by Anne Eliot
Dad raises his voice. “Don’t start this conversation with me again.”
“It’s high school. Love doesn’t just wait for football seasons or college contracts to be signed.” She stands and sets her plate in the sink. “Cam, honey, if you have feelings for that girl you just go with your heart and do whatever you want. Do you hear me?”
“Oh. Wonderful parenting. Now you’re urging our son to break the team rules that have been set up for decades?”
I get this wave of exhaustion as I read the fire-breathing expressions flashing between them. Without me intervening, things are escalating to the point of no return for them.
But I’ve got no words this time. None. I simply can’t step in and help them head off their fight like I usually do. For the first time in my life, I realize that the fighting, though it’s always about me, is between them.
I actually don’t want to help anymore. My help is obviously broken. It doesn’t work at all because tomorrow, they will be back at this again.
Dad paces over and gets in Mom’s face. “I can stop my son from doing anything I want! I’m his father! School rules aside, my son is not allowed to have feelings or a girlfriend in high school, and we’ve discussed this all along.”
Mom holds her ground. “And I’m his mother. If my son is falling in love you’ve got no right to stop that from happening. He’s not your little puppet. It’s time to let him live a little past your stupid end zone.”
I scoop up the sleeping Coco and walk out of the room without looking back. Even though it makes me feel guilty, I find myself praying that this fight will be the one that breaks us all apart and flings me outside of their twisted center-line once and for all.
**
The shouting escalates and fills the hallway behind me.
I pull out my phone and see I’ve missed a text. The remaining bits of breath I’d been holding in the kitchen push out of my lungs. My heart, full of dread and depression, stops and re-starts in a flutter-light beat when I see the name Ellen Foster flashing at the top of my screen!
As a long string of texts from her comes in, all thoughts of my parents fade away and the walls in my hallway wrap around me, just as the floor feels like it’s fallen away from my feet.
I’m just floating in space.
Me. And Ellen.
Ellen. And me.
And our brightly lit iPhones!
I hold mine like it’s a lifeline as I read each typed word as though I’ve found buried treasure: Sorry 4 late texts.
Thanks for worrying about me.
I’m fine.
And so you know…I’m sorry I was a complete awkward jerk today.
Just…too many weird situations.
Not a normal day for me, that’s for sure.
Determined to keep this going, I juggle Coco so she’s nestled under my arm. With the main weight of her fluff comfortably on my forearm, I work to respond with my fingers fumbling all over the place thanks to nerves. I finally manage: Yeah. Strange, long and endless day for me too. Practice and parents and so much homework. I also take ownership of most of the awkward bits that happened between us.
She fires back fast: Don’t mock me, popular boy. You don’t get to use the word awkward—ever. ;)
Me, grinning because she just text-winked at me for the first time: I AM awkward. Very. And I’d never mock you. So…do you want to talk about the photos or…”
Ellen: Yeah. I checked out your photos…they are…
I hold my breath, watching the three little dots as she types more. It takes so long I start to panic, until finally she adds: Awesome. Just…awesome. IDK…they made me feel. Really feel. And…I’m sort of humbled by how simple and complex they are all at once. You’re amazing. An artist.
Me: Thanks but…
Her: No buts. Bow. Bow. Applause. You’re really talented.
The world fades back in because my heart just exploded. I believe it will never return to a steady rhythm again. It’s like a whole marching band is somehow inside of me and I’m talking trumpets, tubas, flutes, drum core and cymbals crashing all over the place! But that’s when I realize I can hear my parents slamming cabinets and shouting louder behind me.
It’s possible the cymbal sound is coming from the kitchen.
Quickly, in case one of them should arrive in the hallway and accuse me of eavesdropping, I take a left and hit the back hallway that leads to the laundry room area, heading for the garage.
All along, I’m smiling like a fool as I walk and type: Don’t mock ME, photography girl. My turn to call you out. Uncool to give out false hope and lies that you liked my stuff.
Her next text comes in as I round the corner near the washer and dryer: I wouldn’t. I don’t ever mock art. Even if I don’t like someone’s work, I never mock it. And I LOVED your shots. Really. Your stuff is beyond. I can’t get the over-exposed one—the one you did on the bleachers—white? With—
The whole back of my neck fires red-hot as I type fast to answer before she finishes: The all white one that looks like—
She beats me to it: Ice!
I finish: Ice. Yeah.
Ellen: I will never get that shot out of my head for as long as I live. It’s like—IDK—like…
I grin, waiting for her to go on. The shot she’s describing is also my personal favorite so of course my heart is hitting upside-down-roller-coaster levels of happiness right now.
Her next text loads: It’s like you’ve shown everyone the secret insides of the moon. Or like something I never thought I’d see yet somehow I feel like I recognize it! And you’ve done it with such a common object—the contrast of what the image really is, and what it looks like—what it could be is something so…unforgettable. My heart still hurts from staring at it—if that makes sense?
Me: It does make sense, actually.
Ellen: Can I ask a question about it?
