"Poor little—" I start to say, but stop. Marissa is staring at the mother, tears welling up in her eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she whispers, and turns away. "I wish the thing would start."
I glance away from her. Should I ask her again what's wrong? Or leave her alone?
Marissa lifts the front of the bike by the handlebars and slams it down again. Before I stop to think about it, I raise my camera and snap a picture of her.
She turns back to me, rolling her eyes. "Okay. That's enough." She gives a little smile. The moment has passed.
"Do you see your brother anywhere?"
Marissa scans the crowd again. After a moment she grins widely. "There he is!"
I look in the direction she's focusing on. "Which one is he?"
"See the tall guy? The one with the messenger bag with the sticker on the back that says free Tibet?"
That guy? He's huge. Must be six three and built like a lumberjack. But he wants to free Tibet, so maybe he's nonviolent.
"Gus!" yells Marissa, and I can't help thinking, Don't call him over here!
The guy looks our way, and when he sees Marissa, he gives a grin that looks just like hers. He pedals over to us.
They both lean across their bikes and hug. Marissa looks doll-size next to him.
"This is my friend Blake," says Marissa after they separate.
"'S up," says Gus, no longer smiling.
"Hey," I say. "Nice to meet you."
He doesn't answer, just studies me. "Nice bike," he says finally.
I stand there. I know that's a cut ... but I don't know how to respond.
"How do you know my sister?" he asks.
"Gus," says Marissa.
"We go to school together," I say.
"Yeah? Are you trying to hook up with her?"
"Oh my God!" says Marissa. "Gus! Blake is my friend from photo class. We're not together. Be nice to him." She turns to me. Sorry.
Gus nods. "All right. Nice to meet you, man." He holds his right fist out, and I bump knuckles with him, hoping never to see those knuckles again.
"Hurtle's about to start," says Gus. "See you later, okay?" He pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his front pocket and raises them to his face.
I see some tattoos on his arms, and I look closer. I love tattoos, I just don't want to get one. There's some kind of bird and some flames ... maybe a phoenix? And a Celtic cross. And ... wait. That doesn't look like something a tough biker would have tattooed on his arm for the whole world to see. It looks like ... an angel.
I must be staring kind of obviously at his arms, because Gus says, "You got any tats?"
"Um," I say. "Not yet." I lean closer. Since he brought them up, it must be okay to stare. "Is that an angel?"
Gus glances down at the small tattoo on his right forearm and nods. "Yep. I got that where I can always see it." He holds his arm out, and I can see the word scripted inside one of the wings: kat. "It reminds me to take care of the people I love."
"Gus," says Marissa in a soft voice. "You did."
He nods at her. "Naw. But I was just a kid, right? At least I took good care ofyou." He smiles and gives her shoulder a squeeze, then pedals away.
Marissa watches him go. When she turns back, her expression is distant.
Is Kat a person? I want to ask, but I don't. I'm starting to think I don't want to know.
After a minute she says, "Sorry about the ... you know, the thing he said. About us hooking up."
"It's okay."
"He was my protector when we were little. So he thinks he still has to watch out for me."
"It's cool. He's your brother. I get it."
She faces me. "No, you don't. We went through a lot together. He used to sleep in my room with a baseball bat."
"Oh. Why?"
A shutting-down look falls over her face. "Never mind. Sorry. I don't wanna—He's a good guy once he gets to know you."
"Okay."
We look around at everyone but each other, until finally I say, "Who decides when the hurtling starts?"
She points to the front, where people jostle for position. "See the guy with the hair?"
Yep. You can't miss him. It's gelled up into foot-long black spikes with green tips. "I see him."
"Watch."
I watch. Pretty soon he raises a black, leather-covered arm in the air and waves madly. Then he gives a long, loud whoop and drops his arm. He and the people in front take off in a blur of spinning wheels. I snap photo after photo of the crush.
"See you," says Marissa. She pedals off into the crowd.
"Bye," I say. "See you Monday."
