Flicker (11 page)

I nod weakly. "Yes, please." I scrounge
through the jumble of bottles on the floor and come up with my
beacon of hope. The directions read "One as needed" but I'm tempted
to take two. If I need one now, then another in five minutes, who's
to say I'm not following the directions? I place one on my tongue,
but hesitate. My doctor's gone on and on about overdosing and the
increased risk of bleeding to death if I accidentally walk into a
wall or some other inanimate object. Which isn't unheard of given
the fact that my meds make me a little loopy.

Taking a deep breath, I put the second pill
back in the bottle. I do want to be able to concentrate for this
test, otherwise what's the point of dragging my ass out of bed?

Still in the dark, I pull my hair into
a loose ponytail, then go back to my room to throw on some clothes.
My trig book laughs at me and I kick it across the floor.
Bastard
. I sigh and fish it out from
under my bed. I can probably study a little more before
class.

Downstairs Mom's already poured coffee into
a travel mug. An apple and an apple-flavored granola bar sit on the
counter next to my car keys, along with a sticky note that reads
‘Good luck'. I shove everything into my backpack and head out the
front door.

Chapter 15

"How'd you do?" Amelia heaves her book into
her locker and slams it shut.

"Better than I expected. I studied my ass
off yesterday but I think I'm lucky if I got a B."

She leans the back of her head against the
bank of lockers, her eyes closed. "I totally bombed it. Trace and I
were texting all day and I couldn't concentrate."

Regret courses through me. If I hadn't
flickered on Sunday I could still repeat today, then I could help
Amelia. She doesn't know how I sometimes know exactly what will be
on the tests, and she doesn't ask. Once last year she dropped hints
about an older student selling answers, but I didn't bite and she
hasn't asked again.

She opens one eye. "Have you talked to
Cam?"

"A little." I smile, and I hope it's not the
same dreamy one that's plastered on Amelia's face. I'm all smooshy
inside but that doesn't mean I want everyone else knowing that. "I
have a migraine so I slept most of the day."

"I didn't want to say, but you do look a
little… awful."

I swat her shoulder, then wince at the
movement. "Thanks."

She blows me an air-kiss and turns to walk
down the hall to her next class. "Anytime, babe."

I head the opposite way and a hand slides
around my waist.

Cameron nuzzles my neck as we walk, one hand
planted firmly on my lower back. "I wasn't sure if you'd be here
today."

"I'd rather not be." I smile up at him. "But
my day just got considerably better."

He chuckles, a low sound from deep in his
chest, and my insides stir. For a second I forget about the pain
and nausea and I feel surprisingly lucid. I don't realize I've
stopped walking until Cameron pulls at my arm. "We're gonna be
late."

"Right." I don't know what just happened,
but I want more of it.

By the next day I’m feeling almost back to
normal. Good thing, because the soccer game is today and I have to
be Ms. Sports Photographer and run all over the place taking
pictures.

I'm waiting at my car for Amelia. The last
bell rang ten minutes ago but she still hasn't shown.

My phone buzzes. "Coming!"

Two minutes later she bursts from the side
entrance, her face flushed. The red deepens when she sees me.
"Sorry!"

I laugh. How can I be mad when she's so
happy? I open my door. "Let's go."

She pouts at me from over the hood. "Are you
sure you don't want to watch them warm up? Trace has a new
formation he's trying and—"

I roll my eyes. "I need food. Trace will
still be here in twenty minutes."

With a dramatic sigh she climbs in the car
and starts texting.

At this rate I may not need to interview him
after all, although it's an easy way to fill in the story part of
the project. "I refuse to ask him questions if you're hanging all
over each other."

"Me?" She flattens her hand against her
chest. "I don't hang, I support. I—" she bursts out laughing. "Okay
fine, I'll give you five minutes."

Half an hour later we're camped on the
bleachers, surrounded by thirty or so students and about as many
parents. The game hasn't started yet and I hope for the guys' sake
that more people show up. Having never been to a game myself, I
don't know how many people usually attend soccer games, but I
figured there was a fan club or something.

