I don't know if that's a good thing or not.
I mean it's good if they can find out what happened to her, but I
don't know if Cameron and his parents have the strength to go
through all that again. Sometimes it seems like they're barely
getting by now.
My gaze drifts to my phone. This explains
why they don't want me over there. I roll over and grab my camera
from the floor. I refuse to mope any longer. I need to go through
my photos and I've only got—I check the clock—less than eight hours
before the migraine hits.
An energy zips through me as I start
downloading my pictures. I love how immediate photography is.
Turner keeps threatening to make us mess around with actual film so
we have a ‘proper understanding of photography's beginnings blah
blah', but it's the immediacy that draws me to it. Mom says I'm
always rushing and can't sit still long enough to appreciate
anything, but that's not true. I can sit for hours trying to
perfectly capture a moment, which is tricky considering the moment
is always changing, but once I've got the shot, I want to see it
now.
I pause on a shot of several players hunched
on the bench. Their slumped shoulders speak more about their
displeasure for being stuck there than the scowls on their faces,
but I've managed to capture both. Regardless, there's still
something missing. It seems flat.
I skip to the next couple shots and my
breath catches. That's it. I'd shifted my position so the overhead
lights cast a stronger shadow on their faces, masking their
unhappiness in darkness while at the same time revealing it to me.
I try to recall if I'd made the adjustment intentionally.
Yes, yes, of course you did
, my ego
insists, but I can't take credit for a fluke. I mean, I
will
take credit for it, obviously,
but I know this effect wasn't on purpose.
I hide the photo application and
double-click a text file saved to my desktop. I scroll to the
bottom of the list and type ‘include shadows'. Several items near
the top of the list have a line through them—those reminders are
already second nature—but I'm still working on the others. I reread
the list, starting at the bottom.
Tighter composition.
Drastic angles.
Stop making people smile.
Faster setting for action.
My last thoughts before falling asleep are a
mix of irony and relief. Irony that I don't care enough about most
of my other classes to try this hard, and relief that I care about
something enough to try.
Chapter 20
The ice picks wake me up again. My eyes
scrunch tighter. The pillow already cocoons my head, but I pull it
closer, trying to block out the inevitable.
The smell of bacon drifts upstairs and my
stomach heaves. Acid churns in my stomach and the juices in my
mouth start flowing. I yank the pillow off my head and fall out of
bed. I haven't thrown up in awhile, but it looks like today is my
lucky day.
Fortunately the bathroom's close.
I flush, then tiptoe back to bed. Mom knows
better than to expect me for breakfast on the weekend, but I'd
rather she not know about this headache. She's got enough to worry
about with Dad.
I cower deeper under the covers as the room
grows brighter and brighter.
"Biz, honey? You getting up?" Mom's voice
drifts through the layers of cotton and feathers.
"Ughhhhh."
My door clicks open and glass clinks on
wood. "I brought you some apple juice and toast. There's a pill
next to the glass."
I raise a corner of the blanket and peek at
Mom. "How did you know?"
She sits on the edge of the bed and slides a
cool hand beneath the blankets, searching for my tender neck. Her
fingers dig into the knots at the base of my skull. "I'm your
mother. You think I don't know when you're sick?"
My eyes close as she kneads the tendon
beneath my ear. I'd purr if I didn't think it'd make my head fall
off.
She continues until my breathing slows, then
presses a kiss to my temple.
"Thanks, Mom."
The pill touches my lips. "Drink up." A
straw juts from the glass.
I catch it with my lips, swallow.
The pill does its thing and knocks me out
for a couple more hours, until my phone dings. My hand shoots out
from the covers to put it on silent.
Don't check it. Keep
sleeping.
But what if it's him?
I peek at the display. It's Cameron,
apologizing again.
I call him instead of texting back. That way
I can keep my eyes closed. "It's okay. I read about Katie's case
being opened back up."
He's quiet for a minute. A clock ticks in
the background. He must be in the kitchen. "Yeah." He says
something else, but my mind wanders, the hazy loops of the
medication clouding my thoughts and making me completely space
out.
"What?"
He sighs, an angry sound that I don't
expect. "Why did you call if you don't wanna talk?"
My eyes snap open. My stomach plummets. "I
feel like ass and didn't want to have to look at my phone."
"Well I've got a lot on my mind right
now."
"What? Cam—"
"Forget it."
I think he's hung up but I can still hear
the clock ticking. "Cam?"
One more sigh and the line goes silent. He's
hung up.
Everything goes liquid inside and I run to
the bathroom.
*****
Shadows creep across the wall. When dusk
erases the last bits of color from the room, I roll out of bed. I
do still have homework.
My computer whirs to life. I slide my finger
over the trackpad and freeze. The picture of the man at the soccer
game stares back at me. I quickly flip backwards until I find a
shot I like, then save it in a folder for my project. If I use two
photos from each game, plus the feature section on Trace, I won't
need to write much. Turner can't actually expect us to have full
articles.
I save a couple more, the layout for the
page arranging itself in my head, but my finger pauses over the
folder for the football game. Cameron hasn't called or texted. I
double-click the folder and sigh in relief. It's just the game. I
couldn't remember if I'd taken a couple of him—crap, there's one of
him focusing on the players on the bench. It's probably the same
shot I was admiring earlier, but better. The ache in my stomach
gets worse. "Not now." I press a hand against my belly and try to
focus on the pictures. Maybe I should just delete the ones of him
so I won't have to keep looking at his face.
A flutter in my throat surprises me.
Not really a flutter, but a knot that makes it hard to
swallow.
What the hell?
My
eyes start to burn. "Are you kidding me?" I don't cry over boys.
