Flash Burnout Page 3

  "That chick on the radio," says Garrett. "I saw her yesterday. She's not a dog."

  "Oh. See? I told you."

  "In fact, she's kind of smokin'."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. I don't know why. Just—" Garrett lifts his hands from the steering wheel for a second, as if fondling an invisible female. "Something about her."

  Thus ends our discussion on women for the day.

  "Scrof, what are you doing?" snaps Garrett.

  "Wha—? Nothing. And what's scrof?"

  "Looks like you're getting ready to open that granola bar in my car. Don't." He stops at a red light. "Short for scrofulous. I shouldn't have to explain every damn word to you."

  "I'm starving!" I slept through my alarm this morning and didn't have time for breakfast. "I'll be really careful."

  "Do not. Eat. In my car."

  I shove the granola bar back into my pocket.

  ***

  When I walk into English, I fully expect to see Marissa huddled in the big chair in Moody Corner. But the chair is empty. I turn to look at Marissa's desk. Empty. I walk slowly to my own desk.

  "What's wrong?" says Shannon. "You've got a funny look on your face."

  Oh, I was wondering if Marissa is okay, is my first response. It gets shot down by Houston, landing harmlessly in my brain's trash can. Am I allowed to worry about other girls? Besides, then I would have to explain why I'm worried, and I don't want to tell Shannon about Marissa's mom. That's nobody's business.

  "I was thinking about Dracula," I say.

  "What about it?"

  "About how, uh, it was like, the first horror story." Lame. I'm not even sure that's true. I wait for her to call me on it.

  She doesn't. "Oh. Hey, did you start your journal last night?"

  "No. I forgot." In Dracula, they were always writing these long-ass letters to each other, which is how the author advanced the plot. See, I do pay attention in class. Anyway, Mr. Hamilton wants us to keep a journal or write letters—epistles (heh)—in the journal. With a pen instead of on the computer. Come on, man! George even asked yesterday if we could just do blogs or vlogs instead, but Mr. H. wouldn't go for that.

  I glance at the door. The bell hasn't rung yet, so Marissa might still show up. I hope everything is okay.

  ***

  Shannon has an appointment with some ass kicking, I mean soccer practice after school, so I head over to Ottomans for a smoothie by myself. Bree, one of Marissa's friends, is standing in line in front of me.

  "Hey, Bree," I say.

  She turns. "Hey," she says uncertainly. We don't really know each other.

  "Have you heard from Marissa?"

  What?" Bree stares.

  "Just that ... she was absent today, and I was wondering if, you know, she's sick or something." I pause, then add, "We're in photo together. I'm Blake."

  "Oh, right. Blake. Yeah, I talked to her last night. She's sick." The line moves forward, and Bree turns away to place her order.

  After I order, I join Bree at the waiting-for-your-drink area. "Did she say when she's coming back?" I ask.

  Bree studies me, frowning. "No."

  Did you know about her mom? I want to ask. Is that why she lives with her grandma?

  But maybe Bree didn't know.

  We wait for our drinks in awkward silence, then Bree grabs her cup and leaves.

  ***

  No one is home yet at my house, so I save the world from aliens a few times with my Extermination game on the Mindbender. Then I zone in front of the tube, munching a mix of cheese-and-caramel popcorn, my favorite. After channel-surfing through nothing but mind-numbing junk for almost an hour, I realize that I'd rather do my homework than zombie out in front of the TV any longer. My mom is right: we have two-hundred-plus channels of crap available 24/7.

  I stare at a blank piece of notebook paper for a long time, trying to think of something to write for Mr. Hamilton's dumb-ass journal assignment.

  All I can think to write is, Dear Marissa, I hope you're okay. I hope your mom is okay.

  Finally I give up and decide to do my photo homework: "Define the word chiaroscuro, and suggest ways to implement the effect."

  I walk over to the desk to look in the dictionary, and I find myself digging through the stack of phone books instead. One of them is for West Park High students. I flip to the F's: Marissa Fairbairn. Her grandma's name is listed below hers: Mary Stan-more. Hey. Mary ... Marissa ... I wonder if she was named after her grandma.