Trace runs onto the field, followed by the
rest of the team.

Amelia's on her feet. "Go, Trace!"

"He hasn't done anything yet."

"Legs that hot deserve screaming."

She's got me there.

I pull out my equipment and scan the field.
The sun is in the west, obviously, so I'll probably move so it's
behind me. Although I could get some cool shots with the
shadows…

"Do you want me to walk around with
you?"

"No, you stay here and scream your little
heart out."

She throws a napkin at my head and glances
at my uneaten sandwich. "I thought you were starving."

I touch my stomach. "I was." My headache's
fading, too. The anticipation of an afternoon taking pictures has
completely distracted me. The heft of the camera in my hand draws
my focus away from Amelia and back to the field. I'm anxious to
start.

When the first whistle blows I step over the
seats and walk towards the western corner of the field. The ball
sails to the opposite end, so I plop on my butt and get
comfortable. They're bound to come this way sooner or later.

A couple of my classmates are on the side
opposite the bleachers, cameras glued to their faces. Their shots
will all be shit from that angle. I should probably say something,
but who am I to tell them what to do? Maybe they're going for a
contrasted silhouette.

I watch for Cameron, but he's either out of
my line of sight or he's not here. My stomach sinks. Something must
have come up. But I don't have time to dwell on it because the
whistle blows again and sixteen boys are running straight at me.
Two break away from the pack and race after the ball, which is
bouncing into the corner.

My corner.

They jostle for position, elbows knocking
into ribs, and a guy from the other team sticks his leg out in
front of him. I scramble out of the way just as they fall in a
tangle on top of my bag.

Whistles and shouts and screams surround
me.

"You okay, miss?" The referee holds his
whistle inches from his mouth, paused as he waits for my reply. I
nod, embarrassed to suddenly have the entire field staring at me.
The tripped player picks up the ball and throws it into a cluster
of teammates, who jump as one, then fall as one. Miraculously, or
so it seems to me, the ball flies over the outstretched hands of
the goalie and into the net.

And I'm still sitting on my ass.

The rest of the game is less eventful,
although we do score three more times. Trace scored the third—and
game-winning—goal and I manage to take a series that, if they turn
out as good as I hope, will be my lead story. For the second half
of the game I turn my attention to the crowd.

I press zoom and faces fill the display.
Toddlers covered in ketchup and ice cream, mothers licking their
fingers, ready to spit-bathe their kids. Two girls from my English
class sitting close, giggling and pointing at the field. Fathers
looking bored, then jumping up every time their child touches the
ball, their faces lighting with pride.

Not everyone looks excited to be here. Two
or three men stare at the field as if out of obligation, while
another at the end of the bleachers is angled so he's watching the
spectators.

And still no Cam.

"Ohmigod, that was so awesome! Biz, did you
see Trace's goal? It was so fast no one even came close to stopping
it!" Amelia's waiting for me at the bottom of the bleachers.
Waiting may not be the right word. More like bouncing.

I wave my camera at her. "I got some
kick-ass shots of that goal no one could stop." Her eyes widen and
I laugh. "Yes, I'll email them to you. But you can't post them
until after I turn in my project."

We head towards the sideline where Trace and
several guys are talking to their coach. I meant to prepare a few
questions, but between the latest headache and the trig test, I
forgot.

Trace waves at us, and I've gotta give the
guy credit; he smiles at both of us. Amelia never dates the same
type of guy and it's hard to tell who's just trying to get into her
pants and who's actually a nice guy.

We wait at the edge of the track until the
coach slaps them all on the back and Trace approaches.

"So, uh, what do you need to ask me?" His
damp hair is plastered to his forehead and a streak of dirt runs
the length of his neck.

I raise my camera. "Just about the game, how
long you've been playing, that type of thing. It shouldn't take
long." I move around him so the fading light casts a dramatic
shadow on his face. "Do you mind if I start with the pictures while
the sun's still out?"