Not even if they are as wonderful and beautiful and hilarious as
Cameron. I clear my throat and quickly click through the rest of
the pictures, saving two without really paying attention to which
ones I've chosen.
I take more care with the layout of the
page. Even with my head staging a mutiny and my emotions urging me
back into bed, I want to do well on this project. Besides, I've
never let a migraine stop me before.
The design comes together easily—I group the
photos from each game, overlapping a tighter action shot over one
that covers more of the field, and add a colored section for
Trace's interview—but the story itself won't budge. I know what
happened, I was there, but sentences refuse to form.
My gaze shifts to the closed door. Maybe Dad
can help.
I creep down the stairs as fast as I can
without causing my brain to leak out of my ear. The scent of
roasted chicken and mashed potatoes wafts from the kitchen. My
comfort food.
Mom and Dad look up from the television when
I enter the room. Mom smiles. "We weren't sure if we'd see you
today. Are you feeling any better?"
I shrug, and hope they don't push it. I hate
dwelling on my limitations. I face Dad. "I need help with my photo
project."
He sighs, a weary sound that seems to
deflate him. I notice for the first time how withered he looks.
"Are you okay?" I look between him and
Mom.
He ignores my question. "You need my help
with a photo project? You know far more than me."
"It's not the photos, it's the writing." I
explain the project and give him my best puppy dog eyes. Which
given how crappy I feel, isn't difficult.
"Can you bring your computer down here?"
Mom trails her fingers over his shoulder,
trying to be casual, but I see her check his pulse.
"What's going on?"
"I'm just more tired than normal. Nothing to
worry about." I've heard that line before. "Go get your computer
and we'll work on this while Mom finishes up dinner."
"Are you sure?"
He squeezes my knee. "Stop babying me."
I hurry upstairs, wincing on each step, then
return with my computer and a notepad, which I hand to Dad. He
hates computers. I point at the screen. "I have the pictures
figured out, but I'm supposed to write a story to go along with
it."
He considers the images, the pencil lodged
firmly between his teeth. He traces the edge of a shadow with his
finger and sets the pencil on the couch next to him. "I really like
the way you've worked the shadows into each shot."
I resist the urge to slap his hand off the
monitor and wait for him to finish his thought.
"But that's probably not a good angle, huh?"
He chuckles at his pun and I roll my eyes. "You could tell a story
from the perspective of a non-sports fan." He pokes my side. "A
stretch, I know. Explain that even though you don't understand the
rules, you can still appreciate the determination and hard work."
He pauses. "Do you appreciate that?"
I look down. How did he manage to work a
lecture into this? "I'm trying Dad."
He touches my cheek. "I don't want you to
miss opportunities. You never know when things could change. I know
it seems like you've got your whole life in front of you, but…" He
shakes his head.
"Is that what happened with you?"
He waves his hands at his body, his lip
curled with displeasure. "I wasn't always like this. I went out
with friends, went to work, helped around the house." He sighs. "I
worry that I'm setting a bad example for you because you never knew
the person I was."
"So you didn't always have seizures?" Over
the years I'd picked up that they started after he and Mom got
married, but I'd never asked for details. Now I'm realizing maybe I
should have.
His eyes close and he leans back. "No, I
didn't." He turns his head to look at me. "They started the night
you were born."
My mouth drops. "What do you mean?" I knew
he hadn't always had them, but I had no idea they were that closely
tied to me.
"Just what I said. I never had a seizure
before you were born." His lips press tightly together, like he
wants to say more.
I wait.
His eyes never leave mine, but he doesn't
continue.
"Did I somehow…" I can't finish. I don't
think I want to know if I somehow caused him to be sick. It makes
absolutely no sense.
"No!" He grabs my hand. "Biz, no. It isn't
your fault." He lets go and his head droops. "It's mine." The last
words come out so softly I wonder if he actually said them.
"Your fault?"
Tears glisten in his eyes. "I didn't know
that would happen."
"You've lost me."
"I know. I'm sorry." He closes his eyes for
a moment and rubs the back of his neck. "How frequently do you get
headaches?"
The sudden change in topic catches me
off-guard. "I don't know."
Just when I
flicker.
"Why?"
He stares past me, unfocused. "I got
headaches when I was your age, too."
My heart stutters.
"I remember how awful they were, and I hate
to think that you're suffering that way. I know you don't tell us
every time you have one, and I wish there was a way I could make
it… less excruciating."
That's a good word.
"If it's ever more than you can handle, will
you tell me?"
No.
"Of
course."
"I'm serious, Biz."
"I know." I lean forward to accept his
embrace. "Thanks, Dad."
His grip tightens. "I know you don't like to
hear it, but I worry about you. More than you know."
I pull away. I love my dad and it means a
lot to me that he cares so much—most of my friends don't have that
kind of relationship with their parents—but tonight he's hit a
little too close to the truth.
"Thanks, Dad." I gather my stuff and leave
him on the couch. Upstairs, I shut my door and flop onto the
bed.
I still have no idea what to write for my
project.
Chapter 21
As a rule, Mondays suck. But this Monday
sucks more than usual because it’s the first time I'm nervous about
turning in a photo project. Plus I still have lingering effects
from my headache. And Cameron's not in school.
The day passes in a blur. My friends know
enough about my headaches to give me space when I feel like crap,
but I make an effort not to dump my shitty mood all over them.
Everyone's too distracted by the second kidnapping to pay much
attention to me anyways.
One small blessing: I get to skip Trig
today. The bad news: it's for another assembly. The police are back
to talk to us about safety and juniors get to miss fifth period. I
sit next to Amelia and we pass the time coming up with reasons why
Cameron isn't here today.
"I get that his parents are upset, but why
would he stay home?" Amelia wonders. "I mean, do they sit in a
circle being all sad, or what?"