Flash Burnout (19 page)

"Don't disrespect my flowers." She laughs. "Why don't you go ahead and enter your string-cheese series?"

"Me? I don't do the cheese, girl! I don't do heartstrings. I am all about bikers and empty streets and snakes!"

She guffaws. "Stuffed snakes, yes!" She pulls my portfolio in front of her and flips through the images. "Ooh, you have lots to choose from. I like this. And this one. Jeez, look at all these shots of my bruise. You're so stunted. Oh!"

I glance over. She's staring down at the photos of her mom that day in her backyard.

Shit. Why did I put those in my portfolio?

"Sorry," I say.

"It's okay." She flips through the photos, her face impassive. "Too bad about the flash burnout on this one."

I look over at the shot she's indicating. "The what?"

"The flash burnout. You got too close to the subject. So the flash overexposed her. Well,
me,
I mean."

It's the last shot I took at Marissa's house. It's the only one I took of Marissa and her mom together. I was in such a hurry to
leave that I didn't take enough time to frame them. I was too close, and the flash overexposed Marissa's face, turning it bright and blurry.

"Yeah, it would have been a good shot otherwise," I agree.

Marissa slams my portfolio shut, and I jump.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry." She touches my hand quickly.

I look down at my hand in surprise.

She jerks her hand back and fumbles with my portfolio, pushing it toward me. "Here."

"Thanks." I reach out for the portfolio, and our hands brush again as I take it from her.

A gigantic silence opens up between us.

It's not until class is over that we speak again.

"Blake?"

Yeah?"

"Do you think I could, um—"

I wait.

"I feel weird asking, but would it be okay if I use your laptop to edit my photos?"

I hesitate.

"It's okay, you can say no! It's just that I don't have Photoshop on my grandma's old computer. I could do it at school, but ... in fact, you know what? That's what I'll do. I can go to the computer lab after school—"

"It's okay," I interrupt. "When do you want to come over?"

"Really?"

"Sure. How about this weekend? You can come for dinner."

Marissa beams. "That would be great!"

Okay, I'll let you know."

It's not until I'm walking down the hall that I think of Shannon.

Dragging the shutter will liberate your ambient light.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

This time I'm smart enough to tell Shannon, even though I reallyreallyreally don't want to.

This time she doesn't pout or compare the number of times she's been to my house versus Marissa. She
thinks
it—I can see it in her calculating expression—but she says out loud, "Is she coming over on Saturday?"

In a rush of relief I say, "No! No, it doesn't have to be Saturday. I'll tell her to come over Friday, and that way you and I can get together Saturday. Okay?"
Buddy? Pal? Sweetheart?

Shannon nods. "Okay. I've got a piano recital at four that day. Do you want to come? We can go out after."

Bobble bobble. "Yes! Sure!"

***

"Don't forget the Rule of Lug Nuts," calls Garrett.

"The what?" I'm a nervous wreck. Mom and I are heading out the door for my driving test at the DMV.

"Let's go, honey," says Mom, hurrying to the car.

Garrett comes galloping into the living room. "Don't tell me you don't know the Rule of Lug Nuts!"

I seriously think I might stroke out. "What? I don't know what that is!"

"Oh my God, have you been studying the wrong handbook?"

I scrabble in my backpack. "I don't know!"

Maybe they gave you an out-of-date handbook. Oh, you are so screwed."

"Blake!" calls my mom.

"What is it?" I think I might cry. "Just tell me what it is." I grab my DMV handbook and peer at it frantically. "This is the one they gave me!"

"Okay." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Listen carefully. The Rule of Lug Nuts is ... whoever has the most lug nuts
rules
the road." He claps me on the shoulder and walks away, calling, "Good luck!"

***

Mom lets me drive home, my brand-new state-issued temporary driver's license resting in my wallet.

Except for turning too wide around a corner where some construction workers were tearing up the road with jackhammers, then swerving a little to avoid oncoming traffic ... I think it went well. Hey, I passed the test. Who cares about the score?

