body into the infinity sign, zapping his enemies to the detention room forever. Split Infinitive was awesome. Her body would divide in two, and she’d crush her enemy’s brain if he messed up on grammar.

  Jason smiled. “Check out Formaldehyde. He’s the master villain. He doesn’t even kill his enemies, but preserves them in these massive jars and leaves them in the science hall on exhibit.”

  “And you?”

  Jason flipped the page. “I’m Sketch. I can draw anything the superheroes need. So if Kite Rider needs a kite that spouts fire and shit like that, I draw it and it comes to life. Or if Freeze Frame needs a stopwatch, I draw it up.”

  “Freeze Frame?”

  He turned the page. “Check him out. Look familiar?”

  I grinned. “Freeze Frame rocks.”

  He nodded. “I was debating between Freeze Frame and Director’s Cut. I went for Freeze Frame so you could stop time. You’re the only force that can stop the zap of Infinity Detention.”

  I flexed. “Freeze Frame. This is sweet.” I skimmed through the notebook and saw Line Runner. Some lame-ass basketball guy who looked like Alex. I cleared my throat. “You should try again for next year.”

  Jase shrugged. “I was thinking about the summer program, but that one’s even harder to get into than the winter one. I’m not even gonna try.”

  “Don’t quit. You’ll get in. I’m sure of it. Especially with this new stuff.”

  Jason bit his lip. “Nah. You just like being a superhero.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Alex probably did, too. “You’ll get in.”

  “Probably not.”

  “For sure. What’s worse: never trying and never knowing, or trying and getting your ass kicked once in a while?”

  Alex drove up. He rolled down the window. “You tagging along, Shadow?”

  I didn’t get why Jase would even bother being friends with those ass wipes. I shook my head. “Nope. Busy today.” I got on my bike.

  “Hey, Kyle?”

  “Yeah?”
/>   “You still thinking about trying out for basketball?” Jason asked.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Basketball was my latest lame-ass effort to keep up with Jase and his new friends. My friendship with Jase had become a pathetic game of follow-the-leader with him sitting in the director’s chair.

  Alex snickered.

  Jason lowered his voice, like he didn’t want Alex and those guys to hear. “Wanna shoot hoops after the homecoming game, then?”

  “Cool.” Then it slipped out. “You can stay over tomorrow night if you want. I just got the uncut version of A Clockwork Orange.” Fuck, why did I invite him? He probably had a few parties to go to with Alex.

  “Yeah. Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

  “See you.”

  I hadn’t really known what Jase had meant when he said he’d wished for something so bad, but now I did. I wish I’d never seen Jason after school that day or that the dialogue was different. It would’ve been an easy scene to fix. All I had to do was leave it at playing basketball after the homecoming game. Easy.

  Mr. Cordoba tapped a pencil on his desk, waiting.

  Maybe he would understand. “Have you ever wanted to go back and edit something in your life?” I asked, staring at the carpet.

  “Yes, I have.”

  I looked up. “Really?”

  Mr. Cordoba was nodding. “Really.”

  I waited for a while, hoping he’d tell me. But he sat quietly behind his desk, watching me.

  “So what did you do?”

  “To what?”

  “To change the past? Or”—I paused—“to delete it.”

  Mr. Cordoba frowned. “Delete it?”

  “I guess. I mean, I dunno. It’s confusing.”

  “The past will never go away, Mr. Caroll. But you can make peace with it.”

  “How?”

  “By facing it.”

  I sighed and sat down. As if it were that easy. I pulled out the notebook and wrote:

  SCENE THREE: Take Three—Hitchcock style A carnival organ pipes “It’s a Most Unusual Day” in the background. FADE IN: Kyle’s pajama pants stick to his ankles. He crouches down to squeeze out the dew, then sits next to Jason on the workbench. The contents of the shelves blur behind them.