Freeze Frame Read online

  WIDE ANGLE: Camera pans the faces of everybody at the table, brimming with expectation. The gifts are passed down the table and Kyle rips open a comics-wrapped DVD of Plan 9 from Outer Space.

  KYLE

  Thanks, Jase!

  FADE OUT: “Happy Birthday” music, then, like Ravel’s “Bolero,” background starts softly with John Williams’s theme to Jaws. The music gets louder and louder.

  CUT TO: Scene where Kyle’s parents unveil the encyclopedia set.

  40

  Everybody was psyched for Christmas break and the Winter Ball. The school looked like it had been transformed into some kind of Hallmark Hall of Fame movie set. But those movies always had happy endings. It had never occurred to me before that the holidays could suck for some people.

  Later that week Mark came over and said, “Your grades are better. You’re up to date on your homework. Your teachers say you’ve never been a better student. What’s up?”

  I couldn’t win with this guy. “Nothing. Just studying.”

  “Spending lots of time in the library, they say.” Mark flexed his biceps. I wondered if he did it subconsciously. “What about sports? What about extracurricular activities?” Mark rubbed his head.

  “I dunno, Mark. I don’t think I’ll be elected class president anytime soon.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I like the library.”

  Mark leaned against the doorframe. “Dr. Matthews says you still don’t talk about any of it.”

  “Isn’t there a law against doctors talking about their patients?”

  “Not when they belong to the state of Nevada. So what’s up? Why don’t you talk?”

  I’d seen a show called Taxicab Confessions. The cabdriver just drove around like normal, but people told him everything. It’s not like he even asked them anything. They started blabbing and blabbing about all their problems and stuff. It was funny, but weird.

  “Maybe I should take a ride in a taxi.” I shrugged.

  Mark rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s Christmastime. It’s a tough time for everyone, I know.”

  Shit happens. That’s what Jase said. But just because it happens doesn’t mean it’s okay.

  I looked down the street at the Bishops’ house. “Maybe I’ll make some popcorn strings to wrap around the tree.”

  People on Richmond Avenue strung up their holiday lights as if nothing had happened—all except for the Bishops. Mrs. Bishop hadn’t even put out her nativity scene.

  I held the poinsettia in my hands. I had bought it the week before but couldn’t bring myself to face them, especially after what happened when I went over at Thanksgiving. The leaves had gotten pretty wilty, even though I’d watered it every day.

  Sorry about Jason.

  No.

  I thought you might want a poinsettia. And, well, sorry.

  No.

  Every time I tried to cross the street to go to their house, I’d feel a dizzying wave of nausea and would have to lie down on the ground until my world stopped spinning. It took me an hour, but I finally worked up the courage to go. I stepped off the porch and faced their house, clutching the poinsettia.

  But the movie got all messed up again. I had almost made it to their house when I saw Mr. Bishop walking out, carrying a suitcase in each hand. His shouts echoed down the street. “There’s no way to get him back! He’s dead!” The last word hung in the air like one of those cartoon bubbles. Dead!

  I pictured Mrs. Bishop holding on to fifteen years of birthdays, Christmases, family holidays—fifteen years of memories and photos. They’d all fade away, though. And maybe a day would come when we wouldn’t think about him. Not once.

  Then he’d really be gone—dead.

  The camera panned down the street. Chase sat on the corner, rocking back and forth, his hands covering his ears. Brooke hugged him, begging him to go back inside.

  It was a slow-motion shot of all of them turning to look at me—Jason’s killer—holding a half-dead plant. Pause. Nobody moved. Nobody said anything. Mr. Bishop looked like he was suspended in time.

  Play. Brooke ran at me. She screamed, “A poinsettia! You come to us with a fucking poinsettia!” She ripped the poinsettia from my hands and threw it at me. The pot shattered on the street, the plant’s roots curling in the dirt.

  Mr. Bishop pulled out of the driveway. Mrs. Bishop looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t let Jason be gone forever. I had to find a way to bring him back to them—to Chase. And Mrs. Bishop.