I stop at the grocery store, and Mom buys a chocolate cake, to celebrate.

When we get home, she makes chicken curry for dinner, with lots of side dishes in case Marissa doesn't like it.

But Marissa has a second helping during dinner, saying shyly, "This is really good. What kind of food did you say this was again?"

"Thanks, honey. It's called curry. Indian food. The rice is called biryani."

"Mm."

Garrett is sitting across from Marissa, looking bored. He's always kind of lost on Friday nights once football season ends. I haven't seen Cappie around here lately, either.

The phone rings and Dad glances at the caller ID. "Work," he says, going into the other room with the phone.

Garrett looks after him. "Dad's on call this weekend?"

"Yes," says Mom. "Do you want more carrots, Marissa?"

"No, thanks."

Dad walks back into the room. He hangs up the phone and sits down.

Garrett watches him.

"You're up, big guy," says Dad.

"YES!" Garrett actually jumps out of his chair and pumps his fist in the air. "When? Tonight?"

"No. It's getting kind of late in the day. We'll go in tomorrow."

"Man! I can't wait! Are you sure we can't go in tonight?"

It's hard to believe that these two are talking about cutting up a body; it sounds more like a movie premiere.

"You'll be fresher if you get some sleep tonight."

"How am I going to sleep?"

My dad beams: the proud papa of his cadaver-craving firstborn. "You know what? I'll have you go in early tomorrow to get started, just like I would with any other
diener.
I'll join you after you've had time to take some tissue samples."

Marissa looks from Garrett to my dad in puzzlement.

"Really?" Garrett may have to be sedated. "What have we got?"

My dad glances at Marissa and my mom.

"Russ," says my mom. "We don't need to hear—"

"They're talking about my dad's job," I explain to Marissa. "He's a medical examiner."

"Oh, right," she says. "It's okay. You can talk about it. I mean, you don't have to act different just because I'm here."

"Sure, Dad, go ahead," I say. "Why should we have normal dinner conversation just because we have
company?
"

My sarcasm flies right over his bushy head, and he says matter-of-factly, "It's a female gunshot victim."

"Errrgh," I groan.

"Wow!" says Garrett. You would think my dad just said, "It's a Ford GT 40, and it's all yours."

"Yep. Very similar to a case I had not long ago. The police, uh, delivered the fatal bullets. She was a transient. Probably a tweaker. They're claiming she threatened them and that they thought she was reaching for a weapon. Turned out to be a cell phone." My dad sighs and rubs his face. "Oh, and Marissa? This is confidential information."

I can hardly bring myself to look at her. My mind has crashed into that one word.

Tweaker.

I risk a glance. Marissa nods and sets down her fork. Her gaze moves to the window and her hands twist in her lap.

I widen my eyes at my mom. She looks distressed, too.

"Let's change the subject," she says. She must not have told my dad about Marissa's mom, or he wouldn't be talking about dead tweakers.

***

After dinner I load the dishes in the dishwasher while Marissa sits at the kitchen table working on my laptop. I can see that she's cropping photos and fixing stuff like color levels and sharpness.

"I'll be back in a minute," I say. I call Shannon from my room, and we chat for a little while. She's out with Dez and Ellie,
but I think she likes the fact that I called, even though Marissa is here.

"My recital is at Sylvan Music tomorrow," she says. "Are you still coming?"

"What time does it start, again?"

Four."

"I'll be there. Well, unless my parents make me go somewhere with them."

"Okay. If I don't see you, I'll call you when it's over."

Okay, babe. Bye."

"Bye."

I wander back to the kitchen and find Marissa staring out the window again.

"How's it going?" I ask.

She turns to look at me, but she doesn't act like she sees me. "What?"

"I said how's it going?"

"Good." She focuses on the laptop again. A photo of flowers in buckets at the farmers' market fills the screen. It's not my kind of subject, but even I can see that it's beautiful; the colors are really rich, and the way some of the flowers are lit by the sun and others are in shade make it a nice layered shot. Marissa edits out someone's leg at the edge of the frame and says, "Blake?"

