Freeze Frame (21 page)

T
hat Tuesday, I waited for Dr. Matthews in her freshly painted waiting room. It was a psychedelic green color. Retro green. Hippy green. Matthews green. Maybe it was her favorite color.

Jason's favorite color was blue. What were his other favorite things? Maybe I could write a scene.

It was an accident.

“Kyle, I'm sorry you had to wait today. Come in.” Dr. Matthews peeked out of her office. Some kid pushed past her and grumbled something on the way out.

“It's okay.” I was happy to be thinking about Jason's favorites. There were tons of things I could write about. I followed Dr. Matthews into her office. I threw my backpack on the lumpy college couch and sat down.

Dr. Matthews sat next to me.

“You look”—she paused, as if trying to find the right word—“happy. Yes, happy.” Dr. Matthews crossed her legs.

She looked happy, too. Like a different person than the one I had first met. Everybody changes, I guessed.

“I'm okay.” I thought for a second. “Maybe happy.”

“How come?”

“I, um…” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I was thinking about that scene again, you know?”

She nodded.

“It was an accident.” There. I'd said it. I waited for the world to crumble around me, but the office stayed the same; sunlight streamed through the windows.

“Can you tell me about that day?” she asked.

I told her how the gun slipped from my fingers, wet with frost. I told her how scared I was; how important it was for Jason to have fun that morning and want to hang out. It was an accident.

“Did you know that? That it was an accident?” I asked.

She nodded.

“How?”

“Intuition, I guess.” She handed me a Kleenex.

“You know,” I said, after I had wiped my nose, “I think Jason would want me to be okay.”

“I think so, too. In fact, I think you will be okay,” she said.

I shrugged. “I guess I don't have much of a choice, huh?”

Dr. Matthews smiled. “We all have choices.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess we do.”

W
eeks passed as Chase was passed back and forth between the Bishops like a Ping-Pong ball. One afternoon he and Mike came up to the Dumpsters and hooted.

I hooted back.

Chase came around and said, “Kyle, I need serious help.”

Mike came and stood behind him.

“What's going on?” I asked.

Chase lowered his voice. “Have you ever planned a prison break?”

“Prison break?”

Mike bit his lower lip and looked from side to side. “Were you really in the can, Orange Dragon?”

I burst out laughing. “Where'd you learn that? Wait…FX?”

Mike nodded.

“No. I've never been in jail,” I assured him.

Mike looked relieved.

“I told you,” Chase said, elbowing Mike. Chase turned to me. “They made me go to Wild Waters last weekend. And I hate getting wet.” Chase pointed to the skin peeling on his head and the splotchy calamine lotion on his back. “I got really sunburned, too.”

Mike scratched his nose. “I sure would've liked to have gone to Wild Waters. All I did was go to my sister's dumb dance recital.”

Chase glared. “Nobody brought the right SPF.”

Mike rolled his eyes.

“Hang in there, Chase,” I said.

“But what are we going to do about the wardens?”

“The wardens?”

“My parents.”

I shook my head. “I don't know. But I'll be here tomorrow.”

He sighed. “Yeah. See you, then, I guess. If my skin doesn't peel off beforehand.”

I ruffled his hair. “I'll be here.” They slumped off across the field. Mike put his arm around Chase. Mike's mom's car pulled up just as they reached the walk.

 

One night I lay in bed thinking about Kohana's philosophy of photography and how that helped me write the scenes
from Jason's life. There had to be a way to combine photography and film with Jason's stories to make something awesome. Something for Chase. Something that would never be forgotten. If Kohana's portfolio was a photo documentary, maybe I could make a short subject documentary like
Hardwood
. Something that would help me bring Jason back to everybody. I could use old home movies, invent interviews like that guy did in
Good Bye Lenin!
(I didn't figure the Bishops would be too keen on real interviews), and film all the things that meant the most to Jase. I imagined the script for those objects—what I would say. But I'd need help. Nobody can make a film alone.

The brochure for the voices of youth filmmakers documentary short competition was sitting on my desk, its pages fluttering in the wind from my open window. I got dressed, stuffed my backpack, and wheeled my bike out of the garage, cycling down the black streets until I got to Kohana's house. I owed him a story. And I needed his help.

The house was dark except for one window. Muted yellow light glowed behind translucent shades. I tapped on the glass.

The blinds opened and Kohana pressed his face against the pane. “Who's there?”

“It's me. Kyle.”

He opened the window. “Your watch still broke?”

I pulled out the watch, a kite, Jason's sketchbook, the filmmaker competition brochure, and my notebook. I took
off my orange shoes and put them beside the other objects. “I want to tell you a story.”

We sat on the porch. And I began to talk.

I talked until the first light of dawn stole across the sky. When I finished, Kohana sat silently. He hadn't said anything all night.

He finally turned toward me. “So,” he said. “When do we start filming?”

T
he next couple of weeks, Kohana and I worked nonstop before and after school to make Jason's film. Dad let me use his video camera. Kohana even came with me to Chase's school, and we got shots of the Dumpster.

The next day, Chase got picked up by his dad, but he sent a message with Mike that said,
SOS. This weekend, they're making me go to some ice-skating show up at Lawlor Events Center.

When Kohana read the note, he said, “He has to be part of this, Kyle. We've got to get him to help.”

“He's the new Bishop pawn. They don't leave him for a second.”

Kohana looked disgusted. “That's too bad.”

Late afternoons and into the evening, we used Mr.
Cordoba's multimedia room to edit the footage and cut old home videos into the new material we filmed. It was as if we were getting Jason's life back with every scene we shot.

