Flash Burnout

by L. K. Madigan

  We go back to my house for some dessert before Shannon has to be home.

  "Mom, we're going to have these cookies in my room," I say, heading for the stairs.

  My parents are cool enough to allow us to be in my room alone, but they make a point of clomping past my door every so often. We can tell when my mom is going to make an appearance: the piano playing stops. With my dad, it's loud humming.

  "Why don't you take that thing down?" asks Shannon, glaring at my poster of Rose Tyler, the girl from Doctor Who.

  "What? Why?"

  "She's not that pretty."

  On what planet? I feel like asking. There's no way I'm taking my Rose off the wall. She's my good-luck charm. I fondle that poster every morning before I leave the room.

  "She just wears a lot of makeup," says Shannon, wandering over to my desk. She picks up my model of Doctor Who's TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimension In Space), holding it carelessly.

  "I never noticed," I say. I take the TARDIS out of her hands and put it back on my desk. I spent hours assembling and painting the Doctor's time machine; I wouldn't want anything to happen to it.

  Shannon doesn't wear much makeup. She's not flashy and sparkly and turning heads every time she enters a room, but she has a deep well of hotness.

  "Why do you need a picture of some other girl in here?" Shannon straightens her school photo, which sits framed on my desk.

  I feel like saying, Come onnnn! You must be joking! It's a poster. Instead I reach over and take Shannon's hand, pulling her down next to me on the bed. "Don't be jealous," I say.

  "Blake," she says. "Your parents."

  "They just made their rounds. We should be good for a few minutes."

  She looks at me from under her lashes and leans closer. "Listen," she whispers.

  I listen. I don't hear anything except the sound of the piano.

  "That song," she says, moving her lips to my neck. "Isn't it pretty? I've played it. It's called 'My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice.'"

  Then, well, we do what we can with our limited privacy. I hope my mom goes on playing that song forever. After a while I forget where I am, and Shannon reminds me by taking my hand in an iron grip and removing it from its softandgorgeous destination. She sits up and moves away from me.

  I groan and bury my face in the pillow. "Give me a minute," I mumble. When I finally sit up and look over at Shannon, she looks kind of glowing and breathless, and I suddenly comprehend that primal urge to grab and take. Roughly.

  But I would never grab and take from Shannon. Or any girl. God! What kind of animal would do that?

  Still. This urge, this drive, feels like the most powerful thing in the universe. So the meaning of life is ... sex?

  That can't be right. All of this heavy thinking is helping me decompress, anyway. My heart rate and other functions are returning to normal. Whew. I'm less likely to do something macho now.

  "Maybe I should go," says Shannon.

  "I guess so," I say. I don't hear the piano anymore.

  She stands up and adjusts her shirt. "Don't you have a mirror in here?"

  I look around my room. I never thought about it before. "No," I say. I make a mental note to add a mirror, just for occasions like this. "You look perfect," I say.

  She curves into my arms again, but then we hear someone coming down the hall, and she jumps back.

  My mom treads heavily past the room, carrying a stack of towels.

  "Hi, Mom," I say.

  She turns and gives an innocent smile, like, Oh hello ... didn't realize your room was right there ... just on my way to the linen closet, la la la...

  "Could you give us a ride to Shannon's house?"

  Sure. Just let me put these towels in the hall closet," she says. "Right," I say.

  As Shannon and I exit the room, she gives Rose Tyler a playful slap and growls, "Watch out. He's mine!"

  ***

  "Blake, can you help me with something in the garage?"

  My dad is standing in the doorway to my room, wearing his grease monkey coveralls. His wild hair flies free, somehow looking even more electrocuted than usual.

  Uhn? My dad never asks me to help him in the garage. He gave that up when I was about twelve years old. And sure enough, I hear Garrett call from his room, "What do you need, Dad? I'll help."

  "No thanks, bud. I need Blake at the moment."

  "Are you sure?" Garrett appears in the doorway to his room, cell phone in hand. "Hang on a minute," he mutters into the phone, then looks at Dad. "What are you doing?"