I take a few more photos, but most of the riders have rounded the first bend and disappeared. Then I see some girl with a bunch of blue feathers in her hair pedaling along behind everyone else.
Cappie?
Wait till I tell Garrett his friend-with-benefits was here, rolling with the bikers and skate punks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Use gaffer tape, not duct tape. I use it for everything,
even taping down cords. Don't leave home without it.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography
"I just got the best asphyxia by hanging ever," says my dad.
Garrett looks interested. "What happened?"
We're eating," I say.
"No, Blake, you'll appreciate this," says my dad. "It's kind of funny."
"Please pass the salad," says Mom. She's sitting there in her bra, fanning herself after a hot flash. It's a typical Hewson family dinner.
Dad hands her the bowl. "So there's this guy. He likes to go out to the bars on Friday night and get drunk."
I pretend to crack up. "Oh, that is hilarious!"
My dad grins and keeps going. "Only problem is ... he keeps losing his keys while he's drunk. His house keys, not his car keys. At least the guy doesn't get in his car and drive home. He goes to the bars within walking distance of his house. So anyway, he starts keeping his house key on a cord around his neck."
Uh-oh. This guy just became a candidate for the Darwin award, I can tell. The Darwin awards honor excessively stupid deaths.
"So Friday night he comes home and tries to unlock his front door. He gets the key in the lock, but then he must have passed out. Which gives new meaning to the phrase 'falling down drunk,' by the way. The next morning his neighbor finds him hanging from the cord. Which is still attached to the key in the lock."
Garrett is nodding and chuckling like the ghoulish little diener he aspires to be.
"Is this your way of keeping us from ever drinking?" I ask.
My mom laughs so hard that bits of crouton fly out of her mouth.
That gets Dad going, and Garrett says to me, "Double points, right, man?"
I nod happily. If I make food fly out of someone's mouth, I get double points for the joke. If it's milk and it comes out of someone's nose, triple points.
After we finish dinner, I carry my plate over to the counter and jet out of the room so I can check my e-mail and phone messages. Shannon and I are supposed to meet up at Ottomans later.
"Not so fast," says Mom.
Garrett is halfway down the hall, too.
Shit, he mouths.
We trudge back.
"Your turn to do the dishes, guys."
"Okay," I say. "One second. Just let me—"
She shakes her head. "No. Not one second. Now. The quicker you do them, the quicker you're free."
Washing!" I call. I hate drying.
So does Garrett, for that matter. He scowls. "Fine. You load the dishwasher, too, then."
"Thank you, men," says Mom. She heads for the family room, calling back over her shoulder, "Someday your wives will thank me for training you properly."
"What if they're husbands?" I call after her. "Don't assume."
Garrett and I snicker, waiting for her response.
After a moment we hear, "Whatever makes you happy."
I squirt dish soap into the
sink and run water. Garrett snaps the towel at me.
"Ow! Cut it out!"
"Ow," he mimics. "Here." He hands me the wooden salad bowl.
I wash it in the sink. Mom has been careful to teach us which things do not go in the dishwasher ever since I ruined some of her fancy china teacups in there. It's not like they were a total loss. She used the shards to make mosaic steppingstones.
"How's your girlfriend?" I ask.
"She's not my girlfriend, man," Garrett says. "I told you."
Oh, right," I say, handing him the salad bowl to dry. "I saw her last night."
"Last night? Where?" he says. Too quickly.
I've been saving this up alllll daaaay. I drag out the pause until it feels like I'm blowing up a balloon that's about to pop in my face.
"Hurtle."
"Hurdle?" Garrett looks blank.
"You know. That biking thing."
He shakes his head. "What biking thing?'
"You know. A bunch of people meet at the top of Tower Hill and go blasting down Laurel on their bikes."
"Oh." He thinks for a minute. "Yeah. I guess I have heard of it. But it's mostly guys, isn't it? What was Cappie doing there?"
"You tell me. She's your girlfriend."
