"Do you want me to call this cop?"
I nod into his shoulder. The nausea has caught up to me. And the jackhammer in my ear. "I can throw the pictures on a CD."
"Is that something I can do?"
Probably, but it'd be faster for me to do it. By the time I explained the entire process we could have sent the disc by courier pigeon. "I can do it without even looking at the files."
"Wait here." The couch shifts as he rises. With a pat on my head, he takes the card into the kitchen. I hear the phone beep as he dials, but I bury my head in the cushions before he starts to talk.
I startle awake when a cold washcloth is set on the back of my neck. The tiny hairs stand at attention, and I can't tell if it's from the cold or the eerie sensation that I'm being watched. True, it's just Dad, but it's still a creepy feeling.
Seems like I've been feeling that way more and more lately.
Thursday is a blur, but unfortunately it's school I'm blurring through. Bishop sends me to the library where I sit at the table closest to the librarian—a new woman who's busy pecking away at her ancient computer—and struggle through yesterday's test. Amelia emailed me the questions last night but they aren't proving to be very useful. For a second I contemplate flickering again, but I've already pushed myself too far.
Most times the aftershocks of my headaches involve a kind of spaciness that leaves me detached from everything around me, combined with a weird numbness all over my body that isn't so different from when I flicker. Voices sound echoey. People move around me in a blur, then slow motion, then fast again. It's all I can do to stay upright and focus on whatever's directly in front of me. I get looks, sure, but for the most part everyone knows I get killer headaches and doesn't ask about the rest.
Except for Bishop. He could give two shits that I'm sick. I flip over the test and scan the back. More of the same. I glance up and catch the librarian watching me.
"Didn't study?" she asks, a condescending sneer marring her otherwise pretty face.
Librarians are supposed to be nice. And old. Matronly. This woman acts like she's doing us a favor, when really she's just a glorified study hall monitor. "I was sick. Still am." I wipe my nose on my sleeve, then cough into my hand.
The librarian wrinkles her pert nose and turns back to the computer. "You're supposed to go back to class when you're finished, so concentrate on your test."
I roll my eyes but she's not looking. I look at the test, but the questions don't make any sense. There are numbers, and spaces for what I presume based on their size are supposed to be long answers, but I can't comprehend the questions.
Literally.
It's like I've forgotten how to read.
My heart jack-hammers and I lean back in my seat. The words swim on the page, looping and graceful, in no hurry to organize themselves so I can understand what the fuck I'm supposed to figure out.
The librarian's eyes flit my way but she continues her typing, oblivious.
"Um…"
She sighs. Rolls her eyes. "What?"
"I think I need to go to the nurse."
"You’re not sure? What, the test too hard for you?"
Is she for real? "Look," I say, standing up and making the chair screech on the linoleum floor. "I get really bad headaches and something's not right. I can't—" how do I even explain what's happening? I take a step towards her but my equilibrium chooses that moment to learn the polka and I stumble forward, slamming my knees onto the floor.
She hurries around the desk and kneels at my side. "Are you okay? Do you need me to go with you?" I guess being a bitch only applies when she thinks I'm just a bad student.
I try to stand, but my legs buckle. At least I make it into my chair. "I'll be okay, I just need a minute."
She goes back to her desk and picks up the phone and is speaking in hushed tones before I register what she's doing.
"No, really. I just need a minute."
I can't say how long I'm sitting there, but it seems like only moments before the nurse is there, along with Stride Right. Really? They had to bring him? They each loop an arm around me and we shuffle to the nurse's office, the weirdest three-legged race I've ever been in. My bag appears on the floor beside me, along with the unfinished test.
Thankfully Stride Right splits the second I'm off my feet.
"I'll call your mother to have her come get you." Becky's eyes are close to mine. "Did you tell her about the other day?"
Marbles roll around inside my skull. "The other day?" Crap, I shouldn't have said that out loud. Now her eyes are all buggy and she's scribbling in my chart, which is alarmingly thick.
"Biz, how many headaches have you had this month?"
"This month?" I'm more concerned about this week. "I don't know, half a dozen." Give or take a dozen.
"Six?" She's still writing.
All this counting makes the marbles spin faster. Suddenly I'm looking at the ceiling and my head's on something squishy.
"Do you have your medication with you?" I point at my bag, entranced by a water stain on the panel next to the overhead light. "Sorry, I forgot." Becky reaches for the light switch and we fall into muted darkness.
Something else is in my bag. Something I needed to do. That I was excited about.
"What is it?"
Oh god, was I grunting out loud?
Becky hands me a paper cup of water and I down a pill. Magic pill. Pill that will stop the thumping and the spinning and the—
Darkness.
"Biz?"
I don't need to open my eyes to know who that is. "Hi, Mom."
"The nurse tells me you came in earlier this week. Why didn't you tell us it's been so bad?" The cot shifts beneath her weight and I try to slide over to make room.
"It's not that bad." I force an eye open to show her that I'm just peachy, but there's two of her. I close my eye.
"Will you please let me take you to the hospital?"
