by Jenna Payne
Blossom stared at Granger, thinking about what she had said.
“You don’t seem very scared,” said Granger.
Blossom shrugged.
“Not much scares me anymore. I mean I am not stupid. I know how dangerous Markus could be and I guess there is some fear, I just don’t let it rule me.”
They sat in silence for a while. Sipping coffee and listening to the jazz music Blossom had on low.
“So, are you sure the others are safe?” she asked the detective. That was one fear she did have. Fear for others.
“Yes of course. All of the possible targets, except you, are by now in another state. I don’t care how good he is, he cannot find them in less than a week. Nope, you are the dangling bait. By now he knows you are here and that Lisa is there. Like I said, you are the primary. You were the only one who has stopped him and you did it twice. Once on the playground and once at Kelly and her daughter’s house. You are what needs to go. In his twisted mind, once you are gone he can get the others. Why wouldn’t he think that way? The authorities have had no luck his whole life. Only you have stopped him.
“That is why the press release said it is believed that he is dead or lost in the woods somewhere. We want him to think the hunt is going on out by Canyon Road. Actually one is going on out there right now, for appearances. He got away though. Between tonight or tomorrow he will show, I am sure of it.”
Just then, Granger’s radio beeped. That meant Markus had been seen nearby. Blossom and Detective Granger looked at each other. They braced themselves and went to their positions.
Blossom went out into her back yard. It was hot in the house. As she stepped out she heard a voice.
“You are a dumb bitch, you know that right?” said the fifteen-year-old voice of Markus.
“Markus McCoy,” she said to the thin youth. She reached over and turned on the patio light. His shadowy figure was now definable. Tall for his age, a hard uncaring face, and torn clothes. He had a bruise over one eye; an injury from the car crash most likely. But other than that he looked ready for action. Blossom had hoped he would be tired, not ready for their plan. Instead he looked eager and vicious. She sighed. She knew how much danger she was in, but had reached a point of sadness. Yes this kid was a nut job, but he was only fifteen. His chance of a decent life was gone for good. It had been for years and nobody had noticed.
“So what will killing me prove Markus? Nothing to anyone but yourself.” Blossom had said exactly what Detective Granger had scripted. Get it out in the open, get him talking about what they were all sure he wanted to do.
“I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Proving stuff is a waste of energy. I do what I want and give people what they deserve. This is a messed-up world, I am merely playing my part. It is fun,” he said with a child-like manner. Like another child might talk about the park, saying “it’s fun.” Blossom moved over to the right and he shifted positions to match. Markus was in the wrong position.
“What is fun about killing, kid?” she asked. She moved a little further to the side; so did he.
“It is the greatest mystery, death. I am fifteen years old and I have figured that out,” he scoffed.
“You’re wrong, boy. I know a little something about death. I have seen and felt my share. It is not a mystery. You are here and then you are gone. There is a hole that is left where you used to be. Even you will leave a hole when you die. Not for many, but I am sure there are a few who might miss you. That is death. It is not a mystery,” Blossom actually meant what she said. Markus just snorted in obvious disbelief.
“Why are you coming after me Markus? There are plenty of other targets,” she said. Changing the subject. Keep him off balance if you can, Granger had told her. She shifted further to her right, along the bushes that lined that side of her patio. She had to get into position for when he got tired of talking.
“They aren’t around. Probably in protective custody, hah! Everyone is so scared of a kid they moved my targets out of state. I may get your friend Lisa too. Just for laughs. You stayed though and so I get to kill you first, then the others, one by one,” he said softly. He had tensed as he spoke and suddenly more lights flooded the backyard. Detective Granger was standing about fifteen feet behind the boy and Mack was about ten feet to her right. Both had weapons out and pointing at Markus.
“Give it up Markus. You are completely surrounded,” Granger told him. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and laughed. It was a high pitched laugh, as though he was genuinely amused.
“You are good, detective. I did not expect this. Then again that is the fun part!” he said and leaped at Blossom as a knife fell out of his sleeve into his hand. She cried out and stepped back. At the same time out, from out of nearby bushes, a towering man stepped out in front of her. He caught the boy’s wrist that had the knife before it could strike Blossom. He gave a quick jerk and Markus dropped the knife with a short cry and then Bret lifted him up with one arm and slammed him down on the patio table. He gripped his throat and bent over him. Everyone shouted for him to stop, but he stayed bent over the kid. Blossom could see Markus’s eyes. He was amused. Not an ounce of fear. She shuddered and she thought she saw Bret shudder too as he stood up and gestured for the Detective to take the Markus away.
He backed up to stood next to Blossom. Everything worked and they were still alive!
Two weeks later everything was back to normal. Almost, Blossom amended in her thoughts. She was now officially dating Bret, and everyone knew, so they did not have to hide it like they thought they might. They still liked going over the fence in the middle of the night for fun though.
One night, she was relaxing naked in his arms, looking up at the stars.
“You rock my world Bret, you know that?” she said.
“Yep, you rock mine too, so I guess we are even then,” he replied. Blossom snuggled closer. He had saved her life so she was not sure they were even. She had no intention of arguing it though. She was far too happy.
