Ghost Time (12 page)

I don’t know why, I just thought it’d be funny, but looking at it, it’s scary. Where did you get that? I snapped, suddenly feeling, I don’t know, angry? No, not angry, worse: violated. Foley acted surprised, and then he goes, On Flickr, Theadora. On John Cameron’s Flickr photostream. I looked through everything of yours he posted there, and, again, I’m quite impressed, he said, smiling and folding his hands. And when he said that, I thought I was going to puke, like something was so wrong, my bowels felt like spaghetti. But I pulled it together, and I said, I go, Cam never posted those on Flickr—I’d know if he had. Foley raised his eyebrows and he goes, How odd. Then he turned the computer around and hit a key, turning the screen to face me: and there was Cam’s Flickr account, NaturalBornNinja. With all my work on it—sets and sets of my drawings and photos, thousands of them,
and seeing it all, seeing the name
Cam Conlon
, I had to cover my mouth, gagging.

That is your artwork, is it not? Foley asked, tapping again, scrolling through an entire gallery of my sketches. Every single drawing I was working on the day we met, when Cam came up behind me in the library, back when I was working on this whole American Apparel series. I hate those ads so much, all the girlies sticking their asses at the camera. So I started by drawing animal heads on them, making them as photorealistic as I could, because that’s what I always do, but then I decided it would be even better if I drew famous figures, like figureheads, get it?

So I started drawing Gandhi and Malcolm X and the head of JFK on American Apparel models, Bill Clinton in a mesh thong leotard, that sort of thing. They were mine—they were definitely my drawings, but I couldn’t answer, because I had no explanation. The only person who’d ever seen those drawings was Cam, but that still didn’t mean… Then Foley goes, What, if I may ask, inspired this series, Theadora? I didn’t even think about it, I just go, Political activism, and he smiles that awful Foley smile and he goes, Indeed. Indeed, Theadora—god, it drives me crazy how he’s always calling me Theadora.

Then he goes, There are videos, as well. Would you like to see them, Theadora? I go, What’s your point, Foley?, doing everything in my power not to get up and run away, and he goes, Theadora, I have to ask, how long have you and John been having sexual relations? My mouth fell open—couldn’t, could not believe he asked me that. I go, That’s none of your business, and Foley goes, Actually, Theadora, that is very much my business.
So let me ask again, how long have you and John been having sexual relations? I go, What does that have to do with Cam’s disappearance? He goes, Theadora, that is precisely what we are trying to figure out. Now, tell me about the videos, he said, and that’s when I started to lose it. I go, What
videos
are you talking about, Foley? And he said—I’ll never forget this, either—he goes, The sex tapes, and I was really starting to lose it, but I go, What sex tapes? And then Foley goes, Yours, Theadora. The videos you and Cam made, and I swear, I couldn’t breathe for a second.

He kept staring at me, waiting, and then, finally, Foley goes, You mean he didn’t tell you? I go, Tell me what? What are you talking about? Foley had this concerned look on his face, tilting his head, and then he said, Theadora, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but it appears that John Cameron has posted videos of the two of you—.
Nuh-uh
, I said. No. I don’t believe you. I just started shaking my head no, like no way. There was no way.

He thought it over, tried another approach: You two are sexually active, you have had sex? I go, I told you that’s none of your business, and Foley goes, Do you want to see them for yourself? I go, No, I don’t, and then Foley goes, Well, Theadora, unfortunately, we don’t have much choice. And he pushed another button, playing a YouTube video. I didn’t know what was about to happen, and then it started, and it was a video of us in the parking lot where I had my driving lesson. Cam was teaching me how to drive a stick, and we got in a fight, but after our fight, we went back and we had sex in the parking lot—not in the car, on the cement, right beneath the headlights, and… That’s not me, I said, looking away.

Foley turned the computer around again, pressing a button, and then he goes, No? You have to admit that it certainly looks like you, and I said, I don’t care how it looks, that’s not me. Foley smiled and he goes, I see. So what we have here is a video of a boy approximately eighteen years of age, who bears a striking resemblance to your missing boyfriend, John Cameron Conlon, having sex with a girl approximately fifteen years of age, who bears a striking resemblance to you, Theadora, in the front of a gold 1968 Dodge Dart with Cam’s license plates? he asked, clicking a few keys, turning the computer back around, showing me a frame of the enlarged license plate. It’s true; you could see Cam’s vintage yellow and brown California plate, clear as day.