  I pick up the phone to dial the number, then just stand there for a long time, trying to figure out what to say. Hey, Marissa, how are you?

  What can her answer possibly be except "messed up"? I hang up the phone, put away the phone book, and open the dictionary to C.

  ***

  The next day when I walk into English, the first place I look is Marissa's desk. Empty. The hell? My heart starts tripping a little. Okay, maybe she really is sick. Maybe it's a female thing, really bad cramps or something. Do girls have cramps for days and days?

  I go up to Mr. Hamilton, who's in the middle of greeting people. "Hey, Riley. What's up, George? Morning, Yoon. Morning, Dez. Hi, Ellie."

  "Hey, Mr. H.," I say.

  "Hey. How are you, Blake?"

  "Good. I was wondering." I hesitate, then lean closer and lower my voice. "If you, um, know why Marissa is absent."

  "No, I don't. Sorry." He gives me an apologetic look.

  I spend most of English in a place far, far away. My mind does, anyway. My body sits there like a good dog. Why would Marissa be absent two days in a row unless something was really wrong? A small, sick part of me is starting to wish I'd never taken that photo of her mom passed out on the street.

  KWST plays a bunch of head-banging songs during Loud Lunch that annoy the crap out of me, Riley won't shut up about some new Mindbender game, and when I get to photo, Mr. Malloy doesn't know why Marissa is absent, either.

  Even Shannon's sugar lips fail to distract me the rest of the day. In fact, I'm kind of glad she has soccer practice today.

  I stop at Ottomans for a smoothie, then head for the bus stop. Half a block from the stop, I find myself veering into a phone booth. I flip through the falling-apart phone book till I get to the'S's. Luckily, there are only five Stanmores listed: Gina, John, M, Wm, and Wyatt.

  M for Mary. "M. Stanmore" is on 521 Azalea Road. I go back into Ottomans, muttering, "Five two one Azalea." I find an empty WiFi and Google Map the address. It's only about a mile and a half from here.

  Feeling sleuthlike, I head for a different bus stop. It's a short ride to the right neighborhood and a two-block walk to Azalea.

  As I approach 521 , I see a woman in the front yard. She's kneeling on one of those foam rubber garden things that's supposed to keep your knees from hurting while you work, and there's a pile of weeds next to her. But she's not working; she's just sitting there staring off into space. I check the address on the house against the piece of paper—yep, it's 521 . She looks the right age to be Marissa's grandmother, too.

  I walk closer; she still doesn't notice me. Finally I move into her line of vision and say, "Um, Mrs. Stanmore?"

  She jumps a little. "Yes?"

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I was just wondering if Marissa's home."

  The woman puts her hands on the metal grips of the garden thing and pushes herself to her feet. "Yes." She takes off her sunglasses, and I see that her eyes have big shadows under them and the same heartbroken look that Marissa's eyes have. Must be hereditary. "Who may I tell her is calling?"

  "Oh. My name is Blake. We know each other from school."

  Marissa's grandma gives me a small smile. "Hello, Blake. I'm Mary. Nice to meet you." She glances at the front door, as if deciding whether or not to invite me in. Then she nods and walks up the front steps. She opens the screen door, waiting for me to follow her inside.

  I stand awkwardly while Marissa's grandma goes into the hallway, calling, "Marissa, honey, there's someo
ne here to see you." She turns the corner, and I hear her saying, "His name is Blake."

  I wait, afraid Marissa is going to shuffle out, her eyes all red and swollen from crying. Or what if she's all bruised up from getting mugged in Old Town? Maybe that's why she hasn't been to school. Or worse, what if she's really pissed that I tracked her down and just showed up at her house without calling first?

  But Marissa comes into the room beaming and glowing. "Hi!" she says. "What are you doing here?"

  She looks so happy that I feel stupid saying, "I was worried when you weren't at school."

  "Ohhh."

  We stand there for a minute while we try to adjust to the weirdness of me standing in her living room; then Marissa says, "Want something to drink?"

  "No." Pause. "Well, okay. Just some water." Sleuthing is thirsty work.

  She leads the way into the kitchen and pours me a glass of water and herself a glass of iced tea. Then she opens a cupboard and brings out a bag of cookies. "That's so sweet that you were worried."

