I had a shot lined up with the king in focus in the foreground with Rodney in the background contemplating his move. It kind of worked, but wasn’t quite where I wanted it. I played with the angle and finally found that by stacking a chair on a table next to where they were playing and then standing on the chair so I was looking down with a bird’s-eye view, I had something better.
“Mr. Gavard, what do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Adamson stood below me as I snapped a couple more bird’s-eye pictures. “We aren’t accustomed to dealing with concussions during chess practice.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just needed to get into position.”
“Is he bothering you?” Mr. Adamson asked Rodney.
“A little.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I got some good shots that I’ll put up on my album tonight.” I gave them the address and told them to check after nine. People were usually less annoyed when they saw that I was actually taking flattering pictures of them.
~~~~
When I copied everything from the camera to the computer I noticed a video file. Video? I hadn’t shot any video.
I hit play and saw a close-up of Rodney’s face with the sound of Jagger laughing in the background. When he bumped into me I must have hit the video button. I re-watched the first minute and then clicked it off. Rodney seemed like a completely different person than the chess-club guy. At lunch he was pathetic and seemed even smaller than he really was. I think he’d skipped two grades in elementary school, so he looked like he should be starting seventh grade, not high school.
Next to a chess board, he seemed huge, even intimidating.
If he could only apply just a tiny fraction of all that chess strategy to the lunchroom he’d be so much better off.
I hit delete.
With no evidence, no one would remember. It was like it never happened. My version of Rodney would be chess master, not lunchroom wimp.
~~~~
I got my mom to drop me off early Thursday, before any buses had arrived.
The lighting looked promising for an idea I had about a school-bus shot. I set up a tripod on the steps so I had a good vantage point. I did some practice shots with the first bus, but I wanted more people in the foreground, with the bus in the background. It would be ideal if someone showed up and rode by doing something interesting like juggling while riding a unicycle.
When three buses pulled up at once I decided to play with the auto function and see what I got.
I turned the camera to the end of the first bus so I’d get the first few people filing off, but stopped when something bright green came into the frame. What was that?
It was Rodney in a fluorescent tracksuit. He could have just worn a giant target. Even my grandpa, who practically lived in tracksuits, wouldn’t have worn that one.
The second bus unloaded and Jagger was on Rodney in under a minute. I could hear him all the way across the school yard.
“Nice booger suit!”
Rodney just stood there.
Give it back to him! I willed Rodney to make fun of Jagger’s outfit. He didn’t have the greatest wardrobe either. His pants didn’t look like they fit quite right.
“What’s with the big setup?” Dillon started readjusting my tripod. “This isn’t leveled right.”
“Can you do something?” I asked. “He’s going to be harassed all day.”
“Who?” Dillon looked through the camera lens.
Was he blind? How could he not have noticed?
“Rodney!” I pointed to where Rodney still stood with Jagger in his face. “Tell him not to wear a bright green tracksuit to school.”
“Oh. It is kind of bright. Maybe he’s being picked up by a helicopter later and he needs to be visible.”
I shook my head. Only Dillon would be able to think of a cool reason why you would wear a bright green tracksuit to school. He’d have everyone talking about helicopters instead of what a dork he is.
Jagger shoved Rodney hard, sending him staggering backward three steps. Before Rodney could catch his balance, Andres was between him and Jagger, shouting and gesturing.
“Come on,” Dillon said and started to run over.
I lifted my camera on its tripod and ran-walked as fast as I could but by the time I got there, Jagger had walked off, and Dillon had left with Rodney.
Andres kicked the ground, cursing in Spanish.
“What happened?” I asked. “It was nice of you to stick up for Rodney.”
“Was it?” Andres clenched and unclenched his fists. “I probably just made it worse. Now Jagger will go after him when I’m not around.”
“Still, not many people would help Rodney, especially in that outfit.” I unscrewed the camera from the tripod and put it away.
“I know he looks stupid, but so what?” Andres clenched his fists again and faced me. “He should be able to wear whatever he wants. Why does Jagger even care?”
“I have no idea.” I folded the tripod, avoiding eye contact with Andres until he cooled down more.
“Sorry.” Andres kicked the grass. “It’s just… Rodney used to be in my little brother’s class before he skipped all those grades. I hate to think of someone my age picking on my kid brother.”
Andres looked down. “If I had gotten in a fight with Jagger, I’d be kicked off the team.” He turned to look at me. “Remind me not to get involved next time, okay?”
I nodded. Staying out of it was my specialty.
~~~~
Later that morning I had a cool hallway shot lined up when Rodney walked into the frame in that stupid tracksuit. He was being harassed, but not by Jagger. A lot of people were making fun of him, it was so easy. It seemed like anyone who’d ever been curious about trying bullying or just needed to vent was getting in on the action.
Go home already, burn that stupid outfit and try to regain your dignity tomorrow.
I sent my silent message, but of course, he didn’t get it.
