“Mr. Gerardi is going to flip out if he sees you using that,” I tell her. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar camera.”
“Shut up.” She snaps a picture of some girls getting their faces painted.
“Seriously.”
She lowers the camera and turns wide eyes my way. “He’s letting you use a camera that costs more than my car?”
“Yeah.” I put a hand out. “So quit screwing around.”
She takes a step back. “I’m not giving it back to you until you agree to take a picture of something.”
“I will.”
She unwraps the strap from around her neck and gingerly holds out the camera. When I take it back in my hands, it feels heavier than before.
I begin to suck back into the shadows, but Rowan crosses her arms across her chest. “You promised.”
“I know.” My mouth is dry again, and I try to wet my lips. “I’m thinking.” I wave a hand. “Go have fun. You don’t have to do this.”
She stares at me, then throws up her hands. “It’s a stupid camera, Jules! Push the button!”
It’s more than the camera. It’s a statement that I can do this without my mother. My breath rushes in and out of my lungs, and for a terrifying moment, I’m worried I’m going to pass out. I lift the camera and put my eye to the viewfinder. Cheerleaders fill the frame, spreading extra blue icing on some cookies.
No, that can’t be my first picture since her death. I keep my finger on the button and turn.
Some guys are playing basketball against the back wall. I hesitate on the scene. I like the colors, the grittiness of the game in an old area where the pavement is cracked and broken.
No, that’s not the right shot, either.
This is what I spent the first twenty minutes doing.
My camera comes to a stop on two guys sitting at a bit of a distance from the festivities. One wears a dark blue hoodie, and he’s leaning against one of the concrete barriers that prevent cars from driving onto the quad. His hood is up, and I can’t make out much beyond the bare edge of his profile.
Then I see the guy with him, and my heart skips a beat. Declan Murphy.
I don’t think about it. I twist the lens, bringing the shot into focus, then press the button.
The camera whispers a whir and a click, and it’s done. I’ve taken a picture.
I feel like I’ve run a race. Sweat coats my fingers, and I might be shaking.
I press a few buttons on the camera, bringing the picture into view on the screen. I’ve framed the shot so it’s wide, with Declan and his friend Rev isolated on the left, and the festivities going on to the right.
It looks like it should be in a pamphlet about the dangers of isolated teens or something. I can do better than that. I zoom closer, finding details. The line of jaw poking through the hood. Their backpacks in the dirt. Declan turning to ask Rev a question.
I like that last one. I hold the camera out to look at it on the screen. You can see the trust in Declan’s expression. After watching his interaction with his stepfather, I get the sense he doesn’t trust many people.
“Maybe you should be taking pictures of the actual festival,” says Rowan.
“I know,” I say quickly. I adjust a few settings and aim the camera at Declan and Rev again. “I will.”
The sunlight is just to their left. I move out of the shadows of the tree until the light is more directly behind them. The technique is called contre-jour, “against daylight.” Many people would seek a silhouette, but I still want some details.
I lift the camera. Sunlight beams behind them like an infinite halo, at odds with their defiant postures. The shutter clicks, and I look down and fiddle with the settings to see how it turned out.
“Um,” says Rowan. “Jules.”
“Hold on.” I press a few buttons, widening the angle, then lift the camera. Declan’s face fills the viewfinder.
I jump and swallow a scream. He’s right in front of me, along with Rev, his shadow.
Declan frowns, studying me a little too intently. “Are you taking my picture?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” Thank god the strap is around my neck, because I almost drop the camera. “I’m taking pictures of the Fall Festival.”
“You’re a photographer?”
His voice is dangerous, almost accusatory. I shake my head quickly and babble. “N-no. I’m just—the girl who was supposed to do it couldn’t anymore. Mr. Gerardi asked me to fill in.”
His features smooth over. “Oh.”
“Can I see?” Rev says in his quiet voice.
I hesitate, then push a few buttons to bring the last picture up on the display. I turn until I’m beside Rev. “Here.”
He looks down, and he’s silent for a long moment. A very long moment. I’m not sure what to make of that.
Then he says, “That’s cool. With the sun.”
“Thanks.” I’m out of practice, but I agree that it turned out well. Declan’s hair is lit with gold from the sun, his profile clean and barely exposed. Rev’s features are barely visible under the navy sweatshirt hood, which has turned black with all the light behind it. It looks like someone dropped a good angel and a dark one in the middle of our high school courtyard.
A dark one. I lower the camera and really look at Rev for a moment.
“Why do you always wear a hoodie?” says Rowan.
Rev looks at her, and his expression doesn’t change. I can’t tell if he’s bothered by the question. “They’re comfortable.”
“It’s eighty degrees outside.”
He shrugs. His shoulder brushes against mine, and I can tell the sweatshirt hides some serious muscle.
Declan leans over and looks at the picture upside down. “Delete it.”
I pull the camera closer to my chest. “No.”
“Why?” says Rowan.
“Because I said so.” Declan steps toward me and holds out a hand.