I realized I was biting my thumb, and I took my finger out of my mouth. I go, I don’t know what to tell you, and he goes, You don’t? What about this one, he said, and then he hit another key, playing another video of the two of us, having sex in my room on the day Cam disappeared. It was my room, I’m sure of it, and I knew it was me, because I was lying on my bed, facedown, wearing those stupid tube socks, and Cam was behind me, spreading my legs apart, just like he did that day. Foley was watching me the whole time, and he goes: Again, I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but do you recognize either of these two, Theadora? I couldn’t look at him, I was so freaked out, but I go, No. I don’t. And Foley goes, You don’t recognize either of them? Look again, he said, and then he hit another key on his computer, freezing the image, and I had to look away. I told him again, I go, No, I don’t, and I wasn’t lying—I mean, it happened, but it’s not possible. Because the thing is, that day, at the time, I wanted to see Cam’s
face—I didn’t, but that was how I imagined his face—that’s what I imagined—you can’t capture that. No one could have taken that film: it was in my head.

I said, You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? And then my stomach gurgled, and I crossed my arms, looking away. I couldn’t speak for I don’t know how long. And then, finally, all I could say was, I told you, it’s not us. The smile left his face, then he leaned forward, and he goes, I’m telling you that all these videos were traced to John’s website, and I cut him off. I said, Cam’s website is down—I checked. And Foley goes, Maybe it was. But it’s not anymore, and then he turned the computer toward him and he goes: See for yourself, and before I could say no, Foley pressed a key, pulling up Cam’s homepage. And then he pressed another key, and pulled up the same videos that were on YouTube. Foley stared, waiting, and all I could do was stand and say, Can I go now? Or do you want to watch it again? I pushed the chair in, and he goes, Theadora,
please sit down
, and there was something so hard and cold in his voice, I did.

I go, Anyone could’ve hacked into his account, and Foley goes, Agreed. But it’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think? That he goes missing, and then these videos appear? I go, I seriously doubt Cam ran away so he could post sex tapes on the Internet, and Foley goes, Theadora, do you know Cam’s IQ? I said, No, and he goes, One hundred sixty-nine, like it was three separate words. Smart, I said. Genius, actually, he said. As a matter of fact, and I don’t mean to be rude here, Theadora, but what do you think John—Cam, sorry—what do you think Cam saw in you? I go, I’m sorry, but what part of that isn’t rude? He goes, What
I’m asking is, what do you two have in common, Theadora? I go, Why don’t you ask him that? When you find him, I said, and he smiled, and he goes, I’ll do that, and I looked away.

Now, he said, trying to act all pleasant again, given your age and the sensitivity of this case, we contacted YouTube. We told them to take the video down, and they have not yet complied. That’s one of the reasons we need to speak to your mother, as well, he said, and so many thoughts started rushing through my head. Your mother should be here any minute, he said, and I was just like,
Ohmygod
. I go, No, please. Please—please don’t tell my mom! I’m so sorry, he said, looking up, a second before there was a knock at the door. I just looked at him, pleading, and then he goes, Come in, and he stood up, smiling, and I just hid my face in my hands:
Why me? Why is this happening to me?

When my mom walked in, I couldn’t even look at her, while Foley held out his hand, saying, Hello, Mrs. Denny, asking her to sit down, so she did, right beside me. Then he showed her my drawings and the videos. With me, sitting right there, and then, finally, Mom held up her hand, blocking the screen: That’s enough, she said, and she turned to me. I was staring at my hands, trying not to cry, but I could feel her looking at me, expecting some sort of explanation, but all I could say was, It’s not me, and she goes,
Thea
, and I go, It’s not me! And out of the corner of my eye, I could see Foley folding his hands again.

I nodded, disgusted, then I caught Cheesy, nodding his head, too, standing guard at his perch in the corner of the room. I’d gotten so used to him being there, I didn’t think about it anymore. And I could tell Cheswick wanted out of that room almost
as badly as I did. Because it might have seemed all sexy and
Law & Order
, but, in reality, it was some fucked-up shit you really didn’t want to know about, ever, and now Cheesy had to carry it around, just like I did. Then and there, our relationship as principal and student changed. Cheswick nodded at me once, in resignation, and I knew that from then on, the rule was, You stay in your corner, and I’ll stay in mine. I break a rule, skip a class, from now until Cam comes back, so long as I don’t kill anybody, let’s stay out of each other’s way. And that’s how we’ll get through this.