He moves toward me, and I jump back, squeaking a little. His big fist appears in front of my face, then moves past my head. He opens the cupboard door and puts the salad bowl on the shelf, purposely crowding me. Then he turns away. "Hurry up. You're taking forever."
So that's it? I saved up this juicy tidbit all day and he's not even going to bug me for more details? "She had feathers in her hair," I announce.
No answer.
"And she wasn't wearing a helmet." I widen my eyes. Dad is manic about us always wearing helmets.
Garrett hands me a casserole dish, shaking his head and smiling slightly. "You can't tell her what to do."
This is so unsatisfying.
"And what were you doing at this Hurtle thing?" asks Garrett. "Did you limp old Frosty down the hill?"
"As a matter of fact, I was there in my capacity as photojournalist," I say. "Marissa showed me—"
"Ah yes," he interrupts. "Your other girlfriend."
Must. Not. React. He knows Marissa is just a friend. He's yanking my chain about her because I'm yanking his chain about Cappie. But I'd like to wrap that dishtowel around his thick neck and pull until his eyes bug out.
We work in silence for a while.
I finish loading the dishwasher, knee the door closed, and punch a button on it.
Garrett finishes drying the chopping knife and makes a few fake jabs in my direction with it, like he always does. I dodge out of reach, like I always do. Well, ever since that first time.
He slides the knife into its slot in the wooden block and hangs up the dishtowel. "Guess I'll have to ask Cappie about the Hurtle thing when I see her tonight." He grins and turns to leave the room. "What are you up to, Stud? Which of your lovely ladies gets the pleasure of your company tonight? Or are you all alone with your scintillating self?"
I open my mouth to put him in his place but get stumped wondering what "scintillating" means.
"Oh, snap," he says, and he's gone.
If I don't pick up the pace with the clever retorts, I'm doomed. The hecklers will shred me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After taking several pictures in a row, do not touch the flash,
as this may result in burns.
—Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007
"I see you survived Hurtle," I say to Marissa on Monday. "Oh, it was great! I can't wait to go again next Friday."
It was nice meeting your brother."
She gives me a look.
"What. It was."
"He'll be nicer once he gets to know you," she says.
"I look forward to it." I open my portfolio to take out our assignment.
Marissa points to my photos. "Let's see."
I hand her some pictures. We've been working on motion.
Motion? What's so hard about that, Obi-Wan Hewson?
It's harder than you think, my young Jedi. I'm not talking about motion like a shot of someone running, all blurry and speedy. I'm talking about shooting a subject that is static— not moving—in a way that makes your brain think movement.
Mr. Malloy has this great photo on the wall of huge red rocks with curvy lines etched into them, swooshing around from one side of the frame to the other. It's so cool I could stare at it all day. That kind of motion.
"This is great." Marissa laughs. She's looking at the stuffed-snake photo.
I know, it sounds lame. But the snake looks like it could start slithering at any second. My mom was taking care of Sammy, our neighbors' little kid, the other night while his parents went out for their anniversary. He carries his favorite stuffed animal, a green and purple snake, with him everywhere. I did a little "art direction" with it by arranging it on the floor in a snake-crawling pattern, then shooting it at eye level. I'm kind of proud at how it turned out.
The second photo is a close-up of my mom's hair. I had her sit on the couch, with her long hair cascading over the back of the couch like a ... well, a hairy waterfall, I guess. I set a lamp nearby to make a "hair light" and shot the photo from above. She has a few gray hairs mixed in with the brown and black—they look like little sparks.
Marissa studies the picture of my mom's hair without speaking. Suddenly she looks up at me and says, "Blake."
"What?"
"Will you take a photo of my mom when she comes home?"
Um." Random. "Okay."
"It's just—" She looks down at the picture of my mom's hair again. "I mean, the last photo that was ever taken of my mom was of her passed out like a bum. You know?"
I nod.
"And you took that photo. For some reason, I need you to take a photo of her looking normal. That would make me feel better."
