Freeze Frame

by Heidi Ayarbe

“And you think he’ll forget his past?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So what has changed? What changed in him?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” I threw my hands up. “I don’t know. It’s just a movie I like, Mr. Cordoba.” A slow ache settled in my heart.

  Maybe I could escape to San Francisco and set up a dry-goods store just like William Munny.

  Mr. Cordoba pulled out the filmmaker brochure. “This fell out of your backpack yesterday.”

  The edges of the brochure were curled in from the time I dropped it in the snow when I was visiting Jase. The glossy cover looked smudged and dull.

  “Are you thinking about entering?” Mr. Cordoba asked.

  “No.” I wanted to rip it out of his hands but instead shoved my fists into my pockets. “It’s just a dumb thing somebody gave me.”

  “Who?”

  “Jason.” It slipped out. “Um, his brother found it in his room.”

  Mr. Cordoba raised his eyebrows. “It sounds like Jason knew you quite well.”

  I shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “Why won’t you enter it?”

  Because I have no right. Because I took away all Jase was and was ever gonna be. Because I don’t know if I did it on purpose. But how could I explain that to Cordoba? “I need to go.”

  Mr. Cordoba stood in front of me, holding the brochure in his hands. “Take this. Think about it.”

  “I don’t want it. I gotta go.”

  Mr. Cordoba didn’t move.

  “I gotta go,” I repeated. My face burned. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying. My fingernails bit into my palms.

  Then he grabbed me and held my shoulders. “It was an accident.”

  “Let me go. Let me go.” My voice got lost in my sadness. I tried to pull away, tried to stop the tears, but the harder I tried, the closer he pulled me in.

  “Kyle, it was an accident.”

  I pushed him.

  “It was an accident.” Mr. Cordoba pulled me tighter.

  “How do you know? How do you know I didn’t kill him on purpose? How do you know what happened in that shed when I don’t even fucking know?”

  “I know you. It was an accident.”

  Then it came—all of Jason flooded out of me. I couldn’t push away anymore. Mr. Cordoba held me up. And I cried.

  He repeated, “It was an accident.”

  Was that it? Did that make it okay?

  Mr. Cordoba let go of me and helped me sit down. His jacket was soaked. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. Couldn’t stop crying.

  “Kyle, I have something for you.” Mr. Cordoba went back to his office and brought out my old notebook.

  I pushed it away. “I can’t do it. I can’t think about that day anymore.”

  Mr. Cordoba put it in my hands. “You have one director left to write the scene.”

  I nodded.

  “You write it. Face it. Find your peace.”

  I looked at the notebook. “What if,” I whispered, choking out the words, “what if I remember, and it wasn’t an accident?”

  Mr. Cordoba looked really sad all of sudden. He rubbed his temples. His eyes clouded over. “Don’t die with Jason.”

  51

  All night I thought about how I would direct the scene. Even though Jase would never come back, it mattered. I needed to know what happened that day. Cordoba was right. I needed to make peace. I held the notebook close. One more take. It was time to remember, so I wrote:

  SCENE THREE: Take Fifteen—Kyle style

  FADE IN: Kyle and Jason are going through the shelves. Kyle sees his grandpa’s old 8 mm film projector and takes down the box of home movies. He blows dust off the old reels and checks to see if the film is still good.

  KYLE

  Maybe we can set it up later, huh?

  CUT TO: Jason jimmying the lock of a metal box. Jason doesn’t pay attention to Kyle.

  KYLE

  Whatcha got, Jase?

  Jason whistles.

  ZOOM IN: The gun in Jason’s hand.

  JASON

  Check this baby out. It’s pretty tight, huh?

  KYLE

  Sweet, Jase. That’s sweet.

  CUT TO: Jason twirls gun around his thumb, a confident smile on his face.

  WIDE ANGLE of shed. Kyle’s pajama pants are stuck to his ankles. Kyle crouches down to squeeze out the dew. He takes a deep breath and stands up again. Jason still twirls the gun around his thumb.

