"Sorry. She
is
seven. I guess she stayed home from school
because she was sick, but her mom let her play in the yard after
lunch."
"Someone just took her?" My thoughts jump to
Cameron, the only person I know who had someone taken like that.
Katie's disappearance devastated his family and changed Cam from a
carefree kid to someone more serious, more cautious.
"I know I don't have to tell you this, but
I'm going to. Be careful," he says, taking a step closer and
resting a shaky hand on my arm.
"I will," I say, sliding my hand over his,
still thinking of Cameron. They never found out what happened to
his sister. No body, nothing.
"Are you okay?" The cloudiness that
sometimes masks his eyes has lifted and his clear blue eyes bore
into mine. He squeezes my fingers and for a second, they
tingle.
That's weird. Usually I only feel that
when—
"Biz?"
Oh right. "Yeah, I'm fine. This made me
think of Cameron's sister. I hope this girl's family doesn't have
to go through what they did." Endless searches, her hand linked
together with Cameron's as they picked their way through the forest
with a hundred other people, Cameron's mom sobbing in their pickup
truck. They found a sock that could have been hers, but nothing
more.
Then the accusations. Cam getting dragged
out of school by the police, everyone whispering that since he was
the last one to see Katie alive he must know more than he was
saying.
Dad steers me into the hallway and down the
stairs. "Do you need help with your homework?"
A sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
"Probably. Trig is kicking my ass." I flinch when he swats my arm.
"Sorry, but it is!"
"I know you don't like math, and yes, you
won't need it once you're done with school, but you need to
graduate before you can be done with it," He says, sinking into his
spot on the couch. I curl up on the opposite end. "What about your
other classes? I'd rather know before I get a note that you're
failing."
I feel guilty for a minute, but I push
it aside. I try, I really do, but certain things just don't stick
in my head. I figure that something needs to be forgotten to make
up for whatever space the flickering takes up. "No failing
grades."
Yet
, I add silently.
"We get our next photojournalism assignment tomorrow."
"Well I'm glad you have at least one class
to look forward to." A reflection from outside flashes light
through the living room. Instinctively I turn away, just as my dad
closes his eyes. His voice comes out much softer than before.
"You're talented, Biz. Don't be afraid to go after something you
really want."
*****
I grab my camera and go outside, Mr.
Turner’s lecture on f-stops droning in my head. Not that f-stops
don't interest me—they're crucial if you actually plan to be a
photographer, which I do—but I already know everything he covered.
I signed up for Intro to Photojournalism to learn more about
telling a story with my photos.
Crouching low to the ground, I prop my
elbows on my knees, my camera balanced in my hands. I check the
settings, then press the button.
Click-click-click
. Turner helped me program the
camera to take three pictures with one push. Said it's a trick the
pros use because it allows you to fully capture the moment. Or
something like that. It's supposed to work great for action shots,
but it's a bit of overkill for Mom's flower bed.
I flick a switch and scrutinize the shots.
Yep, flowers. Each shot nearly identical.
With a heavy sigh I fall backwards until I'm
stretched on the grass, the camera resting on my chest. The setting
sun casts shadows over the side of the house, washing away the
color my father painstakingly painted last summer. By taking away
the light, the pigment disappears too.
I jerk upright and the camera is at my
face before I'm even thinking.
Click-click-click
. But I don't stop there. I
don't know what exactly I'm hoping to accomplish, but I can't
resist whatever's drawing me to the shadows.
“
Biz?” Mom calls from the doorway.
"Can you get dinner out of the oven and set the table? I'm helping
your dad."
"Sure thing." Brushing grass from my jeans,
I pick up my camera and head to the kitchen, where the
mouthwatering aroma of three-cheese lasagna nearly knocks me over.
"This makes up for my day." Hot pads in hand, I pull the casserole
dish from the oven and slide it onto the table. Next, plates and
silverware, then I reach into the cupboard above the phone and grab
the basket of pills.
