Freeze Frame

by Heidi Ayarbe

  The Bishops looked up at Dad and me. They had these empty, expressionless eyes. Mrs. Bishop held a Bible.

  Dad put his coat on. “Let’s give them some space. We’ll wait outside.”

  Chase let go of my arm. He ran over to Mr. and Mrs. Bishop.

  “Is he okay?” Chase asked. “What happened?”

  Dad led me outside. I felt better in the bitter October cold. The wind chafed my cheeks, and my fingers turned numb again. I didn’t move closer to the building.

  I didn’t want protection.

  Mel and Mom joined us. Mel pulled her jacket up high and hugged herself. She was still wearing her cheerleading uniform. The four of us stood in the cold silence. The doors whirred open and shut with each patient coming and going.

  We waited.

  October 8, 10:02 A.M., Scene Seven, Take One

  Dad and Mom didn’t speak. Mom chewed her nails. She went to the hospital chapel. She lit candles. She brought back cheap vending-machine cocoa for all of us. I singed my tongue and the skin peeled back, raw and burned. I liked the feel of the burn. It was the first thing I’d felt all morning.

  We waited.

  I peeked through the windows and my breath fogged the glass. The Bishops sat huddled together. From the outside, they looked like a normal family, just sitting in an ugly room. Grandma and Grandpa Bishop had come. Every now and then, Grandpa Bishop would walk outside and light his pipe. He’d nod at us, puff on his pipe, and return to the warmth of the waiting room.

  Inside, the machines beeped and footsteps padded down the hallways. Telephones rang. Children cried. When the doors zipped open, the sounds amplified by thousands, but then the doors would shut again.

  “That’s his ER doctor.” Dad’s words shattered the underwater silence that surrounded us.

  I didn’t want the waiting to be over.

  Please be okay. Please, please, please be okay. Please. I clenched my fists.

  “Should we go in?” Mom asked. She stepped toward the door.

  “Maggie.” Dad shook his head. He pulled her into his arms. The four of us pressed our noses against the cold glass. My heart accelerated. I bit my burned tongue.

  October 8, 10:46 A.M., Scene Seven, Take One, Continued

  The doctor approached the Bishops. He shook his head. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

  I looked at my watch: 10:46.

  10:46.

  I yanked out the winder. The hands froze.

  We didn’t have to wait anymore.

  Dad’s shoulders slumped. He struggled to catch his breath. Mom leaned into him, clutching his shirt. Mel threw up right outside the ER doors. My heart stopped.

  I hadn’t even seen the cops until then. I didn’t pay attention to the tapping on my shoulder. I kept staring into the waiting room, hoping that everything was a mistake—a horrible mistake. We needed to do another take of the scene. Throw out this script. Write another one.

  Time of death: 10:46.

  Mom looked really confused. She grabbed my shoulders and shook her head. She looked right through me, eyes wild.

  Nobody made any sense. Everything moved in slow motion and everybody had warped kidnapper voices.

  Dad shouted something and threw his coat over my shoulders. Mel puked again. The officers talked to me. They pushed me toward their car. But the sound track I heard was the quiet gurgling noise Jason had made earlier.

  Cold metal handcuffs tightened on my wrists. I felt thankful for the warmth of the police car, but I couldn’t stop shaking.

  I saw Mom holding on to Dad; Mel’s hand was on her stomach; Dad slouched around both of them. They looked like they were drowning out there. My head pounded. I watched through the back window as the car turned a corner and my family faded out, disappearing from the screen.

  October 8, 10:46

  The End

  7

  Gollum and Igor cleared their throats.

  “Kyle,” asked Gollum, “how long had you known about your dad’s gun in the shed?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Dad shifted in his chair. Mom dropped her head.

  “We’re just trying to clear a few things up, okay?” Igor dabbed sweat off his forehead with a yellowed handkerchief, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

  “Kyle,” continued Gollum, “whose idea was it to look for the gun?”

  My chest constricted. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Did you point the gun at Jason knowing it was loaded?”