Thinking she wants to know how I made the bright-ice effect I type: Fire away.
Ellen: Were you sad when you took that shot? Sad when you took the others, too?
I freeze in my tracks and blink down at the phone as a trickle of fear erases my elation and slides down my spine.
Ellen again: Tell me. Please. You don’t have to tell me why…just…were you? Sad?
As my parents’ shouts reach me like flames flicking off the end of a firebomb, I see no reason to lie to her. I use one shaking thumb to answer: Yes.
When I don’t see her responding right away, another wave of odd fear hits me. I never, ever, talk about my feelings, but I just handed Ellen Foster way too much information. Miss Brown gave her sixty of my shots. And it’s pretty damn obvious I didn’t take them all on the same day, so…crap. Why did I just answer her like that? Worse, I realize I have the urge to type more! To tell Ellen Foster that until today, I’d been pretty much sad all the damn time.
What would she think about me if I went there?
Shaking my head, I head through the door to our garage and climb into the passenger seat of Mom’s latest BMW. This one’s a white, M3 Coupe. I quietly close the door behind me, reclining the leather seat until I’m comfortable. Coco’s used to hanging out in here with me so she curls up fast in the center of my chest and goes back to sleep. BMW is famous for their quiet cabs. This is the only place I can guarantee Mom and Dad’s words to each other won’t get into my head which is why I take advantage of this amazing feature at least four times a week. I’ll sneak back in when Mom and Dad have retreated to their caves.
Ellen’s finally responded: Thanks for being honest. I knew it. I knew it. I could tell…I could taste it, feel it and I swear the one with the iced football…it was like getting shot with a…IDK…shot with a…
Me, trying to joke it away: Don’t say ‘sadness gun’…
Her: LOL. No. IDK. Okay? I’m not an art critic. I don’t really know how to talk about this stuff, but I swear—even the paper on that one shot—when you hold it in your hands it seems heavier. So…powerful.
I evade the fact that I had the same response when I first printed it. I want to tell her that I almost tore up the print and deleted the file altogether, but I hold back with: Really?
Her: The emotion comes through like a fist punch. Fine. Like a sadness gun. :)
Me: LOL. No.
Her: I wish I could do…or learn to do what you did. I’m good at objects and balance but I don’t think my shots carry any real emotion. I want—I hope—you can maybe teach me some of how you did that?
My head spins as I answer: Me, teach YOU? HA. That’s a good one. Feel free to stop talking crazy any time now.
Her: I’m serious. And…I know you and I really don’t know each other that well but…I have to at least say something else right now.
I figure she’s already stripped off my skin to the point I’ve got nothing left to hide, so I fire back, trying to make her stop but at the same time hoping she never does: What? Is it awkward? I vote stop? ;)
Her: Yes. Very. But I don’t care. Let me say it anyhow?
Me, with a stomach flip so huge it’s made me queasy: If you must.
Her: I hope you aren’t still sad. Or ever that sad again. I’ve been there, so maybe that’s why the photo got to me. Just want to know if you are okay now, that’s all. Because if you’re not, then I mean to do something about it. Somehow. If I can.
My soul twists-turns-tornadoes into something so huge I am actually more terrified than I was a few texts ago. I don’t know how or where to put her sweet and obviously genuine concern for me. I only know I want to put it somewhere I can keep. A flicker-twitch of moisture behind my eyes distracts me. After I win the war between breathing and not crying I am finally able to answer: Sorry you also were sad like that once. I’m okay and I’m actually in the middle of a plan that’s turning me back to fine—back to myself—though it does seem like a slow process. But, it’s working. So…thanks for asking.
Her: Good. Good. Slow will still get you there. I know all about how slow works. Don’t think I’m nosy. Was just worried, that’s all.
Me: Well, don’t worry. I’m good. Grateful someone—you—noticed. Cool that you did.
Her: Yeah…well. Just had to make sure your awesomeness is protected. I’m counting on you to win the WOA with me. Can’t have you flaking out on me.
I answer the truth: I’d rather quit football than flake on this cool project. Not sure about winning the WOA, but will try. And…if you don’t mind could you please stop calling me awesome when I’m pretty sure you’re the awesome photographer here. And, for the record…I…I’m…
I stop myself, wondering just how far I can go.
Her: Waiting. You…what? What?
Me: I’m really looking forward to it, that’s all. And I’m happy you aren’t pissed it’s a group project anymore.
Her: Yeah. I mean. No. Not mad. We still need to talk about all your other shots. I’ve got more questions. So many more questions…about you. And now, I guess about football…and…emotion, and how you did what you did with that ice photo…and…
I type fast without thinking: NO. No more questions. No offense, but I’m not used to chattering about my work. Okay. This is really freaking me out.
Her: Oh. Okay. Yeah. I guess I understand that.
I smack my hand to my head, wondering if I’ve hurt her feelings. So, I flip the conversation on to her going with: You’re the first person besides Miss Brown who’s ever seen my shots at all—ever. It’s totally uncomfortable for me to show people my stuff let alone talk about—emotions—so, if we are going to do this, we need to talk face to face. Spread the shots out in front of us. Mine and yours.
