“Anyone could see these things,” Xander points at his pictures, “if they zoomed in like the Tank does. It all depends on what you focus on.”
XANDER
Writer’s Craft Journal
Xander Watt
March 30, 2016
ASSIGNMENT: Extended Metaphor Poem.
The world makes sense
through my camera lens.
Because film doesn’t lie
like people do.
The Tank
Shows what is.
Frames my vision.
Makes me focus.
Helps me see
reel life.
Truths exposed in black and white.
Where even shades of gray are clear.
And in my solitary darkness,
understanding slowly develops.
But I’ll never know why
optimists claim to know
“the big picture.”
Because it can not exist without
the negative.
ALICE
“It’s not on Instagram or whatever…so no one else but us will ever see it,” I say to Isabelle, trying to ease her embarrassment. “Right, Xander?”
He nods soberly, and then, as though having an epiphany, suddenly starts rummaging through his mess of pictures on the floor. “Wait! Wait! I have another one.”
“See?” Isabelle whines.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, trying to help her keep things in perspective. “It’s just a photograph, so—”
“No, no,” Xander interrupts, excitedly, like he can’t wait to show me. “This one’s of you, Alice.”
Me?
Unease ripples through me at the thought of what he might produce—but wait, this is me. Invisible, boring me. What has he possibly captured that would be of any interest?
“Here.” He pulls one from the pile and hands it to me.
Me. Alone at a long lunch table. Students, a blur around me. I remember that day. Noah was home sick and I had no reason, no excuse to eat in the High Needs room. I even stopped by to eat with Kim or help out with the other students, but they were all gone on a class trip so I went to the caf. The photo catches my uneaten tuna sandwich in my hand, my slumped shoulders, my stare into the emptiness across from me. It catches that moment, the day I realized what had long been true.
I am alone. Completely alone.
Isabelle glances at it. “See? Who wants to see that in a yearbook? Who wants to remember that? It’s just sad.”
And it is. I am. Pitiful, really. My throat tightens.
God, am I going to cry? Here? Now? Over a lunchroom picture? That’s even more pathetic.
I get it now. Why Isabelle and Hogan reacted so strongly. The truth is there in black and white. Literally. But Xander isn’t to blame. All he did was hold up the mirror and show us what we’d rather not see.
And it’s not just that I am by myself for lunch that day—I am alone, more alone than I care to admit. Sure, I have Gran. And Noah. But when Gran dies, I’ll be Noah’s everything. And I will. I love my brother, I do. But it’s just so…so one-sided. Noah just can’t engage like typical people. He leans in, if he’s calm, when I hug him, but he doesn’t hug me. He doesn’t ask how my day was. He doesn’t care about me. Not really. Sometimes, I wonder if he even knows who I am.
When Gran is gone, I’ll care for Noah like I promised. But who will care about me?
I look back at the photo. I was thinking about my mother that day as I watched other kids eating—or tossing out—the sandwiches their moms made. Wondering what it would’ve been like to have a mom that cared. How ironic that while most teens wish their mom would give them space, what I most want is for mine to give a crap.
She came home for Grampa’s funeral the week before Xander took that photo. I hadn’t seen her in ten years. Had hardly heard from her, aside from a few postcards now and then. She’s a stranger to me. And though I stayed still while Noah rocked and bobbed, I was just as agitated by her presence as Grampa’s absence.
After years of longing for her, I couldn’t wait to see her again. To reconnect. But even as she hugged us, she didn’t look at us with love or even interest. Her eyes held only shame. I overheard her arguing with Gran in the kitchen that night when I was coming back down the stairs to get my journal. I stood there, hand on the railing, needing to hear what, on some level, I already knew.
“They’re your children, Shelly. Your kids.” I heard Gran tapping her spoon on the edge of her teacup like she always did after she stirred things up.
“I can’t, Mom.” My mother’s voice was low. “Things are…complicated right now.”
Gran paused. “You’ve been saying that for nearly fifteen years. Life is complicated, girl. You just do the best you can with what you’ve got. Look at me.”
“That’s why they’re with you. This is the best place for them.” She paused. “Besides, with Dad gone…you’ll be needing their help with the kennels.”
Gran sighed. “I’m getting old, Shelly. I won’t always be here.” She paused. “And what then?”
What then?
I’ve been asking myself that all this past year. Gran is strong. Healthy. She might outlive us all. But what if she doesn’t.
What then?
“Look, Mom,” my mother finally said, “I’ve got my own life to live. One that doesn’t have space for kids with…needs. Needs I just can’t meet.”
I realized a truth on the stairwell that night. I didn’t stir love or pride in my mother. Not even a vague concern or detached curiosity, as I might from a kind stranger. That night I had an epiphany and it shook me to the core: the only thing I ever made my mom feel was guilt.
Even now, it wasn’t about her kids. It was about her. We were simply her mistakes. Me and Noah. And the mistake wasn’t leaving us, it was having us in the first place.
