Flash Burnout (3 page)

"I have to go down there," she says. She doesn't need to explain where "down there" is.

"But that was two days ago! She won't be there anymore," I say, baffled.

"She might. When she crashes, she sometimes sleeps for days." Her heartbroken eyes bore into mine for a long moment before she turns away.

***

Shannon has soccer practice after school—roughly forty-seven thousand times a week, plus one or two games thrown in to mix it up. But as I'm heading for Ottomans with Riley, she catches up to me.

"Ms. Faraci had some last-minute emergency," she says. "She called off practice for today."

Great!" I say.

"Later," mumbles Riley, dropping his skateboard and stepping on, heavy backpack and all. He pushes off, rolling down the sidewalk.

"She's going to kick our asses at practice tomorrow," says Shannon.

"She
said
that?"

No!" She giggles.

At Ottomans, the beanbag chair that looks like a giant soccer ball is free. We juggle our milkshakes while we squish in together. Ottomans is a shop near school that sells drinks and snacks. It's not the cheapest place around, but it's ours. Not many adults want to sit on beanbags, footstools, or ottomans. All of the tables are low to the ground, too.

I love the feel of Shannon against me. I love her pretty round kneecaps poking out of her baggy shorts.

I love the way her long hair grazes my arm like feathers. It's
shiny and soft, and seems to glow with every shade of blond you can think of.

I love her belly laugh. We laugh a lot when we're together.

We met over the summer, both of us working as "coaches" for the kids' day camps at the community center. Mornings we spent doing arts and crafts or playing various ball games with six-year-olds. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were swim days. I'd seen Shannon around school last year, but she's kind of quiet, so I didn't know her very well. But when I saw her laughing and splashing in the pool in her little black bikini, I had a sudden urge to get to know her
very
well.

Shannon squirms around in the beanbag, trying not to spill her shake, her hard hipbones moving against me. I'm still getting used to being this close to her. I can practically count the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles across her cheekbones.

Shannon's cell phone rings. She hands me her shake while she pulls the cell out of her pocket. "Dang," she says, checking the display. "It's my mom."

"How does she know you don't have practice?"

"I don't know! She's spooky." She flips open the phone. "Hi, Mom." Pause. "Oh. It was canceled." Shannon widens her eyes at me and pretends to smack her forehead. Apparently her mom didn't know practice was canceled; she just called to leave a message.

"Right now? Why?" says Shannon, shifting her delicious weight
against me. I feel like groaning. She's practically in my lap. Little Guido is waking up in my boxers. "Oh," she says. "Okay. I will."

She hangs up. Her grandma is in the hospital, and they need to go visit her, blah blah blah. "Sorry, big fella," she says with a little sigh against my neck, then wrestles her way out of the bean-bag. "Do you want us to drop you at home?"

"Uh ... no. I'll call Garrett." Shannon's mom makes me nervous, and besides, I'm not going home yet.

She gathers up her stuff. "I'll call you later." She gives me a quick kiss, and I watch her walk away.

I flip open my cell and hold down 4 until it auto-dials Garrett.

"Studly. What?" he says.

"Can you drive me downtown?" I ask.

"No." I can hear jock talk and metal music in the background.

"Garrett, come on. I need to go downtown."

"Why?"

"It's important."

"Blake, I'm busy," he says.

I sigh. "Fine. And hey, Garrett? Could you make sure to keep crushing my spirit under your boots of indifference?"

A moment of silence. "You've already used that line, man."

Oh. All right, see you later."

I walk to the bus stop. I really don't want to ride the bus downtown for thirty minutes and wander around with this hulking
backpack weighing me down, but I can't stop thinking about Marissa.

She had to know that she wasn't going to find her mom still passed out on the sidewalk in broad daylight two days later. Even if her mom does sleep for days after she crashes, some policeman would have called the drunk wagon by now.

Oh my God. What if her mom was not just passed out in that photo, but
dead?
I never stopped to consider that before. What kind of cold, heartless bastard would stand around taking pictures of a body lying on the ground without even checking to see if the person was alive? What if she'd had a seizure or something and just needed an ambulance?

