Mr. Killinger presses his lips together and twists his mouth the way people do when they don’t really believe what you’re telling them. It looks like he’s pondering whether he should press me more on the subject.
“Yeah, I understand.” He studies me. I meet his look, putting on my most honest face. “Well, I’m glad things are getting better,” he says. “So, have you talked more with the counselor here at school?” As soon as I saw Killinger at school after the whole incident with Mom, he told me he’d had to refer me. I had talked to the counselor guy but just told him some lies that I guess he didn’t bother to look into, and I pretended everything was getting better.
I nod. “Yeah, I did and it’s really helping. Everything’s fine. Thanks,” I tell him.
“Well, I’m here, too, you know. You can talk to me whenever.” I nod. “So, how’s your project going?”
Damn. I used up all my creativity for the Thanksgiving lies.
“Have you finished it yet?”
“Sort of, but . . .”
“Having trouble?”
I shrug and decide to be honest about this because it’s easier than coming up with more crap. “I really don’t know what it is. Taking pictures usually isn’t difficult for me. What I was working on didn’t really turn out the way I wanted it to.”
The pictures I’d taken of Charlotte sucked. I had uploaded them, but they didn’t look right. When I look at Charlotte, in those rare moments she’s not talking a million miles an hour, in the time when she’s done saying something and just stares at me before looking away, I see something different. And I was sure I could capture that in the photos, or at the very least, in just one of them. But I hadn’t. And I don’t know if it’s because I imagined it, or if I suck, or because now the pictures of her are hard to look at, but they weren’t working.
“Well,” Mr. Killinger says while leaning on his desk and crossing his arms, “the idea doesn’t have to be earth shattering, you know. It’s the execution of it,” he says and tells me how every picture says or conveys something. “It’s not about conventional beauty,” he says. “It’s about the meaning or message behind the picture, and that might be pretty or ugly or disturbing or raw, but it’s that honesty that makes a picture . . . memorable, striking and even shocking. Pictures should make you think, Charlie, reflect, ponder, in the same way that a good song or book or painting does.” Mr. Killinger sometimes gets too passionate talking about photography, but I listen to him, even as he goes on and on because there’s something in his riddles and rambling that makes sense. It makes me think, and by the time I’m headed to lunch to meet Ahmed, all I can think of is the project because Killinger’s words have triggered some images and ideas. But none of them are of Charlotte.
Later that night, I’m home staring at the outline Mr. Killinger handed out the first day of class, which states all the requirements for the project. Killinger’s words keep ringing in my ears. What do I have to say? And I think of how it always seems like I have a lot to say but can never form the words to get it out. But it’s there, always, whatever I have to say, it’s always in me, stuck in the back of my throat. Sometimes I think I’m choking on it. Whatever the shapeless words are, whatever inexplicable things I have to say, they’re killing me.
When I go to sleep, Killinger’s words are still floating around in my head. They say sometimes your brain works things out subconsciously, without you even being aware of it. And maybe that’s why, as I’m falling asleep, I suddenly see it all so clearly. I see my whole collection. At first I’m startled, and it knocks the freakin’ wind out of me, it really does, because it’s amazing and bad and good and crazy and real and everything I’ve ever felt but never had the words for. But I don’t know if I can do it. Could I actually make those pictures real for everyone to see, for everyone to talk about or criticize, or worse, laugh at?
I feel like one of those freaks on trashy talk shows, keeping some kind of terrible secret from someone, but then go on national TV and tell them in front of everyone so all these strangers can be entertained by their pain. Is that what I was thinking of doing? But I can’t think about those TV people right now because I have to do this. I jump out of bed and start writing down my ideas before they float out of my head.
I wake up early, even though I’m not sure if I actually fell asleep last night, and get to work immediately. I work on what I can before I have to ask Dad what I really don’t feel like asking him. But I figure he owes me, which is probably the only way I’m going to get him to do what I need him to do.
“Hey,” I mutter as I enter the living room, where he’s sitting with a bag of chips watching a football game. He looks up and quickly puts away the chips.
“Hey,” he says. We stare at each other a long time before I finally blurt out, “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything, Sport.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I mean Charlie.” He offers me a weak smile. I nod. He’s trying.
“But . . .” There was no way to make this not sound creepy. “I, uh, you can’t ask me why, just know it’s for a really important school project. And I, um, I really need you to just agree, okay?”
