Snap Read online

  Since her half of the room was next to the bathroom, Delilah had retreated to the far side of the curtain. She sat on Leo's orange bed, huge noise-blocking headphones hugging her ears, bent over a sketch pad. It wasn't as loud as in the living room, but the walls still throbbed.

  Something was different about her. And then I realized: the stripes in her hair were now blue instead of pink, all the better to match her blue sundress with white polka dots. She was perfectly dressed for a summer party--in 1958.

  Duncan flicked his hand in front of her face to get her attention.

  "Madison." She didn't look surprised to see me. She sat up straighter and crossed her arms. "Nice jeans. Seven's, right?"

  "Yeah." I touched the soft denim.

  "You could get a lot of money for them."

  I took a step back as if she might try to take them. There was no way I was giving up my jeans. Delilah just didn't get it.

  "My mother said you knew something about the man in the window."

  She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. "He got hit by a car!"

  161

  "Yeah, right." I wasn't going to fall for another one of her lines.

  "No, really," Duncan said. "He did."

  I looked at him and then back at Delilah. "Okay, you're starting to freak me out."

  "Tell me about it." She scooted off the bed and went around the curtain to her side of the room. A moment later she was back with the local newspaper.

  My legs got so shaky when I saw the man's familiar face on the front page that I had to sit on the bed.

  VISITOR STRUCK BY PICKUP TRUCK

  By Barbara Harrington for the Sandyland Tribune Ronald Young, a 34-year-old mechanical engineer from Ottawa, Canada, was seriously injured Tuesday morning when he stepped off the curb on Main Street into the path of an oncoming pickup truck. According to Loretta Pismo, proprietor of I Scream! You Scream! Frozen Treats, Mr. Young bought a raspberry sorbet right before the accident. "He was talking on his cell phone, so I guess he didn't hear the truck coming."

  The driver of the truck has been identified as Brett McCordle, age 19, of Sandyland. No charges have been filed at this time.

  After witnessing the accident, Ms. Pismo dialed 911. Soon after, an unconscious Mr. Young was rushed by ambulance to the Sandyland Health and Emergency Clinic on Upper Pass Parkway, where

  162

  he was treated for his immediate injuries by the physician on call, Dr. Lydia Martin. Mr. Young was later airlifted to Green Valley Medical Center.

  Mr. Young suffered a broken leg, two broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a concussion. He remains in a coma. It will be several days before doctors can determine whether he has suffered any permanent brain damage.

  Mr. Young had been staying at the Beachcomber Inn with his wife, Jennifer Young, aged 30, who revealed that their vacation had begun on a happy note. "A few days ago, we discovered that I am pregnant with our first child. We thought we were entering a whole new chapter of our lives."

  When I finished reading, I checked the date of the article. "This is today's paper."

  "It happened yesterday," Delilah said.

  "So he was fine when I took the photograph--which means he was outside your window."

  I handed the paper back to Delilah.

  Ronald Young was just a creepy Canadian tourist. And Francine Lunardi was just a sick old lady. There were no spirits in the world. There was no magic. There was a rational explanation for everything. And the only rational explanation was this: my mind had been playing tricks.

  "When I take pictures, it's like I go into a kind of trance," I said. "I focus on one little thing, whatever I'm going to shoot, and

  163

  it's like everything else disappears. I didn't think it was possible that a person could be there and I wouldn't see him, but that must be what happened."

  "Doesn't he look familiar, though?" she pressed, passing back the paper. "It's driving me crazy that I can't place him."

  I studied the grainy black-and-white photo, a casual shot taken on the beach. Ronald Young wore a plain T-shirt and flowered swim trunks.

  It hit us at the same time. "The crop and zoom guy!" When I'd seen Ronald Young in the shop, I thought he looked kind. But perverts came in all sorts of packages. Maybe the clueless thing was just an act, an excuse to hang out longer.

  "Mystery solved," Delilah said.

  Suddenly, I felt very tired and empty.

  "So you're going to live with your mom, then?" Delilah asked carefully.

