Flicker (13 page)

There were a couple leads the following
spring when a human skull was found in the woods on the other side
of the state, but it turned out to be a boy that disappeared ten
years earlier. I scroll through the rest of the list but there
isn't anything new about her case. She's been missing four years
and is, as most of the articles say, presumed dead.

My finger hovers over the trackpad on my
laptop as a thought whispers through my subconscious. I can't
imagine they have anything to do with each other, but I wonder… I
type in ‘kidnapping' and last week's date. A dozen articles pop up,
many with the same foreboding headlines. No Witnesses. Girl
Missing. Long Brown Pigtails.

Wait, what?

I click the link.

The similarities to Katie's case are eerie.
The little girl was playing down the street from her house with
several other kids and no one noticed when she left. She was just
gone. Two boys remembered a white four-door car that drove by a
couple times but neither noticed the driver; they were more
concerned with getting out of the street like they'd been
taught.

My senses hum. I can't be the only one who's
noticed the similarities. The police probably pulled up Katie's
file the second this girl disappeared.

So why are the police bothering
Cam?

Chapter 17

"Biz, please see me after class."

My stomach sinks as Bishop places my test
facedown on my desk. I try to read the expression on his face but
he's already moved on to the girl behind me.

Groans follow in his wake.

The one time I actually try. I thought I did
better on this one but I'm terrified to look.

Amelia waves at me from across the room. She
hasn't gotten hers back yet and raises her eyebrows at my test.

I turn it over.
91.
What?

I look over my shoulder. This can't be
right. He must have given me someone else's test. Although that's
clearly my name scrawled across the upper right corner.

91?

I give Amelia a thumbs up just as Bishop
slaps her test in front of her. She flips the paper over and her
shoulders crumble.

Crap.
I know
it's not my fault but I feel responsible. If I hadn't been so
selfish she might have had a chance.

She catches my eye, then turns away. With a
shake of her head the playful mood from moments before
evaporates.

Bishop returns to the front of the room and
drones on and on about inverse functions, but it's not his lecture
that's confusing me. If he knows the test is wrong, why did he give
it to me?

When class is finally dismissed, Amelia
stops in front of my desk.

"I have to stay."

She glances over her shoulder at Bishop,
who's sitting at his desk watching us. "What for?"

"Don't know." I get up and she heads towards
the door.

"I guess I'll see you after school."

Bishop watches her go, then steeples his
fingers beneath his chin, studying me.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." He drops his hands and leans back in
his chair like he has all the time in the world.

I eye the clock.

"Biz, I'm proud of how well you did on this
test, but I'm concerned with how sporadic your performance is." He
straightens. "Your grades are all over the place, which tells me
you're just not applying yourself. Now I know trigonometry isn't
the most interesting subject but—"

My eyes glaze over. I can't help it. Is he
really spouting the glories of trig? I interrupt him. "So you want
me to apply myself?"

"Yes and no. It's frustrating as a teacher
to see a student who's clearly smart, but just doesn't care."

"It's not that I don't—"

He holds up a hand. "I know you're smarter
than what the majority of your test scores show. I'd like to see
this kind of effort continue."

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to feel
grateful for being noticed or motivated to try try try, but I feel
neither. I just want to get to photo class. "Okay, I'll try."

He smiles, a wide grin that he probably
thinks looks benevolent, but comes out looking smarmy.

"I gotta go." I run into the hall just as
the bell for the next class rings.

Turner's class is surprisingly boring today.
Since we've all taken pictures of at least one game, he's working
his way around the room to see what we've got so far. That means
while he talks to each student for three minutes the rest of us are
stuck reading about contrasting light and dark in a
composition.

I already know more than I care to about
light, but I've been experimenting with shadows. It's crazy how
your perspective to the sun can completely change the mood. It
might be a boring soccer game, but add a dramatic length of
darkness running alongside the player and you have an entirely
different effect.

Okay, so I admit, I'm really into this. One
thing I've learned in this class that I didn't realize before is
how different the same event looks through different people's eyes.
We may see the same thing, but depending on our position relative
to the subject and the light relative to the camera, not to mention
the photographer’s interest in the subject, you could end up with
totally different results.

I glance across the room at Cameron. He's
reading, his fingers twitching over the edge of the page. I rest my
hand in the same place on my book and imagine holding his hand.

I'm lost in a daydream when Turner stops
next to my desk. "Don't forget what we talked about last week."

My brow furrows.

"The newspaper." He taps my camera. "You've
got some good stuff here and I think you'll be surprised by how
much you might like getting your work published."

How do I explain that it's not so much a
fear of getting rejected, but a fear of having attention directed
at me?

"Just keep it in mind."

That shouldn't be a problem if he's planning
to remind me every week.

The bell rings a few minutes later and I
wait for Cameron outside the door.

"What time do you want to leave?"

I slip my arm through his. "Leave?"

"For the game."

Panic flutters in my chest. "It's an away
game?" I wouldn't have agreed to go if I'd known it involved riding
in a car in late afternoon.

"Yeah, but it's only a half hour away. And
we can finally spend some time alone."

"That sounds wonderful." Dangerous, but
wonderful. Driving anywhere at the end of the day is risky but it's
even worse when I'm tired or excited or nervous. I do a mental scan
of my body; I appear to be all three. Being near Cameron does that
to me.

A grin brightens his face and my
anxiety wanes.
Really, what am I worried
about?

We stop by my car so I can grab my
sunglasses and a hat. They aren't a guarantee I won't flicker, but
they help.

"You can't find any bigger than that?"
Cameron leans against the side of the car while I toss my books in
the trunk. He snorts. "It's not even that sunny out."