The rest of the way, I worry about being a heartless bastard. I get off the bus at Burnside and start walking. Within two blocks I am offered an assortment of contraband: chiva, jelly, Tina, and ice. Don't ask
me
—I'm not even sure what they are. I'm kind of surprised no one tries to sell me any plain old weed. On the third block, heading my way, I see a scary-looking woman with bulging eyes and a short skirt. I cross the street. Flink's is on the corner of Third, and I head in that direction. As I pass the public men's room at the edge of Fountain Park, I smell puke. Nice.

I walk around for probably an hour, but I never see Marissa. I stand at the bus stop waiting to go home. It's rush hour now, so people in business suits and students from the culinary college are waiting at the bus stop, too. It's more comforting to have people around when the gutter punks start asking for spare
change. I give away all of my change except for what I need to ride the bus home. My dad tells me never to give street people money, but sometimes it just seems easier. I know they're ninety-nine percent definitely turning right around and using the money to buy their next hit, but what about that one percent that maybe really does just want to buy food? I know there are missions and places where they can get free meals, but what if they're really in the mood for a bacon cheeseburger?

***

My mom is playing the piano when I get home. It's all heavy downer chords, like we're at a funeral. I swerve away from the living room. She always plays that song when she's in a bad mood. Since my mom is a hospital chaplain, even though she's around living people most of the time, she's frequently with people
when
they die. It's kind of weird, in a way, that my mom spends time helping people die ... and my dad spends time figuring out
how
people died. You would think my parents would be the most depressing people on earth. But they're not, they're both pretty cool.

After trolling around downtown for so long, I feel filthy. I head upstairs to take a shower while Mom is pounding on the piano. The Dog Formerly Known as Prince follows me. Even he must be feeling bummed out by the song.

When I finish showering and go downstairs, Mom is sitting at
the kitchen table doing a crossword puzzle. Something that smells good—like garlic and onions—is simmering on the stove.

"Hi, honey!" she says, perfectly cheerful. "How was your day?"

"Good." I grab a bag of Chex mix and start munching. I love that my mom never says, "Don't eat that now, you'll spoil your dinner." She understands that sometimes you're just starving and you have to eat right then.

Dad comes in the back door, his hair bushed up like Albert Einstein. He ploinks the ear buds out of his ears, and leans over to kiss Mom. "Smells good in here," he says.

"It's just a so-awse," Mom says, putting on her best Bronx accent. She frowns slightly at Dad.

"What?" he says.

"Did you have a stinky decomp today?" asks Mom. A stinky decomp is a corpse that has started, you know, decomposing.

"Ohhh, I did! Sorry, I'll go shower." Dad hands me his iPod. "Check out the new Gingerfred," he says, and lopes away. He prides himself on being all hip to the new music. He doesn't know that he's always about six months behind, God love him.

Suddenly my throat feels tight, like I might cry.

My parents seem like a miracle.

When wearing camera on neck strap, avoid entanglements.
—Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007

"That chick is not a dog," Garrett says.

"What?" We're Marauding to school, and we just drove into KWST range. A moldy oldie is playing "Lips Like Sugar" by Echo and the Bunnymen, and I'm zoning out, thinking that Shannon's lips
are
like sugar.

"That chick on the radio," says Garrett. "I saw her yesterday. She's not a dog."

"Oh. See? I told you."

"In fact, she's kind of smokin'."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't know why. Just—" Garrett lifts his hands from the steering wheel for a second, as if fondling an invisible female. "Something about her."

Thus ends our discussion on women for the day.

"Scrof, what are you doing?" snaps Garrett.

"Wha—? Nothing. And what's scrof?"

"Looks like you're getting ready to open that granola bar in my car. Don't." He stops at a red light. "Short for scrofulous. I shouldn't have to explain every damn word to you."

"I'm starving!" I slept through my alarm this morning and didn't have time for breakfast. "I'll be really careful."

"Do not. Eat. In my car."

I shove the granola bar back into my pocket.

