“Wait,” I say. “You can drive a stick?”
“Well, yeah,” she says, like it’s obvious.
“But you don’t have your license.”
“Yeah, I have it.”
“But I thought cars were the downfall of humanity!”
“They are. But it isn’t practical not to have a license. Sometimes you need one, you know? So I’ll be at your house by like seven-fifteen, okay?”
7
Dylan shows up at my front door at seven, holding a thermos in each hand.
“Here,” she mumbles, thrusting one toward me from the other side of the door. “Needs milk and sugar.”
“Good morning,” I say.
She squints and takes a sip. Black coffee drips on her chin and she wipes it off with the sleeve of her hoodie. She walks inside.
My parents are standing in the kitchen, and I see them get all excited when Dylan walks in behind me. They haven’t gotten to talk to her very much and are still getting over the thrilling news that their moody daughter actually has a friend.
Dylan manages to raise one ringed-and-leather-braceleted hand in greeting. I open the fridge and grab the half-and-half. When I turn back around, we’ve formed a little circle of four, all looking in at one another. My parents are smiling at Dylan and she’s looking back at them, sort of puzzled. She manages a weak smile. I turn around again and take the sugar jar down from the cupboard.
“So how was the play?” my mom asks.
“Play?” Dylan asks, scrunching her forehead. “Oh, the play.” She leans against our kitchen counter and takes a sip of coffee. “So good,” she finally says.
“Which one was it?” my dad asks.
“Romeo and Juliet, right?” my mom says.
I dump a spoonful of sugar into my coffee.
“Yeah. It was at my old school.”
I take another spoonful.
“And you had friends in the production?”
“Her girlfriend,” I say, stirring.
“Wonderful,” my dad says. “I always imagined that I would enjoy acting.”
They stare at her for a little longer, and Dylan and I stare at them. “Toast?” my mom asks.
“Sure,” Dylan says.
Dylan and I finish our toast and escape from my pleasant-but-awkward parents. Then it’s out through the back door, over the brick patio, past my parents’ tomato vines, and down to the driveway.
“Hello, little car,” I say. “Ready for an adventure?”
Dylan squints. “When’s the last time anyone drove it?”
“I don’t know. But I start it a lot, so the battery should be fine.”
I unlock my side, climb into the seat, then lean over and pull up the passenger-side lock. Dylan slides in and fastens her seat belt. As I put the key in the ignition, she picks at all the fur I ripped off the seat covers and stuffs it, piece by piece, into a pocket in her backpack.
“You have to treat your car nice,” she says. “What is all this?”
I choose not to answer, just roll my eyes.
“Hey,” she says, and points at my seat belt. “Buckle up, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I turn the ignition and the car sputters to life. The tape player blasts at full volume, but Dylan doesn’t even flinch. I put my foot on the clutch, the other on the gas, and we careen out of the driveway and onto the street. Dylan squeezes her fist shut.
“Okay, good, we’re moving, now slow the fuck down a little, okay?” she yells over the music.
I laugh, just happy that I’m taking us somewhere. I slow for a red light and turn the volume down.
When the light changes to green, I take my foot off the clutch too fast and stall.
“Shit!” I turn the key in the ignition and someone in the long line of cars behind me honks.
Dylan says, “It’s okay, it’s no problem. They can go around you if they want.”
“Shit shit shit.” I turn the ignition again and mess up again and my car lurches then dies.
“Fuck!”
“You just did it a minute ago. You can do it again.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Breathe,” she commands.
I do. I try one more time to start the car. I take my foot off the break and put it onto the gas. Slowly, I ease off the clutch while pushing down on the gas pedal and the car coughs, lurches, then accelerates smoothly. I squeal, and Dylan leans back in her seat, finally relaxed.
8
We’re broken up into groups in Mr. Robertson’s class, brainstorming about hypocrisy in The Scarlet Letter, when my pencil lead breaks and I have to get up to sharpen it.
“Who uses pencils like that anymore, anyway?” Dylan teases, and looks back at the book.
I slide past her chair and make my way down the cramped aisle of desks, nearing Henry Lucas and Alicia’s friends on my way to the sharpener. The girls are flirting with him as always. SPOILED traces his ear with her finger, ANGEL tugs at his fingertips. I trip over someone’s backpack and hear Dylan crack up behind me. “Sorry!” I chirp, and keep moving. ANGEL’S fingers are climbing up Henry’s arm now. He looks annoyed.
“I’m gonna bring my new boyfriend to your party Friday, okay?” asks SPOILED. “He’s older. He could supply the beverages.”
For a few seconds, the sharpener drowns them out. As I pass their desks again, Henry’s asking, “Who even said I’m having a party Friday?”
I slide into my seat next to Dylan.
“Do you like going to parties?” I ask her.
“Shh!” she says. “I’m counting how many times Hawthorne uses the word ignominy in this chapter.”
“Nerd.”
“I’m thinking of charting it out chapter by chapter to measure the levels of humiliation and disgrace.”