Then Foley goes, Actually, Mrs. Denny—we don’t need to watch any more, no—but what’s particularly alarming is that every time this video plays, it becomes sharper, a clearer image. And seeing as it’s become an Internet phenomenon, the video has quickly gone from the likes of Super 8 quality to high-definition—it’s going viral, as we speak, he said, and I felt like I’d been kicked. For a second, I couldn’t breathe, like someone had kicked me in the gut, and I really thought I was going to hyperventilate.

Also, he said, while Mom was still trying to form the question in her mouth, How? How is that possible? One other thing, he said, and then, at that second, someone knocked on the door, and Foley goes, Come in, and this nurse’s aide walked in, carrying a briefcase. Foley removed a piece of paper from behind the computer, and he goes, As I explained to your mother on the phone, Theadora, we need to fingerprint you, and we need a blood sample, and I nodded, not understanding. The woman started opening her leather bag, and my mom grabbed my arm, steadying me, and Foley goes, I’m sorry to do this to you, Theadora, but
we need to take a sample of your blood, court order, he said, but I didn’t care. No, I said, trying not to panic. No way—don’t even think about it, I said, and Mom squeezed my arms, like she was trying to give me strength, soothe me.

Foley removed a digital fingerprint scanner, sliding it across the table. If you would put your right palm flat on the screen, please, Theadora? I placed my hand on the black scan, that was fine, but blood, no. No blood: I just kept shaking my head, no blood sample. Foley tilted his head in one of his stock concerned looks, then he said, Unfortunately, the local police were extremely sloppy in their handling of this investigation, and we have since found blood in the trunk of John Conlon’s car. So we need to make sure it’s not your blood, Theadora, and I said, I’m telling you, it’s not my blood, and I tried to keep from panicking, seeing the woman start removing things from her bag—that’s what it was, a doctor’s bag. That’s what she was there for, and I saw the needle, and right away, I thought I was going to puke, and my mom said, Don’t look. I didn’t look, but I almost passed out, just thinking about it, and after the woman put the Band-Aid on my arm, I stood up, almost stumbling, and then I ran for the bathroom.

(FIVE WEEKS EARLIER)

7:16 PM

I try to talk to my mom, I really do. Sometimes. Like a couple weeks ago, I got this idea, reading about the earliest days of photography, back when people tried using photography to help treat the mentally ill. I’m not sure how they thought it would help, but that’s why there are all these collections of photographs of patients at all these mental institutions in the U.S. and England from the 1800s, right?

Well, so my idea was that this handsome photographer is commissioned to take portraits, create this whole collection of pictures of the patients of an asylum. And while he’s there, he meets one of the patients, this young woman, and of course she’s beautiful and she comes from a good family, but she never talks, and it’s like she never sees him. She’s completely in her own world, and when he tries finding out why she’s there, no one can tell him for certain what happened to her or what the problem is.

So the photographer gets this idea that maybe he can treat her or heal whatever’s ailing her by taking her picture; maybe he can draw her out and give the girl her voice back through his photography, but it doesn’t work. Turns out, the Native Americans were right, that the camera does steal a piece of your soul, and he knows that myth, because he’s been to the West, and he’s taken pictures of different tribes; he’s been warned. But then he keeps taking her picture, trying to find her, reach her, trying to love her. But most of all, he’s trying to make her love him back. That was as much as I knew, but I started drawing the things I could think of. Like this scene in the hospital gardens, and then, later, this scene in a forest, where he takes her to photograph her.

But that’s all I know so far, really. I mean, I think maybe he finds out the real reason she’s there, and maybe, whatever the truth is, it’s much better and much worse than he ever could’ve imagined. Maybe the girl starts speaking; she tells him her deep, dark secret, and it turns out she’s really not crazy at all, and he wants to help her escape or to run away with her. I don’t know, maybe he thinks she’ll love him, that she could love him, and finds out that she can’t; she’ll never love him, and that’s why he keeps taking her pictures, knowing he’s capturing her soul, frame by frame.