Flash Burnout

by L. K. Madigan

  Eyes Hairy Underwear Risks The Loss of Ejaculation

  Hurkin Unwashed Road Trout Look you in the Eye

  Horny Uber Risk Takers Like Elevation

  I tune back in to class, and in honor of the book under discussion, I scribble:

  Horrible Unclean Renfield Takes Living things and Eats them

  I sneak another look at Marissa. She seems like her usual self, despite the black eye. Not like someone has been smacking her around.

  After class, I turn to Shannon. "What's hurtle?"

  She looks puzzled for a second, then says, "Oh yeah. Marissa. Hurtle is ... you know. That biking thing. Where they start at the top of Tower Hill and go hurtling down that steep, winding road. People crash all the time." She gathers her stuff. "Are you ready?"

  I follow Shannon, then stop at the door. "Shan, I'll catch up to you in a minute. I'm just going to check in with Marissa."

  "Okay." Shannon gives me a crooked smile and says, "Don't be too long." She flirts one last look over her shoulder at me as she leaves.

  Huh. Not sure what to do with that. Does she mean I'll be in trouble if I talk to another girl for too long? Or that she can't stand being apart from me? I need a translator!

  Marissa finishes zipping her backpack as I walk up to her. "Dude, what the hell?" I say.

  "What? Oh, this. It happened during Hurtle. My grandma was so upset."

  "But what happened? I didn't know you did that Hurtle thing."

  "I've never done it before. My brother invited me to go," she says, walking into the hall. She says it as casually as she might say, "Bree and I went shopping." I've known Marissa a whole year, and she's never mentioned brothers or sisters.

  "You have a brother?"

  "Sure. His name's Gus."

  Really? How old is he?"

  "Eighteen. He lives in a house with a bunch of other guys. He's a bike messenger. Anyway, I called him to tell him about"—she glances around at the streaming students, then lowers her voice—"our mom. I asked him if he wanted to come see her before she went to rehab, but he said no." She frowns.

  We've arrived at the cafeteria. There's an awkward moment where we look at each other, then into the caf madhouse. We're supposed to go our separate ways now—me to join Shannon, Marissa to join her girls. I wish we hung with the same group. Then I could hear more about this Hurtle thing.

  "Your poor eye." I can hardly stop looking at it, all the purple and green shades. I kind of want to take a picture of it.

  "I know. I thought my grandma was going to cry when she saw it. And she's got enough on her mind, you know what I mean?"

  "How did it happen?"

  "It was at the very beginning, so I didn't even do the Hurtle. A bunch of other riders were pushing and shoving for a better spot. I was right next to them, and one of them elbowed me in the eye. Jerk. You wouldn't believe how many people there were."

  Just then Riley bumps into my shoulder as he jogs past, calling, "Flake, you in? It's the Texas hold 'em finals today. Or do you need to join the little woman?"

  "I'll see you in photo," Marissa says, and walks away to join her friends.

  I enter the caf. Do I need to join the little woman? And do I have to ask permission to play poker?

  I search the crowd for Shannon. Ah, there she is—standing with Ellie and Kaylee. What's she doing? The other girls are giggling while Shannon makes this face: her upper lip is pulled back weirdly above her front teeth, and she's kind of hunched over, twiddling her fingers. What the—

  As I approach, Shannon straightens up and grins at me, her cheeks reddening.

  "Hey," I say.

  "Hi."

  "I'm, uh, gonna go play poker with the guys today." I point to Riley's table. "Okay?"

  "Sure," she says. "I'll see you later."

  As I walk away, she mutters, "Ex-cellent."

  The other girls bust out laughing.

  Ahhh. She was doing Mr. Burns. Who knew my girl could do impressions, too?

  ***

  That afternoon at photo, I sit down next to Marissa and we pick up right where we left off. "How come I've never heard of this Hurtle thing?"

  She considers. "It's kind of fringe. A bunch of bike messengers started it a couple of years ago. Nowadays anyone can show up. They start at the top of Tower Hill every Friday night and race down Laurel."

  "That's so insane! Laurel is ... what do they call it? Hairpin turns all the way down the hill."

