Flash Burnout

by L. K. Madigan

"Why not?"

  She shakes her head. "You have to earn Mr. Burns."

  "What?!"

  She's laughing now. "I don't do Mr. Burns for just anyone."

  Shannon!"

  "Nope." She's really getting into this now. "Mr. Burns is reserved for my most trusted inner circle."

  "I'm not in your inner circle?"

  She's laughing so hard she can hardly speak. "I'm reviewing your application."

  I tickle-attack her. "I'll review your application!"

  While we're engaged in beanbag battle, a few of our friends breeze in—Riley and Caitlin and Dez and Bald Jake.

  I stroke Shannon's arm. She may not be curvaceous and bodacious like Dez, but I wouldn't change her. Guys are constantly ogling Dez. I would hate it if guys were doing that to my girl.

  Riley pretends to climb into the beanbag with us. "Move over, Shannon," he complains. "You're hogging the sweet spot."

  She giggles and pushes him halfheartedly. He does a big pratfall, just like me! I taught him that.

  It warms the cockles of my socks to see my best friend and my girlfriend joking around. Shannon has always felt a little shy around Riley, so it's cool to see them starting to become friends.

  I'm floating along in blissful ignorance when it happens.

  "Did you get some good photos at Marissa's yesterday?" asks Caitlin.

  Shannon stiffens.

  I blink. "Yeah," I say.

  "Her grandma is really nice," Caitlin adds.

  Houston, I think. Oh shit.

  Houston maintains radio silence.

  I don't think Caitlin has any idea that she's ruining my life. She probably thinks Marissa and I were innocently working on a photo assignment together; I doubt she even knows about Marissa's tweaker mom.

  "Yes. She is. Mary," I say, stumbling along. "Her name is Mary. She is nice."

  A rigid smile is fixed on Shannon's face, and her body has gone wooden.

  Everyone hangs for a while, eating and drinking and goofing. Shannon does her best to act normal, but her body is no longer curved against me. She has gone stiff and spiky.

  Finally it's time to make our way home. I struggle out of the beanbag and hold out my hand to her. She takes it without smiling.

  We walk out to the bus stop. Not talking.

  Finally I say, "You're mad, aren't you?"

  No," she says.

  But she doesn't look at me, and even though I may not work at the Genius Bar, I can tell she is mad.

  We walk in silence for a minute.

  After what feels like a year, I ask, "Are you sure?"

  I'm not mad." She pauses. "I'm wondering."

  Wondering what?"

  More walking in silence.

  Finally she says, "Wondering whether or not I can trust you."

  Ow! I get an image of the Mr. Burns Circle, with me standing outside of it. "You can trust me. I've told you a hundred times that Marissa is just a friend. "

  "I know. But I can't help wondering."

  I clutch my head. Houston, please translate ... Stat!

  Shannon watches me for a moment, then puts her hand on my arm. "It's just, I don't understand why you wouldn't tell me you were going over to another girl's house. Don't you see that it looks kind of sneaky?"

  Well. When you put it that way.

  "Yeah. I can see that." I feel terrible now. "I'm sorry. I had to, though."

  Had to?"

  "Yes." Things are getting sticky here. I can't tell Shannon about Marissa's mom. Am I going to have to lie now? Before, I just omitted the truth. Now I may have to lob it out the window.

  "Was it an assignment?"

  I hesitate just long enough for her to frown.

  "Yes," I say. "Kind of." I look away from her. "But not a school assignment."

  "Not a school assignment," she repeats.

  Suddenly I know what to do. I pull her close and say, "Look. For the last time, Marissa is a friend and that's all. I love you."

  ***

  Thursday afternoon Shannon has soccer practice and I don't feel like hanging out at Ottomans. Riley and I meander over to the soccer field to take a gander at the girls.

  "You going to the homecoming dance?" I ask Riley.

  He belches and shrugs. "I dunno. I haven't asked anyone."

  "It's in, like, three weeks. Pick someone and ask." I indicate the field, ripe with prospects.

  "What do you care?"

  "Dog, I don't want to rot there alone!"

  "Alone? Won't you be there with your pseudo-wife? Isn't that the point?"