"Yeah, sure." He glances at Amelia, who
giggles. His arms hang limp at his sides.

"You know what you need?" I look around and
point at a soccer ball wedged beneath the bench. Amelia tosses it
to him and his body conforms around it: arm looped lazily against
the ball, hip cocked, shoulders relaxed. "Perfect." I fire off a
dozen shots before he can blink, then move to the other side.

He wipes the back of his hand across his
forehead. "That thing takes pictures fast. My phone takes forever
between shots."

I smile, impressed he noticed. "Birthday
present. It took a lot of convincing, but I love it."

"Biz is an awesome photographer. I bet these
can get published in the real paper."

I throw a look at Amelia. Just because I
told her what Turner said doesn't mean I want anyone else
knowing.

"Really? You think these might get
published?" Trace's smile grows broader.

"I wasn't thinking about that. This project
comes first. If Turner likes it, then I can submit them." Those
last words are heavy on my tongue. Saying it out loud makes my
dream seem a little less like a fantasy. I squat so I can get a
different angle, and Trace drops the ball and rests one foot on top
of it.

"Oh, babe, that looks so great!"

I ignore Amelia and concentrate on the
composition. The sun must've been behind a cloud because with the
shift in the breeze his features suddenly seem to glow.
Please let these turn out as good as I think they
will.

A movement from the other end of the
bleachers catches my eye. I adjust the zoom so I can look without
being obvious, and my eyes narrow as I snap a picture.
"Hey, Trace, is that your dad over there?"

They both turn. The man continues watching
us.

"No, my parents don't usually come to
games."

"That's weird. I wonder who he's waiting
for."

Amelia moves to Trace's side and laughs.
"Maybe he's as impressed with your moves as I am." Trace slips his
arm around her waist and the three of us start walking towards the
gym.

An unsettled feeling sweeps through me as we
near the man. He's sitting on the lowest row, playing with his cell
phone. He looks up as we pass by.

"Nice game, Trace."

My stomach lurches but Trace just lifts his
hand in thanks.

Chapter 16

I'm still weirded out on the car ride home.
He was probably someone's dad, but why was he still sitting there
after everyone left?

The thought continues to bother me when I
get home, but I push it away. I need to sort out Trace's answers
and more importantly, I want to find out what happened to Cameron.
"I'm home!" I call on my way up the stairs. The phone's already in
my hand. I hit send the second my bag hits my bedroom floor.

Cameron answers on the third ring. His voice
is scratchy and he sounds exhausted. "Hey, how was the game?"

I get the impression he's just asking out of
obligation, and it stings. "It was fine. I almost got trampled but
I think I got some good shots. Plus the interview with Trace." My
tone falters, I can't help it. I suck at interviewing.

"I'm sure it went better than that. You
don't give yourself enough credit."

"Yeah, well, I'll have to take your word on
that." I pause. He's sounding a little more normal and I don't know
if bringing up his afternoon will change that. "So… where were you?
I thought you were coming to the game?"

There's a rustling over the phone, followed
by a thump. "I was planning to, then my mom called and asked me to
come home."

I sit up, my nerves singing. "Is everything
okay? Did something happen?"

"No. Well, nothing new." He sighs. "There's
been more updates about that little girl. The one who was
kidnapped. The police don't have any leads so…" he trails off.

My stomach lurches. “Did they call you?”

“
They called my dad. Said they were
just following up on leads, but they asked him where I was when she
disappeared.”

“
Are you kidding me? How could they
think—” I stop. I know why they think that. Everyone knows. Cameron
is the closest thing to a suspect the police ever had, so of course
they’re going to want to know if he has an alibi.

He lets out a long breath. “At least this
time I was at school.”

"Shit, Cam. I'm sorry. Why didn't you tell
me to shut up when I was going on and on about the game?"

"Because I don't want to think about it.
That's all we do here. Think about Katie. And now this other girl."
His voice breaks and I can't tell if he's simply talking, or
repeating his parents' reminders to not ever forget his sister.