“You can’t turn this book into a mathematical equation,” I say.
“I can try,” she says from behind the open pages.
“So, anyway,” I say. “Parties. What do you think about them?”
“They’re fine.”
“Want to know a secret?”
She sets the book down. “Sure.”
“I’ve never been to one.”
She blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve never been to a high school party.”
“You’ve never had beer from a keg?”
“No.”
“You’ve never sat around with a group of tanked kids and talked about who was hot?”
“No.”
“You’ve never locked yourself in someone’s parents’ bedroom and made out?”
I tilt my head, like I’m trying to remember. “Never.”
“Hmm,” she says. She opens her notebook and scribbles some words and numbers. Then she settles back in her chair and scrutinizes me.
“Caitlin,” she announces, “that is a disgrace.”
9
Taylor calls me later that night. “Can you come out?” he asks, his voice so ridiculously sweet and hopeful.
“I’ll try,” I say. “Call you back.”
I find my parents out in the garden.
“Look!” My dad beckons me. He holds a green artichoke in each hand like trophies. “They’re the first artichokes of the season.”
“What do you think?” my mom asks. “Should we grill it? Maybe just with a little olive oil and salt so we can really taste the flavor . . .”
I shift from one foot to the other. I don’t want to hurt their feelings, but I don’t want to call Taylor back with bad news, either.
“You’re cooking them tonight?” I ask.
“Why wait?” says my dad.
“Well, I was kinda wondering if I could have dinner with Taylor tonight . . .” I let this thought trail off, and check my parents’ reactions. Disappointment flashes across my dad’s face. My mom smiles wider, which I know is her way of masking what she really feels.
“But,” I say. “I would hate to miss out on the first artichokes of the season.”
My dad n
ods. “It would be a shame.”
“And besides, I’m pretty sure that Taylor likes artichokes.”
My parents turn gleeful—both Dylan and Taylor on the same day? They are in troubled-teen-parent heaven.
“Dinner will be on the table at eight-fifteen,” my mom says, all principal now. “Richard, trim some basil, will you? I just need to get out of these clothes.”
Back upstairs, I call Taylor.
“So,” I say when he answers. “How do you feel about artichokes?”
“Artichokes?”
“The food.”
“My parents are kind of conventional vegetable people,” he says. “You know, carrots, peas, corn . . . that sort of thing. I don’t think I’ve ever had artichokes.”
“Well,” I say, scrunching my face up in nervousness. “Tonight’s your lucky night. Artichokes at my house.”
I hold my breath, wait to hear how he’ll answer. Somehow, I know that if there’s reluctance in his voice, I’ll be crushed.
“They invited me?” he asks, and to my amazement, his voice sounds almost eager.
“Yeah.”
“Wait, but was it like, you asked them and they said, ‘Okay, we didn’t really plan for it so the servings might be small but if you really want him to come then go set another place at the table’? Or was it like, ‘We’d really like to get to know Taylor better and it would make us really happy to have him for dinner’?”
He says this all hurried and I’m laughing even before he’s finished.
“The second one.” I giggle. “Definitely.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“Okay.” I hear movement, things rustling. “Shit, it’s already past seven! I’ll be right there.” And he hangs up.
He arrives a few minutes early, freshly showered like the last time he came over, and smelling like a bottle of cologne. My dad shakes his hand. My mom gives him a light hug. I think I see her trying not to choke, but I could be imagining it.
“Hey,” he says to me from four feet away. He lifts his hand in this stiff little wave.
“Hey,” I say back.
I want to kiss him.
When we’re ready to eat, my mom, my dad, and I all sit in different places at the table. We’re so used to being three—having a fourth person throws us off. So I sit on the side where my dad usually sits, and my mom sits across from me, instead of at the end, and my dad sits next to her, and Taylor sits next to me.
For a while there’s a lot of small talk, but not the really awkward kind.
“Do you play any sports?” my dad asks.
“Not really,” Taylor says. “I skate a little, though.”
“He means skateboarding,” I add real quick, so my parents won’t make fools of themselves by asking about hockey or Rollerblading or something equally embarrassing.
“We know,” my mom says teasingly.
Taylor loves the artichokes, and asks about their garden, and says that he would really like to learn how to grow vegetables.
“You’re welcome to join us anytime,” my dad says. “We’re out there most evenings and on the weekends. Just come by.” He seems to have forgotten all about Taylor’s less-than-perfect first impression.
Taylor says, “Really? Awesome,” and it’s all I can do not to reach over and touch him. He’s so close. Did I mention I want to kiss him?
After we’re through eating, I go to the kitchen and open the freezer.
“Serious problem,” I say. “There’s no dessert.”
Mom and Dad exchange looks.
“Do you two want to run to the store for some ice cream?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual. “What kind do you want?”
“You choose,” my dad says.
As Taylor and I are leaving, my mom brushes past me. “Straight to Safeway and back home, okay?” she whispers.
My face gets hot. “Of course,” I hiss.
As soon as we get in the car, my hand is on Taylor’s leg. I lean toward him.