I take a step back. If I was hesitant to let Rowan handle it, there’s no way in hell I’m letting Declan Murphy touch it.
“Delete it,” he snaps.
Rowan pulls closer to me. “She’s taking pictures for the yearbook. She doesn’t have to delete it.” Her voice is a little louder than necessary, and I’m sure she’s hoping some teacher will hear her and intervene.
“I’m in the picture,” Declan says viciously, “and if I’m telling her to delete it, she should delete it.”
“What’s going on here?”
It’s not a teacher’s voice. It’s Brandon Cho, my former photography nemesis. Since dropping honors photography, I’ve barely seen him this year, but the summer break treated him well. He’s grown a good four inches, and his shoulders have broadened. He used to be a bit lean and scrawny, the perfect picture-taking hipster, but hormones must have caught up with him. Defined cheekbones and a sharp jaw have replaced soft features, and his hair is shorter and a little spiky.
His trusty camera is strung around his neck, ironic buttons threaded through the strap. My favorite used to be one with a drawing of a sperm with the line “This is a very old picture of me,” but a teacher made him get rid of it.
“Is he bothering you?” Brandon asks me.
“This isn’t about you, punk,” Declan says.
Brandon moves to stand beside me, not backing down. “Why don’t you find someone else to harass.”
“She’s the one who took the damn picture—”
“Dec.” Rev speaks slowly. “It’s fine. Leave it.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It better be fine,” says Brandon. “Or I’ll find a teacher to make it fine.”
Declan whirls a finger in the air. “Woo-hoo. You’re so tough.”
Brandon’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you have a court hearing or community service to get to?”
Declan starts forward, but Rev grabs his sleeve and drags him back. “And we’re done. Come on.”
“Rev, I swear to god—”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
Rev keeps dragging him. “And the sad thing is, you will be late for community service. Come on.”
Declan allows himself to be dragged, but he looks over his shoulder at me. “Delete it. You hear me? Delete it.”
I watch him go.
I don’t delete it.
I can’t wrap my head around why it would bother him so much.
Brandon turns around to look at me. “Are you okay?”
My mouth is dry and my heart is pounding, but all this adrenaline is really quite pointless. “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine.” I wonder if I should thank him.
He studies me, and I watch his eyes take in the camera. “I thought you’d given it up.”
I half shrug. “Mr. Gerardi asked me for a favor.”
“And you did it?”
I hold up the camera. “He bribed me.”
Brandon’s eyes light up. “Lucky.”
I always used to find him irritating, but only because he was as good as I was—maybe better. His grandfather actually did win a Pulitzer for covering the war in Vietnam, and that connection helped Brandon land an elite internship with the Washington Post last summer. I had asked Mom to pull some strings for me, but she refused, telling me it would mean more if I earned experience based on my own merit.
Now I’m glad there was no internship. I spent the summer avoiding anything to do with a camera, instead crouching over a grave, writing letters.
Without any sense of competition, I realize Brandon is actually a nice guy. “Thanks.” I look up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“He shouldn’t have been hassling you.”
“Why was he so upset?” says Rowan.
I shrug and look at the picture again. There’s nothing about it anyone could find objectionable. It’s not like I set up a trick shot of the locker room. “I don’t know.”
Brandon snorts. “Who knows with him?”
Something in his voice makes me study him. “Do you know him?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Declan Murphy? No. I know of him, like everybody else.” He pauses and shrugs. “Maybe a little more. My dad reads the police reports out loud at the dinner table.”
“Did he really steal a car?” says Rowan. Her voice is a little hushed.
“Yeah. He got loaded, stole a car, and ran it into an office building.”
Wow. None of us say anything after that.
Brandon finally gestures at my camera. “Have you gotten pictures of anything else yet?”
“No,” I admit. I hesitate. “I actually just started.”
“It’s nice to see you guys out again.” His cheeks turn a bit pink, and he looks away. “I mean, I’m glad you haven’t lost your touch.”
“I’m just doing a favor.”
Brandon looks back at me. “If you say so.” He pauses. “Are you covering the dance tomorrow night, too?”
“No, just this.”
“I am.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say.
“Are you going?” he says.
“To the dance?” I squint at him. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” He hesitates and fiddles with his camera for a moment. “You can come hang out with me if you want.”
I swear Rowan stops breathing. She nudges me with her hip.
“Are you asking me out?” I say, frowning.
“Well”—he glances up at me— “sort of. I mean, technically I’d be working. But maybe it could be fun.” His eyes flick to Rowan. “It doesn’t have to be a date. You could both come. If you want.”
I take a step back. I’m so unprepared for this. The emotion of the camera in my hands and the interaction with Declan and then Brandon’s sudden intervention. I don’t know what to say.
No, obviously. He’s not even expecting me to accept his offer, I can tell from the way he’s already framing new shots.
A dance? What on earth would I do with myself at a dance?
I open my mouth to decline, but then I remember The Dark’s email.
I followed your lead and did something unexpected.
You’re right. It was terrifying.
Let’s do it again.
“Sure,” I say.