  "To rot and fester alone," I add.

  "All right, all right."

  "Rotting and festering and congealing."

  "ALL RIGHT." He slugs me, not hard. "Who should I ask?"

  I consider. Trying to keep a straight face, I say, "How about Dez Hayes?"

  We howl, almost falling off the bleachers.

  "Can you see it?" Riley gasps, trying to catch his breath. "'Um, Dez? I know you're the rockin'-est hottie in tenth grade, but how about going to the homecoming dance with me, a complete scrof?'"

  "Scrof? Hey! Where did you hear that word? My brother calls me that."

  "Heh. He calls me that, too."

  We laugh our scrofulous asses off.

  We decide he should ask Shannon's friend Kaylee to the dance. There. That's done.

  Riley's brother Carter comes by, wearing a T-shirt that says STUPIDITY ISN'T A CRIME, SO YOU'RE FREE TO GO. Riley takes off with him, and I wave goodbye to Shannon, then mosey to the football field to wait for my brother to finish practice, so I can snag a ride home with him.

  Finally the jocks lope off the field to the locker room and I gather my stuff. Garrett doesn't spend all day primping after practice, like some of these prima donnas.

  As I approach the gym, I see the back door open, and Garrett comes out. I'm about to call out to him when I see his face undergo a transformation: it lights up, kind of like Shannon's does when she sees me.

  Then I see a girl with blue streaks in her hair walking across the parking lot toward him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Number of times Salvador Dalí leapt into the air

  for Philippe Halsman's famous photo: 28

  Number of times people outside the shot had to throw water,

  furniture, and three cats in the air while Dalí jumped: 28

  Number of people happy that Photoshop was invented: 28,000,000

  I so don't get the whole homecoming hullabaloo.

  First off, Shannon goes into a tizzy when I tell her that Riley is going to ask Kaylee to the dance. She literally gasps. "Really?!"

  "Um, yeah?"

  "Did he say he liked her?" she asks.

  "Uh—"

  "Because don't tell him I told you this, but she totally likes him."

  "Really? Okay."

  "She says he has pretty lips." Shannon mashes both hands against her mouth. "Ohmygod, don't tell him I said that!"

  "Ew!" I say. "I'm not going to tell him. I'll be too busy scrubbing that visual from my brain with a wire brush."

  I have some fun making her beg before I reassure her that I have no intention of telling Riley and, in fact, probably won't even remember it. I have less fun listening to her talk about what she's going to wear to the dance, and what she wants me to wear, and what Kaylee might wear, and what Riley should wear if Kay-lee wears what Shannon thinks she will wear.

  I hold her while she talks, until words like "spaghetti straps" and "matching cummerbund" and "boutonniere" all run together in a soothing hum of foreign words.

  ***

  This time Marissa has a huge bruise on her arm after Hurtle.

  "Cool!" I yell.

  "You're so bizarre," she says, shaking her head.

  "You have to let me photograph it," I say.

  "No! You're insane. It's bad enough I let you shoot my black eye."

  "I'm insane? I'm? Insane?" I walk around in a circle, my hands and face raised to the sky. "Who
is the person in this room who keeps aiming her bike down a death-wish hill? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?" I point at Marissa. "Could it be ... you? Why yes, I think it's you!"

  "All right, shut up!"

  I sit down next to her. "So what happened?" I say. "And seriously, maybe you should stop doing Hurtle."

  "No, I wasn't even doing Hurtle when it happened. It was another totally random thing of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's embarrassing. If I'm going to get all wounded, at least there should be a good story, right?"

  "So what is the story?"

  She sighs. "I was standing next to my brother, and I see some girls I met there last time, and I'm like, 'hey howzit goin'?' and I start walking toward them, only I didn't see some idiot skater guy barreling down the hill doing a handstand on his board—"

  "Doing a handstand?"

  "I know! In a crowd of people! Jerk. So I'm about to walk over to these girls, and bam! He crashes right into me and I go flying."

  "Ohhh-owww," I say, wincing.

  She shows me the scrapes on her palms. "You should see my ass," she says.

  Blink. Blink.

  "My right leg and hip are one big bruise."

