She sighs. “Twenty minutes. And I’ll be watching from the kitchen.”
I’m so grateful, I almost want to hug her. But then I remember how mad at her I am and my heart turns back into ice.
—
“We have to stay here,” I tell Sam, pointing to the stoop. It’s the place we sat that night a few weeks ago. “I’m in big trouble with my mom, and she said she’s going to sit by the window and make sure I don’t leave.”
“So your mom is watching us right now? Kinda creepy,” Sam says.
“Honestly, I can’t believe she even let me walk out the door after today,” I say, sitting down.
“So what happened?” Sam asks.
“So bad. So so bad,” I say.
And then I start talking. I tell him about Allan and our fight.
“Wow,” Sam says. “That’s rough. What are you gonna do now?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“So why is your mom mad at you?” he asks.
“Oh right,” I groan. “So then, I went to Phaedra’s party and—”
“You went to the party after all of that?” Sam asks. “Why?”
“I thought I had to,” I say. “But I shouldn’t have. There was free champagne and they were giving it to us, and I ended up getting really drunk with this guy Noah, and then when I got home my mom was home and I puked on the rug in front of her, and she like had to hold my hair back while I puked more in my bathroom, and it’s just, literally, the worst day of my life.”
“Noah?” Sam repeats. “Isn’t that the guy you were talking about yesterday? The one . . .”
“Yeah,” I say, looking down at my feet.
“Hmmm,” Sam says.
I look at him and he’s not smiling.
“Did anything happen? With him?” he asks.
I’m stunned. How did he know?
“Well . . .” I start. “I was more drunk than I’ve ever been in my whole life. Everything was so messy. And then . . .”
“So you did?” Sam asks, squinting at me like he’s staring into a too bright light.
“We kissed for like two seconds on the street,” I say, feeling trapped. “It was nothing.”
Sam nods like he understands, but he won’t look at me. “Huh.”
“Are you mad?” I ask.
“No,” he says, but he’s lying.
“What? It was nothing,” I say.
“It’s just this whole story,” he says. “Getting drunk and . . . being with that guy who sounds like a loser. It’s just not you. Or I thought it wasn’t you.”
“It’s not me,” I protest. And then, feeling judged, I say, “And why do you care? You’re the one who keeps insisting we’re just friends.”
Sam bites his lip, fighting back something that I can tell he wants to say. I wish he would just say it. But then he says, “You’re right. We are just friends. I don’t care.”
Even though I put those words in his mouth, they sting.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Don’t do what?” he asks.
“Don’t say something other than what you mean,” I say.
“I didn’t,” he says.
“Yes you did. And you do it all the time. Why can’t you ever just say what you really mean?” I ask.
Sam looks at me and the camera lenses in his eyes open for longer than I’ve ever seen them. I feel like I can see straight into everything inside of him that’s hurting. Then he looks away from me and rests his head in his hands. He takes a deep breath. When he looks back at me he says, “Yesterday was a mistake.”
His words rip something out of my heart. The only good thing left in my life felt like that kiss.
“I don’t think so,” I say, my voice a whisper. “The truth is, when Noah kissed me, which is what I’ve thought I wanted for forever, I kept thinking about you.”
Sam looks at me but his eyes are unreadable.
“No,” he says. “We’re making this complicated. We should just be friends. I just got out of a relationship that was always like this. I can’t start this cycle all over again.”
“We’re not in a relationship. You’re the one who keeps saying we’re just friends,” I protest. “And I was drunk, I was having an awful day. It was a mistake. Can’t you see that?”
Sam won’t look at me.
“Sam?” I say after a minute, putting my hand on his knee.
He stands up.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “But I think I’m going to go home.”
Chapter 32
The next morning, my mom is working at our table when I wake up. If you can even call it “waking up” when what I did last night was not sleep. What I did was lie in the dark with my eyes open and spiral, but whatever.
When my mom sees me, she says, “Good morning.”
It strikes me as oddly formal. I say, “Hi.”
She’s staring at me and I can tell there is something she wants to say.
I turn away, slump past her to the kitchen to make tea. I can feel her eyes on me the whole time.
“Sadie?” she says tentatively.
I turn and grumble, “What? What do you want to say?”
It catches her off guard and her expression flips from scared to hurt. She looks at her hands and says, “I just wanted to know if you want breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She takes a deep Yoga breath and then says, with false patience, “Whenever you’re ready to talk about what happened, I’m here.”
I want to scream why now? Why didn’t you talk to me before I made a fool of myself in front of Allan and went and screwed up my whole life? But all I say is, “Fine. Okay. I know.”
I want to get away from her as quickly as possible, so I skip the sugar, and rush back into my bedroom with my bitter, weak tea.