Standing in the shadows on the stairs, I promised myself that I would never abandon my family, Noah and Gran, for now they were all the family I had. My mother had given me life, given me a brother, and then given me away. She was weak and irresponsible, selfish, plain and simple.
And I swore that night that I would never be anything like her.
ISABELLE
“See?” I say, as he gives Alice her terrible photo.
She looks like she’s going to cry. Obviously she took what I said the wrong way. I meant that the photo was sad—not her. But yeah, now that I look at it again, she is a total Eeyore. Pretty depressing. So is the way she’s just sitting there now, staring at the photo like that droopy donkey, moaning, Oh well…guess I’ve got no one to sit with at lunch.
Some problem.
“At least you’re not doing something secret in the photo,” I say, trying to help out. I mean, come on. Reality check, people. “Even your picture, Hogan. It’s just you guys sitting on the steps or in the caf where everyone can see you anyway. They’re not as bad as my picture. Not by far.”
“It’s not a contest, Iz,” Hogan says. “Why do you always have to make it about you?”
It’s not the first time someone has said that to me. But Hogan says it differently. Like a real question that he wants me to answer. Only, for the first time ever, I don’t have a comeback.
“What?” I say, confused. Because, honestly, it feels like it’s never about me. Not the real me, anyway. “I don’t always make it about me. Do I? I mean, seriously…is that what you guys think?”
The question hangs there between us, growing heavier with each passing second.
“Yeee-ah,” Hogan says, drawing it out like it’s SO obvious.
“Alice?” I ask. Surely, she doesn’t think so. I mean, the girl has clearly idolized me since, like, grade school.
She looks up from her downer zone-out. Blushes a bit. “Ummm…” She looks apologetic, and already I feel myself cringing. “You maybe…sometimes act…a bit like you sort of…”
“Tell her the truth, Alice,” Hogan says. “She asked for it.”
Alice bites her lip and then continues in a gush of words. “You’re just very…egocentric.” She pauses and smiles slightly. “No offense.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, genuinely confused but thinking I really should be offended.
Alice hesitates and looks at the others.
“Egocentric,” Dictionary Dork chimes in, “self-centered, self-absorbed. Acting like the world revolves around you.”
Then Hogan adds his two cents. “You act like you matter more than everyone else at St. F.X.”
“I’m School Pres-i-dent,” I say, spelling it out for them. Don’t they get it? I do matter more, in a way, because I have way more responsibility than any other student. All they have to worry about is their classes. I’ve got all of that and dances and sports, and running Student Council practically on my own. Anything goes wrong, it’s on me. Any event, I have to plan, emcee, and somehow photograph for the yearbook that I’m, oh yeah, also putting together. “All the extra stuff that happens at St. F.X.—the spirit weeks, planning your freaking prom—do you think all that just…just happens? Do you have any idea how many hours I put into—?”
“You’re doing it again,” Hogan says.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about all the stuff, all the work I do…for you.”
“For me?” he asks.
“For all of you.”
Hogan looks around at the other pair. “Hands up,” he smirks, “who’s been to a dance?”
Alice and Xander shake their heads.
“Spirit Week—you guys into that?”
They keep shaking.
“What about you, Noah?” he asks over his shoulder to the guy spazzing out in the corner. “Prom?…Anybody?”
Embarrassed, Alice and Xander look away.
I glare at Hogan. “That doesn’t prove anything except that you’re all a bunch of antisocial loners with, like, zero school spirit.” This time I don’t say “no offense.” Screw them. Let them get offended for a change. My head throbs. I feel another meltdown coming on. The seal has been broken. Already the tears are burning behind my eyes.
“We didn’t mean to upset you, Isabelle,” Alice says.
“It’s just high school,” Hogan adds. “In the big picture, none of this really matters.”
And just like that, he voices what I’ve been fearing all along, what I realized on my trip: all my striving, all my efforts to impress, to succeed, to be perfect—it doesn’t matter. None of it does.
I wasn’t happy before DREX, but I was in denial. I believed I’d be satisfied with the next win, the next party, the perfect relationship, the perfect prom. But if I’m honest, none of those things are enough.
And if that’s not my purpose—then what is?
“At least I’m trying; I’m doing something,” I say, my lip trembling. “What have any of you ever done for your school?”
No one speaks. Xander goes back to his stack of photos. Hogan picks at his nails. Alice tosses her picture back into the pile.
“Whatever.” I cross my arms and lean against the wall. “I was just trying to help—with school activities, with yearbook, with Alice and her stupid picture. It’s like I said—no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I give up.”
“No,” Alice says, “I get it. I do. You are the heart of the school. What would St. F.X. be without Isabelle Parks?”
I think she means it. The heart of the school. My eyes soften a bit. What would this school be without me? But the real question is: who will I be without St. F.X.?
“Oh, here’s Noah’s.” Xander interrupts us with another picture.
It’s Noah in the hallway, being wrestled to the ground by two staff members as Wilson yells into his walkie-talkie. Whatever setting Xander used blurs the chaos but somehow focuses on Noah’s face—on the terror, the confusion, but especially the rage. He looks wild. Insane. Dangerous.