  “I don’t, I don’t remember.” I closed my eyes, but all I saw was the gun in my hand, like the camera had zoomed in for a close-up.

  “Who taught you how to shoot a gun?” They looked at Dad, and the camera zoomed out: an aerial view of us sitting around a wobbly table, the steam of the coffee curling up, fogging the lens, blurring the scene.

  Igor raised his left eyebrow. “Did you aim the gun at Jason?”

  Did I? Did I point and aim and shoot and kill? I squeezed my eyes shut, only to see the red lens and a pool of blood.

  “Can you tell us who taught you how to shoot a gun?” Gollum smiled. His lips stretched thin across yellowed teeth.

  “I—I—I never—” I stuttered. “I don’t know.” I didn’t even know I had shot the gun.

  “Please help us out here. We just need to get some answers.” Igor paced back and forth. He drummed his fingers on his fat belly.

  “Kyle,” Gollum said, his eyes boring holes through me, “had you and Jason been getting along all right lately? Did you have any fights or disagreements you’d like to tell me about? Maybe some things happened at school?”

  I thought back.

  “Hey, Jase! Where’re you heading?” I had caught up to him leaving the building after science.

  “Hey, I looked for you by your locker. Me ’n’ the guys are going to Taco Bell.”

  “Again?” It slipped out. I cleared my throat. “Cool.”

  “There’s room, man. C’mon.”

  We’d joined up with Alex, Pinky, and Troy as we made our way to the parking lot. Alex rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, Shadow, there’s room. You don’t take up much space.”

  Jason laughed. “C’mon, Kyle.” He lowered his voice. “Dude, they just mess around like that. They’re pretty cool when you give them a chance. Plus, yo quiero Taco Bell.” The perfect Taco Bell Chihuahua impersonation. “I’m dying for one of those triple-bean burritos.”

  “What, so you can drop a bomb in math?” I cracked up, picturing Mr. Rivera running around the room frantically to open all air vents and windows before we met our demise from Jason’s toxic gas.

  Alex exchanged a look with Pinky and Troy. “Real mature.” Pinky and Troy grunted.

  I shrugged.

  Jason looked back at Alex and rolled his eyes. So now Jase didn’t even laugh at fart jokes?

  Alex laughed. Then Pinky and Troy did. It was like Alex was the brain for the three. One brain. Three heads.

  “C’mon, Kyle.”

  “Nah. Brown-bagging it today. Got some homework to do before math.”

  “Okay then. See ya after lunch.”

  “Yeah, see ya.” It felt like somebody had just punched me in the stomach.

  I watched them walk to Alex’s new four-door truck. Alex was one of the only tenth graders with a driver’s license. And for his sixteenth, his parents had given him a sweet cherry red truck.

  Jason turned around and shouted, “I’ll bring you something back. We’re still cool for after school, right?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  Igor cleared his throat. I came back to the same small room with the stench of sweat. “You remember anything at all, kid? Anything we should know about?”

  I thought about Jase and the guys and felt the sting of tears. I shook my head. Jesus, I was such a tool.

  “Did you and Jason struggle in the shed? Did you fight?”

  “No.” My chest felt like Igor was sitting on top of it. “I know
we didn’t fight. We never fight.”

  “Fought,” Igor corrected me.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  Mr. Allison stood up. “I’d like to know where this line of questioning is going. We’re talking about a fifteen-year-old boy here and his best friend.” Mr. Allison clenched his jaw.

  “We’re talking about a fifteen-year-old corpse, okay?” Igor snapped back.

  Mom gasped.

  Dad stood up. “We’ve talked to you enough today. My son, m-my son…” He stammered. He kicked his chair out of the way and paced the room. “I just went to the store for more syrup, okay. That’s all they wanted that morning—maple syrup.”

  Fucking maple syrup.

  “Let’s settle down, everybody—take it step-by-step,” Gollum said in a soft voice. He hummed his words like music.

  Mr. Allison stood up. “What are you trying to do here?”