—
Today I have to sort through my photos from the summer and decide which ones I want to make finished prints of so I can hand them in for the final project. The final in Benji’s class counts as fifty percent of our grade, just like a real college class would be. The assignment is to hand in ten final prints. They can be pictures of anything, printed at any size, and from any point in the summer. The only requirement is that the theme is clear.
I open up the folder where I keep my photographs, sprawl them across my floor, and sit cross-legged in the sea of pictures. On the wall in front of me, my postcards are lined up in a neat, orderly grid. There’s such a big gap between all the pictures I’ve taken of the real world, and the perfect world that the postcards depict. I can feel the space between what I want and what I have widening, and it feels like I’m going to fall right through it into nothing.
I pick up the photograph I took of the little boy on the subway and Allan’s words from yesterday slam at me. He’s right, I think. There is no point in being a photographer. The last thing this world needs is more stupid pictures.
My phone rings. I look around but don’t see it because it’s buried somewhere beneath one of these pictures. I lurch onto my knees and begin frantically pushing aside photos, crawling around on all fours not caring if I do damage to the prints. Please please please be Sam.
Finally I see the screen glowing beneath a stack of pictures and I grab it. My heart sinks. It’s not Sam. It’s a New York number I don’t recognize.
In the quiet, as I wait to see if the person will leave a message, my conversation with Sam plays over and over in my head. He was jealous. And maybe, I tell myself, that’s a good thing. That means he likes me for real. But what if it doesn’t matter anymore? What if I’ve ruined everything?
When the voice mail button lights up, I listen to the message.
“Hi, Sadie. It’s Noah Bearman,” the message begins.
My jaw falls open in disbelief. Noah, the Noah, the g
uy who ignored me for half a school year and never once asked to see how I was, has tracked down my phone number and called me. Not even a text but a freaking voice mail.
I restart the message from the beginning.
“Hi, Sadie. It’s Noah Bearman. So. . . . Yeah. I owe you an apology. Yesterday got pretty messed up. It was fun for sure. Not saying it wasn’t fun. But you know. Call me back, okay? I owe you one. Okay. That’s all. Be good.”
Be good. Those two words take me back to Warszawa. Those are the words that broke my heart. He has no idea about anything.
I delete the message. The universe is playing tricks on me. All I’ve ever wanted was for Noah to call me, and now just hearing his voice makes me feel dirty and ashamed.
Why won’t Sam call me instead? Why can’t yesterday have just not happened? How is it possible with all the technological advances in the world—airplanes and Internet and astronauts in outer space sending text messages to Earth—that I still can’t do something as simple as rewind the clock twenty-four hours and undo one stupid mistake?
Chapter 33
This is the last week of class before finals are due. We are supposed to be working on our final prints in the darkroom, while Benji talks to each of us one-on-one in his office.
While Izzy has her private meeting with Benji, I sit on a stool at the table in the photo lab and watch the second hands tick by on the old analog clock on the wall. Everyone else is in a finals frenzy, circling in and out of the darkroom and adjusting the dark and light and focus until their photographs are perfect. If I had any chance of getting this project done on time, I would need to be working, too, but I can’t bring myself to move.
I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy photography again after all the cutting things Allan said. How no one should go to art school, and you can’t do what’s already been done. Maybe nobody loves what they do. They just do what they’re good at and what they think will take them the closest to the person they want to be.
—
Alexis places two test prints in front of me. They are photos of her cat sleeping. They aren’t terrible, but they aren’t great, either. In both, one of the cat’s hind legs is tucked awkwardly underneath her so she looks sort of limbless, like an oval.
Even though her pictures are pretty blah, I envy Alexis right then. She has a normal, happy, not-intense relationship to photography. I wish I could feel that uncomplicated.
“Which print is better?” Alexis asks.
“I don’t know.” I sigh.
“Since when do you not care about photo? You’re like the best in the class,” Alexis says.
“I’m sick,” I say.
Alexis shrugs. “Feel better.”
She grabs her prints and pivots, heading back to the darkroom.
“The one on the right is better,” I call out.
She stops and looks at me. “It’s not too dark?”
“Lighten the top. Outside the window. You’ll be good,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says. And then she says, “And if you do stop caring, can I have one of your prints? I love that picture of the kid on the subway that you took at the beginning. I’d totally frame it if you gave it to me.”
“It’s yours.”
The door to Benji’s office opens, and Izzy saunters out. Slips into the seat beside me.
“Benji is such a dork,” she says. “Do you think his mom sat on his head when he was a baby? That would explain a lot of things. I mean, a lot.”
Alexis pretends she didn’t hear, and for the first time I feel embarrassed to be the target of Izzy’s attention.
“Sadie. Are you ready?” Benji asks, poking his head out from the office door.
I sit down in the student chair in Benji’s office, and he sits in the big swiveling teacher chair behind the desk. He looks even more gangly and teenager-like in that big chair than normal. He leans back.