“Wait!” he says. “They might be watching!”
He pulls out slowly, responsibly, drives down the block, turns the corner, and parks.
I unbuckle and climb into his lap, he puts his hand on my face, we kiss hard like in movie scenes that usually make me uncomfortable and squirmy. I open my eyes and see the reflection of his taillights in a house’s window.
“Turn off your lights,” I tell him.
He turns off the lights.
His hand moves, softly, up my shirt, across my back. I kiss his neck and taste salt, kiss harder. I squeeze my legs around him.
“We should get to the store,” he murmurs, then touches my hair.
The steering wheel digs into my back but I hardly feel it, and he runs his hand down my thigh, traces the groove of my knee.
“Yeah, we should,” I say.
We kiss until my mouth feels swollen.
When I pivot off his lap and back into my seat, exhausted, happy, the clock says 9:55.
“What time did we leave?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “We should hurry.”
“7-Eleven’s closer.”
“Yeah, let’s go there.”
He turns his lights back on and starts the car. I watch him as he drives. I touch a small curl above his ear, the place where his neck fades into shoulder, down to his arm that rests on my lap.
His beautiful, freckled, perfect arm.
“Taylor,” I say. And I’ve said his name a million times, but this time it sounds different, like I’m the first person to ever say it, like he’s the only person in the world with that name.
“Yeah?”
I lace my fingers through his. He parks the car. I don’t answer. All I wanted to say was his name.
“What flavor?” he asks.
“Anything with caramel.”
He squeezes my hand and lets go. Opens and shuts his door. Walks into the fluorescent glow of the 7-Eleven.
10
“I think it best that you focus on moving forward,” Ms. Delani tells me, consulting her grade book.
It’s after school and we’re in her back office. Books sit neatly on shelves, tins of tea rest on a table in the corner, her motel images line the walls.
“I love these,” I tell her.
She follows my gaze to her photographs. “Thank you,” she says. “They aren’t anything yet. Well, yes they are. They are the beginnings of something.”
“What do you mean by the beginning?” I’ve never thought of a photograph as something leading to another. I want her to explain.
“All of my work is intimately connected to the process of coming to understand myself. My last series, the one you came to see at the gallery, dealt with fragmentation and unification.”
She pulls a drawer out from a tall, wide cabinet and spreads a few photographs in front of me. “These were the beginnings of that series.”
Each photograph is of a different woman in a different room. I recognize Ms. Delani in our classroom, leaning against the whiteboard, which is covered in photography vocabulary and diagrams. The next photograph was taken in a small, cluttered kitchen. A girl sits at a round table next to a stack of newspapers. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.
“That’s my dad’s kitchen,” she says.
I look closer at the girl. She’s wearing a roomy university sweat-shirt and her hair is in a high ponytail. She’s sprawled across the table, leaning on an elbow.
“It’s you,” I say.
“Yes.”
“When you were in college?”
“No. Two years ago. You already knew me then.”
“Are you serious?”
I can’t hide my amazement and she laughs. I’ve never heard her laugh like this. She sounds younger, like someone who might be seated at the table next to me at a restaurant, or in the row behind me at the movies. Like someone Davey and Amanda would be friends with. I move on to the next photograph. Again, I hardly recogn
ize her. Her hair is down, lying perfectly straight, skimming the tops of her shoulders. She is sitting on her knees on a bed staring straight at the camera. On either side, candles burn on bedside tables. She’s wearing a tiny satin camisole. My first instinct is to be embarrassed that I’m looking at my photo teacher barely dressed, but then I remember the countless images of nudes I’ve seen over the last three years of her class and it seems less strange.
“I was inspired by Cindy Sherman,” Ms. Delani says. “You remember learning about her work, don’t you?”
I nod. “She photographs herself as different characters.”
“Right, only I wasn’t trying to become someone other than myself, I was working to reconcile the different parts of me: the teacher, the artist, the lover, the daughter, the friend. And so on.”
“These are amazing,” I say.
“They were a starting point. Much like these motel shots. The self-portraits were too literal. I moved on to household objects, but they were too static. I ended up with dolls. Still objects, but inherently representational of the female figure. By taking them apart, examining pieces separate from the rest, putting them back together, I was able to really wrestle with the issues I was working through.”
“What issues are you working through now?”
She gathers her photographs and puts them back into the file drawer. I worry that what I asked was too personal.
She sighs. “Well, Caitlin, I imagine that they are issues we share. A pervasive feeling that something is missing. Darkness. Vacancy.” Her photographs echo her from their spots on the wall. A dozen “Vacancy” signs glowing in the dark.
“I always begin too literally,” she says. “But as I was saying, it’s only the beginning of this project.”
She turns from her pictures to me.
“So, let’s get back to you now. What will you photograph to make up for a year’s worth of shoddy pictures and missing assignments?” Her words are harsh, but she smiles as she says them.
“Aren’t you going to give me an assignment?”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “It will be more interesting to see what you can come up with on your own.”