Freeze Frame Read online

  What are you doing out here?

  The whine of the wind grew. My teeth chattered.

  I blew it, you know. With Chase.

  The snow fell faster, like it was in some kind of hurry to get where it needed to go. A film of snow covered my body. My teeth knocked hard against each other. Jason didn’t say anything, Do you believe in signs? Like dreams that tell you what to do?

  I waited.

  What am I supposed to do?

  Silence.

  It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway, does it? Nothing matters anymore.

  Silence.

  Asshole.

  God, I’m such a freak show. I’m pissed off at a dead guy. I brushed the snow off my coat and pants. “See you soon,” I whispered.

  Chilled, I walked back inside, changing out of my snowy clothes into dry ones before Dad got home to check up on me. You’ll catch your death, he would say.

  That’s the point. But that’s the kind of stuff a kid really shouldn’t say to his parents.

  32

  I woke up to Mom and Mel arguing in the hallway.

  “But Mom, you guys promised you’d go.”

  “We can’t leave him here alone. One of us has to stay.”

  “He’s just sleeping anyway. And you promised,” Mel cried.

  My door opened a crack. “Kyle?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Don’t wake him,” I heard Dad say. “How long is the program, Mel?”

  “It’s just a couple of hours. And we’ve been practicing since September.”

  I had forgotten it was Mel’s regional cheerleading competition. Carson High had made it to the finals.

  “We need to go, Maggie,” Dad urged Mom.

  “But you didn’t see him.” Mom’s voice sounded strained. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes yesterday.”

  “We were all tired. It was a long day, and he was coming down with something. I’ve been here all afternoon, and he hasn’t moved. He just needs sleep.”

  “Please,” Mel begged. “Please, Mom.”

  Mom came in and touched her cool hand to my forehead. I lay still. She walked back into the hallway.

  “Well?” Mel’s voice had a whiny pitch to it.

  “He was fine alone this morning,” Dad said.

  “How about if I stay just through your performance, Mel?”

  “That’s perfect.”

  I listened as they put on their heavy jackets and winter boots. Downstairs, Mom, Dad, and Mel shuffled out the door and got into the car. I took out my notebook and read through each scene. The words ran together. Tears smudged the writing.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Then don’t.

  You always have the answers, huh?

  Depends on the questions.

  Fuck you.

  I threw the notebook across the room. The lamp teetered on the edge of my nightstand and shattered on the floor. I crawled to the corner and squeezed my head between my knees. The pounding had to stop. The hurt had to stop.

  “Go away,” I said. I rocked back and forth.

  Every time I closed my eyes, the walls closed in.

  “Breathe. Just breathe,” I whispered.

  I looked around the room, desperate, and pulled out the phone book. “Cordoba, Cordoba, Cordoba.”

  Fuck, what’s his first name?

  I dialed the first number I saw under Cordoba. Maybe we could talk about books. I just needed to talk—to hear somebody besides Jason.

  Three rings. Four rings.

  “Hello?” Out of breath, low humming voice.

  Deep breaths, slow deep breaths. Count to ten.

  “Hello?” she repeated.

  “I—” I cleared my throat. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…

  “You kids have nothing better to do than this?” She hollered to somebody, “It’s another one of those prank callers. We need to get caller ID.”

  “Please,” I whispered.

  Click.

  I went to sit at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Schneibel had already strung up her Christmas lights. The glow of the colorful lights reflected off our living room windows.

  ’Tis the season. Fucking holidays.

  Mom had left the radio on in the kitchen. It was a crackly old radio—you had to turn the dial and mess around with a duct-taped antenna to hear anything. And if you moved it, even the tiniest bit, you lost the station and had to start again.

  I walked into the kitchen and cranked up the staticky Christmas carols the radio stations had been playing since October. I stared out at the Bishops’ house. The candle was lit. A warm light glowed between the slats of the blinds. They were home. Shadows moved behind the Bishops’ curtains. Maybe they were watching TV.

  “’Tis the season to be thankful. ’Tis the season for forgiveness and love. It’s time to reach out.” The DJ was really caking on the love and forgiveness stuff. He was taking calls and listening to everybody’s sappy reconciliation stories.

  I bit my lip and looked at the calendar.

  November 23.

  Last year at this time, Jason and I were probably eating the crust off Mrs. Bishop’s homemade apple pie. Last year Jason and I had a Coen brothers movie marathon. Last year, as soon as Jason got back from church, we spent the rest of Thanksgiving weekend sledding up on C-Hill.

  I laid my head on the cold countertop. Tears pooled on the tiles.

  The DJ ho-ho-hoed in some hokey Santa voice. “Come on, everybody! What are you waiting for? I challenge each and every one of you to—” I bumped into the radio and it went fuzzy.

  I pulled on my winter hat and coat and walked down the street. I fought to steady my breathing. My stomach burned when I saw that Mrs. Bishop had hung up her old wooden turkey. It was the same one she hung up every year.

  My hand trembled when I rang the bell.

  I heard shouts inside and Brooke opened the door.

  Freeze frame.