  "Right. And sometimes people crash, which is partly why they call it Hurtle. I mean, yeah, you're hurtling crazy fast, but you might also get hurt really bad."

  "And you did."

  "Phhft! This is nothing! A black eye from just sitting there. Stupid biker and his stupid elbow. Some people end up with broken bones and half their skin peeled off."

  "Erghh. Doesn't anyone wear protective gear?"

  Marissa laughs. "Listen to you, Mr. Safety First. Nah, not really. A few. The hardcore hurtlers are extreme biker types. Like my brother."

  Mr. Malloy sets down the chalk and turns from the chalkboard. He looks out over the class, freezing for a moment when he sees Marissa's black eye.

  She smiles, and he raises his eyebrows.

  "Hurtle," she says with a shrug.

  Oddly, Mr. Malloy seems to understand her immediately. "You crashed?" he asks.

  She shakes her head. "No. I never made it down the hill."

  Ahh. Okay, everyone. I've written another term on the board. 'Saturation.' I want you to look up the definition and write down some ideas about how you can use saturation in your photos. We'll discuss it Friday." He starts fiddling with the overhead projector, and I whisper, "Marissa." She looks at me.

  "Can I take a picture of your eye?"

  No!" But she laughs. "Come on," I whisper. "You come on!"

  "Dude, I don't get to see many black eyes up close. You look like a fighter. A tough chick."

  I am a tough chick."

  "A tough chick would let me take a picture of her eye."

  "Blake. Marissa," says Mr. Malloy. "The discussion is up here." He taps the overhead projector.

  We stop talking and focus on the image on the screen. After a second I scribble a note to Marissa: Come on. I pass it to her, and she scribbles back, You come on!

  I add: I'll let you take a picture of my eye.

  She covers her mouth with her hand to hide her grin. After a moment she writes a longer message, then passes the note back to me: Do you have a garden? I'll let you take a picture of my eye if you'll let me take pictures in your garden. You know I love to shoot flowers.

  I read the note and hesitate. Do we have flowers? I try to get a visual of our backyard. Yep, I'm pretty sure we have flowers.

  Seems like my mom is always sticking some blooming thing in a vase. I write back: It's a deal. My camera is at home. After school, I will immortalize your battle wound. Then you can shoot flowers.

  She reads the note and nods.

  Cool. I can't wait to get my pixels on her face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Macro photography is usually associated with nature.

  —Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007

  "I don't understand," says Shannon. "You're going to take pictures of her?" We're walking to the bus stop.

  "Of her eye, yeah! I can't wait! I might even do a series—you know, take pictures of it every day while it's changing colors."

  "Huh. And she's going to your house?"

  "Yeah. She likes to shoot flowers."

  "Shoot flowers?" says Shannon.

  "Take pictures of them. She's going to take pictures in our garden."

  "But—"

  "But what?"

  Shannon shifts the straps of her backpack. "But I mean, even I've only been to your house once."

  You've only been—"

  "I know it sounds stupid, but I'm your girlfriend, and I've only been to your house once. Now Marissa gets to go?" Shannon's lower lip trembles a little bit.

  I'm no
t following this at all, but she seems to be getting upset, and I can feel things moving into Not Good Land. "Wait," I say carefully. "What do you mean 'Marissa gets to go?' What's the big deal? You can come over to my house anytime you want."

  She crosses her arms. "Uh, no I can't, Blake."

  "Why not?"

  Okay, now she's getting mad instead of sad. I'm trying to keep up.

  "I was taught to wait for an invitation to someone's house, rather than inviting myself over."

  "Oh." I feel like crossing my arms, too, and mimicking, I was taught to myeh myeh myeh myeh myeh. I take a deep breath. "Shannon?"

  "What."

  "Would you like to come to my house?"

  "When? Today?"

  "Sure. If you like. With Marissa and me. She won't care."

  I have soccer!"

  Blow it off."

  "I can't blow off soccer." She looks truly appalled.

  We're stuck. I'm pushing, she's pulling. The door won't budge.

  "How about tomorrow?" I say.