  Everything started to sound scripted, like in The Truman Show. I half expected Igor to hold up his pen, grin, and say, It’s a good thing we have these brand-new Swick permanent marking pens to write down this boy’s statement—the only kind of pens the Carson City police department uses.

  Then Gollum would pipe up, Oh, and these bagels from the Kaufmann Bagel Shop, all natural, all kosher, using only the finest ingredients purchased from local farmers, are de-e-e-e-licious.

  I listened for a catchy jingle. Mr. Allison pulled me back to the room by squeezing my shoulder.

  Gollum stood up. “We’re trying to find the truth, Mr. Allison—what really happened in that shed yesterday morning. We think that the Bishops deserve at least that much.”

  The room spun. The officers cleared their throats and scribbled in their notepads. Mr. Allison looked angry. Mom buried her face in her hands.

  “Don’t even start to play that power game with me.” Mr. Allison’s eyes narrowed. His comb-over flopped the wrong way.

  We’d gotten to that part in the movie where the innocent guy tells everything or the guilty one lawyers up. But I didn’t know which guy I was.

  “Like we said, we’re just looking for the truth.” Igor gnawed on a toothpick. The clock ticked, rattling the walls. Louder. Louder. Deafening.

  Then Gollum snapped his notebook closed and put his pen away in his breast pocket. “Mark,” he said, looking at my PO. “He’s all yours.”

  Mark finally spoke. Until then he’d looked like he was meditating. Or napping. This all had to be pretty routine to the guy. “Tomorrow morning, at eight A.M., you will stand before the juvenile master. Kyle, that’s the kind of judge who handles cases like yours. But as I said, until I have the full psych evaluation, Kyle will not be going home.” Mark uncrossed his arms and snapped his gum.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Caroll, we appreciate your time.” Gollum held out his fingers and wrapped them around Mom’s small hand. “We hope to resolve this quickly.”

  How can you resolve a dead body? Dead is dead, right?

  The two policemen left. Mr. Allison stood up. “Michael, call me if you have any questions. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Thanks, Bob. We really appreciate it.” Dad shook his hand. Mom hugged him.

  “Kyle.” Mr. Allison came over to me. I looked right through him. I wanted him to disappear too. “I’m real sorry about Jason. I know he was your best friend.”

  I’m sorry, too.

  My throat constricted and everything went out of focus. Fade to black.

  Mr. Allison left with Mom and Dad. They took me back to my holding cell to wait for Mark. I counted the seconds and a scene flashed through my mind, then stuck there.

  I tried to erase it, because it scared me. I had never thought about death like that before. I had never wished for it to come and get me.

  8

  Mark and I walked down a hallway. We passed by other cells and a social room. Everyone wore the same blue-gray jumpsuits, like the kind auto mechanics use. There were some kids lying down on bunk beds playing cards. A skinny girl lay on a cot facing a concrete wall. Her shoulders jerked up and down like she was crying.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

  Mark looked at her, then back at me. “Not my case.”

  “Are there a lot of us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cases? A lot of cases?”

  Mark nodded. “Too many, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh.” My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. I was glad they had let me keep my orange sneakers. It was this pair of knockoff Vans I’d won when I went to the International Chili Cookoff with the Bishops last spring. I was the only one who could eat the whole bowl of Tasmanian Devil–Breath Chili from Down Under without asking for a glass of water. After winning, I couldn’t feel my mouth, and I guess my lips and tongue looked pretty swollen, because the Bishops rushed me to the emergency room. Jason was pretty pissed.

  “I didn’t even get a chance to eat my Indian fry bread.”

  “Thanks for your concern, asshole.”

  “Man, Kyle, you did this for a pair of butt-ugly shoes.”

  “They’re not ugly. They’re tight.” I was sucking on ice, so when I spoke, drool dripped down my chin.

  “They’re orange.”

  “So. Orange is tight.”

  “You’ll never wear ’em.”

  “Yeah, I will.” I pulled off my high-tops and put on the orange chili shoes.

  “You’ll never wear ’em in public.”

  “Wanna bet?” By that time, a tingling numb feeling had crept into my throat. Blisters popped out on my lips. I have to admit I was a little worried. I chomped on the ice and let it trickle down my throat.