  "Well... yeah. It looks that way." How did she know I'd been planning to move in with Lexie? Sometimes it really did seem like Delilah had ESP.

  "And--is your dad okay with that?"

  "Okay with what?"

  Duncan put his arm around me. "We thought you were going back to live with your dad."

  Okay, now I was confused. "But my dad's here."

  "So your parents are getting back together?" Delilah asked.

  Then I got it. "You thought my parents were splitting up?" Of course, the thought had crossed my mind, too.

  Delilah looked at Duncan and then back at me. "Isn't that why you're here? I mean, you're obviously not on vacation."

  164

  "But you saw my parents together," I told Duncan.

  He bit his lip, and I remembered that afternoon when we came back from looking at apartments: my mother crying, my father slumped and hopeless. I blushed.

  "We lost our house," I said, hating the words. Words made it all real. "And the furniture, the appliances, my computer. And-- everything." I swallowed hard. "We lost everything."

  "Wow," Duncan said. "That blows."

  "Yeah, really. So I'm stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, and they act like it's nothing that I had to leave all of my friends."

  I caught myself and added, "I mean, most of my friends." What I really wanted to say was "my real friends," but that would have been rude.

  "I don't mean to say Sandyland is the middle of nowhere," I added (even though it was). "But I've lived in Amerige my whole life. Plus, I was going to be taking all honors classes this year. My school is, like, one of the best in the state. And I was in peer leadership and choir, and I was even going to work on the newspaper, which was going to look really good on my college applications." I swallowed hard and stopped talking. If I said any more, I'd cry.

  "That's great that your parents are back together," Duncan said finally.

  "They were never apart," I reminded him.

  "It isn't so bad here," Delilah said. "And there's a newspaper at Sandyland High."

  "Any good?" I asked, trying to work up some enthusiasm.

  She paused, trying to find the perfect words. "It's embarrassingly amateurish," she admitted. "And no one reads it."

  165

  "But it would be better if you worked on it," Duncan said, squeezing my hand.

  My eyes filled with tears. Duncan was so sweet. Why wasn't that enough?

  Someone pushed open the curtain that hung between the two "bedrooms." It was the girl Leo had been dancing with, with the severe black hair and all the piercings.

  She pointed her thumb toward the closed bathroom door. "Do you know who'th in there?" she lisped. Apparently, her tongue was pierced, too. Of course it was. "Becauth I've been waiting for, like, ever, and I've really got to take a pith."

  At that, the bathroom door opened, and she scurried inside. This was so different from the parties back home.

  "I know moving's rough," Duncan said, squeezing my hand. "But I really think you're going to like it here, G.G."

  The nickname, which I'd once found funny, suddenly depressed me even more. I don't even get to keep my own name.

  Duncan insisted on walking me home. But first he insisted on dancing with me. The boy could move, I'll give him that much. It was as if he absorbed the lights and music swirling around us, like they became a part of him.

  I wasn't the only one who noticed. Ricki, that girl from the beach
, wasn't there, but I caught the pierced "pith" girl shooting him glances, plus this tall girl with super-short brown hair and bright blue eyeglasses kept trying to cut in on me. Duncan just smiled at her and put his hands on my waist.

  What would my real friends think if they could see me now? Would they even recognize me? Did I recognize myself?

  166

  Duncan slipped his hands around my back. I looped mine around his neck and looked into his bright green eyes. It was getting really hot in here.

  We touched damp foreheads, his face so close that it looked like he had only one eye. He pulled me toward him and tilted his head to one side for nose clearance. His breath warmed my face.

  I jerked my head to one side just before he reached my lips.

  "Tell me your name," I commanded into his ear. I needed to know who he was. Without a name, he wasn't quite real.

  He stopped dancing. He took a step back. He shook his head once.

  And then he walked me home.

  "Where was Rose tonight?" I asked as we turned off Main Street. My ears were still rushing from the aftereffect of the music, like I was holding conch shells to my ears. My hand itched with the desire to be held, but Duncan kept his hands in his pockets.

  He shrugged. "My house, probably."

  "So things are going good with your dad?"

