Flash Burnout

by L. K. Madigan

  There's a knock on my door.

  I almost call out, "I don't want to talk," but figure I have to face them sometime, so I say, "Come in."

  It's my dad. "You okay, bud?" he asks.

  I shrug.

  "What happened?"

  I don't answer.

  He sits down on my desk chair. "Mom told me Shannon ran out of here really upset."

  I stare down at the floor.

  "Blake, you didn't, uh, you didn't forget our little talk, did you?"

  "What?" Confused.

  "About no meaning no?"

  "Ohhh," I groan. "No, Da-ad! How could I ever forget our little talk? I'm still trying to stop convulsing."

  He laughs. "Good. Hey, you made a joke. You must be going to live."

  I find myself grinning a little. "I did, didn't I? And you laughed. One point." I score an invisible point in the air. Then I remember that I broke my girlfriend's heart today and I slam back into self-loathing. "She hates me," I mutter.

  "Nooo." He leans over and rubs my arm. "How could she hate you?"

  "She does." I feel tears squirt into my eyes. "She should." My dad wants to help.

  But the truth is, I am a lying, cheating bastard. I deserve to feel horrible.

  After my dad leaves, I load the last disc in Season Two, and I select the final episode, "Doomsday."

  The one where Rose and the Doctor part ways.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Unauthorized substitution of parts could result in fire,

  electrical shock, or other hazards.

  —Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007

  I can't drop out of school. I can't run away from home. I can't join the Witness Protection Program.

  But how am I going to face Shannon in public?

  I've thought about calling her, oh, a hundred thousand times, probably. But I can't believe that she would talk to me. I've also thought about e-mailing her, oh, two hundred thousand times, at least. But what the hell would I say besides a bunch of empty sentences? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.

  Even I can hear how stupid they sound. Sure, sorry you got caught, right. And if you didn't mean to hurt me, then why did you do it?

  I lie awake in the dark as all of the day's terribleness hammers away at me. The image that stabs me over and over is Shannon's face when she realized the full extent of my betrayal.

  When I wake up in the morning, I'm surprised to find that I ever fell asleep.

  A letter, my brain commands. Write a letter. Yes, it will suck, but you have to do something.

  But first: breakfast.

  The house is quiet when I go downstairs. Everyone is still asleep. The Dog Formerly Known as Prince is still in Garrett's room, so I make myself a lonely bowl of cereal and take it back to my room.

  I spend an hour sweating over a letter to Shannon, trying to explain. It feels like trying to translate a book written in Blake-ish into the language of Shannon, which I don't speak very fluently. But I have to try.

  After approximately sixty-five drafts, I have a letter:

  Dear Shannon,

  Please believe that I wish I could go back in time and do things over. I would say "I love you" every day. I would tell you everything about Marissa's mother, and all the messed-up things she's done, and how that led me to get involved in Marissa's home life. Most of all, I would remember that I wanted you and only you before I did something in a moment of weakness.

  I hope someday you can forgive me. I know this is hard to believe, but I never wanted to hurt you.

  Blake

  I seal the letter in an envelope and set it on my desk. Now what?

  I hear the door to Mom and Dad's room open, and a minute later there's a knock on my door.

  "Come in," I say.

  The door opens, and both of them stand there in the doorway with tentative smiles.

  "Morning," says Dad.

  "How are you?" says Mom.

  I stare at them for a minute. Do they even know how lucky they are? I wonder if I'll ever fall in love again. Maybe I'll end up living here with Mom and Dad forever, a forty-year-old man whacking off alone for all eternity in his childhood bedroom. Oh well. Like Woody Allen says, "Don't knock masturbation. It's sex with someone I love."

  "Honey?" prods Mom.

  "Fine," I say.

  "Want some breakfast?"

  "Maybe. I had some cereal before."

  "Okay. Come down and join us, if you like." My mom's glance falls on the envelope sitting on my desk with Shannon's name on it. She doesn't comment.