I could count them out with my eyes closed,
the distinct shape and size of each pill more familiar than the
multi-vitamin Mom made me start taking last year, but I'm a good
daughter and I check each bottle, careful to only take from the
bottles marked "Twice a day." I drop the pills into the ceramic
dish on the table, the white tablets stark against the reds,
oranges, and purples baked into the piece of pottery.
My finger traces the yellow swirl that loops
around the rim. Ironic that the two dollar souvenir from my
parents' honeymoon—a trip that also resulted in me—has become such
an integral part of our lives. Mom says that when she picked it out
in that dusty artisan market she figured it'd get tossed into a
drawer and never be seen again. Yet here it is, in the place of
honor—
"Hey, sweetie. Get anything good?"
I whirl around.
Dad stands in the doorway, his face twisted
between a grimace and a smile. He's fighting it, but the grimace is
winning. His black hair is freshly combed, the part straighter than
the rest of him would ever be.
I know that look. "Another one?"
He shrugs.
"I knew I shouldn't have left so early this
morning." I forgot to set out his meds before leaving for
school.
"Biz, it's not your fault."
"Did you take your pills?"
His eyes dart to the table, brush over the
Mexico bowl. "Yeah." He doesn't meet my gaze.
"Dad, you have to take them. This happens
every time you forget—"
"I've already heard it from your
mother."
"Well—"
Mom joins him in the doorway and runs the
back of her fingers across his cheek. "He promised to be better
about taking them." She smiles. "Although I think he would have
promised anything to keep me from calling the ambulance."
My head snaps between them. "It was that
bad?"
Dad still refuses to look at me.
Mom crosses the kitchen, stopping in front
of the table and the little ceramic bowl. Our ironic icon. She
scoops up the pills, walks back to Dad, and slips them into his
hand. "Yeah, it was."
Chapter 3
A piercing whistle quiets the
auditorium.
Principal Walker, better known as Stride
Right, shuffles to the center of the stage. Rumor has it he has
some kind of issue with his name and refuses to walk like a normal
person. The nickname's been around since way before I got to high
school.
Stride Right clears his throat. "As most of
you have heard by now, a seven-year old girl was kidnapped
yesterday. Most of you are probably wondering what this has to do
with you." He turns on his heel and half marches to one side of the
stage, peering into the darkness behind the curtain. He lifts a
hand and waves for someone to approach. "Officer Jackson is here to
talk to you about safety."
A heavyset man with thinning hair and bad
skin steps into the spotlight. His blue uniform strains against his
belly, his gun rests comfortably at his side.
I turn away as a murmur rises up from the
students.
Stride Right goes on. "I know. You know
everything there is about being safe. Humor me," he says before
shuffling into the darkness of the wings, leaving the cop staring
at us, arms stiff at his sides.
"Common sense will save you in most
situations. Unfortunately," he chuckles, "not a lot of you have any
common sense, so that's why I'm here."
This is the person our
fine police station chose to send to our school?
As he
drones on, I twist around in my seat to find Amelia. We had to sit
with our class and she's towards the back of the room. A sharp
cough draws my eye near the aisle and Amelia's dark head pops
up.
"Did you have a question, miss?"
Her head disappears.
"Kids, this is a serious matter. I know you
think you've got better things to worry about, but your safety is
the priority of this school, the police department, and your
families."
My eyes skim the faces, hoping to find
someone as bored as I am, and land on Cameron. He isn't smiling.
Several kids turn to look at him, then stare across the auditorium
at me. Heat flushes my cheeks and I sink lower in my seat.
Safety. Right. I can at least pretend to pay
attention to the rest of the speech.
*****
Robbie's waiting for me at my locker. "I
texted you last night…"
A lie springs to my lips but the hurt in his
eyes stops me. "I'm sorry, I—"
"I don't get it. You always have your phone
on you."
