Part 13 (1/2)

I ease my way to the ladder and climb down. I take the yearbook out of my backpack. The flashlight casts a glow all around me-on the tree trunk, the gra.s.s, the leaves on the ground, the twigs and the pebbles. If I could, I would collect everything about right now. It's not that I'm happy. I'm embarra.s.sed and confused and so mad at myself about Dylan. But there's something about right now that feels good despite everything. Each time a breeze starts, I feel the air all the way through me.

I flip through the yearbook pages until I find Mrs. Capelli's cla.s.s. There, in the lower right corner, is Taylor's picture-small, black-and-white, grainy, but still incredibly charming. He's smiling this bright, open smile. Even then he looked like a kid from a movie, the kind who only has a couple lines and can't even remotely act, but no one cares because he's so cute. I find my own picture. I'm smiling shyly with my hair in barrettes, my face slightly tilted to one side. This was me before I knew about anything hard, when my whole life was packed lunches and art projects and spelling quizzes. When my biggest responsibility was the one weekend of the year when it was my turn to bring the cla.s.s hamster to my house and make sure it had food and water.

I move the flashlight closer, and study my eight-year-old face again. I change my mind. I was such a quiet kid, so shy and calm and in my own head. Of course I knew about being sad. Maybe that's the reason I saved all the things I thought were pretty.

After I've put up two more braces, I realize I'm stuck. There's no way for me to attach the sixth brace to the sixth beam; the branches around it are either all too high or too low. It's more than I can do tonight. Soon I'll climb farther up and secure a rope to a high branch. I'll make a swing so I can reach the places I can't reach yet.

11.

I know I should eat something, but my stomach is still messed up over what happened with Taylor last night. I fill a spoon with cereal, then lower it back into the bowl. My parents are reading the paper at the table in the kitchen, and when my dad gets up to get his briefcase from the other room, my mom clears her throat and turns to me.

”Caitlin,” she says in her school-princ.i.p.al voice, ”I'm glad to see that you're spending some time with new people. It's important for you to make new friends. I do want to ask, though-and this isn't a big deal, it's just something your dad and I decided-that I'd like you to keep your door open when you have Taylor over. Or any boy. It doesn't have to be wide open, just open a little.”

I stare at my cranberry-almond crunch getting soggy in the milk.

”Why?”

My mom's newspaper rustles. ”It's just the appropriate thing to do. We trust you, we just also know what it's like to be your age. It's fine for you and Taylor to enjoy each other's company.” She pauses. ”It's even fine to kiss, or make out, make out, or whatever you want to call it. Just as long as you keep the door open to keep you from getting carried away.” or whatever you want to call it. Just as long as you keep the door open to keep you from getting carried away.”

I feel this pinch in my gut and, for a brief moment, I want to tell my mom what I did, but the feeling leaves immediately.

Instead I say, ”My friend Dylan's a lesbian, so do I have to leave the door open when she's over, too?” It comes out all snappy, and I feel kind of bad, because my mom's obviously trying to be nice about this.

She sighs. ”Well, honey, are you you a lesbian?” a lesbian?”

”No.”

”Well, then I think you can leave the door closed.”

”Okay,” I say, trying to sound kinder. ”Sounds fair.”

12.

I can't go to precalc. I've tried all morning to gather the courage, but there is no possible way I can face Taylor right now.

When second period ends I go up to my locker. A few minutes pa.s.s and then the bell for third period rings and everyone disappears from the hallways. I swing my locker door back and forth. I stare at Ingrid's picture and wonder if I could find that hill again. I head down to the bathroom.

I push open the door and walk in, expecting it to be empty as usual. But it's not. Dylan's in there, standing right in front of me with her back turned, was.h.i.+ng her hands at the sink. She startles when I walk in, and I feel like I'm seeing a ghost. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling make everything blue.

”What are you doing here?” I ask her.

There's something about seeing her so unexpectedly that makes me look closer. Still standing behind her, by the door, I look into the mirror at the sharp line of her jaw, the way her collarbone juts out over her chest, a tiny scar on her forehead that I never noticed before.

She looks at my reflection, says, ”I wasn't aware that you owned the bathroom.”

In this light, her skin looks so pale against all her black clothes. The water rushes in the sink then stops. Dylan rips a paper towel off the roll. She turns, stuffs the towel in the trash, and thumps past me out the door. Even after she's left, I don't move. The school year is almost half over. I wonder if there is any way I can get her to forgive me.

That night, before I go to sleep, I open my window and lean with my camera into the night sky. I set the shutter speed fast so if there's any trace of light the camera won't see it. I snap the picture.

Our next a.s.signment is about contrast. I will be turning in a perfectly black photograph.

13.

On Sat.u.r.day morning, I wake up remembering how Ingrid and I used to spend the weekends taking pictures. We'd go to all the same places, hardly talking, in search of perfect shots. Then we'd sneak into the darkroom together and develop everything.

There our day would be: my version drying on one line, Ingrid's drying across the room. I'd look at all her images from my day and I wouldn't recognize them. The mall lobby: I saw a meager bunch of balloons in the entrance of a new store; she saw an empty stroller. My room: I saw a pile of magazines on the carpet; she saw a note from my mom that said, Remember laundry Remember laundry. A park in San Francisco: me, seagulls in flight; her, a hill with gra.s.s and wildflowers.

I miss that feeling of dropping the exposed paper into the chemical bath, holding my breath for a moment, then seeing the image take shape. The dark parts darkening. Thinking, I I made made this. this.

I have a black photo to develop, but I also want that feeling back. I want to make something to hang on my wall after it dries. I dig through my drawer to find the roll of film I shot the night before junior year started. I don't expect that the moon photographs will come out, but the one of my house might.

I hoist myself through the photo-lab window and head straight into the darkroom. As soon as I round the corner to where the sinks are, I can feel that something is different: I am not alone.

I wait for my eyes to adjust.

At first I don't recognize her. She's in jeans and a hoodie, her hair swept back in a ponytail. She stands with her back to me, hanging a photograph.

”h.e.l.lo, Caitlin,” Ms. Delani says.

”Hey,” I mutter, and brace myself to be thrown out.

But she doesn't lecture me on breaking and entering or threaten to call my parents. Instead, she says, ”The enlarger in the corner is free.”

”Okay.”

Hesitantly, I feel my way to the enlarger. Her safety light is on, though, so I can't pop open my film canister yet. Even the dimmest light could expose it too soon. I don't want to ask her to turn off her light for me, but it would seem rude if I just left after she told me I could stay. I wait, motionless, trying to figure out what to do.

”Are you developing?” she asks.

”Yeah,” I say.

She flips off her light.

”Thanks.”