"I've put your names in random order. Half
of you will present today, the rest tomorrow. Ms…" Turner checks
the slip of paper in his hand, "VanStrein. If you'll please start
us off."
The lanky girl with spiky black hair who
never talks to anyone strolls to the front of the room and collects
her project from Turner's desk. Her face blurs as she begins, as do
the rest of my classmates. A warm sheen settles over my skin, and a
moment later my mouth starts to water. I don't think I'll actually
throw up; bonus side effects are just part of the fun.
I keep one ear open for my name, but
thankfully he's put me in tomorrow's group. Of course I don't know
that until the end of class because he likes to keep us guessing.
If there's anything I'd change about his teaching style, it's that.
But it does force us to be prepared.
The bell rings as a guy named Tim is
rambling about how long the soccer field is, and everyone stands
up.
"Don't forget about the new assignment,"
Turner shouts over the instant chatter that erupts as soon as class
is dismissed. "You only need one photo, so you only get one week
this time. Don't wait until the last minute."
Chapter 24
It feels weird to be sneaking out in the
middle of the day. Mom let me stay home but migraine or not, I
can’t let Amelia fail trig. One benefit to being a freak is I can
help my friends—besides, I can only lay in bed waiting for Cameron
to text while an elephant chews on my head for so long. Dad's
napping on the couch and as much as I hate deceiving him, I'd
rather he not know I'm gone than have to lie to his face.
The sun is ridiculous. My brain
screams for me to hide beneath a hat and fourteen pairs of
sunglasses, but that would defeat the point. I steer the car
towards the Strand, doing my best to squelch the nausea that's
stirring in my gut.
Did I mention I get
carsick, too?
It's worse when I'm in the middle of a
migraine.
The light turns green and I move my foot to
the gas, then slam on the brakes. Two ambulances and a police car
fill my review mirror, their lights stark against the blue sky. I
wait until they fly past, then slowly pull through the
intersection.
I don't get far.
They screech to a halt a block before the
Strand—the ambulances on the shoulder on the opposite side of the
street, the cop blocking oncoming traffic—and I have no choice but
to stop. A car behind me honks. I twist around to flip him off but
he's already pulling a u-ey. The cop looks up at the sound of
squealing tires, then turns back to the reason they're all
there.
Two cars—or what I assume are two cars—lie
twisted against the row of trees. Metal and glass shimmer in the
grass from the edge of the road to the tree line. Black tire marks
start from somewhere beneath one of the ambulances and stop
directly in front of where I'm parked.
My hands flutter from the steering wheel. I
can't sit here. I turn off the engine and step onto the street. I
glance at the cop but he's focused on the people inside the cars.
Two pairs of EMTs already surround the cars, kneeling in front of
the shattered windows.
I drift around my car, not wanting to
intrude but unable to sit still. Suddenly I remember my camera.
Turner keeps pushing us to get into the habit of carrying our
cameras everywhere we go, but I'm shocked I actually remembered to
put it back after downloading my last set of pictures.
I grab the camera, then hesitate. Someone
could be really hurt. Dying even. Who am I to just waltz up and
start taking pictures?
But this is exactly what Turner keeps
talking about. Our assignment is to capture real news. I can almost
hear him telling me to get over my insecurities and get to
work.
My hands react before the rest of me. I take
half a dozen shots before I realize I'm walking across the street.
Other cars have stopped—curious moms in their fancy tracksuits,
frustrated businessmen yelling into their cell phones, delivery
guys grateful for a change in the daily routine—and I capture the
sadness, horror, and I'd swear a hint of eagerness, on their faces.
When a woman with too much makeup and a two-year old on her hip
gives me a dirty look, I focus back on the accident.
A woman about Mom's age kneels over a small
boy. The cop has her by the shoulders, keeping her back far enough
to let the EMT work on her child. The man's hands pump
up-down-up-down and I stare, transfixed, thoughts of my assignment
gone.