No way was I sitting at our lunch table with Rodney in that tracksuit. I went to my locker early, grabbed my sandwich and went outside to find a corner to eat by myself. If anyone asked I’d just say I was cramming for a quiz.
That afternoon one of the arms had been ripped at Rodney’s shoulder seam and the top looked pretty muddy. I hoped Andres had stayed away.
~~~~
After school I ditched my plan to go back to the chess club. I needed to get out of there. I followed the skater kids to their park and got some decent shots of them riding before it was time to head home.
As I cut through the woods behind the skate park, I could see someone on the bridge. With the cloud cover, the lighting wasn’t great, so I had to adjust the exposure, but before I could focus the person moved. I held up the camera and snapped as he crouched down and swung himself under the railing so he was sitting on the edge.
I checked my light levels on the image display and saw the bright green tracksuit the bridge guy was wearing.
I zoomed in and refocused as he held on with one arm and leaned way out.
Crap. If he let go… It was all rocks under there… It didn’t matter if he could swim.
I let the camera dangle on the neck strap and started running toward him.
I don’t know if he heard me, but he swung himself back under the railing onto the bridge and ran to the road on the other side.
~~~~
“Liam, eat!” my mom commanded.
I forced a couple of bites of dinner even though I could literally feel the gag reflex with each mouthful.
I should have gone after Rodney, but what would I have said? Hey, you weren’t going to jump off that bridge were you?
Had he heard me? Was it enough to get him off the bridge or would he just be back tomorrow? I could tell Dillon and Andres, but what could we do, monitor that bridge every day? Become Rodney’s bodyguards?
I wasn’t even sure that’s what he was doing. Maybe I misinterpreted what I saw. I was always projecting, trying to predict what
people would do next so I could get an interesting shot. Maybe I’d just assumed he was thinking of jumping.
“Liam!” My mom was watching me too closely. I was on the verge of getting another eating disorder lecture if I didn’t act fast.
“Sorry, they had a bake sale and I ate a bunch of cookies at the end of the day,” I lied.
“I’m glad you’re eating but please try to not ruin your dinner with cookies.” My mom shook her head. “Wrap that up in case you get hungry later.”
After putting my plastic-wrap-covered plate in the refrigerator, I went to my room.
Focus. I’d print my three shots and be done with it. I copied the pictures to my computer and forced myself to pick what I wanted to show Mr. Waymond. I relaxed a bit as I listened to the printer mechanically moving the paper into place and moving the ink jets back and forth. There. I was done.
Icons of the bridge pictures glowed on the screen. He’d walked away, right? End of story.
I was uninvolved. Behind the scenes.
For the sake of learning how the camera worked, I had to at least check how the lighting turned out. I zoomed in and froze. Agony, misery, hopelessness. He wasn’t playing around.
If I got rid of the pictures and didn’t show anyone, it didn’t happen, right? What happened tomorrow wasn’t my problem.
My mouse hovered over the Delete key.
It would be as if I hadn’t seen him. It was up to me to decide what was noticed and what was forgotten.
I clicked the mouse and waited for the sound of the ink jets bringing Rodney to life.
THE END
About The Author
Karen Avivi
Karen Avivi is the author of Shredded, a contemporary young adult novel about rule-breaking, gravity-defying girls who shred riding freestyle BMX. Karen has tried surfing, skydiving, scuba diving, stunt classes, archery, winter camping, orienteering, mountaineering, mountain biking, and even attempted a bike ramp once, but it didn’t end well. She’s usually reading, writing, or planning a new adventure from her home in Montreal.
Visit her at http://www.karenavivi.com
~When I Met You~
(Missing scene from The Remembrance Trilogy)
By
Kahlen Aymes
Edited by Kathryn Voskuil & Sally Hopkinson
© Copyright 2013 Kahlen Aymes ~ All rights reserved
Dedicated in loving memory of
Amanda Todd
Sweet dreams, Princess Snowflake
Acknowledgments
To my readers… I adore you. Thank you, for your unending devotion to my work and for your support of this very worthy cause through the purchase of
Stories for Amanda. My daughter is close to Amanda’s age and I am heartbroken
for Amanda’s family and for all families out there who
have lost their angels to this horrific and unforgivable epidemic.
Thank you to Carol Todd for allowing us to contribute to the ongoing efforts of AmandaToddLegacy.org and for providing the cover photo.
My heart is with you, always.
To my fellow authors: You bitches rock so hard!
Thank you for your dedication and hard work on this project.
I love you!
Sincere and warmest thanks to Steve Himes, Samantha Paxton, Stephanie Kunz and the remainder of the staff at Telemachus Press for your dedication and selflessness in making this book possible
If you are being bullied, please seek help. Tell someone…
Have faith you are not alone and someone loves you.
Bullies are small people who try to dictate other’s value because
they have none of their own. They are not worth your tears.
They are nothing.