“No questions?” he asks.
“It’s just easier if you don’t ask.”
He looks apprehensive. I look down at my sneakers and wait for an answer. “Okay, whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, “uh, just wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, now?”
“Dad.”
“Right, no questions.”
I nod and head upstairs for one of Dad’s button-down shirts, a black handkerchief I can use as a blindfold, and the red lipstick I got from Mom’s bathroom. My heart is beating like it’s gonna quit any minute, and until I actually start doing this, I’m not sure I can go through with it. I open the lipstick, sure that this will damage my psyche more than everything with Mom, but put it on anyways before I can change my mind, and then kiss the collar of Dad’s shirt. I quickly wipe off the lipstick, but no matter how hard I scrub, my mouth still looks slightly red. Great.
I head downstairs and choose a spot for the photo shoot. I scan the living room, bring in a white sheet to use as a backdrop, move here, move there, change this, change that, mumble to myself, until finally I’m satisfied. Dad looks bewildered and stares at my mouth. But I don’t care. I have to get this done before I change my mind. I ask him to put on the blindfold, and only after that, ask him to put on the shirt. And true to his word, he doesn’t ask questions. I snap a bunch of pictures and even as I snap them, I know they’re turning out perfect. I try not to look at Dad directly, just from behind the lens. From here, he’s not my dad. From here, he’s just some guy, who looks scared and lonely and guilty and tired. From here, he’s a guy I kind of start to feel bad for.
“Okay, we’re done,” I say. He takes the blindfold off and then the shirt. He notices the lipstick on it, but doesn’t say anything. “Now, one more thing,” I say. He nods. “I need some money so I can get a tripod. I have to take a couple shots of myself.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He looks defeated.
“And when I get back I . . . I need to work down here . . . by myself. You can’t walk in, so . . .” I almost feel bad the way I’m calling the shots right now, but then I don’t.
“I got it. I’ll hit the road for a while.” He puts his wallet back in his pocket. Then he asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m gonna call Ahmed and get a ride to the store.”
“I could take you,” he offers.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll call Ahmed. And . . . thanks. I’ll see you later,” I tell him as I race upstairs.
Ahmed carts me around, and I feel guilty not asking him to stick around while I work on the project, but it’s better if I do it alone. I’m anxious to get it done and see how this crazy idea turns out. After Ahmed drops me off at home, I head toward the kitchen with the chocolate doughnuts and three-pack of white cr
ewneck T-shirts I’ve just purchased. I try not to pay too much attention to the fruit logo on the packaging and get back to work by smearing chocolate frosting on the front of one of the shirts.
When I set up the tripod and put the blindfold on, it feels weird. I grab the doughnut resting on my lap and shove it halfway in my mouth. I feel small and unreal, like I’m all alone in a dark box. One that anyone could open at anytime while I sit in the center of it, fully exposed. The back of my head and neck are tingling. Even though I’ve never really been scared of the dark, I want to tear it off as soon as I put the blindfold on, but I force myself to sit there, counting the clicks of the camera until it’s over. I wonder if they will come out right. I wonder if I look like Dad. I wonder if what I’m doing makes any sense.
Finally, there are a few sharp clicks and then no more. I spit the doughnut out and reach to take off the blindfold, but I decide to sit there for another minute, maybe an eternity, making myself feel the panic, the loneliness, the dark, even though I feel like I might explode. And the longer I sit like that, the more I begin to wonder, is this how Mom feels? I sit there a little longer until I can’t take it anymore and finally rip the blindfold off. Everything is too bright. I take some deep breaths and will myself to relax until everything looks real again.
On Thanksgiving, Dad is depressed. I can’t blame him; I’m feeling pretty down too. All I can do is think about Mom and us because my photos force me to look at how we all really are. The picture I took of Dad flashes through my mind. Normally I can tell he never wants to see what he doesn’t know how to fix. But in the picture, when there’s nothing but darkness, it’s like he’s forced to face what he doesn’t want to see and can’t ignore it. On the other hand, when I think of the pictures I’ve taken of Mom in the past, it’s different. It’s like she’s completely absent—or worse, maybe she’s empty. And I don’t know how to fill that emptiness. I don’t think Dad knows how to either, which makes this all really scary.