Honking from the street snaps me out
of my daze, and I lift my camera. Zoom.
Click-click-click
. Strong hands urging life back
into a chest too tiny to endure such trauma. Tears coursing down
the mother's face, mingling with blood and dirt and glass. The
muscles in the cop's arms as he continues to hold her, no longer
keeping her back, but comforting her as she sobs over her
son.
My breathing quickens and I give my head a
quick shake. The narrowed focus that takes over when I'm taking
pictures stutters, and suddenly I see the other car, the other
ambulance, the other horror playing out in front of me.
Two teenagers sit quietly in the grass while
the EMTs poke and prod them. I had English last year with one of
them. Brian. He can't tear his eyes away from the kid. His friend
seems less aware of what's going on and I can't help but wonder if
they were already partying this afternoon. It seems a little early,
but right after school, when parents are still at work, is the
easiest time to screw around.
I quietly take their picture, vowing not to
let that one see the light of day. I'm not trying to get anyone in
trouble, but the little voice that sometimes tells me I'm actually
good at this photography thing and could even make a career out of
it says that it'd be stupid not to get the entire story.
Another police car arrives, sirens blaring,
and Brian stiffens. That can't be good.
One of the cops eyes me as he rushes by but
doesn't question my being there so I take pictures until my battery
dies.
*****
"Hey, what's your name?"
I turn around to find the cop—the one who
held the mother—staring at me. "Am I in trouble?"
He looks puzzled. "Why would you be in
trouble? I need your information in case we need any of your
photos. You got here pretty fast and they could help with the
recreation."
"Recreation?" I realize I sound like an
idiot but I have no idea what he's talking about.
"For the accident investigation." He steps
closer and holds out his hand. "I'm Officer Roberts."
"Biz." I shake his hand and my unease
fades.
"Just Biz?"
I smile. "Yeah."
"Okay, Biz. Do you have an email or phone
number where I can reach you?"
I look around, my nerves humming. No one's
paying any attention to us. The ambulances have already left and
the other police car is starting to pull away.
He rests his other hand on my arm.
I flinch, and he backs away.
"I didn't mean to scare you." He reaches
into his pocket and pulls out a wallet, from which he retrieves a
business card. "Here's my card. You can have your mom or dad call
if you're not comfortable, but your photos could be a big
help."
I take the card. Officer Jake Roberts. Yes,
I believe what he's saying. Yes, I understand that I could help
with an investigation. So why are my instincts screaming at me to
get away from him?
He holds up his hands in mock surrender.
"I'm one of the good guys."
I finally find my voice. "I'll have my dad
call."
"That's all I'm asking." He sticks out his
hand again but I just stare at it. "Drive safely, Biz."
I wait until he reaches his cruiser before
heading to my car. The adrenaline from the past hour evaporates in
a rush, bringing my headache back with it. I climb into the car and
am just turning the key when I slam my hand against the steering
wheel.
"Shit!"
The sun is setting. It's too late to
flicker. Amelia failed, again.
Chapter 25
"Where'd you go?"
I freeze with one hand on the railing. So
much for sneaking in quietly.
Dad's standing in the living room, arms
crossed. Doing the waiting thing.
I give him the closest to the truth that I
can get. "I was sick of being in my room all day so I drove around
to take pictures for my next photo project."
His shoulders relax. "What's the
project?"
I join him in the living room and hand him
my camera. "Real news." I run upstairs to get an extra battery,
then hurry back down.
He replaces the battery and the camera whirs
to life in his hand. "And you already found something?"
A shudder races through me. "Yeah." My mouth
goes dry. I'm not sure I can stomach looking at that scene again.
At least not yet.
Dad flips through the pictures, the crease
between his eyes growing deeper and his jaw dropping further with
each beep of the camera.
I dig the cop's card out of my back pocket.
