by Askew, Kim
Beyond paying him one brief visit at his folks’ house (they were keeping him on a short leash, naturally), I hadn’t had much opportunity to find out the latest. It hadn’t made the local news the night he turned himself in. Not until the next morning did the Daily News report his name in connection with the case, and the local television news outlets had taken gleeful relish in the story ever since. He’d been arrested on the spot, and his family had immediately posted bail. There would eventually be a trial to decide his fate. Although he was likely to be charged with negligent homicide, I didn’t know the particulars of his case, since it was all still being hashed out with plea agreements and lawyerly mumbo-jumbo. Various news outlets mentioned Beth in connection with the crime, and I was thankful that Craig hadn’t thrown himself on his sword for her by taking all the blame. But it remained unclear what charges she would face for her part in the incident. After the night at the Regent, she’d been MIA, and I’d only recently heard reports that she’d been admitted to a psychiatric facility.
“Am ok all things considered,” was the first text Craig sent me the evening after his arrest. The Shaw family had reacted as you would expect — with outrage and bitterness — when they found out their son’s so-called best friend had abandoned him to die in the woods. Several days later, it was still a mystery why they had made the request that Craig be allowed to attend the graduation. One last concession, perhaps, before he was locked up for decades?
When Craig returned to his seat, I leaned over and peered at him down the row. He was waiting for my glance, proudly grasping his diploma holder in both hands. I smiled back at him, but it was a bittersweet moment for us both. Even before the day he saved Old Burny, I’d had my private doubts about whether he and I could ever really have a future together. I was moving to California in three months, and he’d been groomed since birth to attend whatever prestigious East Coast college his father had ordained for him. At the time, I’d thought about the possibility of a long-distance relationship. We could try to make it work, but what were the odds? If the door had been only open a crack before he’d gone to the police, that door was officially now shut. And locked. And barricaded with heavy, immovable objects. I loved him, but let’s face it: it was all over before it had even begun. He most certainly would not be headed to college in the fall as things now stood. He’d be lucky if he even got a cell with a window.
The ceremony finally concluded with the marching band’s rousing (but semi-out-of-tune) rendition of “Pomp and Circumstance.” Even with the occasional miscues by the brass section, the song stirred up sentiments deep in my gut that I’d been trying to keep at bay all afternoon: feelings about a soulmate found and lost; parting ways with new friends; my parents’ separation; memories of late nights with the newspaper crew; my reluctance to leave my baby brother; regrets that I was being forced to fly away, having only just tentatively broken through my shell.
Craig inched his way down the row of seats so that he was standing next to me. He grabbed me around the waist with one arm, and I hoped he couldn’t see that I was on the verge of bawling. Apparently, he was feeling sentimental, too.
“We’ll always have Paris,” he sweetly joked, reminding me of when we’d gone to see Casablanca at the Regent that summer before our sophomore year.
“Neither of us even have passports,” I ruefully pointed out.
“Okay, well, we’ll always have the darkroom.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before Principal Schaeffer invited us all to let our mortarboards fly. I flung mine as far as I could into the sky.
“Hasta la vista, fugly hat!” I heard Kristy Winters scream from two rows behind us.
Students milled around on the fifty-yard line, celebrating and posing for pictures together as friends and relatives emptied out of the bleachers. Jillian was filling in Duff about the fact that she was going to journalism school at Northwestern University. Kaya was lifting the hem of her graduation gown to show off the four-inch platforms she was sporting.
“I thought you seemed taller!” I heard someone behind her squeal.
“So you decided to behave?” I asked Cat, nodding to where she might have hidden the Silly String contraband.
“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “The last thing I need is Jenna on my case, harping about the ozone.”
“You are a wise, wise woman.”
People seemed to be keeping their distance from my scandal-plagued beau, but then Duff walked over with Kristy, who graciously asked to take a picture of Craig and me.
“Is that eye shadow, Skye?” she smiled as she steadied her digital camera.
“Baby steps,” I said, my face reddening. One thing I would never need in my cosmetics bag was blush. A few more members of the cheerleading set skipped their way over to Kristy’s side.
“I noticed Beth was a no show,” commented one overtanned and underfed specimen named Natalia Frantz. Beth hadn’t been at school since my encounter with her at the movie theater, and some wondered aloud if she’d been “institutionalized” again. Duff glanced at Craig, but before anyone could answer further, another pom-pom princess interrupted.
“Oh my god, Kristy, your earrings are so rad!”
“Really? They’re my great-grandma’s from when she was, like, a debutante or something.”
As the girls delved into the finer points of their respective wardrobes and accessories, Duff and Craig had started talking about this season’s hockey record. The topic of Beth had flown out the window, even though I, too, was curious as to her whereabouts. How ironic. Beth Morgan had officially been relegated to the one thing she feared most in this world: Obscurity.
Eventually, Craig gazed behind me about two feet above my head, his eyes expressing concern. I turned around to find my dad standing with Ollie perched on his shoulders.
“Hey!” I gave my mom a giant hug. Her eyes were misty.
“This one’s been in Niagara Falls–mode for the last two hours,” said Dad, nodding toward my sniffling mom.
“Yes, well, my baby girl only graduates from high school once,” she said with a smile. “Besides, mister … I seem to recall you asking me to hand you a tissue or two.”
I still, for the life of me, couldn’t understand why these two were getting divorced. They seemed to have more chemistry now than ever before. I guess it was one of those things that would always remain a mystery — but I was happy, at least, to see them finally getting along so well.
They both shifted their eyes expectantly toward Craig, who stood nervously beside me.
“Oh, Mom, Dad, this is Craig.” He cleared his throat and extended a hand toward my dad for a shake.
“Nice to meet you.”
“We’ve heard so much about you.” Uggh. Leave it to my mother to utter the most inappropriate string of words that could possibly have escaped her mouth.
“I’ve talked about you a lot,” I said, hoping he understood that they’d heard a lot about him from me, not from the nightly news.
Craig fidgeted awkwardly, no doubt aware that my parents weren’t too keen on the fact that I was madly in love with a would-be convict. A few days ago, I’d sat down with them and told them everything I knew. They expressed concern and sadness about Craig’s situation, but I’m sure they weren’t exactly thrilled. I’m not sure parents ever approve of the men their daughters fall for, but in my case, there was definitely some extra cause for alarm. Thankfully, they were extremely polite as we attempted some idle chitchat before Craig’s own parents turned up to greet their son.
I hadn’t seen Mr. MacKenzie since prom night at the Hurlyburly. Man, was the guy imposing. But today, he was dressed in an expensive-looking gray suit and he seemed surprisingly relaxed. Craig’s mother was tall and graceful. I’d met her a few days ago at Craig’s house. She now gazed at me with gratitude, as if thanking me for making her son’s graduation day so normal and untainted. No one dared broach the topic of Craig’s legal woes. Instead, his parents exchanged pleasantries with mine, until th
e topic of my senior art project came up.
“You guys have got to see Skye’s photography,” Craig said to his mom and dad.
“I’m intrigued,” said my dad. “She wouldn’t say a word about what she was working on!”
I got butterflies in my stomach at the mere mention of my senior project, which was on display with the other submissions in the art room. There was a notice in the graduation program inviting all the students and their families to check out the exhibition. We began the pilgrimage from the football field back to the art annex, and I couldn’t help but notice that Craig’s dad seemed particularly chatty, in a good way, with Craig. It surprised me, given the trouble he was in, that Mr. MacKenzie would be acting more teddy bear than tyrant.
As we crossed the parking lot, I heard someone yell my name. My mom’s roomie, Margot, was exiting her car and waving her keys at me.
“Sorry I’m late! I couldn’t find someone to take over my shift at the studio,” she said.
“You only missed the boring part, anyway,” I said. “We’re just on our way now to go see it.” I’d called Margot the day before and extended the invite, because I’d wanted her to see my photographs. Not only was I curious to hear her constructive feedback from an artist’s perspective, I also needed her moral support in a big way. As it was, my hands were completely sweaty as we neared the art building, and I had nervous goosebumps running up and down my arms.
Stepping into the art room, I didn’t even recognize it. Mr. Richter wasn’t kidding when he had hyped our senior projects to be a big deal. It looked like a gallery now, not a high school classroom! The desks and shelving had been removed from the room, and all of the artwork was on display against white walls and white standing screens that had been set up at various spots in the room. There was even new track lighting on the ceiling that allowed each grouping of art to be spotlighted. Wow. The whole thing looked extremely professional, making me more relieved than ever that I hadn’t turned in my amateurish posterboard collage.
We started at the entrance and worked our way around the perimeter of the room. Oil paintings and graphite sketches made up the bulk of the submissions, and they were truly impressive.
Jason Stern’s drawing, The Evolution of an East Anchorage Student, was hilarious. It depicted a series of teenage male figures standing in profile. The first, on the left, was a depiction of a freshman Jason looking like a Neanderthal man, stooped over with a huge backpack, knuckles dragging on the ground. The final figure, on the right-hand side, showed Jason standing tall and proud in his graduation gown and cap, diploma in his hand.
“Now that’s funny!” Mr. MacKenzie said.
Megan Riordan passed me as she was on her way out. “Skye, your pictures are fantastic, oh my god!”
I swallowed hard and thanked her, feeling anxious but proud at the same time. I had glimpsed my pictures on the back wall when we’d first entered the room. The anticipation was building as we slowly edged our way back to that area. Cat was standing with her parents in front of her own submission, describing her pen and ink drawing, a framed circle that was filled in with black tribal designs. It was a very arresting graphic at first glance, but when you gazed within the circle at the pattern itself, you could see various figurative representations worked into the detail. It was almost like looking at a puzzle from which images slowly emerged.
“See — there’s an open book, and there are four figures dancing … and there’s a raven — ”
“Go Ravens!” said Craig.
“Hey, you guys!” Cat introduced us all to her parents, who were extremely cordial.
“And you are obviously the young lady associated with the photo project,” said Cat’s father. “I was very impressed.”
“Yeah, Skye, there’s a mob scene around your pictures over there.”
I glanced behind me and Cat was right — I couldn’t even see my photographs because they were blocked by a semicircle of students and parents. Oh god. This was freaking me out. We continued to wend our way through the crowd, each new painting or sculpture garnering new oohs and aahs.
“I love this one here,” said Craig, pointing to a simple sketch by Ashley Davis, a petite brunette whose locker was next to mine this year. “Do you see how fine the crosshatching is here on the shading? That’s not easy to do.”
“It looks like you could just reach out and touch it,” agreed his dad. “Practically three-dimensional.”
“Exactly.” I smiled to see Craig looking genuinely happy as he looked at all the art projects, and I was further encouraged to see him getting along so well with his dad.
We finally reached a bottleneck near the back of the room and had to actually wait our turn to inch our way in to see my pictures.
“Great job,” said one stranger — someone’s mom, I presumed — as she squeezed her way past me.
“Oh wow!” said Margot, who was the first to get close enough to see my wall of work. We all finally closed in upon my series of twelve framed black-and-white photographs. A small white index card near the bottom right of the grouping stated my name and the title of the series: Exposure.
“Skye … you look … stunning,” said my mother. “This is amazing!”
My dad was speechless, but Ollie, still perched on my dad’s shoulders, piped up, “Kye! Kye!”
There I was staring back at me in twelve different frames lined up in four rows of three. Under each individual portrait was the name of the student who took the picture. The first photo was a shot of me in the parking lot. The photographer, Brett Sanders, had lain on his back on the asphalt when he took the picture, so I looked about twelve feet tall because of the unusual perspective. I laughed to myself, remembering Brett rolling around and getting dirty on the ground as he aimed for just the right angle. The second picture was cropped tightly on my eyes. I had heavy eyeliner and smoky shadow on my lids, which made my light irises look sharp and piercing — cat-like, almost. The photographer, Kristy, had convinced me to add the makeup at the last minute, and I’m glad she did. It made all the difference in the shot.
“Not bad, if I do say so myself.” I heard Lenny’s voice behind me. The picture he’d taken of me was slightly out of focus, but the way my hair was blowing behind me in the breeze, it gave the image a mystical, surreal quality. “See,” Lenny explained to Megan who was standing next to him. “I meant to be out of focus. This was exactly the look I was going for.”
“Skye, these are … perfect,” said Craig, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.
“Looks like something you’d see in Vanity Fair, that’s for sure,” agreed his dad.
“And, my dear, you look just so lovely,” added Mrs. MacKenzie. My dad just stared at me with eyes wide open as if he was thoroughly bowled over.
“My sentiments exactly,” said a friendly, familiar voice from behind me. I turned to see Mr. Richter introducing himself to my mother. “Wonderfully creative, Skye, and well executed.”
“Really?” I said. “I was a little nervous, because, well … I obviously didn’t take the pictures and I know it was supposed to be our own original work.”
“But you conceived the concept and chose the final shots, and that’s just as important. Great art is about thinking outside the box and putting yourself on the line. That’s what I was hoping to get from you, and you didn’t disappoint me.”
He was right that I put myself on the line. As much as I knew the photos were visually stunning, I was still uncomfortable seeing these blown-up representations of myself on display for the entire world to see. I couldn’t hide from them, and that was a scary feeling. It was equally uncomfortable having to trust other people with each shot. Giving up control was always tough — heck, it was tough even approaching some of the people I’d asked to take the pictures. There was the shy kid, Neil Banks, who had Asperger’s syndrome and tended to stick to himself. I’d never said a word to him before this, and we didn’t talk much during the shoot, either, but the picture he’d taken of me in front o
f a window turned out to be a huge surprise. I hadn’t even known the streaming rays of sunlight were surrounding me until after I’d developed the film. The effect was downright awesome. Then there was Corey Parkman, the dude everyone chalked up as being a neo-hippie stoner. He was actually quite hilarious, and it was his brilliant idea to take a picture of me towering in the middle of a group of the shortest freshmen girls we could recruit. I looked like a giraffe lost in a herd of gazelles — too funny.
In just a few days time, I’d managed to meet dozens of new people at my school as I rushed to complete the photographs. With each new picture that was taken, I became more comfortable talking to new people; more comfortable in my own skin. I’d only ended up choosing twelve of the best photos for the exhibition, but I had posed for over forty different students in all. The project went a long way in helping to distract me from worrying myself sick over Craig, and as much as I had dreaded playing “model,” in the end, I actually wound up having a lot of fun.
“Craig, when did you take this one?” his mother asked, pointing to a framed portrait of the two of us in the middle of the wall. In the shot, he and I were standing in front of a mirror in his house. He had my bulky old camera lifted up to his eye, obscuring his face, but I smiled peacefully next to him, resting my chin on his shoulder and gazing thoughtfully out of the frame.
“I took it just the other day when she was over at the house,” he said. Nobody said much more as we continued to look at Craig’s photo. Perhaps we were all thinking the same sad thoughts about his future. I sighed, feeling a mixture of pride, grief, hopelessness, and contentment. It was amazing that so many mutually exclusive emotions could cohabitate inside my brain at the same time. Craig’s picture of the two of us wasn’t the most unusual or the most artistic shot of the bunch, but I liked it best of all. The face looking back at me was reassuring, in a weird way. It’s like the “me” in the photograph was speaking directly to the “me” who was in the art room and saying, “Everything’s going to be okay after all.” I didn’t exactly know what made her the arbiter of my fate, but I decided to trust her. Like the Mona Lisa, she looked like she knew something I didn’t.