  "I'm going to—" I say, and stop.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm going to go to Shannon's later."

  Now that I've said it out loud, I realize the thought has been stewing in the back of my brain like medicine you don't want to swallow.

  "Did you talk to her?"

  "No."

  No?"

  "I don't think she'd talk to me if I call."

  "I see. Do you want a ride over there?" asks my mom.

  "Um, no." To my horror, yet another set of tears bubbles to the surface! Whatever brain filter I have that keeps me from dissolving into babyhood every five minutes seems to be ripped. This time it's the thought of standing at Shannon's door and my parents witnessing it being slammed in my face.

  My parents exchange glances. "Let's talk about this later," says my dad. "We'll see you downstairs."

  I look up a minute later when Garrett comes into my room. He sets the keys to the Marauder on my desk and walks out.

  ***

  It's ten a.m. I pace my room, trying to rehearse what to say to Shannon.

  There must be some way to make her understand. It can't really be over, can it? Just like that?

  My cell rings, and I jump on it, looking at the caller's number. Not Shannon. Marissa.

  Oh shit!

  "Hey," I say.

  "Blake, what happened?" asks Marissa without even a hello.

  "What?"

  "Shannon just called me."

  "What?!"

  "I'm freaking out. All she said was, 'You can have him. I don't want him anymore.' Then she hung up."

  My knees give out, and I sink down on my bed. You can have him. I don't want him anymore. I don't want him.

  Marissa says impatiently, "Hellllooo? Blake, what's going on?"

  "She knows," I say.

  Big bang of silence.

  "She picked up my camera and was goofing around with it," I add. "She saw those pictures I took of you."

  More gaping silence.

  Then: "How could you be so stupid?"

  I know," I say.

  "I told you not to leave those photos on your camera!"

  I know."

  "I totally CANNOT BELIEVE YOU."

  I know."

  We sit together on the phone, not speaking. Just breathing. "If I could kick my own ass, I would," I say after a long time.

  We laugh a little, then stop, appalled. How can we laugh?

  "Are you going to talk to her?" asks Marissa. "Well, I have to. I can't drop out of school." Funny how I keep fantasizing about this.

  "Oh no," she whispers. "School. How can we show our faces there ever again?"

  "Maybe she won't tell everyone," I offer.

  "Right."

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  "You are?"

  Do I hear a tiny inflection of hurt?

  "Not for ... you know. I'm not sorry about that." I examine my feelings quickly. It's true. I'm still not sorry about that. Even though my life is ruined.

  "I'm sorry, too, Blake. But not for that, either. I'm just sorry things are messed up now."

  Could this whole thing be any more complicated? I remember when my biggest screwup was buying the wrong necklace.

  I miss those days.

  ***

  I'm sitting in Garrett's car outside Shannon's house. I hate to turn off its comforting rumble.

  I really don't want to do this.

  I would rathe
r sleep on a bed of nails for the next month. I would rather shave my entire body and bathe in orange juice. I would rather drink muddy water. Like the song says.

  But I cannot show up at school tomorrow without trying to see Shannon.

  I shut off the car and walk up to the front door. Before I can change my mind, I knock.

  Mrs. DeWinter opens the door. She doesn't even make an effort to disguise her look of revulsion. "What."

  "Can I talk to Shannon, Mrs. DeWinter?" Be nice, I remind myself. Someday Shannon might forgive you; then you'll have to see this woman again.

  "No."

  I feel feral. My fists clench. "Please."

  "No," she says. Her voice is not calm now. "What did you do to her? She came home crying yesterday and says she never wants to see you again. What did you do?"

  What did you do what did you do what did you do?

  So Shannon didn't tell her mom. Maybe that means she won't tell anyone. Maybe it's too embarrassing.

  "I don't ... I don't want to say," I stutter. "It's between Shannon and me."

  Mrs. DeWinter comes out of the house and gets in my personal space, shutting the door behind her. "You listen to me," she hisses. "Nothing is between you and Shannon, do you understand me?"

