Freeze Frame

by Heidi Ayarbe

  “Shit.”

  I threw open the front door.

  “He’s home now. He’s here.” Dad was talking to someone on the phone. Mom and Mark rushed toward me.

  “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!” Mom shook my shoulders. Dad came over and pried her fingers off. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  I looked at my watch: 10:46.

  “Kyle, are you listening? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  God, I hated questions like that. If I knew the time, I was screwed. If I didn’t know the time, I was screwed. Parents always get pissed because we don’t have the right answers. They never figure that they have the wrong questions.

  What if I didn’t give a shit about the time?

  I shrugged. This was definitely a scene I wanted to skip.

  Fast-forward.

  They paced up and down the hall in jittery movements, their words coming out in high-pitched screeches. It was like watching one of those old quarter-machine westerns in Virginia City where you get to crank the action, and it goes as fast as you want.

  I returned to the scene when Mark was getting ready to go.

  He glowered. “Kyle, you messed up.”

  “I was just riding around.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? You can’t be anywhere without telling us where you are. Anywhere. If you pull another stunt like this…” Mark didn’t finish the sentence. It was one of those if–then statements, without the then. Those were the worst, because you knew the then had to be pretty awful. “I’ll call tomorrow.” He looked from Mom to Dad. “And get him a damned cell phone.” He left; his Harley rumbled down the street.

  “Where were you?” Dad asked, steering me into the kitchen. “We were worried.”

  “I was just riding my bike around. That’s all.” I suppose they figured I had nowhere to go but school and home now that I’d killed my only friend.

  “In the dark? Riding your bike?” Dad rubbed his eyes and leaned on the counter. “Things are—” he started to say. “Kyle, we don’t—” He couldn’t finish a thought. “We’re really worried about you. We’re just…is Dr. Matthews helping? Do you need to talk to someone else?”

  The only person I needed to talk to was Jason. I couldn’t shake the cold and stomped my feet on the kitchen floor, shivering.

  “You’re freezing. Go upstairs and get a sweatshirt. We can talk about this after homework and you eat your dinner. It’s in the microwave.”

  Dad went to his office and closed the door. I walked upstairs. Mom was slumped against Melanie’s door. I could hear Melanie’s sobs. “They all hate me, Mom. They do,” she bawled. “Brooke decided to quit cheerleading. She can’t stand to be around me. And then you and Dad…” Her words were muffled by a new wave of sobs.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry. You have to expect that things will be different for a while.” Mom’s voice sounded raw.

  Different? Painting a room is different. Killing Jason could hardly be called different.

  Mom turned and tried to smile at me. It was one of those forced it’s-not-your-fault-you-ruined-our-lives smiles.

  Through her door I heard Melanie say, “I hate Kyle. He ruined everything.”

  I went into my room and closed the door. At least she said what everybody else thought.

  Somebody knocked.

  “Come in.” I flopped on my bed.

  Mel walked in with puffy, red eyes. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Yes you did.

  “I just never want to go back to school again. I’d rather die.” Melanie buried her face in her hands.

  I knew how she felt.

  “Things are that bad?” I asked.

  She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “I guess they aren’t much better for you.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not a cheerleader. I’m pretty low profile, you know.”

  She sighed and sat next to me on the bed. “I didn’t mean that. Really.”

  “It’s okay.” It felt good to sit next to Mel. Almost like things were before she got boobs.

  “Maybe we can change our identities and move away,” she said.

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”

  “And I can’t believe you’re getting a cell phone.” She punched me in the arm. “God, life is so unfair.”

  Mel had wanted one for about a year. I elbowed her. “Yeah, unlimited minutes with my PO.”

  She shook her head. “God, everything sucks. Life sucks.”

  I wanted to ask Mel if she thought it was always going to be this awful, but before I could, she got up and left.