I get it.
***
I've come home a couple of times now and found Cappie there with Garrett. I don't know how my brother manages to make sure neither one of my parents is going to be around, because they don't work nine-to-five-type hours. Either he's been lucky, which he always is—dick—or he's researched their schedules.
I decide that his luck might work to my advantage. So when I walk into the house one day and find Garrett sleeping on the couch in the family room (what does she do to him?) and Cappie sitting at the kitchen table with a slice of pie and a book propped open in front of her, I waste about two seconds saying "hi," then I pick up the phone to call Shannon on her cell.
"Shannon! No soccer practice today, right?"
"Right. Why?"
"Want to come over?"
"Now?"
"Yeah! My parents aren't home."
But how would I get there?"
"Umm." I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I pictured Shannon in all of her fondle-ability, then I pictured her magically here.
"Maybe my brother could pick you up. Where are you?" Cappie is shaking her head, not even glancing up from her book.
"Or maybe not. What about..." But I'm flat skint of ideas. I sigh. "Never mind. It was a long shot."
She sighs, too. "See you tomorrow."
I hang up and flop down at the kitchen table. Cappie's got blue streaks in her hair these days, like a blue jay. I picture her flitting in to bang my brother, eat our food, and boss me around before flitting off again, and suddenly I'm mad at her. "Can I get you another slice of pie?" I ask in a sarcastically helpful voice.
She glances up, registers my tone, and smiles widely. Uh-oh. She makes me nervous when she shows her teeth. "Blake, right?" she says, like she's still learning my name. She holds up her plate. "That would be great. And some milk. I get so thirsty."
I blow some air out between my lips and get up to leave.
She's standing next to me in a flash, and I have to admit, I flinch a little. I barely saw her move from her chair, and now she's up in my face. "Sh
annon, right?" she asks.
"What?"
"The girlfriend. Her name is Shannon, right?"
I stare, then nod.
Cappie walks to the counter to cut herself another slice of pie.
I'm almost out of the room when I hear her say, "And Marissa?"
I stop.
"She's the other one, right?" Cappie opens the refrigerator and pulls out the milk.
I turn. "What other one? She's just a friend."
Cappie nods vigorously. "Right, right. Just wanted to make sure I get the names straight. What's her last name again?"
"Fairbairn. Why?"
"Just doing some fact-checking."
Before I can figure out what the hell she's talking about, Garrett shuffles into the kitchen, looking dazed and amazed. "You're still here!" he says in the most lovesick, un-Garrett-like voice I've ever heard.
"Caveman," growls Cappie, walking toward him with her arms out.
I flee the kitchen like my hair is on fire. I do not want to see my brother and his not-girlfriend hooked up like a circuit.
***
It happens at lunchtime.
It's the Love Gone Wrong show, which is when listeners are allowed to make requests. People love it because most of the requests are anonymous, so we all get to speculate about whose love has gone wrong. Cappie is DJing.
"Welcome back to Love Gone Wrong lunch hour, divine diners," says Cappie. "We've enjoyed a buffet of songs, now here's a delicious dessert by Nora No, 'You Say She's Just a Friend,' going out to Blake, from Shannon." The first few notes of the song—about a jealous girlfriend—pour over the loudspeakers, and Cap-pie says, "Tell it, sistah. Beware of fair bairns."
I'm so shocked it's like I go deaf. I turn to Shannon.
She looks disoriented. As if from a great distance, I hear her ask, "Did she just say my name?"
Fucking Cappie. I flash on her saying, "Just wanted to make sure I get the names straight."
The Nora No song keeps playing, and it's like knives in my ears.
"I can't believe this," says Shannon. "Blake, I didn't—"
"I know," I say. "I know you didn't do it." People are looking at us now. They must think it's real. They must think Shannon is jealous of Marissa. I look around the cafeteria until I locate Marissa. She's sitting with her friends, and they're all huddled together in a knot of wide eyes and giggles, whispering.
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