That's true. I got each of his texts the
instant they came through. I just couldn't make myself reply.
He stares at the ground, the confidence I'd
once found so endearing gone.
Guilt pummels me, but there's no sense in
dragging this out. "Robbie, this isn't working for me anymore.
You're a great guy and all but—"
He looks up. "You're serious? Just like
that?" He shakes his head and his gaze drops to the floor. "But
what about…?" he trails off.
I bite my lip.
He leans close and his dark eyes turn cold.
"I should've listened when everyone told me to stay the hell away
from you. What a waste of time."
My reputation may have a benefit after all.
I watch him go, unable to move until the bell sounds. Late for
class, I slam my locker shut and hurry to photojournalism.
At least I won't fail in there.
*****
"Biz, these are remarkable." Turner clicks
through my photos a third time. "You have a remarkable eye for
detail, especially considering this is your first photography
class."
My head drops forward until my hair covers
my face. Until this year I hadn't taken photography seriously and
while I love hearing that I’m doing well, I'm not used to getting
compliments.
"Don't be embarrassed. It took me until I
was in my thirties to discover my passion. You have a gift and you
should be proud of it."
"Mm-hmm." I want to hear this, I really do,
but couldn't he just text me or something? Hearing people say nice
things out loud is just weird. Especially a teacher.
He clears his throat and waits until I meet
his eye. "The assignment was flora so you can't use these—" he
holds up a hand when my mouth drops open, "—for class. But I'd like
you to submit them to the paper."
"Oh, sure." No one actually reads the Weekly
Digest. It's a glorified gossip rag for the kids in the newspaper
club. And not even good gossip.
He continues clicking through my photos.
"So do I just talk to the club advisor?"
His eyes narrow and his head tilts slightly
to the side. "What? Why—oh! I don't mean the school paper." He
chuckles and my cheeks burn. "I meant the Daily Chronicle."
Now it's my turn to be confused. "But why
would they want my pictures?"
"Biz, I'm trying to tell you that you have
talent. Something that will stay with you long after you've
finished high school." He sets the camera on his desk. "Getting
published in a real publication is just the first step."
"You really think these are good enough?
They're just of the side of my house."
"A friend of mine runs the features section
and he's always looking these types of photos. I'll give you his
email and you can submit them that way."
I bristle despite myself. "I don't need any
favors."
He exhales heavily. "I appreciate that you
think I have that much control over what is published in our local
paper, but believe me, I don't. All I'm giving you is the
connection. The rest is up to you."
I head back to my desk, allowing a small
smile to creep over my face, but it vanishes when I look up and see
Cameron watching me. Seeing his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes
reminds me of my conversation with Robbie and I'm filled with a
heavy feeling of guilt.
*****
Driving home after school I can't help but
replay what Robbie said. I know people started saying shit about me
after I dumped Alex a couple months ago, but it's not because I
don't like them. It's totally the opposite. If they get too
close…
My fingers tingle. I flex them against the
steering wheel, but it's too late to stop it. The rhythmic pulse of
light floods through the drivers' side window. My reflex is to
close my eyes but I can't keep them shut.
The tingling moves up my hands, delicate
pinpricks that increase in intensity until the sensation races up
my arms and slams into my chest. The familiar heaviness pushes me
against the seat and I fight the urge to stare into the light. The
test wasn't that bad. I can deal with failing. It's reliving that
conversation with Robbie that I'd rather avoid.
I reach for my sunglasses in the passenger
seat but it's too late.
With a final push the heaviness lifts and
I'm floating, barely able to hang on to the steering wheel. I take
a deep breath and—
—
I'm in yesterday's English class. A
couple people look at me from the corner of their eye but no one
says anything. When I come to after flickering, I spasm like when
you dream that you're falling. Sometimes I do it on purpose when
I'm not flickering. I figure the more people think I'm just mildly
weird, the less likely they are to know how weird I really
am.