Subject: Unexpected
You don’t have to apologize. I should be thanking you. I followed your lead and did something unexpected.
You’re right. It was terrifying.
Let’s do it again.
Mr. Gerardi’s camera is smaller and lighter than my Nikon, and it feels unfamiliar in my hands. Mom wasn’t a Leica girl—she was a Nikon devotee, which I inherited. That said, they’re amazing cameras. Mom always said she’d buy me one if she ever won a Pulitzer.
I guess that’s not happening.
Music pours across the courtyard, a booming bass that shakes the ground. Students are everywhere, dancing in small packs, drinking punch and soda from red plastic cups. Card tables are scattered across the quad, offering school-spirit games and activities. Face painting. Pie eating. Cookie decorating. You’d think we were all six, but everyone else seems to be enjoying it.
I cling to the shadows under the trees, my fingers sweating on the plastic camera casing.
I have yet to take a picture.
Rowan appears beside me, blue and white swirls on her cheeks. Someone has braided her hair into twin pigtails and tied blue pom-poms at the ends. Her eyes sparkle. She’s thrilled that I’m doing this. Like I told my cemetery guy, she probably hopes someone flipped a switch and turned me back into the best friend she remembers. “Let me see what you’ve got so far.”
“Nothing.” My voice is rough, and I clear my throat. “I haven’t taken any pictures yet.”
“Nothing?” Her easy smile slides away. “The festival started twenty minutes ago.”
I shift my feet. “I know.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
She shifts closer to me. “Do you want me to find Mr. Gerardi? I can tell him you can’t do it.”
I swallow. “No. I want to do it.”
“Do you need some inspiration?” She makes a ghastly face at me, rolling her eyes back in her head and sticking her tongue out sideways. “Want to take a picture of this?”
A laugh escapes before I can stop myself.
When I catch it, it turns into a sob. I press my fingers into my eyes.
“Jules,” she whispers. Her fingers, featherlight, brush my forearms.
“I don’t remember how to do this,” I say.
“Yes, you do.”
“No.” I take a moment to breathe, because I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now. “Everything feels wrong. It’s all so pointless.”
She studies me for a moment, then takes the camera out of my hands. Her hands gently lift the strap from around my neck, and suddenly I can breathe more freely.
Then, to my surprise, she puts the strap around her own neck. “Say cheese.”
“No! Ro—”
“Too late.” She holds the camera out to check the display, then frowns when she sees a bunch of codes instead of the image a point-and-shoot would offer. “Where’s the picture?”
“In the camera. Would you give that back to me?”
“No way.” She sidles away, lifting the camera again to point it at a group of senior girls who are giggling uncontrollably while doing a Rockette-style line kick. I barely hear the shutter click.
“Ro.”
She takes another picture, this time of a boy shoving his face into a pie plate filled with whipped cream. My fingers itch to grab the camera away from her, because the settings are all wrong for what she’s doing. I know she’s baiting me, but I’m sure she hopes some of these will end up in the yearbook. What she doesn’t know is that she’s just creating a big, blurred mess.
“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.