You are everything…
This is for you.
~Kahlen
xoxo
The biggest moment of my life found me unexpectedly, crept up softly, and settled around me like a fuzzy blanket filled with rocks. It was a mere whisper that hit me like a sledgehammer. At the time, I knew it was significant, but I didn’t realize just how those few seconds would change absolutely everything and leave an indelible stamp on the remainder of my life. It would become a contradiction; an unstoppable force that was out of my control, churning and shredding my emotions, yet creating the most incredible contentment I’d ever feel. One that could wrap me up in a warm, safe place or devastate me to the core and leave my heart in shambles. It would become years of want and pain, lust and love… It would hurt like the deepest hell and become the most euphoric and precious ecstasy I’d ever know.
It wrecked me. It made me.
I’d never forget that day, that moment, that glance. The auditorium was huge, like a massive theater, with throngs of young bodies milling around trying to find seats; bustling with activity. Only, it wasn’t the premier of Harry Potter or one of those damn Twilight movies. It was Stanford University and Psychology 101.
Ugh, my brain protested. No matter what your major, whether you were pre-med or planning a future on Wall Street, you had to take some dumbass form of psychology for your liberal arts requirement. Boring as hell to me, but whatever. I had plans for med school, and this course was the most basic. Normally, I had no interest in basic anything, but because I’d just as soon skip it, it was the next best thing. I’d heard it was super easy, which explained why so many students were interested in Community Health Psychology.
Aaron had taken it the semester before and whined the whole time because he didn’t get Dr. Gerrity. We’d heard that to make the course tolerable, he was the only choice for professor. I would have taken it with my brother, but the class was closed by the time I got around to the scheduling session. I didn’t make the same mistake this time, but my enthusiasm was at an all-time low, despite the luck with the instructor.
I searched for a seat toward the back near the main entrance. The hell if I wanted to participate, anyway. I just wanted to show up, sign in, take the tests, and ace the fucker. Cha’ching! That’s what I did; ace shit. School was always easy. I knew it, and was slightly arrogant about it.
I fully expected the first two years of undergrad to be fluff and loaded up on credit hours so that later, when I had clinical, my ass wouldn’t be dragging. I’d even gotten special permission from the dean to take three hours beyond the max class load. My father and I discussed it and decided it was better to have more out of the way, early on, so I could take more difficult courses that would secure my future plans after I’d declared my major; Harvard Medical School. We’d shared the same goal for as long as I could remember. You didn’t get there by taking the bare minimums in anything, and if Dad had done one thing, he’d drilled that into me; work your ass off and never expect success to be handed to you. So far, I hadn’t had to work that hard, but I knew it was only a matter of time. He’d gone to Harvard years earlier, and while that would help, neither of us expected an easy in. Anyway, I wouldn’t want one. I’d earn every piece of it, or it wouldn’t mean shit.
My parents offered the same opportunities for my adopted brother, Aaron. When we were ten his parents were killed in a car accident, he moved in with us and we grew up together. He was the best friend I’d ever had.
Aaron struggled more than me; always had. I felt bad that it was more difficult for him and tried to help whenever I could; especially with math. So far, we’d only had to take Calc 101, which to me was just a repeat of my senior year in high school. This semester was Trigonometry, and I wasn’t looking forward to that at all. It was the most boring part of my requirements, other than this liberal arts crap, but whatever, it was necessary.
“I hear Dr. Gerrity is hot. Let’s sit more toward the front so we can get a good look,” a girl with short, black hair and a red mini-skirt giggled as she moved past me.
Apparently, she had her own reasons for taking this class. I rolled my eyes. For fuck’s sake!
Mini-skirt girl was pretty, but my eyes landed on the back of another young woma
n walking behind the one who was hot for the instructor. She had long, flowing dark hair that looked like a shiny, slick river of deep chocolate as she moved. It was smooth and looked very soft, dropping almost to the middle of her back. My eyes moved lower to her denim-encased ass. Her waist was small and the curve of her hips flowed deliciously out to place emphasis on the bedazzled pockets I was staring at. There was an ���M’ embroidered on one side. My lips twitched in the start of a grin. ‘M’ was for Matthews. I took it as a sign that I needed to talk to her or I’d regret it. Regardless if it meant something or not, didn’t matter. It was a sign, my subconscious argued. I grinned because I couldn’t fucking help myself.
I picked up the backpack I’d just placed in one of the seats near the aisle and followed the two women further down. For all I knew she could be a troll, and I should rein in my eagerness until I knew for sure. A troll with a stellar ass, maybe, but I hadn’t seen her face. Then she spoke, her voice soft, almost musical, but adamant. I knew I had to meet her.
“Ellie, he’s old, and I don’t wanna sit in the front. This class is gonna be lame as it is. We’ll have to join discussion up there, and I hate this shit.”
“Please?” her friend lamented.
Stories for Amanda Page 2