  "I've got—"

  I reach out and pull her close. "I know. You've got soccer. But you also have an open invitation to come to my house. Okay? So if you ever want to blow off soccer and come home with me"—I put my lips close to her ear—"I would love that."

  She relaxes against me. I inhale her flowers-and-rain scent. "I wish I could," she says. "You know my mom would kill me, though."

  "Why?"

  "She worries about us being alone together."

  I squish her against me even closer. "Are you worried?"

  She shakes her head, her hair tickling my neck.

  "Forget Marissa," I say. "Why don't you and I sneak away someplace?"

  Ahh! Turns out that's the right thing to say.

  ***

  No one is home yet when Marissa and I get to my house, so I dig my key out and unlock the door. The Dog Formerly Known as Prince dances around and whines his welcome-home song. Marissa pets him gingerly; it's clear that she's a cat person.

  "What's his name?" she asks.

  "Well, it used to be Prince," I explain. "We got him from the Humane Society. But he didn't seem like a Prince to us, so we decided it should be The Dog Formerly Known as Prince."

  She looks blank.

  "You know, like the singer?" I say. "Never mind, it's a lame family joke."

  "Wow, you guys have a piano," she says. "Do you play?"

  Nah. My mom made Garrett and me take lessons, but they didn't stick. She plays, though."

  "I wish I could play an instrument."

  "Let's eat, I'm starving." I head for the kitchen. We power down some milk and cookies, like hungry kindergartners, and Marissa looks around the room rather than at me. She gets up to examine a photo hanging on the wall by the window over the kitchen sink—it's Garrett when he was a baby. His face is covered in some kind of orange baby food—carrots? squash?—and he's clutching a little spoon. My dad is at the edge of the frame, grinning at Garrett.

  "Cute," she says. "Is that your dad?"

  I nod.

  "Look at his hair! It's so big and springy. "

  Yep. It still looks the same." I munch a cookie, thinking that Marissa never talks about her dad. I'm just about to say, "What's your dad like?" when she comes back to the table and reaches for the package of cookies. "Do you mind if I take some of these?"

  Take them where?"

  For later."

  "Oh. No. Take as many as you want."

  She wraps up a handful of cookies in a napkin and slides them into the pocket of her backpack.

  Strange. "Okay, tough girl. Let's get started," I say.

  The walls in the kitchen are pale yellow, perfect for a neutral background. I shoot a bunch of pictures of Marissa's eye from various distances and angles, then take her outside for a few photos in natural daylight. I even attach a telephoto lens for some of them, so the bruise will really fill up the frame. These are going to be good.

  Marissa borrows my camera, since hers is at home, and wanders around the backyard shooting close-ups of plants. There's not a ton of stuff blooming, since it's September, but she finds some frilly girly purple ones and a few tall white ones. She asks me for a ladder, which I'm pleased to locate in the garage—who knew?—and climbs up a few rungs to take pictures of an abandoned bird's nest in a tree. After she takes a couple of pictures of the nest, she stares at it for a minute, then takes off her rings and bracelets. She arranges the jewelry in the nest and takes photos of that.

  "Do you have any glass animals?" she asks suddenly.

  "What?"

  "You know, little glass figures? Or ceramic. They give them away in those boxes of Red Rose tea."

  I look at her blankly.

  "Never mind. My grandma drinks Red Rose tea, and she saves the little ceramic figurines that come in the box. I was thinking I could put a hen or some other animal in the nest. Oh! A cat would be funny."

  I have an idea. "Wait here," I say.

  I go inside the house and head for my mom's desk. Sitting on the windowsill above her desk is a little ceramic angel I bought her for Mother's Day about five years ago.

  I carry the ceramic angel outside to Marissa. I hold it up for her to see. "Will this work?"

  She gasps and says, "Ohhhh!" She stares down at it for a moment, then reaches into her jeans pocket. She pulls out a tiny silver-gray charm. Pewter, I think it's called. "Look."

  I take it from her. It's an angel.

  "Whoa," I say, and hum the Twilight Zone music. "Do you always carry this around?" I examine it more closely. Engraved on the back of the angel's wings is a word: KAT.

  "Kat?"