  My dad shifts from one foot to the other. "It's, uh"—he gives a weak smile—"I just need Blake. Come on." He turns and heads downstairs.

  Garrett watches him go, a look of disbelief on his face. "Must need a midget for comic relief," he says, and goes back into his room, shutting the door.

  Crap on toast. What the hell?

  I go to the garage, where my dad is standing near his huge rolling toolbox.

  "What do you need help with?" I ask.

  "Oh, um," he says, and turns to rifle through the toolbox. He hands me a screwdriver. "Here."

  "Thanks." I examine it as I would a fossil.

  My dad grabs a wrench and sits down on his stool, peering at ... a motor? a rotor?...on his workbench. This seems to mellow him out. "So, Blake."

  "Yeah?" I wait for him to point at whatever I'm supposed to screw.

  "Your mom tells me it's time for the Talk."

  "Wha—"

  "She says you and Shannon are getting very close."

  Uh..."

  My dad reaches forward and twists something with his wrench. He breathes deeply, going to his Zen place. "So I wanted to touch base with you about safe sex."

  Ohhhhh.......

  ....... Noooooo!

  "Your mother and I gave you the birds-and-bees talk a few years ago."

  Something which scarred me for life, yes.

  "But we didn't address the birth control issue, because, well, it wasn't appropriate at that point."

  I stare down at the screwdriver, wishing it were a key to unlock a door to a parallel universe where I could go to escape this conversation.

  "Dad, Shannon and I aren't—"

  "Let me finish," he says.

  But he doesn't. He takes a big breath and says nothing. Poor guy. He would be perfectly comfortable describing a severed spine or something.

  "No means no!" he bursts out. "You understand that, right? Your mom wanted to make sure we talked about that. Never force a girl to do anything. Okay?" Now he's staring hard at me, and I nod.

  "Don't even try to persuade, okay, Blake? No gray areas! Got me?" He looks like he's about to pop a vein, and I nod in alarm. "Okay," he continues. "Sorry, but that needs to be crystal clear. And you'll know when it's right. Shannon, or whoever ... someday ... will know, too."

  I open my mouth to protest, but I close it again. Maybe if I stay quiet, this will be over faster.

  "Sexuality is a powerful force. Maybe the most powerful urge we have as humans." He keeps looking at me, and I want to curl up into a ball of embarrassment. But also? I'm fascinated. He's saying stuff that I was thinking just last night. "The thing about being human, though," my dad goes on, "is we have the ability to reason. We can choose to do the right thing, even when we don't want to."

  Uhn? Does he mean that having sex with Shannon is wrong? Or forcing Shannon to have sex would be wrong? Which ... duh!

  My dad studies his motor thingie and applies his wrench to it again. This seems to help him focus. "Anyway," he says, "I know you'll do the right thing. Just wanted to be clear on that. However. When you do decide the time is right, I want you to be prepared. I'll show you where we keep the box of condoms in a minute. I had this talk with your brother a couple of years ago."

  Where we keep the box of condoms? My head almost spins off my body. So does Garrett just shuffle in and grab a condom whenever he needs one, and my parents can tell when some are missing?

  "In fact," says my dad,
forging ahead, "in a perfect world, your girlfriend would be on some form of birth control, too. So you're protected from pregnancy and disease. Both of you."

  "Dad." I so seriously cannot take any more of this. "Thanks. Really. But you don't have to worry. Shannon and I are not, um, ready."

  A look of pure relief washes over his face. "Good! I'm glad to hear it. You're both very young. But even if it's not relevant now, it's important to get this stuff out in the open. And you can always talk to your mom and me. You know that, right?"

  I nod. I look down at the screwdriver in my hand. I set it down on the workbench. "Can I go now?"

  "Sure." He claps a hand on my shoulder, then pulls me close in a hug. "You're a good guy, Blake. I'm proud of you."

  "Thanks," I say into his shoulder. We break apart, and I head for the door to the house.

  "Hey," he calls.

  No no no no no. "Yeah?"

  My dad opens a cabinet above his workbench. "The condoms are in here, bud."

  "'Kay, bye."