“Let’s talk about your final project,” he says.
“Like what I am going to do?” I ask, shifting in my chair.
“Yes.”
The window above the air conditioner is cloudy with condensation. I can’t see outside at all. Still, the outdoors beckon to me. The darkroom and Benji and this office, it’s become a prison.
“I don’t know yet,” I say.
“What do you think was your strongest work from the summer?” Benji asks.
I shrug.
“What did you enjoy the most?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It was all the same.”
Benji gives me a sideways glance, smiles. “That doesn’t seem true. You really excelled at a lot of assignments. But I think we can agree that the pictures you take when you’re out and about—the landscape and the boy on the subway—those are the best.”
“I guess,” I say.
“You’re the kind of photographer who really shines when you look outward,” he says. “You’re not taking pictures of yourself or your body or using a macro lens and getting super close up on things. You show us the world outside of yourself.”
I try to be seduced by Benji’s words, but I just replay the things Allan said: Every sixteen-year-old girl goes through a black-and-white photography phase.
I think Benji is waiting for me to speak, but I just tap my heels on the linoleum floor and wait for the meeting to be over.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“You’re acting like I’m doing something so important, but it’s been done already,” I say. “There are a million people out there who are taking black-and-white pictures of the city. It’s been done a thousand times.”
“Sure, in a way,” Benji agrees. “But not the world through your eyes. No one else sees exactly what you see.”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “It’s a cliché.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Benji says. “But in a way, the beauty of being part of your generation of artists, and mine, too, is that everything has been done. It’s not our job to do something new. Or it’s not the only job.”
“Art isn’t a job,” I reply, thinking about what Allan said.
“What do you mean?” Benji asks.
“My dad says the fact that art has become a profession, the professionalization of artists, makes it meaningless.”
“That’s the second time in the last couple of weeks that you’ve quoted something to me that I don’t think really comes from you,” he says.
“Obviously it doesn’t come from me,” I reply, getting infuriated by Benji’s patient manner. “I just told you my dad said it.”
Benji looks like he might yell, but instead he just stands up. He walks over to the window. Pushes a few buttons on the air conditioner, trying to turn the temperature down, but nothing happens.
Then, he crosses to the shelf where he keeps all of his art books and starts searching for books. He pulls down three books, all big hardcovers, and drops them on the desk between us. They land with a thud.
“Take these home,” he says. “These are all contemporary photographers who are doing things that I think are similar to what you’re doing, but also different.”
“I can take these home?” I ask.
“I don’t usually let people take them home because they’re expensive, and they’re my personal collection, not the school’s,” he says. “But it seems like you need someone other than me to tell you that it’s all right to be a quote-unquote traditional street photographer. Okay?”
—
“Benji is letting you take those home?” Izzy asks as we walk out of class together later, nodding toward the brick of books I’m lugging. “That’s so crazy. He probably, wouldn’t even let me touch those books.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I say.
“It’s so true,” she says. “And he probably won’t even be mad if you don’t return them. He
loves you no matter what.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. Then she stops walking. “Listen, Sadie. I need to talk to you.”
“About what?” I ask.
“I think you owe Phaedra an apology,” she says. “She felt really sad that you didn’t bring your dad to her party.”
“Sad?” I repeat, because what Izzy is saying makes zero sense. “But I told you, we had a fight. We went out to lunch and—”
“Artists are difficult,” she interrupts. “That’s not the point. The point is, you promised her you’d bring him, and then you didn’t, and you didn’t even seem sorry.”
“Of course I’m sorry,” I say. “I was upset.”
“Just call her. Phaedra is really amazing and I know she seems so confident, like you’d think she could never get her feelings hurt, but she’s actually really sensitive,” Izzy continues. “And she kind of holds grudges. So you should try and make up with her.”
“Okay.” I swallow. “I’ll text her.”
“I think you should call her,” Izzy says. “It’s nicer.”
“Okay. I will.” Suddenly, I just want the conversation to be over so I can get away from her.
And then Izzy gives me a hug. “And don’t worry. Everything will work out with your dad. He’s family. You can fight, but you’re always going to end up together.”
For a second, I glimpse how truly naive Izzy is. In her world, that’s true. In mine, and maybe in Sam’s, and probably in a lot of people’s, parents can leave for good.
I want to tell Izzy that she’s wrong about family. That as sophisticated as she wants to be, she might be more sheltered than I am.
But all I say is, “I know. Thanks for understanding.”
—
When I get home, I call Phaedra from my room.
We’ve never talked on the phone before. Talking on the phone feels like an intimacy reserved for real friends. More intimate even than talking in person.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Hi, Phaedra, it’s Sadie,” I say.
She doesn’t reply.
“Can you talk for a minute?” I ask.
Summer in the Invisible City Page 17