  I thought about Clock Westergard. Everybody at school laughed at him. He had stringy black hair and was too skinny. One arm was longer than the other, so when he raised his hand in class, it looked like either six o’clock or twelve thirty. He smelled like photo chemicals because he spent most of his time in the school’s lab. He always walked around with this beat-up camera.

  The “cool” kids messed with him. They hit his books out of his hands, shoved him into lockers, and gave him cans of soda shaken up. In ninth grade Troy Beckett slipped snow through the vents in Clock’s locker. Kids laughed, like getting schoolbooks wet was the most hilarious thing ever. We knew that Clock’s grandma didn’t have money for new books and shit. All Clock did, though, was take out his books and dab them dry with a dirty gym shirt. Then he stood up and looked Troy in the eyes. We thought they’d fight, but all he did was hold his books and stare Troy down. Troy backed up and left. Then Clock looked each one of us in the eyes. It was like he was saying, Fuck you. I avoided him after that.

  I wondered if I should talk to him, ask him how he got up to go to school each day. Christ, I didn’t even know his real name. I think even the teachers called him Clock.

  I stared at the words in my history book: The Egyptians were among the greatest architects in the history of the world.

  I read that sentence seven times before I closed the book and looked out the window. A porch light flickered on at Jason’s house. It was funny how from the outside everything could look the same.

  22

  Tuesday morning was more brutal than Monday, like the day was being played in slow motion.

  At lunchtime, I headed straight to the library, but the door didn’t open. I jiggled on the knob, thinking maybe it was jammed or something. Locked. Kids streamed by.

  I zoomed in on the sign on the door: LIBRARY CLOSED FOR LUNCH ON TUESDAYS.

  Fuck.

  I held my lunch and The Metamorphosis in my hands and looked down the hall toward the cafeteria. I definitely didn’t want to repeat the scene from the day before. The hall monitor had gone, so I snuck back by the science classrooms. Nobody ever hung out in the science hallway, because it smelled like chemicals and dead animals.

  I leaned against some lockers and started to read.

  “Mr. Caroll?” Scarface towered over me, holding a pile of science books.

  I jumped. “Oh, um. I, um, was just on my way to the cafeteria.” The Metamorphosis slipped from my hands and thunked on the floor.

  Scarface nodded. “That’s unfortunate. I could use some help in the library today.” He turned to go down the hallway.

  “Oh. I’ve got time.” I cleared my throat.

  He nodded.

  I carried Scarface’s books and followed him into the warmth of the library.

  “Eat lunch—then you can help me with the books. You should have time for a little reading before the bell rings.”

  I sat at the table in front of Scarface’s desk. He pulled out a Tupperware container of salad and some pita bread.

  I chewed on my ham sandwich. I like it when the bread gets smooshed with the ham, cheese, and mayo and sticks to the roof of my mouth. Then I try to peel it off with my tongue without breaking apart the bread-ham-cheese mass. Jason used to do the same with peanut butter and jelly.

  “What do you think about the book?”

  I was in mid peel when Scarfa
ce spoke. I choked down the bite. “What?”

  “The book. The Metamorphosis.”

  “Oh. It’s pretty weird, you know.” Who would direct that movie? Maybe David Cronenberg. He was real into disease and weird transformations. Maybe he’d film it in a seedy downtown motel off Fourth Street in Reno. It would make a wicked flick.

  Mr. Cordoba watched me. He didn’t say anything but waited. Shit, he probably wanted a report or something. “I don’t really remember where they are, um, which city.” I opened the book, looking frantically for something about the setting, themes, main conflicts, and all the other crap Mrs. Beacham harped on.

  “Mr. Caroll, I’m not asking for a presentation. Just tell me what you think about the book—about what you’ve read so far.”

  “Um, well, I’m not far or anything, but I kind of think it’s…not too believable.”

  “How so?”

  “Like who’s gonna wake up a bug?”

  “Don’t you think somebody’s life can change drastically from one day to the next?” Scarface asked. “One moment to the next?”