I struggle to sit up but strong arms hold me down. I open my eyes fully and Becky smiles down at me. I go limp. "I don't think it's necessary."
Mom and Becky exchange worried looks.
"Fine, I'll give you the doctor." At least that'll buy me a little time to get my game-face on. He'll poke and prod and ask his usual questions, but he doesn't have any high-tech gear in his office. Most likely he'll up my dosage and tell me to stay home for a couple days, just like he has every other time I've seen him.
A voice in the back of my head warns that I can't fool him forever.
Mom smiles. "I thought you'd say that. He has an opening in half an hour. I called on my way here."
Shit. I walked right into that.
Becky helps me swing my legs over the edge of the cot and she and Mom pull me to my feet. I wobble, but manage to grab a filing cabinet before toppling over.
Becky grips my arm. "Should I get Mr. Walker back in here?"
I shake my head. "I can make it." I glance at the clock and suddenly I remember what I was so excited about earlier. My pictures. "Do you think we can stop by Turner's class on the way to the car?"
"I think he'll excuse you from whatever you have due today," Mom says.
"I know, but I really want to show him the pictures from the accident." We shuffle into the hall and I wave my hand limply at Becky.
"Can't it wait until tomorrow?"
I give her my best are-you-kidding-me look, which loses its effect considering I can barely see straight. "You think I'll be here tomorrow after the doctor dopes me up?"
"Okay fine. But can you leave the card thingy or do you need to show them to him?"
I smile. "I can leave the card thingy."
We make our way slowly through the empty hallway. Mom brushes her knuckles against the closed door, then raps a little louder when no one answers. After a moment Turner appears in the doorway.
"Biz! We wondered where you were." He looks at my mom, then back at me. "Is everything okay?"
"I have to go to the doctor and—" I glance
over his shoulder and my breath catches. Cameron's watching me, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. I didn't realize he was in school today. Man, I must really be out of it.
Mom finishes for me. "She insisted on bringing you her pictures before we leave."
I struggle with my bag. It falls to the floor with a thump, and I follow, landing gracefully on my knees, again. My camera's on the bottom. I pop out the card and hold it up for Turner. "I saw an accident last night. Well, I didn't see the accident, but I got there right after it happened. Anyway, I wanted to see what you think."
I catch Cameron's eye but I’m unable to read his expression.
Turner closes his fingers around the card. "I'll look at them tonight." He reaches for my arm and helps me to my feet, then looks back and forth between me and Mom. "I talked to that cop about the man you saw at the game and—”
“What man?” Mom grips my other arm, her fingers digging harder than she probably meant to, and I flinch.
“Just someone I’ve seen at a few games. He gave me the creeps and with those girls missing everyone keeps telling us to tell if we see something weird. So I did.”
Turner gives a quick nod. “She did better than that. She took a picture of him. Now the police—” A chair squeals on the tile floor inside the classroom, and Turner glances over his shoulder. “The police are looking into it.” He releases my arm and moves us into the hallway. “Take care of yourself, Biz. It's not the same in here without you."
Chapter 26
Mom has this red camera thing from when she was a little girl where you put a paper circle with tiny pictures into a slot, then look through these goggles and click a button to see a each new picture. The moments in between are completely black, then light shines through the film, showing a new snapshot.
That's how the rest of my day goes.
Click, we're at the doctor's office, me lying on a paper-covered bed while Mom hovers nearby.
Click, a ginormous needle is coming at me, the doctor's concerned eyes never leaving my arm.
Click, we're back in the car and I'm tugging my hat lower and lower over my eyes. Flickering now, when I don't seem to have any control over my body, would be beyond bad.
Click, I'm in bed, an ice pack on my head and every light source banished to the closet. Even the digital clock.
Looks like I'll be here for awhile.
*****
When the fog finally lifts I tug the covers off my head and take a deep breath. The air in my room is hardly fresh, but it's better than under the covers. A sliver of light peeks between the edge of the curtain and the wall, so it's either still afternoon, or it's tomorrow. And my phone's blinking its little heart out.
I push the covers back further and roll to the floor to get my phone. It's tomorrow. There's a bunch of texts from Amelia, but I skip those when I see one from Cameron.
"You okay?"
That's it. No, ‘I'm sorry I haven't talked to you in a week', or ‘What have you been up to?'
"Beyond shitty. Thanks for asking."
I guess I should be happy he still cares enough to text. I didn't think my comments last week were that out of line, but a week of silence has had me wondering if he not only didn't want to date me, but didn't want to be my friend either.
I crawl to my knees and push into a sitting position, and my head nearly teeters off my neck. I remember the doctor saying something about strong side effects, and while I couldn't tell you what they are, something tells me extreme vertigo is one of them. I drag the phone into bed with me and press the speed dial for Home.
Dad answers on the second ring.
"I'm up but I can't move."
"Be right up."
Moments later he's at the door with a plate of toast and water. "I was getting worried."
"Is Mom at work?"
"She'll be home soon." He sets the tray on the floor next to my bed and sits gently next to me. At first I think he's moving slowly for my benefit, but he winces as he straightens his shirt.