Her: Yeah. Makes sense. Sorry. I get over excited about photography and I go crazy. And I’ve never known someone my age who can just talk about this stuff with me.
Me: Don’t get me wrong. I’m the same. I also have two billion questions for you. I need to learn how you get the branches and leaves to pop like you do against your background light? How you capture the sky and water to make it look so silver-bright? So alive? How much do you photo edit? And, if we are talking about being sad while taking photos, then I’ve got a few questions about what you were thinking at the time you took a few of your shots. Because on a whole bunch of yours, the ones of all the shoes—the ones that feature people’s legs and bare feet—I think you weren’t sad…you were…hmm…what’s the word I’m thinking of? Help me out.
She answers lightning fast: NO. NO WAY. No deal. I’m like you. Not a fan of chattering over my work or my feelings so don’t think I’m going to answer most of those especially not face to face! Can’t do it. I asked you the tough questions over text like a normal person. What’s wrong with you? Maybe we should just scratch all of the above and move forward with technical tips now that we are…friends?
Me, smiling again: Friends. Is that what we are? :)
Her: After this day? After fate, and Laura London and Miss Brown intervened? I guess we have to be friends. For awhile, anyhow? As long as neither of us starts talking about FEELINGS again. LOL
I’m completely disappointed, but I know she’s right, and it seems much safer to go with her ‘no feelings’ idea.
Me, one fake: LOL, then, Swear you will wear the tiger beanie tomorrow to the bus stop?
Her: Is the hat some sort of friendship test? A requirement?
Me: It is. For Laura.
Her: BLEH. Okay. I promise. For Laura. Because who could ever disappoint that girl, but if I show up at the stop and you are not wearing your tiger beanie. There. Will. Be. Blood.
I laugh out loud, happy to think I’ve just orchestrated our first official bus meet-up. I decide to plant some seeds for lunch: Exactly. And, of course, personal photos and our love for Ireland aside, we need to talk about your project.
She takes the bait: OUR project. And Laura’s, too, I mean. The three of us…should talk…we should talk—a lot. How about at lunch? In the digi-photo room, okay?
My heart swells because it sounds so perfect that she’s typed the word ‘us’ to me—even if her ‘us’ includes one girl too many.
I grin at my answer before hitting send: Yes. Lunch. Us. Going to be awesome.
I’m so elated about this text conversation, I manage to push away the part where I usually sit in this car wondering and worrying if my parents are still going at it in the kitchen, but if Ellen keeps texting me back, I will happily sit here all night.
Coco wakes up when I tip the rear-view mirror and grin at my reflection. “Coco, I’m so gone on this beautiful girl. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” Coco yawns, but looks at me like she understands and stretches forward so I can scratch her a bit between her ears as the next text comes in.
She’s typed: Patrick—my best friend—he thinks he’s already in love with Laura. Do you know him from the team?
Me: Yes. I know him, of course. He seems cool.
I frown, slightly envious that she called Patrick her best friend, but I’m relieved she’s confirmed that she and Patrick are definitely only friends.
I add: He should think twice before he falls for our little pixie, though. She could be one dangerous girl. And I’m not just talking about the possibility that her glitter might be flammable, either.
Ellen: Right? The way she rallies people around her craziness might accidentally get a lot of people…arrested…or worse.
Me: LOL. What’s worse than getting arrested?
Ellen: A wheelchair is the only worse thing I can think of.
I’m slightly humbled that she trusted me with that little bit of information. I can’t think of a good thing to answer b
ack but finally I type: Danger all around. Between Patrick losing his mind over Laura and all of us stuck in the promised tiger beanies…
She types: Don’t remind me. I’m completely terrified about how tomorrow is going to go. Are you? Afraid? Maybe it’s just me and my aversion to animal prints.
I crack up but for my answer, I stick to the truth even though she has no idea my answer centers around her never texting me all cute like this again: I’m scared to death about tomorrow.
Her: Tired. See you in the morning.
Me—grinning like mad and making a little notch in my invisible ‘goals’ checklist—I type the words I’d hoped to type: Night, Ellen.
Ellen: Night.
It takes every ounce of my strength to not text back three million smileys.
ellen
I’ve pulled the beanie on and off three times, ending with it ‘on’ as Patrick and I trudge slowly down the three blissfully flat streets of Lakeshore Drive before we turn and take the hill down to the bus.
Patrick convinced his mom to drop him off extra early this morning so he could bring me breakfast. He always does this after I fall. Even though none of what happens to me is ever his fault, he thinks he can make it up to me somehow, and all by using Tim Hortons snacks and matching products! In Patrick’s mind, the little boxes of Timbit donut holes work to erase all little day-to-day injustices, but for big events like what happened yesterday, he’s gone big. I’ve got maple frosting donuts—four—so I can share them with my best friend—something Patrick believes erases all bad memories.