  I paused. “I never thought about it like that.”

  “Sometimes you have to look beyond the words.” He took a sip of water and said, “If you woke up one morning with your reality horribly altered, what would you do?”

  I thought for a long time. “If I turned into a bug, I’d do anything to feel normal, I guess.”

  Scarface nodded and turned back to his work.

  “Mr. Cordoba?”

  He looked up.

  “Do you think they ever made a movie out of this book?”

  “Most likely. But I don’t really know.” He pulled some books out of a box. “We need to code these for shelving.”

  I helped him organize books, then read until the bell rang. “Mr. Cordoba?”

  “Yes?” He looked up from his computer.

  “Is the library open at lunch tomorrow? You know. It’s kind of hard to read in the cafeteria. Lots of noise and all.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I picked up The Metamorphosis and put it in my backpack. “It’s a pretty cool book after all, huh?”

  “That it is. See you tomorrow, Mr. Caroll.”

  “See you.” I walked down the hall, thinking about all the ways The Metamorphosis could be filmed.

  23

  “Hey, Shadow!” Pinky came up to me and threw me into the wall. He kneed me in the stomach, over and over. I gasped and could feel my air shutting off like a valve.

  Alex and Troy stood behind him, laughing.

  “Dude, Pinky. We don’t wanna kill the guy. Jesus Christ.” I wondered if it could end like this; then it would all be okay. It would be over.

  But what about my promise? What about Chase?

  I fought to hold on as his knee kept jabbing me. Major fade-out. Just as everything started to go black, he stopped. I slumped to the floor, choking.

  “Yeah, real tough, punk,” Troy said. They walked off laughing, and the hallway cleared out.

  Crash! Bang! Pow! Back to reality, comic book–style.

  Nice friends you’ve got there, Jase.

  They’re not bad, once you get to know them.

  Not bad? Pinky just tried to de-entrail me.

  They’re just…They’re probably bummed too.

  Oh yeah. I forget you were Mr. Popular. You know, you didn’t need them.

  Dude, I wanted to do other stuff.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  I just didn’t want to watch old cult movies with you every Friday night for the rest of my life. What’s the big deal?

  Sorry to have cramped your style.

  Whatever.

  “Murderer…murderer…” The sound track kept playing, like one of Dad’s scratched records.

  The days passed. It didn’t take long for teachers to start giving me notes to take home. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Caroll: I’m concerned that Kyle has not turned in homework since his return to school.”

  I shoved the notes into my backpack. I didn’t figure my teachers would cut me any slack if I told them I was too busy rewriting that scene. Dr. Matthews was still on a big memory kick, wanting me to remember everything about Jason, but black thoughts crept through my brain, staining everything.

  “Why don’t you try thinking of it as a movie,” Dr. Matthews had said. “Write the whole movie and see what happens when you get to that scene.”

  But I didn’t want to write the whole movie. I wanted Run, Lola, Run, a chance to redo that scene until I got it right.

  SCENE THREE: Take One—Tarantino style “Comanche,” by the Revels, is blasting in the shed and fades out completely before fading in again when the action begins.

  FADE IN: Kyle’s pajama pants are wet, sticking to his ankles. He crouches down to squeeze out the dew. He breathes in deep. Jason holds the gun out for Kyle to get a closer look.

  CLOSE-UP of Jason twirling the gun in his hand.

  JASON

  Check it out, Kyle. It’s pretty tight, huh?

  KYLE

  Sweet, Jase. That’s sweet.

  CUT TO: Kyle’s mom framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the October light.

  FADE IN: Jason lying in a pool of blood, then the camera cuts to the gun in Kyle’s, alias Shadow’s, hand. The camera pans the shelves of the shed and focuses on an old suitcase and a samurai sword.

  WIDE-ANGLE SHOT: The Mexican standoff between Kyle, Jason, and Kyle’s mom. Kyle holds the gun. Mom holds a pancake spatula.