  I’d be the one to remember.

  41

  I tried to find Chase at school, but Mike told me he was home sick. “Do you maybe wanna come around anyway?” Mike scuffed his boots in the snow. His ears turned red. “Just, you know. So you don’t lose practice at being a bodyguard.”

  I smiled. “I’ll be here, Mike.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait a sec.” He pulled a sweaty dollar bill out of his pocket. “This is all I’ve got.” He looked worried. “Will that cover it?”

  “Keep it, okay? I’ll be here.”

  Mike wrapped his arms around my waist and squeezed. “Thank you, Orange Dragon.”

  “Don’t miss your bus.”

  “I won’t!” He skipped to his bus and waved at me from the window. Real discreet.

  Every time I saw Kohana taking pictures, I thought of the stories that went with each one. He showed me a picture he had taken of my backpack, my notebook poking out the top. “I want this story,” he said, pointing to the notebook.

  I laughed it off. Nobody could have those stories.

  Jase had a bunch of stories because he had a shitload of stuff: his art supplies and favorite jeans. And his secrets—the leftovers that Mrs. Bishop would’ve found.

  The secret stash.

  You forgot about it, huh?

  Yeah. You still got everything?

  Yeah. Mom’ll probably flip out when she finds the stuff.

  Maybe she’ll get them to change your headstone. Turn WALKS WITH GOD into ROAD TO PERDITION.

  Ha ha. Quite the comedian.

  I do what I can. And the book?

  Yep. The book.

  You’re so screwed when Brooke finds out it was you.

  A little late now, huh?

  I guess.

  UNTITLED: SCENE TWO—The List FADE IN: Kyle and Jason are whistling tuneless songs while rollerblading up and down Elm Street. They skate, pause in front of Jason’s driveway, and continue to skate.

  CLOSE-UP: Jason’s front door. Brooke and Mel leave the house. Off camera we hear laughter and car doors slamming. Camera remains focused on the front door.

  CUT TO: Jason motioning to his eyes, military style, and back at the house.

  CUT TO: Kyle nodding.

  FADE IN: Larry Mullen Jr. and Adam Clayton’s score from Mission: Impossible. Jason and Kyle slip ski masks over their faces, and their Rollerblades turn into climbing shoes. Jason and Kyle elbow-crawl up to the house. Jason opens the door and the hinge creaks. The Mission: Impossible music ends with the sound of a needle scratching across a record.

  MRS. BISHOP

  (Off camera.) Boys? Is that you, Jason? Do you need a snack?

  KYLE

  Real incognito, Jase. Smooth.

  JASON

  Should we call off the mission?

  KYLE

  No way. Not now.

  JASON

  You won’t really do it.

  KYLE

  Watch me.

  FADE IN: Mission: Impossible sound track. Kyle sneaks past the den, where Mrs. Bishop is watching TV, and slips up the Bishop staircase. He stands in front of a door.

  ZOOM IN: to sign on the door. “KEEP OUT. That means you!” Kyle slips his library card into the doorjamb and clicks it open. Soundless. (Homage to classic Mission: Impossible scene where Ethan Hunt/Tom Cruise dangles from a cord while retrieving information from the computer.) Kyle dangles from a bungee above a dresser. Sweat
drips from his brow as he plunges his hand into the top drawer.

  JASON

  (Speaking through the door) What’s taking you so long?

  KYLE

  You didn’t tell me I had to look through her underwear drawer to get it.

  JASON

  Dude, you’d better not be checking out my sister’s underwear.

  KYLE

  (Has a pair on his head and rips them off). No way, man.

  CAMERA PANS THE ROOM—from Kyle’s point of view—and stops on a glittery pink book tucked behind a tattered purple teddy bear.

  KYLE

  Got it.

  CUT TO: Jason and Kyle in Jason’s room. The door is bolted with seven locks, and a chair rests under the doorknob.

  ZOOM IN: The book and the first page, written in curvy letters. “HOT LIPS LIST.” Shot from view of Jason holding the book.