  She doesn't answer, and I glance up at her.

  Her eyes ... they've got that heartbroken look really bad right now. "Um, I don't feel like talking about that. But yeah, I always carry my angel around with me." She holds her hand out for the charm, and I give it back to her. She puts it in her pocket.

  "Here," I say. "You can use this one for your photo." I hold out the ceramic angel.

  "Maybe we better not."

  "Why?"

  "I'm scared I might drop it."

  "Just be careful. Here."

  She takes it out of my hand and positions it as carefully as if the fate of the world rested on that angel being safe in the nest. Then she zooms in and out, trying various distances for effect.

  "Hello," calls my mom from the back door. "What's up?"

  Marissa jumps so hard the ladder shakes.

  "Easy!" I say.

  "Oh, no! Is that your mom? She's going to be mad!"

  I steady the ladder. "What? No, she won't."

  We took her angel!"

  It's okay. Hi," I call back to Mom.

  "Oh. A girl is what's up," says my mom. "What are you guys doing?"

  "Taking pictures."

  "I see." She comes outside and squints up at Marissa. "Hi. I'm Benita."

  "Nice to meet you," says Marissa. "I'm Marissa." She giggles at the awkwardness of her position and comes down the ladder to shake Mom's hand.

  "Don't stop what you're doing on my account," says my mom.

  "No, we're finished," says Marissa. "Blake, do you need help with the ladder?"

  "What? No! No, I got it," I say, stepping forward to take the ladder into my capable hands. "Go on inside."

  My mom and Marissa go into the house while I wrestle the ladder into the garage, bruising both shins in the process. Right after I hoist the ladder onto its pegs, I remember the angel sitting in the nest. Shit. I'll go back for it later.

  By the time I get inside the house, Marissa and my mom are standing in the Hall of Shame. It's the hallway leading from the living room to the family room, where about a dozen photos hang from the walls. "Who took all of these?" asks Marissa.

  "Mostly me," says my mom.

  They're all color shots, framed with white matting in black frames. Marissa examines them. My mom stands next to her, adding comments like, "That was our trip to Japan fou
r years ago. We're standing in front of the Big Buddha. That's really what it's called, isn't that great? There's Garrett in his Little League uniform. Look at him getting ready for the pitch. Doesn't he look kind of terrified and focused all at the same time? He was about seven in that one. There's Blake meeting Captain Hook at Disneyland. See how he's posing for the camera with his hand on his hip, just like Captain Hook? He loved Captain Hook."

  Marissa doesn't make polite oohs and ahhs like most of the captives who are forced to look at the Hall of Shame. She studies each photo intently, as if they're images of some primitive tribal culture.

  "Of course, there's the obligatory wedding photo," says my mom, waving her hand at the eight-by-ten of her and Dad. It's not one of those posed wedding shots, though. It's a casual shot of the two of them grinning at each other, pieces of wedding cake in their hands. They look as if they're about to paste each other with cake.

  "I'd better get going." Marissa turns to me suddenly. "Thanks for letting me take pictures in your garden."

  "Thank you for letting me take pictures of your eye," I say.

  "Oh, Blake," says my mom. "Did you really?"

  I realize that my mom has not even asked about Marissa's eye. She's got mad diplomatic skills! "She got an elbow in the eye," I explain.

  "Oh, dear."

  Marissa zips up her backpack. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, then turns to my mom. "Nice meeting you."

  "You, too, Marissa. Do you need a ride home?"

  "No thanks, I'll take the bus," says Marissa. "Blake, will you e-mail me those photos?"

  "Yep."

  "Great!" She heads for the door. "Bye."

  My mom follows her. "How far away do you live? I'd be happy to drive you."

  Thinking about Marissa's grandma's house reminds me: I keep forgetting to ask about her mom going to rehab. But I don't want to ask in front of my mom.

  "It's okay, Mrs. Hewson," says Marissa. "I can read on the bus."

  "Benita. Call me Benita, please."

  "Benita. Thanks. Bye."

  And Marissa is gone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aside from being a guitar player or an athlete, there's no better profession

  than that of photographer for attracting women.

  —Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography