Still a Work in Progress

by Jo Knowles

  The sleeping bags rustle quietly on either side of me. Then the sound of breathing steadies out. I wonder what Ryan is thinking about as he pretends to fall asleep. I wonder if he’s mad at me for dancing with Sadie. Maybe I should have said no when she asked me to dance. Maybe I’m a terrible friend for leaving Ryan alone on the couch when everyone else was dancing.

  I close my eyes and realize the smell I’ve been noticing is Sadie’s perfume. I take a quiet breath and try to remember what it felt like to be so close to a girl. How it felt to have her arms around me and how fun it was to fast-dance with her, too. To act crazy and not be embarrassed. I feel like I spend half my time at school worrying if I have anything in my teeth or if I smell. Or if my hair looks dumb or if anyone can tell I’m wearing “husky” jeans. I’m always worried about screwing something up. For just that one minute tonight, nothing mattered. It was just the music and me moving to it the way it told me to.

  Ryan and Sam are both snoring steadily now. I breathe again, smelling that smell that will always remind me of “Stairway to Heaven,” that dance, and Sadie, smiling at me.

  Ryan is still moody in the morning. Before we even get out of our sleeping bags, he tells us he has to go home right after breakfast because he has a lot of homework. Usually we lounge around for a while and play video games before we stuff our faces with whatever food we can find in Sam’s cupboards. We make weird bagel toppings and see who can come up with the best names for them. But today, we just have boring old cream cheese. I love visiting Sam and Ryan, because Emma isn’t around to yell at me for eating stuff I’m not “supposed” to. I don’t remind Ryan about his vegan promise to Emma, since I’m sure that would only make his foul mood worse.

  “Good luck with that homework,” I tell him when his mom comes to pick him up.

  He nods and doesn’t even say thanks to Sam’s parents.

  To be honest, it’s kind of a relief to see him go.

  “We have got to find him a girlfriend,” Sam says as we roll up the sleeping bags.

  “Definitely.”

  I follow him to his bedroom, where he opens his closet and starts pulling out some button-up shirts on hangers. “What are you wearing for Picture Day on Monday? I can’t decide.”

  “I wasn’t really planning on anything special,” I say.

  “Well, you should. They put our pictures on our student IDs. You’ll be stuck with it all year, so you better try to look good.”

  “No one looks at our IDs, do they? What do we even need them for?”

  “Museum discounts.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Sam sets out a bunch of shirts on his bed, then steps back and studies them.

  “I hate Picture Day,” I tell him. “This is middle school. Aren’t we too old for this?”

  He ignores me and picks up an orange plaid shirt and holds it under his chin in front of the mirror. “You need to embrace the inevitable, Noah. Picture Day is happening. Make sure you look good for it.”

  At school on Monday morning, everything feels off. Half the boys have overcombed their hair, so it looks like their moms did it. Most of the girls show up with extra makeup, stiffly sprayed hair, and too much perfume. I don’t know why they wear perfume, since you can’t smell it in the picture. I guess it’s all just part of the getting-dressed-up package.

  When Jem Thomas walks in, everyone stops and stares. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and black dress pants. Normally he has pretty messy bedhead hair, but today it’s plastered against his skull and he has a part. I know Emma would say it’s sexist of me, but I really don’t think guys should have parts. Jem looks miserable. After an awkward moment of silence, we all go back to worrying about our own weird hair.

  The Tank ushers us down the hall where the photographers are waiting. There’s a big screen against the wall and a light with one of those umbrellas to help with the glare. We line up in the hallway and take turns peering toward the front. A lady with long blond hair walks up and down the line, inspecting us.

  “Do you want a comb?” she asks me.

  I blush. I don’t know why I get embarrassed when strangers talk to me.

  “No, thank you. I’m OK,” I mumble.

  “I think you want a comb,” she says, handing me one anyway. It’s one of those cheap tiny black combs that are basically useless. I don’t even know why they exist. Maybe solely for Picture Day.

  I turn to Ryan, who’s standing behind me. “Do I need this?” I ask, holding up the comb.

  He shrugs. “You look fine.” But he doesn’t even check when he says it.

  Ryan has been acting weird toward me all morning.

  I nudge Sam. “Do I?”

  He squints at me for a minute and pushes his glasses up his nose. “No. Don’t change it.”

  I don’t know why I trust Sam, whose hair is still wet and combed flat on the top of his head just as strangely as Jem’s. But at least he put some effort into making sure all is well.

  I lean against the wall and sigh. Why don’t parents want their kids to look like they normally do in pictures? Why do they want them to look like some scary miniature businessmen instead?

  Molly stands behind Sam in line. They’re holding hands. I think Ryan sees at the same time I do. He makes this huffy breathing noise, like holding hands is the most obnoxious thing two people could do. Ever. For someone who was so relieved to escape Molly, he looks kind of dejected. Personally, I think he did the right thing. Molly is definitely not his type. I wonder if there is a girl version of emo. Ryan needs an emo-ette.

  As we inch closer, we can see the photographer and his assistant make each person stand on this taped square on a pad in front of the photographer. When it’s Jem’s turn, he hesitates.

  “Are you taking off your sweatshirt, hon?” the hair lady asks.

  He takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. He looks out at the rest of us kind of apologetically, as if what we’re about to see is going to be horrifying. Then he slowly pulls off his sweatshirt. The shirt underneath is white with black cuffs at the wrist. The collar is also black but has gold on the tips. Everyone cranes their necks to look more closely.

  “I heard his parents make him wear crazy stuff for Picture Day, and man, they weren’t exaggerating,” Ryan whispers.

  “Can you hurry, please?” Jem asks the woman. She fidgets with his collar and makes a disapproving face. Jem cringes. I’ve never seen anyone look so miserable. Not even Ryan.

  “Just trying to straighten you out a little, hon,” she says. She fidgets with his shoulders, which also have some sort of extra black material. “I didn’t know they still made shirts with epaulets.”

  “What are epaulets?” I ask.

  “They don’t need to be straight,” Jem says. “Please. Just take the picture.”

  “Epaulets are those funny things on his shoulders,” Sam whispers loudly. “Usually they’re on military uniforms. With tassels.”

  “Tassels?” Ryan asks. “Wow, I was thinking it couldn’t possibly get worse, but I guess it could. Jem lucked out.”

  The woman fidgets with one of the black stripes on Jem’s shoulder, then shrugs and steps back. “Suit yourself, but you know if your parents don’t like how these come out, you’ll have to do this all over again when we come back on Makeup Day.”

  Jem groans and shifts his shoulders a little. As soon as the photographer takes a photo, he puts his sweatshirt back on and rushes past all of us.

  Someone mumbles, “Ahoy there, sailor!” and a bunch of people crack up, but not really in a mean way. Jem just keeps on walking.

  “Next!” the photographer yells.

  We inch closer until it’s my turn. The woman takes my form and then shows me where to stand.

  “Put your hands in your pockets,” she tells me.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re getting a waist-up photo, so you need to have a different pose.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “That’s what’s checked off on the
form,” she says. “Half-body, rainbow background.”

  Ryan snorts.

  I roll my eyes. “My sister must have filled that out as a joke,” I say.

  “What’s so funny?” the lady asks, all offended.

  “Nuh-nothing,” I say. “I’m just sure my parents would want the normal one.”

  “Well, it says here they don’t, and I have to go by what’s on the form.”

  I put my hands in my pockets.

  “Not like that,” she says. “Take your thumb out, like this.” She models for me.

  Ryan snickers.

  “Shoulders back. Tilt your head. No, the other way.”

  I try to move the way she says but feel like an idiot.

  “Smile! Smile!”

  I try to smile.

  Sam and Ryan start laughing.

  “Open your mouth a little. People never realize how silly they look when they smile with their mouths closed.”

  I wish she would try closing her mouth for five seconds.

  I open my mouth a little and try to grin naturally. It feels weird.

  “It’ll have to do,” the woman says. I think she takes her job a little too seriously.

  The camera clicks, and I step away to join Jem in the after-picture hall of shame. It’s crowded, which makes me feel better about the whole thing.

  At home that night, Emma asks me all about Picture Day. I tell her I don’t think her prank was very funny.

  “What?” she asks, all surprised. “I thought that would crack you up!”

  “It might have if it wasn’t me,” I say.

  “How selfish.” She punches me in the arm the way she does.

  “You’re not funny,” I repeat.

  She grins. “How’d you like your Tofurky sandwich?” she asks me.

  “It was gross,” I say. “And that wasn’t mayonnaise, either.”

  “I know. It was Vegenaise. Yummy and kind to animals.”

  I’m starting to think maybe I should trade breakfast responsibility with lunch after all. Only, I know my mom would flip if I suggested we change our routine. God forbid anyone try to tell Emma what to eat.

  “If you’re going to insist on making me a vegan, then just give me vegetables or something, OK? Fake meat is such an insult.”

  “To who?”

  “To meat!”

  “Meat doesn’t have feelings.”

  “Just stick with peanut butter and jelly, OK?”

  “All right,” she says. Then she punches me in the arm one more time before going off to make our lunches for tomorrow. I wish she wouldn’t make them the night before. By the time I get around to eating my lunch the next day, the bread is either soggy or stale, depending on what’s inside. The other thing she puts in there are these energy bars that are supposed to taste like chocolate but taste like something vaguely of chocolate essence and more like sawdust. Not that I’ve ever eaten sawdust, but that’s what I imagine it would taste like if I ever decided to try.

  I start my homework but get interrupted by Sam texting me about Sadie. He said he caught her watching me and smiling during my fashion shoot.

  Fashion shoot. That’s just great.

  I’m tempted to go yell at Emma again for ruining my life, because I get this feeling that by tomorrow when I get back to school, I’m going to have some kind of new embarrassing nickname that has something to do with either rainbows or a male model.

  I text Sam back to tell him it wasn’t a fashion shoot and then turn off my phone so he can’t argue with me or make me feel any worse.

  The Captain jumps up on my bed and circles until he makes a nice nest to curl up in.

  I flop down next to him and stare at the ceiling until I hear a distinct whistle slip out of his butt and my room turns toxic.

  “Emma!” I yell. “Stop feeding the dog Tofurky! You’re going to kill us all!”

  The Captain wags his tail, which only spreads the smell even more.

  We’re the kind of family that always sits at the same place at the table. My mom and dad on the ends, me and Emma across from each other in the middle.

  Tonight we’re having roasted potatoes, broccoli, baked tofu smothered in barbecue sauce, and bread made by my dad. My dad loves to make bread. He also loves to cook, though since Emma started making all her vegan demands, I think he likes it less. My dad is the kind of cook who roasts or smokes some sort of meat all day long and makes everyone comment on how much more amazing it is because of all that waiting and smoking when really none of us can tell the difference. For a while, it was only Emma who was vegan. But she kept adding these crazy rules about how my dad cooked. Like if he grilled meat and vegetables, the vegetables couldn’t be grilled where the meat touched. Then she wouldn’t even eat the vegetables if they’d been on the same grill at all. Normal parents would just put their foot down and say, “Too bad — you’ll eat what we tell you!” But not in our house. When it comes to food, my parents will do anything if it means Emma eats a healthy diet.

  So, my dad’s stuck with figuring out creative ways to make tofu taste like something other than sponge.

  I take a bite of tofu and try to swallow it as quickly as possible.

  “I think I really got it this time,” my dad says. He gives me a hopeful look.

  I swallow a huge swig of water. “Great sauce, Dad.”

  “Yeah,” Emma agrees, though I notice she hasn’t actually brought any of the food to her mouth.

  “You think?” he asks, all excited.

  She cuts a tofu cube with the edge of her fork and moves a piece away from the rest, forming a barbecue trail across her plate. Then she does the same with a piece of potato and broccoli. She does this all very slowly and methodically and then asks my dad something about a tofu press and whether he would like one.

  He beams and starts telling her how he can make his own using a heavy pot, and while he’s explaining it, he seems to forget all about waiting for her to actually try a bite.

  My mom keeps eyeing Emma’s plate. She’s always eyeing Emma’s plate. “Emma, you’ve haven’t tried anything yet,” she points out.

  “Yes, I have,” Emma says. “It’s delicious, Dad.”

  “You’re just moving your food around,” my mom says cautiously.

  My dad gives her a warning look.

  “I tried it, Mom,” Emma says. She deliberately picks up a piece of tofu with her fork and eats it.

  “Thank you,” my mom says.

  “Jem’s parents made him wear a horrible shirt for Picture Day,” I say, to change the subject. “It had epaulets. People didn’t make too much fun of him, though, because I think it was so over-the-top embarrassing, he passed humiliation and went straight to sympathy.”

  “It’s such a good school,” my mom says. “The kids are so kind to each other.”

  Emma snorts.

  “It is!” my mom insists.

  Emma drinks from her water glass. I wonder if she’s having Lord of the Flies list memories.

  “I don’t think I let the tofu marinate long enough,” my dad says.

  “It’s great, Dad, really,” Emma tells him. But I notice she hasn’t taken another bite.

  Later, when Emma pops her head into my room to say good night, I ask her if she’s OK.

  “Not you, too,” she says, all annoyed. “I’m fine. I just didn’t like what dad did with the tofu and didn’t want to say anything to hurt his feelings. Everyone needs to relax!”

  “You could have had something else,” I say.

  “Honestly, Noah, you are really annoying sometimes.”

  “Excuse me for caring,” I say.

  Instead of fighting back, she turns and leaves me in the dark. The Captain gets up and goes after her, but she slams her door before he can follow her into her room, so he comes back and settles on my floor again.

  “What’s her problem?” I ask him. But I’m not sure I really want to know.

  On our last day using the potter’s wheel in art class, I turn the
wheel and gently reach my fingers into the ball of soft clay, shaping it slowly and carefully. Like magic, the ridges of my bowl begin to rise up, and I ease my fingers to widen the ridge.

  Ms. Cliff watches intensely. “Thaaaaaat’s it,” she says. “Not too fast.”

  I press my thumbs deeper and the sides form upward, just the way I imagined. It’s as if I only have to picture the bowl in my head the way I want it to form, and somehow my hands make the clay grow into that shape. When I have the curves and form just right, I let the wheel spin down and slowly move my fingers away.

  “Beautiful,” Ms. Cliff says. “Just gorgeous, Noah. You have a real gift.”

  She helps me move the bowl to the next station and then wanders off to help Sadie, who’s waiting in line.

  “Nice bowl,” Ryan says. He’s holding his own bowl, cupped in his hands. One side has fallen in on itself. “I think I’ll give this to my dad’s new girlfriend for Christmas,” he says.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a symbolic work of art. Can’t you tell? The caved-in side represents”— he thinks for a minute —“what she’s done to my life.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

  “I don’t want her to appreciate it. I want her to feel my pain and know she’s the cause of it.”

  “I didn’t know you were in pain.”

  “I’m in agony.”

  “You hide it well.”

  “Agony comes in different shapes and sizes.”

  “Why are you in agony? What did your dad’s girlfriend ever do to you?”

  “As long as she’s in the picture, my parents will never get back together.” He pokes the indent so it sags even more.

  “You can fix that, you know,” I say.

  “Why would I want to fix it?”

  I give up.

  “She’s the reason I’m an emu,” he tells me. “If it weren’t for her, I could be your average, cheerful all-American kid. Instead”— he gestures to his dark clothes and makes a mopey face —“this.”

  “Emo,” I correct him. “And I don’t think if you call yourself that, you really are.”

  “What do you know?” he says.

  We put our bowls on the tray with the other bowls waiting to be glazed or fired, then walk over to Curly, who is sunning herself on the dry shelf in front of the window.