  Yikes. Okay. I'm fine with not shooting photos of your, um, ass. But could I please take a couple of shots of your arm?"

  Phhft. You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  Why?"

  "I'm Gritty, you're Pretty, remember?"

  She gives me a blank look.

  Wow. This may very well be the strangest conversation we've ever had. First asses and then a line that sounds like flirting. Marissa knows I mean Mr. Malloy's nickname for us: the Pretty-Gritty Team. I can't exactly take it back without implying that she's not pretty, which would be rude. And mean. And untrue. I settle for saying, "You know what I mean."

  She nods. "Yes."

  We sit there for a second.

  "And yes, you can take a picture of my bruise," she adds. "This one." She points to her arm.

  "Sweet!"

  ***

  Shannon's parents drive her over to our house the night of homecoming so they can take pictures of the two of us all dressed up in our fancy outfits. Shannon is wearing a green velvet dress with long black gloves. I'm wearing a suit with a cummerbund, which turns out to be a flap of useless shiny material that goes around your waist and matches the girl's dress. She looks gorgeous. I look like a farb.

  I think I even see Shannon's mom wipe a tear away from her eye.

  Groannnnn.

  My dad drives us to the dance and says to have a good time. Shannon's mom will bring us home afterward. We walk inside the gym, which is all decked out in balloons and streamers and stuff to make us think it's not a gym.

  "Let's look for Kaylee and Riley," says Shannon. She grabs my arm and pulls me along.

  There's Big Jake with Dez. Go, Big Jake! There's Aisha and Bald Jake and Lola and Guy We Don't Know. There's some girl with short, silvery-gold hair with that Stone guy. Cappie? Jeez. Halloween was last week. She looks like a dandelion.

  I look around for Garrett. There he is with Willow at the cheerleader table. I watch him for a minute, and sure enough, his glance flicks over to Cappie with the regularity of a lighthouse beacon.

  I wonder what's really going on: whether they're together and "hiding in plain sight," as Garrett calls it, or they're not together, but he can't keep his eyes off of her.

  I don't see Marissa. I forgot to ask her if she was coming to the dance.

  We dance. We sit. We dance some more. Shannon's hair is in a complicated pile on top of her head, and little strands start coming loose, framing her face. She looks so tasty. I really wish we could go somewhere alone after the dance. But her mom is coming to pick us up at ten thirty. Her dad is probably too tired and decrepit to stay up that late. I'm thinking her mom will not even stop the car at my house. She'll just slow down and throw my cummerbund-wearing ass to the curb. Sigh. Who can blame her? She can probably see the lust I have for her daughter blazing out of my eyes.

  I can't wait to get my driver's license. Seven weeks from today I turn sixteen. Then I'll wow them at the DMV with my mad driving skills and celebrate by driving over to Shannon's house all by myself.

  Kaylee and Riley started out overly polite and shy with each other, but they've warmed up and are laughing together now.

  Shannon watches them, a big smile on her face. "Maybe we can double-date with Kaylee and Riley," she whispers to me.

  "No," I whisper back.

  "What?"

  No."

  "Why not?"

  "How can I get you naked with other people around?"

  "Blake! You're so obsessed."

  "You say that like it's a bad thing."

  She cracks up; then—be still, my heart—she hunches over. She pulls her upper lip above her front teeth and twiddles her fingers together. She says, very quietly, just for me, "Ex-cellent, Smithers."

  I feel a wobble in my heart. I'm in.

  She let me in.

  She drops the pose and giggles, blushing.

  This girl slays me.

  Shannon is everything I want. I thought she would be like the starter kit girlfriend for me, you know? After I figured out where things go and how they work, I would take my skills with me when I moved on to the next level.

  But right now I can't imagine ever meeting anyone more perfect for me than this girl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Do not attempt to load or unload film underwater

  —Underwater camera manual, 1983

  "Hey, I didn't see you at homecoming Friday," I say to Marissa on Monday. "Did you go?"

  "Naw."

  "Naw?"

  "I went to Hurtle."

  "You went for a bike ride instead of the homecoming dance?"