"She doesn't need to miss work for me. We're fine—"
"It's almost five."
I lost a whole day?
"She told me about the man at the games." That’s it. Not why didn’t you tell us? Because he already knows.
“I didn’t want you guys to worry.”
“You mean you didn’t want us to keep you from coming and going as you please.”
I squirm under the covers. Dad rarely gets upset with me, and I never know quite how to behave. “That’s not the only reason.”
“Then why?”
“Because I didn’t want to accuse some random guy of being the boogey monster when he might just be someone’s dad.”
He rests his hand on my arm. “You did the right thing by telling Mr. Turner, but I wish you would have told us sooner. You showed me your photos and never said a thing.” He closes his eyes for a brief moment and his lips set in a firm line.
My heart clenches. He’s on my side and I’ve made him feel like I don’t trust him. “I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you.”
His eyes open and he smiles. “I’m not going to ask you to promise me you will next time, at least keep me in mind.”
“I will.”
“Now,” he pats my arm, "have you checked your email?"
My phone is still blinking in my hand. "I saw I had some messages."
"Mr. Turner called about the photos of the accident that you left with him. He emailed you last night but called when he didn't hear back this morning."
I open my email app and scroll to Turner's message.
Biz, these are phenomenal. I know the paper will publish these, but you need to send them right away. They won't be relevant in another couple days.
Dad's watching me when I close my phone.
"What did he say to you?"
A huge smile smooths away whatever pain was etched on his face. "He explained about the paper and said they were on deadline. I gave him permission to submit them on your behalf."
"You did?" Headache be damned, I launch myself into Dad's arms, willing away the loop-de-loops spiraling behind my eyes. "He said he'd call this evening once he got the paper." He glances at his watch. "Should be here any minute."
I'm stunned. No, I'm beyond stunned. I'm flabbergasted. "They're really printing my pictures? For real?"
He nods.
My pictures are actually going to be published.
Dad snuggles next to me while I nibble on the toast. I force down some water, then lean back on the pillows, waiting for the thud at the front door announcing the paper's arrival.
I stop myself from wondering aloud if they'll really be in the paper at least half a dozen times. If they aren't there… well, I'll be exactly the same as I was an hour ago. No one knows Turner submitted them, so no one would know if they were rejected.
I shudder at the word. I know it's a part of an artist's life, but I wish there was a way to skip the grunt work and land in my own studio with clients lined up around the block.
Dad elbows me. "I can hear your gears grinding."
"I'm just anxious. I gave him my entire memory card. I trust him to pick the best ones, but what if I get printed in the paper and it's some whack picture of a tire or something?"
Dad chuckles. "You took a picture of a tire?"
"Well, no. I'm just saying. I wish I'd had some kind of say in what was presented."
"I think you'll forget about that when you see them in the paper."
"You're right."
When it finally arrives Dad rushes downstairs, returning a few minutes later with the paper displayed proudly in front of him.
He was right. I did forget my worries about what photo is printed. The right half of the front page is filled with three of my photos: a large one of the EMT working on the little boy while his mother watched, horrified, and two smaller: one of the kids leaning against the car, the other a wider shot of the accident. But I'm not looking at my photos. I can't tear my eyes away
from the picture in the article next to mine.
It's Cameron's sister Katie, with pigtails and a missing front tooth, smiling beneath a headline that the police have formally linked her kidnapping with the recent disappearances.
Chapter 27
I stay in bed the rest of the weekend. Amelia arrives Saturday evening with three orders of cheese fries and the latest Johnny Depp movie, and I'm grateful for the brief distraction from all the shit going on in my head. Cameron can't possibly blame me for where my pictures were printed, but he just started talking to me again.
When the movie ends Amelia gives me a hug, fills up my water glass, then lets herself out. Have I mentioned what an awesome best friend she is? She may not completely understand what I'm going through, but she supports me anyways. A pang of guilt stabs me. There has to be some way I can return the favor.
The heavy fog in my brain is descending quickly—the carb overload only a temporary fix—so I send Cameron a hello text before passing out.
With the morning light, I realize Amelia brought more than just entertainment last night and I make a half-hearted attempt to do some homework. Who knows when I'll have to retake the Trig test, but at this point I don't care. I've been slacking in my other classes and I can't fail them all.
Around dinnertime Mom knocks on my door. "Are you up to eating? Dad made mashed potatoes for you."
My fingers press the back of my skull, testing for tenderness. A slight pinprick of tension radiates from each spot I touch, but I wouldn't call it pain. At least not pain as I know it. I slowly sit up.
Mom's used to this ritual, the inch-by-inch evaluation of my body that I have to do before getting out of bed. I've fallen down the stairs more times than I care to mention because I bolted out of bed at the first sign of feeling better. She waits patiently while I turn my head from side to side.
Nothing.
"Huh, I guess I'm okay." True, it's been days since I flickered, but the empty feeling I always get after a migraine seems more pronounced, more hollow. Maybe it's more than the headache, a little voice insists. I push it away. I refuse to accept that I've been wallowing because of a boy.
Flicker Page 14