  He shook his head. "She just keeps stringing him along." His shoulders pointed slightly forward, as if he were drawing into himself. The streetlights lit his profile. There was a slight bump in the end of his small nose. It suited him somehow, gave him even more character.

  We passed the Sandyland Library and the Sandyland Town Hall. The quaint town gave way to dingy mini-marts and auto repair shops. A single car passed. Otherwise, we were alone.

  "Will you be a sophomore this year?" I asked when the silence became unbearable. "Or a junior?"

  167

  "Sophomore," he said. "They were gonna make me repeat freshman year, but then they figured it was best to just move me along or they'd never get rid of me."

  I forced a hollow laugh. "I'll be a sophomore, too. Maybe we'll be in some classes together."

  He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and shook his head. "If you were going to be in honors classes at your old school, you know, the really good one, you'll be in honors classes here. You'll see a lot of Delilah--she's really smart. I'm in all the dumb classes."

  "Don't say that!" I said. Just like Kyle Ziegenfuss, only cuter.

  He shrugged. "That's what they are. Whatever. I don't show up much, anyway."

  My flip-flops seemed loud in the night silence. I chose my words carefully. "A learning disability is nothing to be ashamed of."

  "Huh?" He squinted with confusion.

  "I've had training," I said. "In my peer leadership program. We went on this retreat last year, and they taught us some techniques. Like, there's this thing called a split page? You take a piece of paper and fold it in half, and then on one side you write--"

  "I'm not learning disabled," Duncan interrupted. Against my will, I imagined him writing, I do note want too tok abowt this.

  I thought back to my training. "Some people go their whole lives without being diagnosed. And they think they're stupid and they have all kinds of, like, self-esteem issues. But they're not stupid at all. It's just they have this problem with the wiring in their brains. So stuff gets jumbled sometimes, like maybe you're looking at the word 'dog,' but your brain tells you you're seeing--"

  "I am not learning disabled."

  168

  "'God,'" I said.

  "I'm not!"

  "No," I explained. "'God' is what you think you see when you read the word 'dog'."

  He stopped on the sidewalk. "Dog: D-o-g. God: G-o-d."

  "That doesn't prove anything," I said.

  He sighed and closed his eyes. "I have been evaluated by--" he opened his eyes and looked at the night sky, counting--"four special ed people. No, wait. Five. That I can think of. And you know what they figured out?" He turned to face me. "I. Am not. Learning disabled."

  "Oh." I crossed my arms over my chest. Against my will, I thought, So, that means you're just stupid?

  "I never should have left you a note," he said, resuming his walk.

  I blushed with shame. "Why?" I asked lamely.

  He didn't answer, didn't say anything at all until we'd almost reached the grocery store. "It doesn't matter," he said to the night. "I'm going to work on a fishing boat like my dad. When you're out in the middle of the ocean, it doesn't matter whether or not you can do fractions."

  Oh, God, he sucked at math, too?

  "But what, if that doesn't work out? What if you get, I don't know, nerve damage or something, and you can't handle the hooks?"

  "Then I'm screwed." He sighed. "But I'm not stupid."

  "Of course you're not!" I chirped. I really need to learn to fake things better.

  "No, I'm serious," he said. "They tested me for that, too. My

  169

  IQ is actually above average." He caught my expression. "You don't have to look so surprised."

  "I guess I just don't understand...."

  "I've moved a lot," he said. "And sometimes my dad took a while getting me enrolled in school. And sometimes he was working and he thought I was in school but I was caught up in doing something more important. Like sleeping. And sometimes I went to school but just didn't go to class." We'd reached a big blue mailbox. He leaned against it. "There's just no point anymore. I'm too far behind."

  A strange feeling surged through me. Hope? Sympathy? I couldn't quite identify it. "I can help you! We can work together, get you caught up."

  "Delilah already tried it," he said.

  "For how long?"

  "I don't know. A couple of weeks? She gave up."

  "I wouldn't give up."

  "If you want," he mumbled. "But I don't even know how much longer I'll be living here."