  "Blake, man, you should come with me again. It's so wild! And it's dark now at six o'clock."

  I stare. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me you rode your bike down that stupid hill in the dark? Let's see it. Where's the new bruise?"

  "It's not stupid. It was a total rush!"

  "You're going to end up in a body cast," I say, shaking my head.

  "Don't be such a wuss," she zings back. Ow.

  That's gonna leave a mark.

  "I'm not being a wuss. I just think you should have come to homecoming. It was fun."

  She narrows her eyes, studying me. "Was it?"

  "Well." I lift my hands. "You know. Fun enough. More fun than road rash."

  "It helps to be invited," she says. "Besides, I was having a blast with these girls I know through Hurtle. Now, they are fun."

  "Whatever."

  We turn our attention to Mr. Malloy, who writes on the chalkboard: "Perspective and texture. Rockaway Beach. November 15."

  People start buzzing.

  Mr. Malloy ambles around the classroom handing out permission slips. "It's one week away, people. Get a parent to sign this, and bring it back to me. The beach is an excellent location for studies in texture. Great for perspective, too. Lots of opportunities for shooting the horizon. Which, of course, no one in this class will place smack in the middle of the frame, will they? I'm looking forward to seeing some innovative shots ... worthy of the photo contest in March." He peers around at us, his beret cocked at a rakish angle. "And dress for cold weather. No swimsuits this time of year."

  "Dang," I say. "And I wanted to wear my banana hammock!"

  Chuckles.

  One point!

  ***

  "Guess what I heard!" says Shannon as we hunch over a tiny table in Ottomans. Someone has commandeered our soccer beanbag. From now on I will reserve that beanbag.

  "What?"

  She glances over at the table of cheerleaders, one of whom is Ellie, Mr. Hamilton's daughter. "I heard," she whispers, "that Ellie and Manny are, you know, doing it."

  Ahhh. It.

  "Oh," I say. Should I express my admiration? My envy? Or is she waiting for me to make a joke? "Um, mazel tov t
o the happy couple?"

  She leans her head against my shoulder. "You're so funny."

  "No, no," I say. "I'm about as serious as a seizure right now. Are we falling behind? Are we winging out of the loop? Are we losers? Because you know, much as I'm against it, I would be willing to—" I heave a big, fake sigh. "Do it if we had to. But only if it meant getting our ratings back up."

  Blushing, she turns her face into my neck. "Blake."

  "Shannon," I continue. "This is serious! You say the word and I will step up to the plate."

  Her giggle warms my ear.

  "No, really, I don't mind," I add. "We can cash in our V-cards this weekend if we have to."

  She laughs harder. "V-cards?"

  V for virgin," I whisper.

  "Blake, stop!"

  "Okay." I don't want to push her. I'm still having flashbacks from my dad's "No means no!" tirade.

  Shannon says softly, "I'm not ready yet." She looks me in the eye. "Okay?"

  "Okay." I got it.

  We sit in silence for a minute, with me stroking her arm. Then I say, "How about now?" She laughs.

  "You know I'm messing with you," I say. She nods.

  "I don't mind," she says. "And who knows?"

  I can't answer; I can hardly breathe. Who knows.

  This feeling in my chest must be that thing with wings we read about in English: hope.

  ***

  This time, Cappie is sitting at the kitchen table and Garrett is bustling around the kitchen like a waiter. Apparently she failed to render him unconscious on this visit, because he's very busy scooping chocolate chip ice cream into the blender and measuring out milk as if it's the priceless elixir of life.

  "Why, hello there!" she greets me, as if we're long-lost buddies.

  I stand and glare at her. I'm not sure what I want to say to Chick Trickster, but the words "shut" and "up" come to mind.

  She cocks her head at me. "Peace?"

  "Phhft. Right."

  "Don't start with me, honey. I'm in a good mood. But if you want to try me, I will rain down a hail of invective on your ass."

  Invect-a-wha—?

  Not sure what that means, but I get it. Raining down anything on my ass = not good.

  Garrett cracks up and flips the switch on the blender, no doubt eager to make an offering to the Goddess of Threats and Hunger.

  "Not too whippy," yells Cappie over the noise of the blender.