Brandon lowers the camera and looks at me. “Really?”
“Really.” I swallow. “But only if Rowan comes, too.”
Rowan grabs me around the waist and gives a little squeal.
I point at her. “I guess we’re coming.”
But if I’m honest with myself, I feel like squealing too.
Not much.
Just a little.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Friday, October 4 10:23:05 AM
Subject: Unexpected
Are you going to Homecoming tonight?
I am.
I hope that’s shocking. It’s shocking to me, and I’m the one who agreed to go. Someone asked me and I said yes.
I blame you. I wouldn’t even have said yes if not for you and your challenge to do something unexpected. Now I have to find a dress after school, and I’m not even sure I like the guy I’m going with. In fact, I’ve spent the last three years thinking he was kind of irritating.
Doing all these unexpected things is leaving me off balance.
When I told my father I was going to Homecoming, he looked like he was going to have a stroke. Then he handed me his credit card and told me to get whatever I want. I think he specifically said “Spare no expense,” and it’s not like we’re made of money.
He seemed relieved to see me having some kind of a normal teen experience. I feel like I’m faking it, though. I’m a balloon, waiting for someone to stick me with a pin so I pop, leaving a torn pile of latex on the ground. I should be excited about the opportunity to go buy a dress and get my hair done, but I don’t really care. My best friend asked if I’m disappointed that my mother isn’t here to go shopping with us (because I’m going out with her and her mom), but that’s not it. This isn’t the kind of thing my mother would ever do—even if she were in town. The first glimpse she got of my junior prom dress was a week later, when she got the picture I’d emailed her. Even then, she never mentioned it.
When I think about her life, my worries about these insignificant things seem so petty. Mom was documenting something real. She was showing the effects of war to people who are content to flip the page to find out what’s going on in Hollywood. She was making a difference.
What am I doing? Buying a dress?
I keep thinking she’d be disappointed in me. I’m worried I’m going to get to the dance and have a nervous breakdown.
Please tell me you’ll be there. I know we don’t know each other, but I’ll feel a little better knowing I’m not the only person on the dance floor who’s completely screwed up inside.
Especially since you’re the one who showed me I could be normal.
At least for a little while.
My mouth is on fire. Kristin, Rev’s mother, likes to experiment with the foods of different cultures, and this month she’s on a Thai kick. The table has a platter of noodles in spicy peanut sauce, a bowl of curried beef stew, a plate of massaman chicken, and various roasted vegetables sprinkled with spices. I want a second helping of everything, but I’d like to have some sensation in my taste buds later.
I have dinner here every Friday. It started when Alan decided Friday nights should be family-dinner nights, and I wanted no part in that. Now Fridays are Mom-and-Alan-eat-at-home-while-I-eat-here nights.
Win-win as far as I’m concerned.
I haven’t mentioned Cemetery Girl’s email to Rev.
I’ve read it so many times I could recite it verbatim. I haven’t written back. Yet.
You’re the one who showed me I could be normal. Like this morning, her words light me with a little glow.
It’s been a long time since anyone made me feel like I was good for anything more than taking up
space until I could fill a prison cell.
Rev’s parents are still fostering a baby, and the little girl sits beside the table in a high chair, picking at pieces of shredded chicken and cut-up noodles. Her name is Babydoll—for real. I know better than to make a comment about it. Kristin says kids can’t help what they’re named, and she never lets anyone speak negatively about the kids in her care, even when the kid in question doesn’t have a clue what we’re saying.
“You’re quiet tonight, Declan,” Kristin says.
“Just thinking.”
My mind is wrestling with the idea of going to the Homecoming dance. I haven’t gone to a single dance since school started, and until 10:23 this morning, I had no intention of altering that plan.
“Thinking about anything interesting?”
I shrug and force my brain to stay with safer topics. “I didn’t know you could feed a baby Thai food.”
Babydoll shovels a handful of shredded food into her mouth and swings her legs happily. She talks with her mouth full and half falls out. “Ah-da-da-da-da-da.” There’s a noodle in her hair, and Kristin reaches out to pull it free.
Geoff scoops some coconut rice onto his plate and tops it with a third serving of beef. “What do you think they feed babies in Thailand?”
I aim a chopstick in his direction. “Point.”
Rev smiles. “Some kid in Bangkok is probably watching his mom tear up a hamburger, saying ‘I didn’t know you could feed a baby American food.’”
“Well,” says Geoff. “Culturally—”
“It was a joke.” Rev rolls his eyes at me. Geoff is a college professor, but you’d think he’d been born with an encyclopedia in his hands. Once Kristin made a comment about seeing a robin early in the spring, and we spent a half hour listening to Geoff go on about the migratory patterns of birds.
“Take off the tweed blazer, dear,” Kristin teases. “We’re eating.”
“We can’t eat and learn?”
“How is your mom feeling?” Kristin asks me, ignoring him while tearing more chicken for the baby.
I blink at her. “Fine. I guess.”
“I ran into her at the store last weekend, and she said she’s been feeling run down. She thought she might be coming down with something.”