"One of the cops asked me to call. Said they might want to use some
of my pictures for the investigation." The words feel heavy,
surreal. My gaze drops to the carpet. "I haven't looked through
them yet so I don't know if they're any good. They probably won't
be much help."
"Biz, these are really good."
"Whatever."
"No, really." He lowers to the couch but his
eyes never leave mine. "They’re also pretty graphic. Are you
okay?"
For once, I don't mind the question. I shake
my head as tears slip down my cheeks.
The camera thuds on the coffee table and his
warm hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me to his side. I lean
into him. No matter how frail he gets, I still feel safe when I'm
next to him.
"Do you want me to call this cop?"
I nod into his shoulder. The nausea has
caught up to me. And the jackhammer in my ear. "I can throw the
pictures on a CD."
"Is that something I can do?"
Probably, but it'd be faster for me to do
it. By the time I explained the entire process we could have sent
the disc by courier pigeon. "I can do it without even looking at
the files."
"Wait here." The couch shifts as he rises.
With a pat on my head, he takes the card into the kitchen. I hear
the phone beep as he dials, but I bury my head in the cushions
before he starts to talk.
I startle awake when a cold washcloth is set
on the back of my neck. The tiny hairs stand at attention, and I
can't tell if it's from the cold or the eerie sensation that I'm
being watched. True, it's just Dad, but it's still a creepy
feeling.
Seems like I've been feeling that way more
and more lately.
Thursday is a blur, but unfortunately it's
school I'm blurring through. Bishop sends me to the library where I
sit at the table closest to the librarian—a new woman who's busy
pecking away at her ancient computer—and struggle through
yesterday's test. Amelia emailed me the questions last night but
they aren't proving to be very useful. For a second I contemplate
flickering again, but I've already pushed myself too far.
Most times the aftershocks of my headaches
involve a kind of spaciness that leaves me detached from everything
around me, combined with a weird numbness all over my body that
isn't so different from when I flicker. Voices sound echoey. People
move around me in a blur, then slow motion, then fast again. It's
all I can do to stay upright and focus on whatever's directly in
front of me. I get looks, sure, but for the most part everyone
knows I get killer headaches and doesn't ask about the rest.
Except for Bishop. He could give two shits
that I'm sick. I flip over the test and scan the back. More of the
same. I glance up and catch the librarian watching me.
"Didn't study?" she asks, a condescending
sneer marring her otherwise pretty face.
Librarians are supposed to be nice. And old.
Matronly. This woman acts like she's doing us a favor, when really
she's just a glorified study hall monitor. "I was sick. Still am."
I wipe my nose on my sleeve, then cough into my hand.
The librarian wrinkles her pert nose and
turns back to the computer. "You're supposed to go back to class
when you're finished, so concentrate on your test."
I roll my eyes but she's not looking. I look
at the test, but the questions don't make any sense. There are
numbers, and spaces for what I presume based on their size are
supposed to be long answers, but I can't comprehend the
questions.
Literally.
It's like I've forgotten how to read.
My heart jack-hammers and I lean back in my
seat. The words swim on the page, looping and graceful, in no hurry
to organize themselves so I can understand what the fuck I'm
supposed to figure out.
The librarian's eyes flit my way but she
continues her typing, oblivious.
"Um…"
She sighs. Rolls her eyes. "What?"
"I think I need to go to the nurse."
"You’re not sure? What, the test too hard
for you?"
Is she for real?
"Look," I say, standing up and making the chair screech on
the linoleum floor. "I get really bad headaches and something's not
right. I can't—" how do I even explain what's happening? I take a
step towards her but my equilibrium chooses that moment to learn
the polka and I stumble forward, slamming my knees onto the
floor.
She hurries around the desk and kneels at my
side. "Are you okay? Do you need me to go with you?" I guess being
a bitch only applies when she thinks I'm just a bad student.
I try to stand, but my legs buckle. At least
I make it into my chair. "I'll be okay, I just need a minute."