THE END
Bonus Story 23 of 40
A False Depiction
Professor Danteridge stands at the podium, his face blank as he clicks through our portfolios. The photos are projected for us on the large pull-down screen, and the current photo is an extreme close-up of a flower. It’s part of another student’s portfolio, a series on flowers, and this one is white, its petals open wide like a parachute, its center true orange.
“A bush mallow, how nice. Where was this taken, Hector?” Professor Danteridge asks the photographer.
“In Santa Margarita, Professor,” Hector replies.
“Superb collection,” Professor Danteridge says. “Simple and elegant as always.”
Although I enjoyed the pictures of Hector’s flowers, the way each extreme close-up attempted to give the plant a face of its own, it is still nothing I haven’t seen before.
“And up next we have Vylette’s collection from last week,” Professor Danteridge continues.
My cheeks instantly prickle. I hate having my work exposed in class, especially when it was so hard for me to even find a topic. I wish I could skip the whole thing entirely, because frankly I feel like my collection is a waste of the other students’ time. I don’t have the opportunity to go to Santa Margarita, or anywhere else scenic for that matter, so I have to work with what is around me in Los Angeles.
I look away from the screen to avoid seeing my photos. I wonder if the guy next to me hears me groan. There are probably sixty other students in this crowded classroom, and I’ve barely ever spoken to any of them. USC is a huge campus, and even though there are so many creative people here, I can never get up the nerve to ask someone to collaborate. I know I should branch out and try to network or even do some kind of volunteer work, but it’s hard when I have to work all the time to pay for school.
The little room we’re in feels sterile—just another cookie cutter room with white walls, wobbly tables and chairs that leave streaks on the floors. This is n
ot the place I envisioned myself blossoming as a photographer when I was working at Olive Garden in Detroit. I pictured developing photos from film in a dark room, and tasteful or historical architecture that inspired creativity. Instead, I moved across the country for a room with a generic PowerPoint projector.
The white screen flashes with a click from Professor Danteridge and the first photo of my collection illuminates all the faces in the classroom. My heart races, my gut drops. I can’t believe I actually went through with it. To my surprise, nobody says a word. I look around and their expressions—some of them have their lips curled in curiosity, others with a single eyebrow raised controlled surprise.
Professor Danteridge clears his throat before saying, “Well, Vylette, this is a very interesting…” I finally face the screen while he searches for a description. There it is, a photo of me, sitting on the ground naked, my arms curled around my knees and my face buried between them. In the photo I am sitting in profile to the camera, my body facing the left side of the frame. My sepia brown skin is now just another shade of gray—separate from the walls and the floor, darker than my short, copper hair. Professor Danteridge brings me back to the moment when he clears his throat again, finishing his description. “…Self-portrait?”
His eyes bounce over to me. I go still because I wasn’t expecting him to call on me. Yes, it was a picture of me, but no, I hadn’t thought of the collection as a self-portrait. I just couldn’t think of anything else and wanted to do something risqué. At the time I had pictured it coming out tasteful. What was I thinking?
“Well,” I mutter, looking over to the guy next to me like he could miraculously feed me something to say. “It’s not exactly a self-portrait. I know that I wanted to experiment with something black and white, and I am really interested in the human body.”
He looks at me, just as blank as before. When he clicks his mouse the next photo pops up. This time, I’m looking out the window. Using a 50mm lens, I was able to get a great image that distorted the focal points while creating an inverse mirror image of the other side of my face in the reflection of the glass.
“Tell me,” the Professor continues, “What exactly was your intent with the gray scale composition in this photo?”
“Uh oh,” the guy next to me whispers. He keeps his voice low so only I hear him. “Dr. D is trying to actually teach today.”
My mind goes blank. All I can do is reprimand myself for not taking the assignment more seriously. I get tense in my legs and my breathing speeds up. At once I bring back the weight—the guilt—of trying to live this dream; all the nights until 2 A.M. working at the bar to make enough for the small amount of expenses I have to pay that student loans won’t cover. Who am I kidding? Maybe I don’t belong here after all.
I sit up straight in my chair and buy myself a second by taking a sip of water. “I always thought black and white photographs are the most beautiful,” I say, feeling my jaw get jittery. “Still life. I capture what I see, and that has always been my dream.” As I look around, all the faces are turned toward me and, surprisingly, Dr. Danteridge’s blank expression has a new curvature of interest. “Some people call me old fashioned,” I continue. “But I can’t deny who I am, and if I’ve learned anything since moving to the city, it’s that the only thing I can trust is my heart.”
The guy next to me has a full-toothed grin shooting right my way. Finally, I get a good look at his face now that the adrenaline has passed. “Nice answer,” he says. Professor Danteridge responds to my rambling monologue, but I’m locked in my neighbor’s chestnut eyes. His rough lips are pursed loosely with a curled grin, his head cocked sideways and relaxed. In his eyes, I feel like he is somehow offering me a moment’s repose. His coffee complexion hypnotizes me, and then I see the scar running from his ear to his neck. He catches my eyes stuck on his scar and then covers it up with the hood of his sweater.