“What the hell is going on there?” Hogan leans in for a closer look.
“He has meltdowns, sometimes,” Alice says, like that explains it. “If he gets…overwhelmed.”
In the corner, Noah starts tapping his head, muttering to himself, growing more and more restless. He slaps himself hard a few times as he makes this weird squawk. The room feels very small, and I glance at the door, our only exit, wedged shut.
“He’s fine, he’ll be fine,” Alice says. But I’m not sure if she is reassuring me or herself.
NOAH
Waves
over the horizon.
I hear them come, watch
them grow from ripple to roar.
I kick.
Spit. Scratch.
Scream.
I fight cresting
white, frothy madness,
but I cannot stop the
crash.
I lose myself
inside the wave.
It swallows me whole.
Drowns me in sights and sounds—
Suffocating.
Out!
I need out.
I need to run.
AWAY!
NOW!
But something, someone,
always holds me here.
Holds me down.
No matter how hard
I cry for
help.
ALICE
I’ve seen a thousand meltdowns, each of them distressing in one way or another, but seeing it in one frame, one moment, somehow makes it even harder.
Hogan takes the photo and examines it. “That’s pretty extreme. Does it happen a lot?”
“No,” I say. “That day was the worst one. They called a Secure School because of it.”
“That’s why we had it?” Isabelle looks back, fearful. “Is he…dangerous?”
I don’t know how to answer that. “He isn’t dangerous, well, not really.” It doesn’t sound convincing. “He’s more dangerous to himself, if anything. He could get hurt thrashing around like that. Or hurt someone.”
Isabelle’s eyes widen.
“By accident,” I add quickly.
“Have you ever been hurt?” she asks.
“Not on purpose,” I say, vaguely.
The truth is, I’ve been on the receiving end of Noah’s outbursts a few times. Many times. All my life, really. When he gets frustrated he scratches. Slaps. Bites. Pulls my hair if he can get at it. One time, he even broke my arm when he flipped the table.
“He doesn’t mean it,” I explain. “I should have known better. Should have given him his space.”
Over the years, I learned how to steer clear, just like our dogs do. They sense Noah’s episodes, feel it coming like a thunderstorm and make themselves scarce, hiding out in the basement or under the furniture. Now that Noah is so much bigger than me and Gran, we have locks on our bedroom doors. When Grampa screwed in the bolts last fall, he said the locks were to keep special things safe—I see now, now that he’s gone, he wasn’t talking about my china doll collection. He meant me and Gran.
“How do you handle his…meltdowns?” Isabelle asks. “I mean, you’re pretty scrawny. No offense.”
She’s right. I am small. Slender. Slight. Okay, scrawny.
“I usually try to corral him into his safe zone. He’ll wind down on his foam floor or exercise ball or wrap up in his blankets,” I say, realizing that none of those are options now. “But if it’s really bad, I lock myself in my room and wait him out.”
“Like a lockdown?” Hogan says, and snorts.
But it isn’t funny.
“Yeah…” I choke on the truth of it. “I guess my whole life is a lockdown.”
We sit in silence listening to the click of the switch as Noah flicks the lights on and off.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I feel stupid for speaking it—even if it is my reality. My life is a lockdown. What kind of pathetic soul admits that out loud?
“I know what you mean,” Hogan says, int
errupting my inner critic.
“Totally,” Isabelle adds.
It surprises me. Do they, really? Only someone living my story would truly know.
“I shut everyone out after Randy died,” Hogan says, looking at his picture.
Nobody speaks.
“It’s like…” Isabelle struggles to find the right words. “Like we lock up a part of ourselves out of fear. Fear of being judged. Fear of failing.”
“…or fear of getting hurt,” I say.
“…or of hurting someone else,” Hogan adds.
“…or of always being alone,” Xander says in his robotic way, as he continues to sort through the pile of photos.
Our personalities, our stories are so very different—and yet, our fears feel so similar.
I look around the tiny washroom. The five of us cooped up and locked down. And Noah, humming, moaning, flicking the lights on and off.
Click-click-click.
Trapped, as his unspoken fears wind tighter.
Tighter.
Tighter.
How long do we have, I wonder, before he finally snaps?
HOGAN
“Here it is.” Xander hands me a photo.
I’m afraid it’s gonna be another Hallmark moment in my loser life. But it isn’t me. It’s the guy from the yearbook, Maxwell what’s-his-name. Same skinny guy, same geeky shirt, same just-try-me expression. Like he wants you to hit him. Same everything, really, except for the guns.
Yes, guns. Two of them, actually.
He’s standing on a bluff, one large rifle slung over his back, the other butted up against his shoulder. It’s not the ammo belt criss-crossing the rifle strap, or even the guns that get me. They’re only paintball guns, painted black to look more realistic. Randy and I often went paintballing when we were young and, as usual, I’d come out covered in yellow, splattered and stained by his many bull’s-eyes. Those paint pellets sting and bruise, but they aren’t dangerous. Not really. Well, not if you’re wearing the gear.
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