  I inch back.

  "If you did something to hurt her, so help me I will—"

  "I didn't!" I protest. "Not like that! I would never hurt her. I mean, I did hurt her. Her feelings. But I didn't do anything to hurt her physically."

  Mrs. DeWinter gives me a long, crazy-woman stare to see whether or not I'm telling the truth. After a minute she appears satisfied, because she backs up and opens the door. "Good. Because I will not hesitate to contact the authorities, Blake, if I hear differently." She steps inside and gets ready to close the door.

  "Wait!" I move toward her, holding the envelope out. "At least give her this. Please!"

  She regards the envelope as she might regard a handful of dog shit.

  "Please," I say one last time.

  Her lip curling, Mrs. DeWinter grabs the letter out of my hand and slams the door.

  I drive down to the end of the block and pull over to the curb. I don't get out of the car and pound on the hood or scream obscenities. I just sit there with my whole body twitching like a broken toy.

  I am so glad my parents didn't have to see that. The look of disgust on her face! I feel like a worm.

  My mom has been saying these three words to me my whole life, but I think today is the first day I really feel their meaning in my bones:

  Actions have consequences.

  When I get home, an e-mail from Shannon is waiting in my in-box: Please don't call or write to me anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Don't forget negative space in your composition—

  use it to convey loneliness or isolation.

  —Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

  We're on our way to school. It's the worst Monday in the history of my entire life.

  Garrett keeps the radio off. Out of respect for my catatonic state, I guess. I do feel like I'm made of very thin glass, like one of those easily breakable Christmas ornaments. One clumsy step and I'll shatter into a million pieces.

  Garrett parks and leaves the car running for a minute. He seems as worried about my day as I am. "You ready, man?" he says.

  I want to say, No. Please drive me back home. But I nod my crystal head and ease my fragile arms and legs out of the car.

  Garrett even walks next to me!

  Shannon is nowhere in sight. She is always there ahead of me, hanging out on the quad with her peeps. I see Kaylee and Jasmine, but no Shannon. The two of them see me and scowl.

  "Uhhnnnn," I moan.

  "Easy, big fella," says Garrett.

  "Don't," I say.

  "Don't what?"

  "Don't call me big fella. She used to call me that sometimes."

  "Dog. Dog, I'm so sorry. I didn't know." Garrett raises his hand as if to pat my shoulder, then drops it, remembering that we're at school and he's got a reputation to protect. "I've got to go to class now, okay?"

  Ohgod, this is just excruciating. I can't bear his concern.

  "Go. I'm fine," I say through my brittle lips. "See you later."

  I manage to stiff-leg my way to biology and survive the hour, even though every time I think about walking into English class, my heart starts slamming around in my chest.

  Finally the bell rings. The bell of doom.

  I stop at the drinking fountain to quench my thirst. I've got serious dry mouth.

  It's time.

  I walk into class.

  "Hi, Blake," Mr. Hamilton says, then cocks his head at me. I must look as bad as I feel.

  Shannon is not there.

  Oh. Thank. God.

  I feel really bad, of course. And it's only prolonging my agony, but I am just so glad I don't have to face her yet.

  Marissa is at her desk, writing in her journal. As I ease my body gingerly into my chair, she glances over at me. I give her a fractional nod, and we look away from each other. I know she's got to be glad Shannon is absent, too.

  ***

  I must have been high to think that just because Shannon isn't here today, word wouldn't get around.

  By lunchtime the girl network has effectively spread the Top Story of the Day. I fully expect to hear Cappie talking about it on the radio any minute: "In other news: Blake slept with Marissa even though he said he loved Shannon and now Shannon has broken up with him and we all hate Blake and Marissa because Shannon is really nice and they are horrible. This is 88.1, KWST."

  But the news must not have reached Cappie yet, because the airwaves remain free of our sad scandal.

  Riley sidles up to me, his eyes round. "Flake, is it true? What Kaylee said? Did you and Marissa...?"