  JASON

  (Holds the gun out to Kyle) What do you wanna do?

  KYLE

  (Pulls his hands back—instinctively.) I dunno. What are we s’posed to do with it?

  JASON

  (Pulls up T-shirt collar around his neck, like a pastor. He scowls.) Well, Kyle, let’s see what our options are. We could A: put the gun away and continue to freeze, B: put the gun to good use; or C (and my personal favorite): rob the local convenience store, frame Mel and Brooke, move to the Cayman Islands, and never, ever have to work again.

  KYLE

  (Relaxes his shoulders and laughs.) We don’t work now, you moron. (He looks at the gun.)

  ZOOM IN: Shot of gun in Jason’s hands.)

  KYLE

  You wanna shoot it or something?

  JASON

  (Shrugging, looking indifferent) Maybe we should. I dunno. (Cocks the gun and slips the cock back into place.) Why does your dad have a gun, anyway?

  KYLE

  (Grinning) Maybe Dad’s a spy for the CIA. Maybe he does undercover DEA shit and the café is a front.

  JASON

  (Rolls his eyes and shakes his head.) In Carson City?

  KYLE

  (Glaring at Jason) Just because you hit puberty like three years before me and probably every other guy our age in the state, you don’t have to act like a jerk.

  JASON

  (Raises his eyebrows and grins.) Dude, whatever. Well? What’re we gonna do?

  Kyle hesitates. He squeezes his pajama pants again. Jason holds the gun out to him.

  JASON

  Here, Kyle, you take it.

  Kyle swallows. He takes the gun from Jason, but it slips from his frosty hands. His fingers are stiff. He tries to grab the gun, to stop it from falling to the ground, so he grips it tighter, his fingers squeezing the trigger. There’s an explosion in the shed. Kyle looks at the gun. He touches the barrel of the gun and jerks his hand back. He looks up, confused, not quite understanding that the gun has just gone off.

  KYLE

  Oh shit, Jason. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Mom and Dad are gonna shit.

  CUT TO: CLOSE-UP of Kyle’s face. Kyle closes his eyes and his lips move, forming the words “Please, God. Please don’t let this have happened.”

  CUT TO: the watch on Kyle’s wrist.

  ZOOM IN: The time is 9:16 a.m.

  FADE OUT: Jason slumped against the workbench, then slowly falling to the floor of the shed. Blood pools beside his body.

  I felt a wave of relief.

  It was an accident.

  It was an accident.

  I biked in the chilly spring afternoon to visit Jase. His grave hadn’t changed much. The marker had been washed recently. All the spring mud was cleared away. I pulled the Dimex out of my pocket and set it on his marker.

  10:46.

  I got out the notebook. “I was worried, you know?” I sat and faced the marker. “But you knew all along. You knew I didn’t mean to.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “It’s been pretty shitty thinking all this time that—Well. You know.” I brushed dirt off my knees. “And no, ‘shit happens’ was not enough information.”

  I stretched back with my arms under my head, watching the clouds drift by. A cloud covered the sun, blanketing the cemetery in soft shadows. The last rays of sunlight finally broke through, warming my face.

  “I’m so sorry, Jase. I’m sorry to have taken your life away like that.” I wiped the tears from my eyes and sighed. It felt good to say that. Sorry. It made a difference.


  How would Jason like to see you today?

  I sat up. “Hey, Jase. I thought maybe I’d write the scene about what I think you’d want for me. If that’s okay?”

  Spring afternoons were pretty windy, and I had forgotten my jacket. I shivered. “You know, it sure would help if you had one of those standing-up gravestones, because then I could lean on something. Or even a tree.”

  New shoots of grass pushed through the soil, covering Jason’s grave with what looked like tiny green polka dots.

  “Maybe we can write this together.”