  CUT TO: CLOSE-UP of the gun in Kyle’s hand.

  WIDE-ANGLE SHOT: The entire shed is coated in blood. Blood sprays from Jason’s bullet wounds like in a Manga comic strip.

  FADE OUT: Jason lying in a pool of blood.

  I reread the scene.

  Wrong.

  It was like failing a test about the memories of my own life. How pathetic could I get? Maybe I had early-onset Alzheimer’s.

  Dude, you’re really calling it Scene Three?

  Yeah. So?

  So that last scene of my life is called Scene Three?

  I can’t think of anything else right now.

  You’ve gotta do better than that.

  Give me time and I’ll come up with a name for the whole thing.

  Jesus, Kyle. Scene Three.

  My teachers’ notes padded the bottom of my backpack. I looked at the blanks of missing homework. Egyptian pyramids just didn’t seem all that important. When I woke up, the only thing that got me through the day was Chase. Lady Macbeth and her damned spot seemed pointless. All she needed was a little bleach. It had worked in the shed.

  I had to be totally mental. Maybe I did need Dr. Matthews after all. Even if she didn’t seem to help.

  I saw Clock one day on my way back from the nurse’s office. I was in a hurry to get to Chase’s school.

  “Dude, you okay?” Clock asked. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail and leaned against the wall, his arm outstretched.

  Six fifteen, three thirty, six fifteen, three thirty.

  Clock stared at the bag of ice I was holding to the back of my head. “What happened?”

  My head throbbed. The nurse had said ice would stop the swelling, but the ice was melting, dripping all over me.

  Clock shrugged and left. I didn’t get how anybody could be like Clock. Carson High was a school of sheep, but Clock didn’t give a shit.

  “Clock!” I shouted, and ran after him. “Man, I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “Dude, I don’t know. Just stuff, just life.”

  He turned to go.

  “Clock, uh, what’s your name, anyway?”

  He grinned. “Clock.”

  I had to get to Chase’s school, but I needed to know who Clock was. “Your real name, I mean. What’s your real name?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I dunno. It’s just…” My voice trailed off. What did it matter? “I guess I’d just like to know.”

  He leaned against s
ome lockers and didn’t say anything for a long time. He just stared at me, like the time he had stared at Troy, with his black eyes. Icy eyes.

  But I didn’t look away.

  Then he smiled. “It’s Kohana.”

  “That’s different.”

  “It means ‘fast’ in Lakota.” Clock zipped up his coat and walked away. “I’m gonna be late.”

  I looked at my watch: 10:46.

  “Shit, what time is it, uh, Kohana?” I called after him.

  He looked back at me. “Time to get a new watch.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What time is it?”

  Clock pulled out one of those old-fashioned pocket watches on a rusty chain. He flipped open the lid.

  “That thing works?”

  “Better than yours. It’s two fifty-five.”

  “Shit! I’ve gotta go.”

  I rode as fast as I could and got to Chase’s school just as the lines of kids were piling into the buses. Chase got on and found his favorite seat, three rows from the back on the right-hand side next to the window. He sat with his head leaned up against the pane, his breath fogging the glass.

  He was okay.

  24

  I shade my eyes, trying to block the glare of the fluorescent light.

  All I can hear is the spinning of a gun cartridge and a click when it’s shoved back into place. “One bullet; one chance.” Jase holds the gun out to me, twirling it in his fingers. “Take it, you fucking pansy. Do it.”

  Canned laughter from an audience. My eyes adjust and I see Alex, Pinky, Troy, and Jase sitting in a circle. Each holds a gun to his neighbor’s head. The entire school is watching us.

  “Sit the fuck down, Shadow,” Alex sneers.

  Sweat beads on my forehead and I take the last empty chair. Jase shoves the gun into my hand. “What’re you gonna do?”

  The lights dim and it’s just Jase and me, facing each other in the shed. “Whaddya wanna do?” he asks.