"What?" I run my fingers over the edge of my
oversized specs. "I like them." Especially since they block out
most of the light. "You want to stand here all day teasing me?"

He dips his head and gives me a quick kiss.
"Maybe."

We cross the parking lot to his car and
follow a caravan of cars onto the street. I lean my head against
the seat and close my eyes.

"Tired?"

"A little. All this school spirit stuff is
exhausting."

"I wonder if there'll be a lot of people at
the game."

I peek at him. "It'd be kinda nice if there
aren't."

The light turns red and he downshifts, then
reaches for my hand and links his fingers through mine.

The touch of his skin anchors me, preventing
me from drifting into the discombobulated haze that sometimes
envelopes me when I'm riding in a car with my eyes closed. Flashes
filter through my sunglasses. I lower the brim of my hat with my
free hand.

Cameron squeezes my hand. "Headache?"

"No. More of a preventative measure. I don't
want to flake out on you this afternoon."

We ride the rest of the way in relative
silence, Cameron absentmindedly rubbing the back of my hand with
his thumb, me thrilling at the flutter of emotions that course
through me with every caress. I'm not used to feeling this way
about someone. I don't know if that's why I pushed the other boys
away, or if it really was because I was worried about them finding
out about me, but for the first time I'm wishing I can tell someone
about the flickering.

Careful not to turn my head, I glance at
Cameron out of the corner of my eye. His left hand rests loosely on
the steering wheel, his gaze trained on the road. He's the only boy
I trust—and that came long before I had any feelings for him. Maybe
I can trust him with this, too.

I clear my throat. "Cam?"

"Yeah?" He slides his hand up my arm and
turns to look at me.

It's too soon. What the hell am I
thinking?

"Biz?"

"I want to tell you—"

His phone rings. His hand moves to his
pocket but he doesn't answer. He's waiting for me to finish.

Not gonna happen.

It rings again.

"Do you need to get that?"

He checks the display and sighs before
answering. "Hey, mom." His grip on the steering wheel tightens as
he listens. The color fades from his face and the muscle in his jaw
trembles.

I touch his arm.

"Did the police call you?"

My head whips up. "What happened?" I
whisper.

He shakes his head at me. "We're on our way
to the football game." He listens. "I can't. I have to take
pictures for a project that's due next week."

It must not be that serious if he doesn't
have to go home right away.

He glances at me, then back at the road.
"Maybe we can leave a little early." I nod emphatically and he
attempts a smile. His mouth wobbles and his voice cracks. "I love
you, too."

I force myself not to pounce the second he
hangs up. Three deep breaths later, I speak. "What now?"

He runs his free hand through his hair and a
tear slips down his face. "Another girl is missing."

My stomach rolls. "When?"

"This morning."

"Why did the police—" I stop. I already know
why the police called his parents.

"It’s not about me. They think it's
connected to Katie."

I stumble for the right thing to say but
come up empty-handed. "We can go back. Turner will give you an
extension."

"And tell him I'm crying over some kid I
don't even know?" His voice breaks again and the car veers onto the
shoulder. He presses harder on the gas. Gravel kicks up on the side
of the road.

A flutter of panic makes me sit upright. "Do
you want me to drive?"

He swerves into the opposite lane.

"Cam!"

The car straightens and we slow to a normal
speed. "Sorry."

"You're freaking me out." I have a weird
sense of reverse déjà vu. How many times have we had this same
conversation, except I'm the one scaring him? "Are you sure you're
okay to drive?"

"Biz, I'd never let anything happen to you."
The color is starting to come back to his face but his eyes are a
little too wide, making him look a little deranged.

"I know you wouldn't on purpose, but it was
like I lost you there for a second." Again, same words, different
person saying them.

"I'm okay." He rolls his shoulders and
tilts his head from side to side the way a boxer does before
entering the ring.
Thanks, Dad, for
shoving that bit of knowledge into my brain.
"But
would you mind if we leave at halftime?"

"Of course." I'm a little disappointed that
we won't have as much time together, but it's not like I won't see
him again. "Do you still want me to come over tomorrow?"

A frustrated sigh fills the air between us.
"I don't know. Can I tell you in the morning? I have a feeling
tonight's gonna be bad."

Okay, now I'm officially upset and we aren't
even at the game yet.

"Hey," he grabs my hand. "I want to see you.
You're practically all I think about. I just don't know with my
parents."

"It's not fair for them to basically ground
you because of all this."

He raises an eyebrow and I cringe.

I despise whiney girls and here I am acting
like a two-year old. "You know what I mean. What do you do with
them anyway? Do you sit around and talk about her?"

He pulls his hand away. "I just try to be
there for them. You know, help out more around the house. It's sad
for me, but for them it's like reliving her disappearance all over
again."

"It's not like that for you?" I try to
eat the words but they're already out.
Am
I dense?
"I'm sorry I'm being an ass. This isn't
coming out right." I take off my sunglasses, flickering be damned.
"I'm genuinely wondering what you do at home with them, I'm
not—"

He stares straight ahead.

Shit.

When we get to the school I consider staying
in the car. Cameron didn't speak for the last five minutes and I'm
terrified to open my mouth in case more nonsense spews from me.

He climbs out.

I don't move.

He sticks his head through the open door.
"You coming?"

"Are you sure you want me to? I seem to have
misplaced the filter between my brain and my mouth."

That earns a grin.

"I'm sorry for earlier. I just—"

"Don't worry about it. It's not you I'm mad
at; it's this fucking guy…"

I really am a girl. He's thinking about the
kidnapper and the horrible things he's doing to these girls and
probably did to his sister, and I'm stressing about whether or not
he's mad at me. I get out of the car. Cameron grabs our camera bags
and we walk hand in hand to the stadium.