  I just slump, and he whispers, "No way!"

  "It's not like that," I say.

  "Kaylee is so mad, man. I shouldn't even be talking to you, know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Yeah."

  "Later."

  He leaves, and I decide I can't face the lunch crowd alone. For the first time, I walk off campus without permission. I head over to Ottomans, checking out the customers while I stand in line. I don't see anyone I know; maybe I'll be safe here. I buy a meatball sub and eat it at a kid-size plastic picnic table. The meatballs don't seem to have any flavor.

  No one is sitting in the soccer beanbag. I keep glancing over at it, even though I don't want to. After I finish eating, I snap a photo of my crumpled-up sandwich wrapper in the middle of the beanbag.

  ***

  "The deadline for the photo contest is coming up," says Mr. Malloy. "And remember, everyone who enters the contest will have his or her photos on display at school for a month. At the end of the month I will announce the winner, and that person's photos will be hung in the Third Thursday Gallery."

  Mr. Malloy looks less distracted today than he has lately. His beret is back in place and his glasses are glinting. "I hope everyone will enter," he adds with a smile. "Now! Who's ready to talk about portraiture with me?"

  I glance over at Marissa, who is scribbling something that looks like a list: "blue jay and bushtits, pink roses, Japanese garden shots, Grandma's cobbler."

  Must be her contest entries. All pretty. I should enter some gritty to keep the judges from going into a diabetic coma.

  The door swings open, and we all turn to look.

  Marissa's mother stands jittering in the doorway.

  "Um?" she says.

  My eyes almost pop out of my head and roll across the desk. I whip around to look at Marissa. Her face is a mask of shock.

  I didn't actually see the corpse in the cold room that day, but I can't imagine that she looked worse than Marissa's mother looks right now.

  "Can I help you?" Mr. Malloy frowns.

  Marissa jumps up and rushes to the door, mumbling, "Sorry." She steps into the hall. "Mom!" she says, closing the door behind her.


  We all stare at the door, and I know we're still seeing in our minds that skin-and-bones, stringy-haired waif that Marissa just called Mom.

  "Okay," says Mr. Malloy. "Where were we? Portraiture. Nate. Talk to me about the use of flash in shooting a portrait."

  "Um, well, you would want to bounce the flash off the ceiling, if you can. It—"

  "—told you it's just for food! It's not like I'm asking for a hundred bucks!" comes the raised voice from behind the door.

  We hear Marissa's murmur, then the other voice even louder. "Come on, Marissa! Don't be such a bitch!"

  Mr. Malloy moves toward the door.

  "Fine!" comes a shriek.

  I feel myself boil with hatred for that horror show of a human being; I wish she had been the corpse in the cold room.

  I should get up. I should see if Marissa needs help.

  But I do not move. It took everything I had to bring my body to school today and propel it from class to class. I got nothin'.

  The door opens and Marissa steps back inside the classroom, her face red and contorted with pain. She stumbles to her desk and grabs her backpack.

  "Sorry," she says again to Mr. Malloy, and she leaves.

  Disbelief jolts my whole body.

  And something inside of me slams shut.

  ***

  If possible, Tuesday is worse.

  Shannon is back at school, and her face, her sweet face, is so crushed that I want to throw myself at her feet and beg her forgiveness. I would do it in front of everyone—schoolwide assembly!—if I thought it would help.

  But somehow, besides being crushed, the look on her face is finished. As if I'm no one special. Just some guy she used to work with at the community center.

  I see her stony expression, and I remember her saying, "The Gold women are tough. So don't mess with me!"

  Marissa doesn't show up in English. That's one more day without the three of us being in the same room together. Thank you, God.

  People are still talking about us. A few guys make crude comments to me about Marissa. Some people look away when they see me coming down the hall; others shoot me looks full of loathing.

  Cappie spares me further public humiliation by not mentioning Shannon and me during her Love Gone Wrong broadcast.