  In fact..."

  WHAT?!

  "Take one to go, why don'tcha?" He takes one out of the box and tosses it to me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Fear of what other people think should never dictate whether or not you get

  your shot. So what if someone sees you crawling on your belly or hanging from

  a tree? Do you think Margaret Bourke-White cared what other people thought

  when she became the first woman allowed to fly on a combat mission?

  —Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

  Mr. Malloy is in a bad mood. Not sure why. Maybe his beret is too tight.

  "Rudimentary," says Mr. Malloy, examining my Hurtle photos.

  Rudi-wha—? Does that mean I'm rude? And ... mentary?

  He notes my blank expression and says, "Gritty as usual, Blake. I get that. You've mastered stark and startling. These subjects are easy to shoot. They're interesting in themselves. You don't have to work at setting up the shot or layering the elements. I'd like to see you take bigger risks with your work."

  If Mr. Malloy doesn't think photographing some of these thugs was risky, he's out of his shiny head.

  I just nod and slide my photos back inside my portfolio. If I get another C in photo, it's really going to bust up my GPA. Why didn't I take drama or some shit like that?

  Mr. M. reaches for Marissa's homework, and I tense. He's not going to bitch her out, too, is he? Because I might come unglued if he gets up in her face. This girl has enough trouble. A dead cat, a dad in jail for God knows what, and a meth-head mom. The last thing she needs is some asshat ripping on her work.

  "Pretty," he says, examining her flower photos. He smiles. "As usual." He pauses over the shots of the ceramic angel in the nest. "Interesting composition," he adds.

  Marissa shrugs happily. "It was kind of a weird idea," she says.

  "I like it." He hands her back her photos. "Pretty-Gritty. What am I going to do with you two?"

  After Mr. Malloy moves on to offend some other people, Marissa leans closer to me.

  "My mom's home," she says quietly.

  "She is? That's awesome. How's she doing?"

  "Good, good." Marissa nods, but her eyes slide away from mine.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah." She fiddles with her notebook, extracting homework. "Well."

  "Well what?"

  "She's still, um, kind of down. It's a long process."

  "What is?"

  "Getting straight."

  "But she was gone a month."

  "I know. But getting straight takes longer than a month. Especially from meth. It's a whole life change. You can go to rehab and get clean, but you can't stay there forever. You have to come out and live your life. That's when the real hard part begins."

  I can't help thinking to myself, But she's alive. Dead is even harder.

  "When do you want to come over?"

  "What?"

  "When do you want to come over and take some photos of my mom? Remember?" Marissa pins me with her stare. "You promised you would take some pictures of my mom when she got out of rehab."

  I hesitate.

  "Well, it wasn't a promise," she says hastily. "I asked, and you said okay. But I'd really appreciate it."

  Sure," I say. "When's a good time?"

  How about tomorrow?"

  Tomorrow? I was thinking she would say this weekend or something. Hmm. Shannon will be at soccer practice. It could work. I wonder if I have to tell her I'm going to Marissa's.

  ***

  Marissa's mom still looks sad, if you ask me.

  She may be clean and sober, but she's not very happy.

  And truthfully? She reminds me of twigs and dried leaves ... like a strong breeze could blow her away.

  Marissa bounces around her mom, saying, "Come on, Mom—it'll be fun."

  "I don't want my picture taken." Marissa's mom is on the couch, staring at the TV. She's surrounded by empty candy wrappers.

  "Why not?" A whine enters Marissa's voice, and she grasps her mom's arm with both hands, giving it a slight tug.

  "Well, my teeth, for one thing," says Marissa's mom. She bows her head and—oh, here we go—starts to cry.

  Marissa shoots me a look, like, I know this sucks, just bear with me.

  I shoot her back a look that says, Can I please go now?

  "Mom," she says gently. "Come on. You don't have to smile with your teeth showing. But I want a new picture of you to go with your new life."

  Marissa's mom heaves a sigh that comes up from the bottom of her scraped-clean soul. "I don't see why you had to drag your friend into this." But she stands up. "And I don't even have any makeup on. Why don't we do this another time?" She's almost pleading.

