“The shot I took of you a couple of weeks ago with the bruise under your eye. The one you got playing lacrosse? I…” He winces. “God, I know I should have asked, but it was such a raw picture and you were away in New York, and, well…I kind of sold it.”
My stomach lurches. I know the picture he’s talking about all too well. I’d come home one night and Malcolm was blind drunk. I hadn’t even done anything wrong. He’d made no excuses as he’d lashed out with his belt, catching me on the side of the head with its buckle. One centimeter higher and he would have blinded me. There had been no way for me to hide it, so Dad had coached me through saying that I’d gotten the injury during a lacrosse game. Callan hadn’t second-guessed me. I’d given him no reason to. He had begged me to let him take a photo with his Leica, though. Said the bruising would contrast crazily in an image. I’d eventually given in and told him he could. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think anyone else would see it. “You did what?”
“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath. “I’m such an idiot. I sold it, Coralie. I sold it to Rise And Fall Magazine. He proceeds to explain who Rise and Fall Magazine are, but I know all too well; he has a stack of their publications sitting by his bedside that date back at least four years. “They had a competition and I thought what the hell, it’s not like I’m going to win or anything. And then last Thursday they called and told me I had won, and…shit, they’ve put it on the front cover. It came out yesterday.”
What. The. Fuck? I let Callan take a picture of me, and he submitted it for a magazine cover? I frown, scrutinizing his face, trying to work out if he’s joking. Callan isn’t smiling anymore; he looks worried. “I have a copy of it in my bag, bluebird. Do you want to see it?”
I nod silently. Callan fetches his bag and pulls out a copy of the magazine in question, and there I am, eyes shining with emotion, my mouth slightly fuller on one side than the other just like always…and a dark, brutal bruise underneath my right eye. Three words overlay the picture in big white block capitols: Our Troubled Youth. And then underneath: Imagery and Original Artworks From the Badlands—A New Chapter from the Young Voices of America.
I keep staring at it, hoping that my face on the cover will morph into someone else’s. He doesn’t know what he’s done. He has no idea how bad this is. If my father happens to see this, he’s going to kill Callan and then he’s going to kill me.
“You’re angry, aren’t you? Jesus, I’m so sorry, bluebird. I just figured you wouldn’t mind. You’re not a girly girl. You don’t wear tons of make up. You’re not vain like ninety-nine point nine percent of the girls here. I honestly would never have submitted the picture if I thought you’d say no. You believe me, don’t you?”
My eyes remain locked on the magazine he’s holding out to me in his hand. “I lost the baby,” I whisper.
I watch the magazine lower as Callan’s arm falls to his side. “What?” His voice is barely there; he sounds winded, like I just sucker punched him in the chest. “What do you mean, you lost it?”
I suppose wording it that way does make it sound like I merely misplaced it or something. “I mean…” My throat is burning, aching, closing up. It’s painful to swallow. I just need to get the words out. Once they’re out in the open between us that will be half the battle done. “I mean I’m not pregnant anymore. I lost the baby. He died.”
“I don’t understand. When? Why didn’t you call me?”
He has no idea how painful that question is, given that I would have given a major organ to do exactly that when I was locked in that basement. Resentment spills over inside me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I have to remind myself that none of this is his fault. I was meant to be away. He knew he wasn’t likely to hear from me. He wanted me to enjoy my time out of state, away from my overbearing father. “It wasn’t something I wanted to tell you over the phone,” I say. Callan’s dark eyes are flashing, filled with pain, anger, sorrow, denial. I can see the emotions all taking turns as he shoves his magazine back into his bag and threads his arms through the straps.
“I’ve gotta get out of here,” he says. Shane and Tina call out to us, beckoning us over to their table as we pass them by, but Callan keeps on walking, stumbling like a zombie. Outside, the sun is high overhead, the air distorted by the wavy heat, the blacktop of the quad soft and sticky underfoot, smelling like ozone. No one’s around. No one’s crazy enough to be loitering outside in these kinds of temperatures.
“Are you okay?” Callan spins around, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Was it bad? Are you okay?” he repeats.
I just nod, not wanting to risk speech. My voice will break and that will be it for me; I’ll start crying and I won’t be able to stop.