  HOW WOULD JASON LIKE TO SEE ME TODAY: Scenes to write…

  Getting action of any kind

  Cruising the strip up in Reno

  Getting a sweet summer job at the Rage

  Wearing out the orange shoes so I don’t win his vintage comic books

  Making a movie instead of just talking about it

  I read the last line over.

  “See, Jase. That’s kinda tricky. I’d need your mom and Chase for this movie I’ve been writing, and things with your family are pretty bad. Your dad left.” The words hung in the air. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  “Does he talk back?”

  I looked up. Chase held a jar of red M&M’s in his hand. “Chase! You don’t usually come here during the week.”

  “Does he answer you?”

  “Um, no. Maybe just in my head. Sometimes. I dunno.” I closed the notebook and stuffed it into my backpack. “Are you alone?”

  Chase shook his head. “Mom’s talking to Mr. Peoples.”

  “Mr. Peoples?”

  “The caretaker.”

  “The rake guy?”

  “She’s coming, though.” He looked behind him. “I’m not allowed to go to Mike’s this weekend. It’s a Dad weekend. Brooke’s with Mom. We alternate. So I can’t talk to Jase.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “We’ll do it another day, Chase.”

  “When?”

  “Chase, I gotta go.”

  Chase grabbed my hand. “But it’s important.”

  “I know.” I rubbed my neck. “But you gotta see your dad. That’s important too.”

  “Well, they never ask me.”

  “Ask you what?”

  “What I wanna do.”

  I sighed. “We’ll do it another day. I’ve really gotta go.”

  “When? When will we do it?”

  “Whenever you can.”

  “But I never can. They made this calendar of “Chase days.” So every weekend I have to go to Virginia City, Ichthyosaur State Park, Sand Mountain, and the Tahoe Rim Trail either with my mom or with my dad. I’ll never stay at Mike’s again. They’re just big bullies disguised as parents.”

  I squatted down next to him. “Give it time. And when you can, we’ll go.” Chase looked so small. I squeezed his hand. “I promise. Just say the word.” I grabbed the watch and turned to go.

  “But it’s important. His soul print!” he called after me.

  Mrs. Bishop walked up the path. I rushed past her with my head down, staring at the ground.

  “Kyle?” Mrs. Bishop said.

  I didn’t turn around. My throat felt dry and my heart hammered in my chest. I made it to my bike and didn’t stop pumping until I was home.

  52

  That Tuesday, I waited for Dr. Matthews in her freshly painted waiting room. It was a psychedelic green color. Retro green. Hippy green. Matthews green. Maybe it was her favorite color.

  Jason’s favorite color was blue. What were his other favorite things? Maybe I could write a scene.

  It was an accident.

  “Kyle, I’m sorry you had to wait today. Come in.” Dr. Matthews peeked out of her office. Some kid pushed past her and grumbled something on the way out.

  “It’s okay.” I was happy to be thinking about Jason’s favorites. There were tons of things I could write about. I followed Dr. Matthews into her office. I threw my backpack on the lumpy college couch and sat down.

  Dr. Matthews sat next to me.

  “You look”—she paused, as if trying to find the right word—“happy. Yes, happy.” Dr. Matthews crossed her legs.

  She looked happy, too. Like a different person than the one I had first met. Everybody changes, I guessed.

  “I’m okay.” I thought for a second. “Maybe happy.”

  “How come?”

  “I, um…” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I was thinking about that scene again, you know?”

  She nodded.

  “It was an accident.” There. I’d said it. I waited for the world to crumble around me, but the office stayed the same; sunlight streamed through the windows.

  “Can you tell me about that day?” she asked.

  I told her how the gun slipped from my fingers, wet with frost. I told her how scared I was; how important it was for Jason to have fun that morning and want to hang out. It was an accident.

  “Did you know that? That it was an accident?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “How?”

  “Intuition, I guess.” She handed me a Kleenex.

  “You know,” I said, after I had wiped my nose, “I think Jason would want me to be okay.”

  “I think so, too. In fact, I think you will be okay,” she said.