  Marissa doesn't bend. "No. You know we'll never do it another time. And it's important to me. Okay? Can't you just do this for me?"

  Marissa's mom turns to me, but her head remains bowed. "Where do you want me to stand?"

  I unlock my lips to say, "Um, how about—"

  "Let's go outside," says Marissa. Keeping hold of her mom's arm, she heads for the door.

  I'm reminded of a mother dragging a stubborn little kid along, but this time it's all backwards. The kid is dragging the mother. I follow them outside. Let's do this, I think. The quicker I get the shot, the quicker I'm out of here.

  "Over there," I say with some authority, pointing to a big tree trunk. "I like that texture of the bark. It will make a nice contrast with your skin."

  The truth is, I don't give a flying monkey's ass about texture and contrast. I just want this over.

  Marissa's mom steps off the grass and goes to stand next to the tree. It's a big evergreen. A fir or something.

  "Isn't it too dark under here?" she asks.

  "No," I say sharply. "I'm going to use some fill lighting, anyway."

  "What's that?" she asks.

  "Uh, it just means I'm going to turn on the flash to light up your face so the tree doesn't add shadows."

  I shoot a few photos of Marissa's mom. She doesn't smile until Marissa prods her, but that's almost worse. She stretches her pinched lips into a parody of a smile. The most colorful part about her is the purple streak in her hair, but even that is faded and washed out. All of her tattoos are covered up.

  I review my shots on the tiny screen. Even with the flash, Marissa's mom has shadows under her eyes. Whatever. "Looks good," I say. "Thanks. I'll e-mail these to you."

  "How about some over by the birdbath?" asks Marissa.

  I don't even answer. I just walk in the direction of the birdbath and wait. Marissa positions her mother next to the gray birdbath like some life-size garden sculpture, and I snap a few more shots. "Okay!" I say. "Great. Thanks. I've got to get going. Mariss, see you tomorrow at school." I smile in the general direction of Marissa's mom and turn to leave.

  "Blake," calls Marissa.

  I keep walking. "Yeah?"

  "Thank you."

  I pause
and glance back at her. She looks so grateful that I can't stay mad. "No problem, dude," I say.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  My portraits are more about me than they are about the people I photograph.

  —Richard Avedon, American photographer (1923–2004)

  Of course Shannon found out.

  Because if it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Like the song says.

  We had one whole day of peace before my trip to Marissa's house came back to haunt me.

  Why didn't I just tell Shannon about it? A smarter man would have.

  We were all cozied up in the soccer beanbag at Ottomans. No soccer practice or sick grandmas for Shannon. No bitchy tricksters or troubled buddies for me. Just a squeezable honey with her hair tickling my arms and her eyes magnetized to mine. Isn't love like a drug? I know: a song says that, too. Somebody has already said everything.

  Shannon has my camera and is taking photos of me. "You be the subject, Blake. I will immortalize you."

  I strike some goofy poses, and she snaps away, giggling. I get out of the beanbag and do a couple of big pratfalls.

  She laughs so hard that other people can't help looking at us and smiling. I feel like I've scored a hundred points with Shannon's beautiful belly laugh.

  "Here, I'll show you how to do a mini-movie kind of thing," I say. "I'll do a bunch of poses where I move, like, an inch at a time, and you shoot the photos, then we'll review them really fast and it'll look like stop-time animation. That's how they do clay-mation, like Wallace and Gromit."

  We screw around with that for a few minutes, laughing at the movie of me pretending to trip and fall.

  "Hey!" she says. "Let's get someone to take our picture." She climbs out of the beanbag and asks a girl nearby to take a picture of us. The girl nods and waits for us to snuggle back into the bean-bag. She takes a couple of photos and hands the camera back to Shannon. We peer into the review screen; we look shockingly cute.

  I turn the camera on her. "Do Mr. Burns for me."

  She goes shy. "What?"

  "Your Mr. Burns impersonation. Come on. I'll take some shots. In fact," I say, flipping the button to movie, "I'll even make a movie of it!"

  "Nooo."