Kohana knew all sorts of stuff about great camera angles. And I had learned how to make stills and cut moving film into them, creating a “frozen time” effect. The whole documentary had all of Jason's objects frozen, while I walked around them, talking. But I decided to film it so I would always be overexposed—a shadow walking through Jason's world. Over the course of the documentary, my image got clearer. But we needed Chase for the kites and the end.

Mr. Cordoba ordered film books for the library, and as soon as they arrived, he let Kohana and me check them out. I studied the pages of those books whenever I had a chance.

 

One afternoon, Mike came running to me as soon as he left the school building. “Chase is missing,” he gasped.

“Missing?”

“Yeah. My mama was talking to his mama this morning on the phone. Mama asked me about all our favorite hiding spots.” Mike wiped the tears out of his eyes. “I think he ran away.”

I hugged Mike. “It'll be okay. We'll find him.”

Mike shook his head. “He left me this note yesterday. I
didn't read it. It was too long.” He handed me a wrinkled piece of paper with jelly stains on it. “There.”

I read the note:

I read the letter three times. “Mike,” I said, “did Chase say anything else to you? About where he wanted to be?”

Mike shook his head. “Only that he wanted to be where Jason was.”

My insides turned to ice. No, I shook my head. He wouldn't do that. He would never do that.

“Orange Dragon?” Mike looked really scared.

I fought to catch my breath. “I'll find him, I promise. I'll find him, and I'll see you both here tomorrow.”

Mike grabbed my hand. “He's my best friend.”

“I know.” I hugged Mike again, then tore off on my bike.

The cemetery was empty.

He wasn't flying kites at Mills Park.

I raced home. Running up the porch, I slammed into Mr. and Mrs. Bishop.

My throat froze again, just looking at how thin Mrs. Bishop had gotten—how sad she looked.

“Kyle,” she said. “He's gone. We can't find him.”

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Jesus, just say it. It's all my fault.
I wanted the tape to get reversed—back to the very beginning. Without me Jase would be alive. Chase would never have run away. And everybody's life would've been just right.

“Please help find my baby, Kyle. I can't lose him, too.” Her last words were muffled in a sob.

I will.

I watched them head frantically back to their house, the candle lamp glowing in the window.
Jesus, please don't let her light another one.
This couldn't be happening.

Mom was talking on the phone. She motioned for me to sit down. “They've been looking all day. I need someone to stay here. Just in case Chase comes around, okay?”

“All day?” I interrupted. “Why didn't somebody tell me? Shouldn't it be on the news? Shouldn't there be
police officers everywhere?”

She grabbed her car keys. “Dad and I are going with the Bishops. Mel and the cheerleaders are posting flyers all over town.”

A knot formed in my throat.

“We're setting up a search-and-rescue post at the community center.”

“Did he leave a note? Did he say anything?”

Mom pulled on a sweatshirt. “He said he wanted to be where he could find Jason's soul print. None of us can figure it out. Stay here. Just in case he comes over. We need you by the phone.” Mom left.

“Okay.” I slumped at the kitchen table.

Soul print. I sighed, relieved it wasn't what I first thought.

Where would Chase look for Jason's soul print? The neighborhood bustled with action. I stood out on the porch, then walked around to the backyard and stared at the shed.

I hooted.

Somebody's lawn mower kicked on, and the familiar smell of fresh-cut grass drifted through the neighborhood.

I hooted again. After hooting two or three times, I finally heard a soft hoot in return. I circled the shed. The cardboard Dad had used to tape up the window was gone. I hooted louder.

Chase's hoot echoed in the shed.

My heart felt lodged in my throat. Memories of that moment flashed through my mind.

I took a deep breath and climbed through the window.

The shed smelled like fertilizer and oil. It smelled like Clorox and gasoline. I inhaled again, expecting to smell Jason, death, the stench of burned matches, but all I smelled was the familiarity of the shed—a place I used to love as a kid.

My eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness. Chase sat cross-legged in the center of the shed.

“Can I sit here?” I asked.

He scooted over to make room.

I avoided crossing over the bleached spot and made my way to Chase. We sat in silence.

“I just wanted to see,” he finally said.

I listened.

“Where it happened.”

I nodded.

“I thought it would make it better to see. Maybe he would've left his soul print here, and I could talk to him.” Chase sniffled and choked out the words. “But he isn't here, either. And I've been waiting since last night.”

I swallowed. But I knew there were no words that would make it better for Chase. We were both looking for the same thing, but neither of us knew how to find it. “I'm
so sorry,” I finally said.

Chase looked up at me. He leaned his head on my shoulder. We sat for a long time.

“I don't think Dad's coming home,” he finally said. “Do you?”

“I don't know, Chase.” I squeezed his shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not.” I sighed.

The light outside the shed changed. I watched through the square of the window as it turned from yellow to a bright orange. “How about if I take you home? A lot of people are really worried.” I held out my hand.

He hesitated, then slipped his hand into mine. He had a letter crumpled in his fist. He turned to throw it away in the garbage, and I stopped him. “Do you still want to get a message to Jason?”

Chase turned and looked me in the eyes. “More than anything in this world.”

“How about Saturday? Do you think we can meet at Mike's?”

“I dunno. I think I'll be grounded.”

“True.”

“Maybe I can sneak out.”

“And get more grounded?” I asked.

“This is really important.”

“Okay. Saturday at seven
A.M
. I'll tap on your window.” I boosted Chase out and followed close behind. We walked out the back gate. “Do you need me to go with you?” I motioned to his house.

He shook his head. “Sometimes a man has to face his fate alone.”

What a kid.

He walked home, stepping carefully over the lines in the sidewalk. When he got to his front porch, he turned and waved, then disappeared inside the house.