***

When I walk into English, I fully expect to see Marissa huddled in the big chair in Moody Corner. But the chair is empty. I turn to look at Marissa's desk. Empty. I walk slowly to my own desk.

"What's wrong?" says Shannon. "You've got a funny look on your face."

Oh, I was wondering if Marissa is okay,
is my first response. It gets shot down by Houston, landing harmlessly in my brain's trash can. Am I allowed to worry about other girls? Besides, then I would have to explain why I'm worried, and I don't want to tell Shannon about Marissa's mom. That's nobody's business.

"I was thinking about
Dracula,
" I say.

"What about it?"

"About how, uh, it was like, the first horror story."
Lame.
I'm not even sure that's true. I wait for her to call me on it.

She doesn't. "Oh. Hey, did you start your journal last night?"

"No. I forgot." In
Dracula,
they were always writing these long-ass letters to each other, which is how the author advanced the plot. See, I do pay attention in class. Anyway, Mr. Hamilton wants us to keep a journal or write letters—
epistles
(heh)—in the journal. With a
pen
instead of on the computer. Come on, man! George even asked yesterday if we could just do blogs or vlogs instead, but Mr. H. wouldn't go for that.

I glance at the door. The bell hasn't rung yet, so Marissa might still show up. I hope everything is okay.

***

Shannon has an appointment with some ass kicking, I mean
soccer practice
after school, so I head over to Ottomans for a smoothie by myself. Bree, one of Marissa's friends, is standing in line in front of me.

"Hey, Bree," I say.

She turns. "Hey," she says uncertainly. We don't really know each other.

"Have you heard from Marissa?"

What?" Bree stares.

"Just that ... she was absent today, and I was wondering if, you know, she's sick or something." I pause, then add, "We're in photo together. I'm Blake."

"Oh, right. Blake. Yeah, I talked to her last night. She's sick." The line moves forward, and Bree turns away to place her order.

After I order, I join Bree at the waiting-for-your-drink area. "Did she say when she's coming back?" I ask.

Bree studies me, frowning. "No."

Did you know about her mom?
I want to ask.
Is that why she lives with her grandma?

But maybe Bree didn't know.

We wait for our drinks in awkward silence, then Bree grabs her cup and leaves.

***

No one is home yet at my house, so I save the world from aliens a few times with my Extermination game on the Mindbender. Then I zone in front of the tube, munching a mix of cheese-and-caramel popcorn, my favorite. After channel-surfing through nothing but mind-numbing junk for almost an hour, I realize that I'd rather do my homework than zombie out in front of the TV any longer. My mom is right: we have two-hundred-plus channels of crap available 24/7.

I stare at a blank piece of notebook paper for a long time, trying to think of something to write for Mr. Hamilton's dumb-ass journal assignment.

All I can think to write is,
Dear Marissa, I hope you're okay. I hope your mom is okay.

Finally I give up and decide to do my photo homework: "Define the word
chiaroscuro,
and suggest ways to implement the effect."

I walk over to the desk to look in the dictionary, and I find myself digging through the stack of phone books instead. One of them is for West Park High students. I flip to the F's: Marissa Fairbairn. Her grandma's name is listed below hers: Mary Stan-more. Hey. Mary ... Marissa ... I wonder if she was named after her grandma.

I pick up the phone to dial the number, then just stand there for a long time, trying to figure out what to say.
Hey, Marissa, how are you?

What can her answer possibly be except "messed up"? I hang up the phone, put away the phone book, and open the dictionary to C.

***

The next day when I walk into English, the first place I look is Marissa's desk. Empty.
The hell?
My heart starts tripping a little. Okay, maybe she really is sick. Maybe it's a female thing, really bad cramps or something. Do girls have cramps for days and days?

I go up to Mr. Hamilton, who's in the middle of greeting people. "Hey, Riley. What's up, George? Morning, Yoon. Morning, Dez. Hi, Ellie."

"Hey, Mr. H.," I say.

"Hey. How are you, Blake?"

"Good. I was wondering." I hesitate, then lean closer and lower my voice. "If you, um, know why Marissa is absent."

"No, I don't. Sorry." He gives me an apologetic look.