  ZOOM OUT: Kyle is looking over Jason’s shoulder at the book.

  KYLE

  That’s it? That’s what all this was for? A hot lips list?

  JASON

  Ahh, my friend. This is much more than a book. This is blackmail.

  KYLE

  (Nodding, then grinning) Hey, Jase. (He clears his throat and rubs his palms together.) Am I on the list?

  JASON

  (Rolling his eyes) You’re not serious, are you?

  ZOOM OUT: Jason and Kyle laughing.

  I laughed. Brooke and Mel tried to torture us into telling them about where we hid that dumb book. But we never gave it up. Honestly, it wasn’t even that interesting. They had rated the “kissable” guys from their class with lipstick kisses: one being “good enough for practice”; five being “steamy tongue-twisting.” And the highlighted entries were the ones they’d actually hooked up with—with the corrected lipstick kisses to the side. Big deal.

  I wondered if Mrs. Bishop had found the book and sent Brooke to do extra church time. Maybe she found all of Jase’s stuff. What did she do with it? What happened to Jason’s locker? What does the school do with a dead kid’s locker?

  It was the last day before Christmas break. The day before any school vacation is a waste. In most classes, we just hung out and ate candy. Mrs. Beacham decided to have a Shakespearian insult competition. I won a box of caramel chocolates with “Swim with leeches, thou gorbellied, codpiece-sniffing maggot pie!”

  After the bell rang, I walked down the empty hallways. Carson High had become a ghost school. Everybody—students, teachers, custodians, secretaries—had run for home as fast as possible. Mr. Cordoba sat alone, working at his desk, like it was another regular day at the library. I opened the door a crack.

  “Mr. Caroll, it’s nice to see you here. What with all the holiday festivities.”

  “Yeah. I wanted to return The Catcher in the Rye before the break.” I’d re-checked it out twice, just to hold on to it.

  He scanned the book. “What did you think?”

  “I liked it. A lot.” I wondered if Jase had liked it as much as I did.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t think a story about some kid’s weekend in New York would be so good, but it was.”

  “Why?”

  I fidgeted with my backpack. “I really liked Holden, you know?”

  “What did you like about him?”

  “Well, he’s funny. And real.”

  “Real?”

  “Yeah. Honest. He definitely isn’t the type to have to hang out with the popular kids just to be cool.”

  Mr. Cordoba tapped his fingers on the desk. “Do you know anybody like that?”

  I thought about Kohana. “Yeah. I do. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends. Funny, huh?”

  Mr. Cordoba shut down his computer and looked at me. “Does Holden have a lot of friends?”

  I shook my head. “No. It seems like he could use one.”

  Mr. Cordoba waited and leaned on the desk. He hadn’t scratched his temple yet, so that meant I wasn’t done talking about the book. He always scratched his temple when he didn’t want to talk anymore. He probably wasn’t a very good poker player.

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. He seems kind of lonely.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “It is…I guess.” I blushed.

  Mr. Cordoba scratched his temple. “I agree.”

  “You think Holden would be a good friend?”

  “I think you would be a good friend to Holden.”

  I stood there stunned until Mr. Cordoba said, “So—what book are you taking home for the holidays?”

  “Um, I dunno. Could you maybe pick out a book you like—really like, though? One you read not because you had to read it? Maybe I’ll like it, too.” I scuffed my shoe against the carpet. I’d already had to change the duct tape twice. I’d used Dad’s because I didn’t want to bug Chase about it.

  He pulled a book from the shelves and handed it to me. “This is one of my favorites. Let’s see if we have the same taste.”

  I flipped to the front. No Jason.

  He took it back and registered it in the system while I fished for my library card at the bottom of my pack.

  “Mr. Cordoba?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know Jason? Jason Bishop?”

  He nodded.

  I turned away from Mr. Cordoba’s steady gaze. “Did you know him well? I mean, did you talk about books a lot?”

  “No. I didn’t know him well.”