  I opened my mouth. The words got trapped in my throat. I struggled to breathe, fighting to push the words out.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  But nothing came out. As soon as I tried to say them, I knew the words wouldn’t change anything. They wouldn’t bring him back. Sorry was the cheap way out.

  Brooke narrowed her eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming here? At Thanksgiving?”

  “Who’s there, honey?” Mrs. Bishop hollered from the kitchen. The house smelled like pumpkin pie and apple cider.

  I tried to say something, but nothing came. Not even tears.

  Mrs. Bishop came out from the kitchen with a plate of cookies. “Kyle!” she said. She dropped the plate and it shattered on the hardwood floor. Her mouth quivered and her eyes closed. She covered her face with her hands and muffled a sob.

  The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the shed again. I had no clue how I’d gotten there.

  33

  I stared at the shed. It had been there since before I was born. The hinges never worked on the right-hand door, and the white paint had flaked off over the years, giving it a splotchy look, like it had psoriasis or something.

  I looked for the key above on the ledge, but it wasn’t there.

  Maybe that was one of Mark’s suggestions. “Hide the fucking key, man. Don’t let your kid in there.”

  Not a bad suggestion, really.

  I stepped back and punched the doors. My knuckles cracked on the cold metal. The padlock rattled and clanged. I kicked and punched the doors again and again until my hands were bloody and numb. The metal dented and crumpled under the weight of my fists and boots.

  Fucking piece of shit cheap shed.

  I went around to the back, where a small window faced the neighbors’ yard.

  Crash!

  The rock ripped through the flimsy glass, leaving jagged edges. I punched the glass and heaved myself inside.

  It smelled the same. It smelled like damp wood and fertilizer. It smelled like gr
ease and dry grass.

  It smelled like death.

  I pulled the cord hanging from the fluorescent light. The light sputtered on, and the whole shed glowed an eerie green.

  The floor was filthy except for one really white spot.

  I kneeled down and touched where his blood had pooled.

  I tried to replay it all. But I still didn’t know how it happened. How could something like that happen? It was just one second. Not even a second, really. Then the burn, the powder, the ashes.

  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

  What had I done?

  I circled the shed and moved toward a box of rope. Frayed ends and knots, lots of rope. Lots to tie. Lots to hang.

  You’re the one who shoulda died.

  You’re a nobody.

  You did this.

  You have no right.

  You’re a freak.

  I hate Kyle. He ruined everything.

  Stay away from my family.

  Everything seemed clearer. My breathing evened out. I held the yellow rope in my bloody hands. They’d all be better off.

  I just wanted to stop thinking about whether I had done it on purpose. How I had ruined everybody’s lives that day. I wanted to get away from that scene—that moment.

  I grabbed a pencil and scrap of paper and wrote: The End.

  My heartbeat steadied. I made a loop. The perfect size.

  The rafters were too high to reach from the bench. God, I was so fucking short!

  Jumping up, I tried to loop the rope around. Wood splintered and creaked, and the bench collapsed.

  I crashed to the floor and felt the rope, raw in my fingers. I clenched the rope between my teeth and curled into a ball. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks and into my ears, my sobs trapped in my throat.

  I couldn’t even kill myself. I couldn’t even do that right.

  My body trembled.

  What would Jason do?

  What would Jason say?

  Dude, Kyle, don’t be a shithead. Don’t do it.

  But what else is there? What if I meant to kill you?

  Shit happens, Kyle.

  Shit happens?

  Yeah. So what?

  You come to me with the great philosophy of “shit happens”?

  Man, you’ll figure it out.

  Cold seeped through my clothes. My teeth chattered; I shivered. My hands throbbed and bled.

  Suppose, I thought. Suppose I lived.

  34

  The light in the shed wavered, dimmed, then died. Everything was bathed in night, and objects became formless shadows, lumps on drooping shelves. I don’t know how long I stayed in the shed, replaying my death scene in my head. After a while, I slipped out the broken window and walked into the house, welcoming its familiar smells of toast, vacuum dust, and Mel’s perfume.

  My hands ached and shook when I cleaned off the blood, wrapping them in bandages. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, pushing my hair behind my ears. He said I’d figure it out. Maybe—just maybe—I would.

  I walked up to my room and opened my shades. At night, snow made the world seem like day. The bright white filled the room with reflected moonlight.

  I put my notebook back into my drawer and hid it under some CDs. I buried my head in Jason’s duffel bag and breathed deep. It was losing its smell.

  I didn’t even hear the car pull into the drive.

  Mom opened my door. “What are you doing?”

  I looked up at her. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. “Are you feeling better?” She came in and put her hand on my forehead. Her breath smelled like peppermint. I shoved the duffel under the bed and hid my hands under the covers.

  Dad came in with a steaming cup of peppermint chocolate. Mel bounded up the stairs. “We won, Kyle! Look!” She barreled into the room.

  I smiled. “That’s great, Mel. It really is.”

  She plopped next to me. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” Dad asked.

  I think so. Maybe. I nodded.

  “Why don’t we let Kyle rest?” Dad motioned Mel and Mom to leave the room. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

  I shook my head, still hiding my hands.

