Part 16 (1/2)

She shakes her head. ”But here's the truth: I do all all of that. Every single thing on that list, I do. I don't know how many lists you made, or everything you wrote, but I imagine that everything you thought of, I do.” of that. Every single thing on that list, I do. I don't know how many lists you made, or everything you wrote, but I imagine that everything you thought of, I do.”

”I'm not so sure about that,” I say. ”We thought of a lot of things.”

”Well, maybe not everything, but I am not perfect. Ingrid's death should make that absolutely clear. Apart from her parents, I was the adult that she was closest to. I was so blinded by her talent that I didn't recognize the tremendous pain behind her work. She gave me hundreds of images, so many chances to see that she was in trouble. I failed her.”

I want to tell her that she failed me, too. I'm thinking about the first day of school-I was sure that she would make things better, that she would treat me as she used to.

I say, ”I needed you, too.” My face burns.

”Yes,” she says. ”I know. I'm so sorry.”

I can't say anything else, and for a little while, neither can she.

Finally, she goes on. ”I knew that if you reached out to me, that I would have a responsibility to you. That's why I didn't want you to be in my cla.s.s at first. It isn't fair, but the image of you is so intertwined with my memories of her. When I heard of Ingrid's death, I pored over her photographs, and images of you were what I was seeing.”

She pauses, waits for me to say something, but this is too much to take in, and all I can do is stare at the photograph in front of me and think that I never looked this closely at myself before, at my whole self just sitting in my room.

”You had no idea how complex a subject you were,” she says. ”She took photographs of you that evoke confusion, love, anger, joy . . . the full range of human emotion.”

She holds another photograph out to me. I take it.

”This is one of my favorites,” she says.

Raindrops. Patches of light through clouds. Me, on a swing, in the sky, smiling. Smiling. I never knew she developed it.

And then my eyes tear over. I'm swinging. It's the first time I ever ditched school, and I'm moving through the sky as the clouds break. I hear the wind. I hear myself laughing.

Ingrid, I yell. I yell. This is the first law I've ever broken! This is the first law I've ever broken!

Her voice: How does it feel? How does it feel?

The rain falling. The cold waking me up.

It feels perfect!

There is commotion outside the cla.s.sroom. People are going to start coming in for first period, but I'm not ready for them yet. I pry my eyes from the frame in front of me. They land on the picture of me grimacing and I look away. I focus on myself swinging. That smile.

I hold it carefully, this artifact of myself. I need a few more minutes to let all of this sink in.

Ms. Delani rests her hand on my shoulder. ”They bring her back a little bit,” she says. ”I wish they could bring her back completely.”

I want to squeeze my eyes shut but I can't, not with the door opening.

Before everyone streams in, she says, ”They bring you you back a little bit, too.” back a little bit, too.”

Ms. Delani lets me spend first period in her back office by myself, looking through her heavy art books for inspiration. I have a lot of catching up to do if I want to pa.s.s her cla.s.s. I hear her lecturing in the cla.s.sroom, then the sounds of people talking, and I'm thankful to be back here, away from it all. I don't think about anything-I just turn pages, look at images, try to get myself calm.

18.

Mom is home early from work. I'm lying on my bed doing math when she knocks and peeks her head around my door.

”Hi, sweetie,” she says. ”I'm on my way to run a few errands. Want to come?”

I sit up in bed and stretch. ”What errands?”

”Dry cleaner, hardware store, Safeway. You could pick out some snacks for your lunches . . .”

I need a bunch of stuff for my treehouse: more bolts, sandpaper, clamps. ”Yeah, okay,” I say.

When we get to the hardware store, my mom heads to the gardening section.

I grab a basket and fill it up with the stuff I need. After I've found a few things, I remember the sixth-brace problem. I head to the rope aisle. The selection is overwhelming; there is thin rope, thick rope, rope made of metal, rope made of cloth.

I'm standing and staring at it when a guy in the hardware store's khaki uniform pa.s.ses me and stops.

”Do you need some help?”

”I don't know which kind of rope to get.”

”What thickness do you want?”

”It has to be pretty thick, I guess. I need it to support a person.”

”How heavy of a person?”

”It needs to be able to support me.”

He scans the choices. ”This should be good,” he says, picking up a spool of medium-width, yellow rope.

”Should I cut it myself?” I ask him, but he doesn't answer.

He's looking at something behind me. I turn to find my mom standing two feet away, her hand over her mouth, the blood draining from her face.

”What?” I ask.