  “That’s too bad.” I sighed. “Did he check out a lot of books?”

  “Some.”

  I looked around the library. “What other books did he like to read? Do you remember?”

  “He spent a lot of time looking at the art books,” Mr. Cordoba said, pointing to the reference section. “And he used to check out graphic novels every now and again.”

  I stared at the flecks of brown in the worn library carpet. I didn’t want Mr. Cordoba to think I was stalking a dead guy. “Okay. Just wondering, you know.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “What people read says a lot about them.”

  “Yeah. I guess it does.” I looked at the book in my hands. “So what does this book say about me: kid who doesn’t know what to read?” I laughed.

  “Or what does it say about me?”

  “Oh. Oh yeah.” I looked at the title: Chronicle of a Death Foretold.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Caroll.”

  “You, too. And thanks.” When I walked down the hall, I felt like I carried the secret to who Mr. Cordoba was in my backpack. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what that secret was.

  42

  Since the day with the poinsettia, I hadn’t seen Mr. Bishop’s car. Snow piled on the Bishops’ walk and driveway. I started to get up early to shovel it. Then I shoveled both their next-door neighbors’ walks and driveways, too, so Mrs. Bishop would think it was one of them. It was hard to do with a broken hand and in the dark. At least my cast hand had healed quick. Sometimes it took me a couple of hours.

  I cradled a hot chocolate against my fingers after one morning of shoveling, inhaling the smell of sticky-sweet marshmallows. I opened Chronicle of a Death Foretold, and an envelope dropped out. Mr. Caroll was scribbled on the front.

  I hadn’t gotten a Christmas card from anyone. My Secret Santa in math class never even gave me a present. I took out the card. It was simple, with a small tree on the front, encircled by the words PEACE ON EARTH. I opened it.

  Dear Mr. Caroll,

  I wish you peace. Happy Christmas.

  —Mr. Cordoba

  I held the card in my hand, unable to believe that we had ever thought Mr. Cordoba was a heartless assassin. The guy handed out PEACE ON EARTH Christmas cards. No mafia guy ever sends cards. What would Capone have written on his cards?

  Merry Christmas. Hope I don’t have to off you this year.

  —Al

  I turned the card over. It smelled like books. Do people always smell like t
heir jobs? If so, it would totally suck to be a proctologist.

  Good one, Kyle.

  Thanks, Jase.

  I smiled and put the card back in the novel.

  Christmas Eve loomed over us like some kind of black cloud—like that 1978 horror flick The Swarm, where a mass of African bees invades and kills thousands in Houston. Mel and I were anxious. Mom had baked three kinds of desserts to calm her nerves. And it was all Dad’s fault. He had invited Uncle Ray and Aunt Phyllis. Having to spend any amount of time with Aunt Phyllis topped Jason’s and my “what’s worse” list.

  “I want everybody to be on their best behavior tonight,” Dad said. He looked at Mom when he talked. “I mean everybody!”

  When we heard Uncle Ray and Aunt Phyllis’s car in the drive, Mel and I bolted upstairs. Mom met us at the top of the stairwell and growled, “Don’t you dare think of escaping tonight. Now get downstairs and be nice.”

  After dinner, Aunt Phyllis sat down at the piano and started pounding out Christmas carols. At first it was totally embarrassing and lame, but after a while, all of us were singing—even Mom.

  “I think she’s drinking something a lot stronger than eggnog,” Mel whispered.

  Mom’s cheeks were pink and her eyes looked droopy. “Maybe,” I agreed.

  Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Ray took Mel’s room. Mel took my bed, and I slept on the floor. I slipped into my sleeping bag. Sleeping bags are always the same—same feel, same smell. There’s something nice about things that don’t change.

  I peed in my bag once at summer camp in fourth grade. The next morning, everybody knew who had wet their bags because the sleeping bags were hung up on the camp clothesline.

  Jeffrey Mason razzed me, but Jason stepped up. “Listen, purple puke face, I wouldn’t mess with Kyle if I were you.”