  I shrugged. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, huh?”

  Dr. Matthews smiled. “We all have choices.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess we do.”

  53

  Weeks passed as Chase was passed back and forth between the Bishops like a Ping-Pong ball. One afternoon he and Mike came up to the Dumpsters and hooted.

  I hooted back.

  Chase came around and said, “Kyle, I need serious help.”

  Mike came and stood behind him.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Chase lowered his voice. “Have you ever planned a prison break?”

  “Prison break?”

  Mike bit his lower lip and looked from side to side. “Were you really in the can, Orange Dragon?”

  I burst out laughing. “Where’d you learn that? Wait…FX?”

  Mike nodded.

  “No. I’ve never been in jail,” I assured him.

  Mike looked relieved.

  “I told you,” Chase said, elbowing Mike. Chase turned to me. “They made me go to Wild Waters last weekend. And I hate getting wet.” Chase pointed to the skin peeling on his head and the splotchy calamine lotion on his back. “I got really sunburned, too.”

  Mike scratched his nose. “I sure would’ve liked to have gone to Wild Waters. All I did was go to my sister’s dumb dance recital.”

  Chase glared. “Nobody brought the right SPF.”

  Mike rolled his eyes.

  “Hang in there, Chase,” I said.

  “But what are we going to do about the wardens?”

  “The wardens?”

  “My parents.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I’ll be here tomorrow.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. See you, then, I guess. If my skin doesn’t peel off beforehand.”

  I ruffled his hair. “I’ll be here.” They slumped off across the field. Mike put his arm around Chase. Mike’s mom’s car pulled up just as they reached the walk.

  One night I lay in bed thinking about Kohana’s philosophy of photography and how that helped me write the scenes from Jason’s life. There had to be a way to combine photography and film with Jason’s stories to make something awesome. Something for Chase. Something that would never be forgotten. If Kohana’s portfolio was a photo documentary, maybe I could make a short subject documentary like Hardwood. Something that would help me bring Jason back to everybody. I could use old home movies, invent interviews like that guy did in Good Bye Lenin! (I didn’t figure the Bishops would be too keen on real interviews), and film all the things that meant the most to Jase. I imagined the script for those objects—what I would say. But I’d need help. Nobody can make a film alone.


  The brochure for the voices of youth filmmakers documentary short competition was sitting on my desk, its pages fluttering in the wind from my open window. I got dressed, stuffed my backpack, and wheeled my bike out of the garage, cycling down the black streets until I got to Kohana’s house. I owed him a story. And I needed his help.

  The house was dark except for one window. Muted yellow light glowed behind translucent shades. I tapped on the glass.

  The blinds opened and Kohana pressed his face against the pane. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Kyle.”

  He opened the window. “Your watch still broke?”

  I pulled out the watch, a kite, Jason’s sketchbook, the filmmaker competition brochure, and my notebook. I took off my orange shoes and put them beside the other objects. “I want to tell you a story.”

  We sat on the porch. And I began to talk.

  I talked until the first light of dawn stole across the sky. When I finished, Kohana sat silently. He hadn’t said anything all night.

  He finally turned toward me. “So,” he said. “When do we start filming?”

  54

  The next couple of weeks, Kohana and I worked nonstop before and after school to make Jason’s film. Dad let me use his video camera. Kohana even came with me to Chase’s school, and we got shots of the Dumpster.

  The next day, Chase got picked up by his dad, but he sent a message with Mike that said, SOS. This weekend, they’re making me go to some ice-skating show up at Lawlor Events Center.

  When Kohana read the note, he said, “He has to be part of this, Kyle. We’ve got to get him to help.”

  “He’s the new Bishop pawn. They don’t leave him for a second.”

  Kohana looked disgusted. “That’s too bad.”

  Late afternoons and into the evening, we used Mr. Cordoba’s multimedia room to edit the footage and cut old home videos into the new material we filmed. It was as if we were getting Jason’s life back with every scene we shot.