“Frankly, Ms. Edwards,” Professor Danteridge drones on, an obvious tone of irritation in his voice, “my suggestion to you for next week’s deadline is to abandon the selfie stick and adopt a frame of mind that considers the world in your work, not just your unimaginative brain that can’t think of anything better to put on camera than its own mediocre body. Class dismissed.” He closes his books up and places them back into a briefcase, withdrawing all eye contact from the students.
I let out a chortle at his remark before I can catch myself. Thankfully I’m not the only one who thought it was out of line. While some of the other students laugh casually at the remark as they exit the classroom, others scoff with me at Professor Danteridge’s insensitivity. I force myself to take my eyes away from the photo of a shirtless me looking out the window, but it glows in the darkness of the room like a humiliating monolith.
“Don’t take it too seriously,” a voice says. It’s the guy next to me. He already has his things packed up and is standing, ready to walk away. “This class is weak, and that teacher has no idea what he’s talking about. My collection was a bunch of pictures of trees and he said it was ‘lacking life’. I thought your photos were raw, and honest.”
From my chair, the only thing I can do is look up at him, mouth agape, and sputter out, “Uh. Thanks.”
He laughs and starts to walk away. In the sea of other students aiming for the exit, I lose sight of him for a moment. I shove my books into my bag and shuffle up after him. Why is it that for the life of me I cannot speak under pressure? That’s twice in 20 minutes that I’ve embarrassed myself by not knowing what to say.
I find him just as he’s turning to exit the Arts building. His hood is up and his walk is brisk, like he’s already running late to another class or appointment. At this rate I’d have to run to catch up to him, so my brain finally kicks in and I shout, “Hey! Do you have any suggestions? Like for what I should do for next week?”
For a moment I’m certain he didn’t hear me, and that I look crazy standing out in the middle of campus shouting to no one—then he stops, and even with his hood up and I see him turn his head back toward me. He’s waiting for me, and I nearly trip trying to catch up.
***
When I’m finally next to him he says, “I can’t tell you how to do you. But from what I can tell, you’re afraid.” He continues walking, barely paying me any mind. I realize that it’s not just me—but he’s also ignoring the world around him. We nearly walk into a busy intersection when I stop him.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I say. “Are you trying to teach me some kind of lesson here? Like walking out into traffic means you’re not afraid?”
At first his face is stone, and I feel that my joke didn’t land, but then he lets out a laugh that releases a hidden tension in my shoulders. “For one, all I’m saying is that you give off a vibe like you’re trapped inside yourself,” he says, pressing the button on the crosswalk. “And second, that wasn’t me trying to teach you a lesson. That was me not paying attention because you got me tripped up.”
The orange hand switches to the white walk sign and he drops off the curb onto the road to cross over. I’m not sure if there was an unspoken invitation for me to follow him, but then I stop caring. “How do I give off a vibe like I’m trapped inside myself?” I say loud enough for him to hear me, at least five pedestrians away. A stranger groans at me because I practically shouted into her ear. To avoid embarrassment, I run to catch up again.
“How do I give off a vibe like I’m trapped inside myself?” I repeat.
He laughs again and peers at me from inside his hood. The more steps we take, the further away we get from campus. I look back and realize that I’ve never walked this far down Jefferson. On my right is the old Jefferson Church, or Iglesias de Jefferson, with the black and white mural of a lion, a lamb, and Jesus wearing his crown of thorns and looking up to the sky. The church doesn’t look much like a church. It’s a small, cubed orange building that has the name of the church painted across the front in black. The font looks more like a high school student’s graffi
ti at first glance.
I stop just after the church. The guy is already in the intersection. He’s almost all the way across before he stops to look back at me. “I have to go home,” I say. “I don’t even know you. It’s getting late.”
He comes back to my side of the street and stands right in front of me. “You do know me. My name is Roman. You’re in my photography class. Your name is Vylette, and I’ve seen you naked.”
I go flush. Bumps rise up in waves through both my arms. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of my bus going the opposite direction. Great, I think. Now I’ll have to wait an hour for the next one.
“Look, you don’t have a ride,” he says. “Come with me. I don’t live far. We can work.”
It takes me watching him inhale and exhale twice before deciding that he’s actually serious. My first instinct is to reach for my cell phone, but the reason is to call Malik and say I’m not coming straight home. I don’t understand why I can’t escape feeling the need to check in with him, because the fact is that we aren’t together. But another fact is that I’m not paying rent, and I’ve been staying with Malik for damn near two whole years.
Roman’s gaze is fixed on me like he sees nothing else around us—not the church behind me, or the clear blue sky, or the vehicles coming and going through the intersection. “If you’re down,” he says. “Then say something. There are things I’d rather be doing than standing out in the street, do you feel me?”
My hand is sweaty around my phone, and when I release it from my grip I’m embarrassed to pull it out of my pocket. “I really shouldn’t, Roman,” I say, trying to divert my eyes and look preoccupied. “I have to get back to campus. I just missed my bus and I need to head home.”
He chews his lip, nods his head, and blinks when he looks to the ground. “I got you,” he says. “I’ll see you around, then.” He doesn’t walk away; he hovers, waiting for me to speak.