"Mm-hm?"

"How would someone find out, like a member of the public ...
how would someone find out about that woman your dad was talking about?"

Marissa!"

"Blake," she says, her shoulders slumping. "I'm freaking out."

It's not her."

"How do you know? Is there a way we can find out?"

I raise my hands up. "Mariss! Stop. It's not her. You
are
freaking out."

"Just tell me! Is there a way we can find out? Like, look at the name on the chart or something?"

"What, go down to the office and start looking through their files? Right! My dad said she was a transient. If she didn't have any ID, then she's a Jane Doe."

We frown at each other.

"Besides," I add, "your mom doesn't even have a cell phone, does she?"

"I don't know," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have no idea. But it's possible."

And that's the thing. It is possible.

***

Even after my mom drives Marissa home, I can't stop thinking about what she said. She's infected me with her insanity.

It's not her,
I think.
Don't be stupid. There must be hundreds of
homeless tweakers roaming the streets. What are the odds that it would be Marissa's mom?

I lie down on the bed to read. We're studying
Huck Finn
now. I open the book and read a few pages before I realize I'm not taking in any of the story.

She's gone missing before,
I think.
She must be able to take care of herself or she would have been dead a long time ago.

Shit. Maybe I should go with Garrett and Dad tomorrow.

I toss my book across the room and sit up. And then what? Say, "Guys! Do you mind if I check out this corpse before you cut her up? Thanks!"

Yeah.
That
would work.

Dad didn't say how old the victim was; for all we know, she's twenty years old. Or sixty!

Maybe we should call Marissa's grandmother.

No! I punch my pillow. I have to stop thinking like this. Just because Marissa is flipping her pixels doesn't mean we have to drag Grandma Mary into it.

I pull my blanket up over my shoulders. The dead woman in the cold room won't get out of my head.

***

"Garrett."

"Studly."

"Can I ask you something?"

He's so buzzed he's practically making honey. "Shoot." He's folding a shirt and setting it on top of a pair of jeans on his dresser. Ohmygod, he's picking out clothes for tomorrow, as if he's got a date.

"Is there a way—"

No."

No?"

"No, you can't borrow my car."

"What? No! I don't want to borrow your
car.
God! Not everything is about your car, Garrett."

"Good. Now that you've got your license, I'm just heading you off at the pass, pardner. There won't be any borrowing my car. So what do you want?" He tosses a pair of socks on top of the shirt.

I scowl at him. All of this heading me off at the pass has messed with my concentration. "I was
trying
to ask," I say, "If there's a way to find out how old someone is? Someone who's been brought into the morgue."

He adds a pair of underwear to the stack of clothes. "What do you mean? We determine the age during the exam."

I get a visual of rings on a tree stump, and shake my head. "No, I mean
before.
"

Before what?"

Before the exam."

"Scrof, what the hell are you talking about?"

I exhale and say, "All right, look. That woman that Dad was talking about? The one that's your case tomorrow?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there a way to find out how old she is? Like, before you do anything to her?"

He stares at me.

"Because Marissa thinks—" I scrub both hands through my hair in frustration. "This is completely crazy, okay? But she thinks it might be—"

Garrett raises his eyebrows.

"Her mom."

Garrett squints at me, as if trying to judge whether or not I'm testing a new joke on him. After a long minute, he must be satisfied that I'm as serious as a heart attack, because he says, "Why would she think that?"

"Because her mom's a nut job. I mean, she has problems. Drug problems."

"Ah."

Wow, Garrett sounds just like Mom when he says that one syllable.

"Also, she's missing."

"Missing as in a missing person?"

"Well, yeah. But the police won't file a formal report, because of her history. She's disappeared before for, like, long periods of time."

I have Garrett's full attention now. "What's her poison?"

"Huh? Oh. Meth."

"How long has she been missing?" Now Garrett looks clinical, like Dad, asking questions in that matter-of-fact tone.

"I don't know. A few days? A week?"

"I see. And you want to find out how old the woman is so you can rule out Marissa's mother?"