  “Sleep. Maybe you should get more sleep.” Dad looked into my eyes.

  I looked away. “Yeah.”

  He paused. “Can I sit here for a while?”

  I concentrated on the streaks of peeling paint on my bedroom wall. “Sure.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. I felt him watching me, like he was looking for a sign that I was okay.

  I turned and smiled. “I’ll drink this when it cools down. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He got up. “I’m right down the hall if you need anything.”

  “Sure.”

  He left me alone. I flicked off the lights and stared at the glow-in-the-dark planets that Jason and I had pasted on my bedroom ceiling. We each got a set for Christmas when we were in fifth grade. When we were sticking mine up, Jason slipped on the ladder and pasted Pluto overlapping Saturn. My solar system was totally lame. We tried to scrape it off, but it stuck. So Saturn looked like it had an extra moon and Pluto didn’t exist.

  I was pissed at the time, but now I actually liked my Pluto all wrong. It was better. It made me remember something other than the shed. I let the memory wash over me and I held on to it as long as I could, hoping it wouldn’t disappear into blackness. I was just about to remember what Jase sounded like when he laughed when I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  35

  I woke up to the sound of pebbles hitting my window. Chase stood below with his hands cupped over his mouth, hooting like an owl.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He held up an orange card, then hid it under a rock in the yard. He waved and ran away. I slipped out the front door and opened up the card.

  Dear Bodyguard,

  Your presence behind the Dumpsters has been missed. Luckily, we haven’t had any GCP days, and we’re learning tactics to get through the school day unscathed.

  We look forward to your rapid recovery.

  Our best, Chase and Mike

  I smiled. Getting through the day “unscathed” took a lot of energy. They had included a drawing of me with my orange shoes, a hole in the left one.

  My stomach growled, and I went inside to get breakfast. Mom dropped the raw turkey on the kitchen floor when she saw my hands.

  We spent the rest of Thanksgiving morning in the emergency room getting X-rays and a cast for my broken left hand.

  “Sorry about Thanksgiving, Mom.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll order Chinese.”

  When we left the ER, Dad and Mom walked ahead of me, whispering to each other. They looked like an old 1920s silent movie, their black jackets a stark contrast to the fresh-fallen snow. Dad wrapped his arm around Mom’s hunched shoulders. The snow muted the sound of our footsteps.

  He opened the car’s back door for me and helped me tuck my head in so I wouldn’t whack it on the doorframe. I clicked my seat belt and turned to look out the back window. Everything looked the same as that day. The outside of the emergency room had the same concrete walls, painted white and stained with exhaust fumes and who knows what else.

  We walked into the house. Melanie was watching the Macy’s parade. She flicked off the TV. “What happened?”

  I covered the cast with my jacket. “I’m fine.”

  Dad shook his head. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  “I think we might need to see Dr. Matthews. Maybe today? Should I call her?” Mom tipped my chin up so she was looking into my eyes.

  “Dr. Matthews. Sure, Mom. That sounds good.” Not like she helped any.

  Dad pulled the note out of his pocket. “What does this mean, Kyle? ‘The End.’ I found it in the shed beside the broken bench.”

  “I just had a bad night, Dad. No big deal.” I turned my face away from Mom a
nd took the note. I crumpled it up and tossed it in the garbage. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  Yesterday I’d wanted to die.

  Today I didn’t.

  How can you explain that to your dad?

  “I’m just gonna hang out in my room until we go.”

  “Okay, honey. Sure.” Mom stepped forward like she was going to hug me, but I moved back. I felt like I was directing a part in a movie where the camera goes from close-up to wide angle, pulling away from the actors. I saw Mom, Dad, and Mel at the end of a long tunnel, far, far away. I went up to my room.

  Mel knocked on my door. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.”

  She hesitated, then came and sat on the bed. “What do you think Dr. Matthews and Mark will say?”

  I shrugged.

  She puffed out her cheeks. “Kyle, how do you feel about what happened? Would you like to talk about it?” She actually did a pretty good impersonation of Dr. Matthews.

  I tried to smile.

  Mel grabbed my hand—not the broken one. “Do you want talk about it? For real?”

  “Not really.”

  “Those guys roughed you up pretty bad.”

  “Nah. I’m okay.”

  “What happened last night?”

  I pulled my hand away. She scooted closer to me.

  “Just a bad night, I guess.”

  Mel looked into my eyes. “Don’t do that, Kyle. Ever. Okay?” She laid her head on my shoulder. “Promise me,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  I squeezed her hand. “I promise.” Somehow I knew this was a promise I’d keep.

  She looked up and moved my bangs out of my eyes. “Growing your hair long?”

  “Maybe.”

  She wiped her nose. “Looks cool.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Talk to her, Kyle.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Matthews. Or Mr. Cordoba. Anyone, really. Just talk, okay?”

  Dr. Matthews leaned back and laced her fingers around a steaming cup of tea. I sat across from her in a retro chair shaped like an egg. The orange plastic was pretty hard on my ass, and she kept asking me questions I didn’t want to answer. “How would Jason like to see you today?”

  “Whaddya mean?”