  I froze. How ironic if I moved here just as Duncan left. How...sad.

  "We'll just have to work fast then," I said.

  If he moved, I'd deal with it. I'd just have to make the most of whatever time we had left together. And after that--what? Maybe I could tutor some other kids.

  "Is there any kind of peer leadership program at your high school?" I asked. "Or student-to-student tutoring?"

  He lifted his shoulders. "Don't think so."

  "There should be," I said. "There was a whole group of us at

  170

  my old school. I really think we made a difference."

  "Maybe you can start a new program," Duncan said softly. "That's what I was just thinking!"

  He kept his eyes on the ground. "That would look really good on your college application." He had a new edge to his voice.

  "That's not why I--" I swallowed. "I just want to help you."

  Whatever warm feeling had surged through me was gone now. We walked in silence the rest of the way. His hands stayed in his pockets. If he tried to kiss me good night, I'd let him. I wouldn't even ask his real name.

  But he didn't try to kiss me. He didn't even try to shake my hand.

  "See ya 'round," he said. And then he was gone.

  171

  20.

  After Rolf, you wouldn't think I'd be surprised when hot turned cold suddenly and without warning, like when you're standing in a steamy shower and someone flushes the toilet next door. Okay, that's going from cold to hot, but you know what I mean.

  I tried to slip into the dark motel room without being heard, but my mother was sitting up in bed, waiting for me. "I know your curfew used to be midnight and it's only eleven fifty, but--"

  "If you want to be able to track me down every second of the day, get me a cell phone," I interrupted. I fished my camera out of my top drawer and retreated to the patio, which was the only place besides the bathroom that offered any privacy. At that moment, I'd forgive Lexie's betrayal if only she'd let me share her big house. That would show Duncan. I couldn't believe th
e way he'd pulled away from me. It wasn't my fault he couldn't spell. You'd think he'd give me some credit for being able to look beyond that.

  172

  It was bright on the patio. The lights were on timers. They'd shut off soon.

  The camera, warm in my hands, chimed to life. Even with the patio light, the pictures on the little screen were easier to see than they'd been in daytime, the colors richer, the details more distinct. It didn't take long to find the window shot. There were the table and chairs, the painted trim. Outside there was a shadowy tree branch, a hint of fog-touched sky. There was Ronald Young, grinning through the pane like a shining angel.

  A ray of sunlight: that was Larry's explanation. And yes, it was weird to have something bad happen to Ronald Young after Francine Lunardi's death, but coincidences happen--as do lapses of attention. He was there and I just didn't notice him. It was the only thing that made sense.

  The row of patio lights shut off with a loud click. The night was black, the moon covered with dense clouds. My camera screen glowed like a handful of embers, the colors sharper than ever without any surrounding light to dilute them. And that's when I saw it: Ronald Young wasn't simply brighter than the rest of the photograph, as if he were lit from within. Surrounding his slightly fuzzy edges was faint bluish light so subtle that it hadn't shown up on the printed picture.

  Blood rushing in my ears, I thumbed back to the shot of Mrs. Lunardi in her pink bathrobe. Sure enough, she, too, had a fuzzy blue halo clinging to every edge.

  The night swirled around me. People don't give off blue light. Ronald Young hadn't been a Peeping Tom any more than Francine Lunardi had strolled past me in her slippers.

  What was going on? Had my camera foreseen their

  173

  misfortune--or did it somehow cause it? Mrs. Lunardi had been ill for years; my camera had nothing to do with her death. But what about Ronald Young? If not for that truck, he'd be fine.

  I couldn't handle this on my own. I bolted back into the room and out the front door, ignoring my mother's "Where are you going?"

  From the parking lot, I scanned the road for Duncan. There was no sign of him. I hurried across the asphalt and onto the sidewalk. The streets seemed darker than when Duncan had walked me home, and the air was just as cold--especially without Duncan's brown sweatshirt to keep me warm. My flip-flops slowed me down. I traveled half a block toward town before realizing that Duncan would have been heading in the opposite direction: away from the ocean, toward the Valley View apartments.