  “Yeah. I bet you won’t wear ’em.”

  “I’ll wear ’em. Every day.”

  “For how long? A weekend?”

  “A year. I’ll be the fashion trendsetter this year.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Bet your 1948 Captain Marvel Adventures number eighty-one.”

  Jason paused. “And if I win?”

  “You get any film collection I have.”

  “Any?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re not gonna stick me with that Bollywood shit.”

  “Like I said. Your pick.”

  “Okay. I want your David Lynch collection, including Twin Peaks.”

  I paused. This was big.

  “What? Stakes too high?”

  “Deal.”

  “You’re on.” Jason grinned.

  I looked down. The orange sneakers contrasted with the gray jumpsuit thing. They were pretty dirty. So far I’d worn them for 170 days straight.

  “Kyle!”

  I turned around and saw Mark standing in the middle of the corridor, fifty feet away.

  “Have you been listening to me?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.” I looked down at my shoes. “I was just thinking.”

  Mark nodded. “Come on. Dr. Matthews is going to help you work through some things now. She’ll be good to talk to.”

  It was better to think about my shoes.

  “You seem like a pretty good kid, Kyle.” Mark clapped me on the back. He liked back clapping. I guessed it was the manliest way he could hug a guy. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

  Who cares if I’m okay? What about Jason? What about Chase? What about Mom? It was like the world had taken a freaky turn and I’d ended up with all cameras focused on me.

  We arrived at a dinky office at the end of a long hallway. It didn’t have the doctor’s name on it or anything, so I kind of figured she just came every now and again. I peeked in the window.

  Dr. Matthews’s matted hair was swept up into a knot on the back of her head. It actually looked like a spider-webby doorknob from a 1930s horror flick—like in an old Boris Karloff film. Wisps of gray around a rubber band, smack in the middle of her head. She wore a shapeless dress with bright colors and jungle prints. She jingled when she walked because of the loads of jewelry that covered her body, head to toe. The office
smelled like burned cinnamon.

  I looked at Mark. “She’s the one who’s going to decide if I’m sane?”

  Mark pushed me through the door and introduced me to Dr. Matthews. “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.”

  “You’ll have to excuse the makeshift office. I’m getting mine redecorated. It should be done sometime next week.” Dr. Matthews smiled, and lines webbed from the corners of her eyes to her temples.

  She cocked her head to the side and said, “We have a lot to talk about. Why don’t we just jump right in.”

  Jump.

  “Jump!”

  That’s what Jase and I shouted to Mel and Brooke when we went barreling down Elm Street in Dad’s rickety firewood wagon. We were in fourth grade and thought it would be fun to tear down the street. We just never thought about the steering part. Or the stopping part. Jason took the helm, and just as we hit the turn going onto Richmond, Jase shouted “Jump!” He knew we’d never make the turn, and a wall of rosebushes was straight ahead. Jase and I jumped, but Mel and Brooke didn’t. They catapulted forward into the rosebushes, and it took about three hours for Mom to dethorn them. That time neither of us was too bugged about getting busted because it was worth a lifetime of laughs to watch them fly into the bushes—a classic Buster Keaton moment. But I kind of think Brooke still holds a grudge because of some lame-ass scar she has on her forehead.

  They should’ve jumped.

  “Jump,” I whispered, and shook my head. “Jump.”

  “Kyle?” Dr. Matthews raised her right eyebrow. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  She sat on a colorful couch and leaned against the pillows. I sat on the far end of the same couch. There was nowhere else to go.

  “Can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

  I looked down at my sneakers. God, I was glad to have those orange sneakers.

  “Okay. Maybe you could walk me through what happened yesterday.”

  So I told her the same stuff I’d told the police. She just listened and nodded. When I finished, she didn’t say anything for a long time. I kinda thought she was asleep until she sighed. It wasn’t a regular sigh. It had kind of a hum to it. Maybe it was a hum and not a sigh. I really couldn’t tell. She might’ve just had some kind of respiratory problem.