  "Well." I wait for her to sit down. "Last time I saw you, you were kind of..." I let the sentence trail off.

  "Oh, right. God, that seems like a year ago. I can't believe it was only three days." She munches a cookie. "I found my mom."

  I stare. "You're kidding. Was she ... was she still there?" I'm horrified to picture Marissa's mom passed out in the street for all that time.

  "No! Not where you took the picture. But she was in Old Town. I found her." Marissa looks so proud.

  "Where is she now?" I glance down the hallway.

  "She's in the family room. Do you want to meet her?"

  No, I think. "That's okay," I say.

  "No, really," she says, straightening up. "In fact, it's thanks to you that I found her. I want her to meet you." I shrug. What if I don't want to meet her?

  "Also, it's thanks to you that she's going into rehab."

  "What?"

  "She was saying she wasn't going to go into rehab. Then I showed her that picture you took. How could anyone look at that picture and say they don't have a problem?"

  "Oh." I gulp some water. "That's good."

  Marissa stands up. "She's, um, she's having a really hard time right now."

  "Okay."

  "She's not going to rehab until Saturday. They didn't have a bed open till then. It's a thirty-day program. So she's just having a really hard time."

  "You know, I don't have to meet her right now." I stand up, too.

  "No, it's okay. I just wanted to warn you."

  Oh crap, I really don't want to do this. What was I thinking, stalking Marissa all the way to her house and barging in during the middle of this thing with her mom?! I just wanted to see if she was okay. Now I want to leave.

  I follow Marissa down the hall to a big room where there's a TV playing, and two big couches, and shelves full of books and DVDs and games.

  "Mom?" she says.

  A figure huddled on the couch turns, and I have to force myself not to gasp.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Whatever disrupts a pattern will get your attention.

  —Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography

  The woman on the couch is so skinny that she could be mistaken for a child. She sits up, clutching a blanket around her shoulders. The purple streak in her hair looks out of place, like a flag on a desert island.

  "Mom," says Marissa gently.

  The woman seems to shrink inside the blanket, her eyes cast down.

  "This is my friend Blake. From school. You know, the guy I told you about? The one who took the photo?"

  Marissa's mom looks up at me then, her eyes huge and haunted. Oh shit. She's crying now. She stands up, the blanket falling off her shoulders, and takes a step in my direction.

  She looks so fragile, like she might fall, that I move toward her, holding out my hand.

  "I'm so glad to meet you," says Marissa's mom, and takes my hand in both of her bird-bone hands.

  "Me, too," I say. She's standing still, but her whole body is fluttery and jangly as she holds my hand.

  "I'm—" she says. "I'm sorry you saw me like that."

  "Oh," I say. Now that she's close to me, I can see a tattoo on the side of her neck, slithering down into her shirt. Whatever it's supposed to be, it's got claws. How much would it frickin' hurt to get your neck tattooed? Her breath is fairly rank.

  "I'm going to get help. I really don't want to be like this anymore." Tears keep running down her face, and I feel like running for the door. I've never been in a situation like this, and it's clear that I suck at comforting people.

  Hey, wait. My mom does this all day every day. I picture my mom comforting this woman, and I say, "I'm sure you're going to be okay."

  She grips my hand harder and says intensely, "Thank God you were there that day. Thank God you took that photo. Marissa came looking for me, and now I'm going to get help. Thank you."

  I nod. I'm ready to take my hand back, but it seems rude to pull it out of her grasp. Luckily, she seems to have finished. She drops my hand. Next to me, I hear Marissa exhale.

  So.

  Okay.

  Now what? Usually, uncomfortable silences are my cue to crack a joke. But I have never felt less like joking in my life.

  But we're all standing there like people waiting for the light to turn green or something. My monkey mind flings a piece-of-shit joke at me, and I catch it gratefully: "I'd better be getting home so I can polish my Good Samaritan badge now."

  Marissa and her mom laugh. Except ... oh no. Marissa's mom is missing a tooth. Wait. Make that teeth. Two of them.

  You heard me. Teeth. The one right next to the top front teeth, and the one next to that. What are those called? Cuspids? Bicuspids? Cuspidors? Whatever. There are two of them no longer residing in her mouth.

  Okay. It is definitely time to go. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Fairbairn."

  "Anne."

  "Anne. See you later," I say. Good God, she's crying again. I mentally subtract my joke from today's score. Oh well, it was a piece of shit. I head for the hallway.

  "Thanks, Blake," Marissa says when we reach the living room. "That was really nice of you." She adds, again, "She's having a really hard time right now."

  "Sure." I look longingly at the front door.

  "The doctor told us that people going through meth withdrawal—"

  I gulp.

  "They don't go through physical withdrawal, like people on heroin. But they feel really sad. They don't feel normal without meth, you know what I mean?"

  "Wow." What about her teeth? I want to ask. "So are you coming to school tomorrow, or what?"

  Marissa makes a face. "My grandma told me I have to go. I hate to leave my mom right now, but I can't stay home again. I'm just so happy to have her back that I don't want to let her out of my sight."

  "Really? How long since—?" I stumble and stop. How long since you've seen your mom? sounds weird.

  But Marissa seems to know what I was about to say. "I haven't seen my mom in almost a year."

  "Oh."

  "She was living in Seattle for a while. She came back to Portland about three or four months ago, she told me. But she didn't come see us. Because, well, she wasn't thinking straight."

  Your mom left you for a year? I think. But you don't want to leave her for a few hours? "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," I say. I cross the room and open the front door.

  "Hey, Blake? Um, could you not—" She pauses.

  "I won't tell anyone," I say.

  She smiles, relieved. "Bye," she says, turning back to the family room.

  Marissa's grandmother is out front, sitting on the porch swing. "Nice to meet you, Blake," she says.

  "You, too." I hurry down the steps and glance back from the sidewalk. Marissa's grandma is staring off into space again with her heartbroken eyes.

  ***

  Dad is in the garage when I get home, sitting on a stool with wheels, peering down at some greasy piece of met
al. He's got his bushy hair pulled back in a bandanna, and he's muttering, "I can't believe this gasket doesn't fit the crankcase." He looks up at me with a puzzled look. "The manufacturer sent me the wrong gasket. Can you believe it?" Then his gaze sharpens, and he pushes his glasses up. "Hey, funny man. What's up?"

  I must have a stunned look on my face or something. "Nothing." I pretend to take an interest in the pieces of ... engine?...on the worktable in front of him. "What are you doing?"

  "Oh, this? I'm trying to fix a lawn tractor."

  "A lawn tractor? We don't have a lawn tractor. Do we?" My dad is notorious for picking up junk at garage sales and buying stuff off craigslist. So it's possible that we do have a lawn tractor now.

  "No, Neil's lawn tractor blew a gasket, and he asked me to help." Neil is our neighbor, and you only have to look at him to know that he would never be able to fix a lawn tractor. Metro (cough)sexual. My dad is studying me now instead of the greasy part. "You okay, man?"

  "Yeah. I'm fine. Where's Mom?"

  "She had to work late tonight. How about Thai food?"

  "Sounds good. I'm going to take a shower."

  "Okay. See you in a minute."

  I head for the door. Then I turn back and try to ask as casually as possible, "Hey, Dad?"

  Yeah, bud."

  "What makes people's teeth fall out when they use meth?"

  My dad blinks. "Oh. Well, actually, we're not really sure what causes meth mouth." He takes off his glasses to polish them, then puts them back on and studies me. "Why do you ask?"

  I could say, "No reason," and keep moving. But I answer, "I saw someone whose teeth are messed up. I've heard she uses meth."

  "A student?"

  I shake my head.

  Dad slips into Dr. Hewson mode. "Well, one theory is that the abuse of stimulants like methamphetamine causes a cessation in saliva production. Dry mouth. Saliva aids in breaking down bacteria in the mouth. If you don't have saliva, the bacteria build up. See the connection?"

  "Yep." I nod and go inside the house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chiaroscuro:

  It's an Italian word, so I plan to use it casually in a sentence next time

  I talk to my grandparents. It literally means "lightdark," and in photography