At first, I wonder if Dad and I are just going to pretend it’s not Thanksgiving, especially after Mrs. Bata calls and invites us over to her house and Dad kindly declines. But at the last minute, Dad mumbles that he’ll be right back and leaves. He then comes home with a ready-made rotisserie chicken, instant mashed potatoes and stuffing, frozen corn, and a pumpkin pie—which is Mom’s favorite. He heats everything up in the microwave and sets it all out on the table. By the time the potatoes are done, the stuffing is cold, and the corn is shriveled up. It’s sad, especially with the untouched pumpkin pie in the center of the table like that. I sit, barely eating anything, and for the first time in forever, I realize, I’m not dying to stuff my face. All I can think about are the pictures and all the work I still have to do. My stomach isn’t throbbing with the usual pain only food can fill. I’m not starving. And I wonder why.
After Dad realizes that Thanksgiving pretty much sucks, after we’ve moved our food around on our plates long enough, and after we’ve stared at the untouched pumpkin pie, I disappear back upstairs to set up the last picture. The rest of the break that’s all I do until I have all the pictures I need. The seven pictures that tell our story.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ahmed picks me up on Monday and I can tell he’s a little irritated that I blew him off the rest of break after he chauffeured me around to get supplies.
“I had to get my project done, man,” I tell him, a little irritated myself. After I uploaded all the images, and cropped, blurred, and adjusted the black and white, they finally looked exactly how I wanted, I think. I kept flipping through them and started thinking about the whole TV talk show thing. The pictures were not pretty, not happy, not your typical family portraits. Instead, they’re pretty scary, making me feel sick and excited all at the same time. Like I just did something amazing . . . or horrible . . . or amazing. I kept going back and forth all night, thinking and rethinking, getting out of bed and looking at them again. Whenever I started to get used to the images, all of a sudden I saw them with fresh eyes, and I couldn’t believe I was going to turn this in.
“I’m so gonna sound like a chickie right now, but just, you know,” Ahmed says as he shrugs his shoulders, looks over at me, and continues, “are you okay?” he asks. I realize he’s not so much irritated as he is actually worried, especially after I unloaded on him the other week and stayed at his house; I haven’t really checked in with him since.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him. “Really.”
“All right, but you got a place to crash if you need it,” he says. “Seriously, anytime and for as long as you want. I mean it.” I know he does. “And now to counter that previously total chickie statement, I gotta say, you look like shit, man,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’m gonna have to lend you some threads. Do a makeover or something.”
“Makeover? Oh, okay that’s not a chickie thing to say or anything.” We start laughing, and then can’t stop the rest of the way to school.
When I get to Killinger’s class, I realize I’m nervous again. It’s one thing to see those pictures on my computer knowing I’m the only one who has seen them, but the thought of someone else looking at them scares the crap out of me. As we shuffle in, and everyone disperses to the computers to upload images or print them, or to their desks to start framing or working on their artist’s statement, I head to my seat and sit down, concentrating on taking deep breaths.
“Still having trouble?” Mr. Killinger asks as he comes up next to me.
“I, uh, I have, it’s . . .” I can’t get the words out so I just take out my flash drive and hold it up to him. He looks at it.
“You got them? All of them?”
I nod.
“Wow, that fast? Well, want me to take a look?”
My heart races faster. This is not normal. People don’t get this freaked about stuff do they? I really feel like my whole body is going to shut down.
“Charlie? Do you want me to take a look?”
No . . . yes—I don’t know.
I nod.
He takes the flash drive from my hand, heads to his desk, and sits at his computer. At least nobody else will see it. I don’t move. I just watch his face as he searches for the file, and then, I can tell he’s found it. His mouth opens slightly as he looks through the pictures . . . for a long time. The noise in the room starts sounding far away. My ears feel like they’re suddenly on fire. I can’t tell if the expression on Mr. Killinger’s face is good, bad, shock, awe, or confusion. I feel like a little kid about to get in trouble. Maybe it’s not okay for me to do what I did. Maybe you’re not supposed to out your family like this.
Finally he looks up and over to me. He nods, which I think means okay, what you did is okay.
At first I’m very reluctant for anyone to see them, but it’s impossible for everyone not to since we frame all of our pictures in class. I get the same reaction each time: someone looks over my shoulder and there’s a long pause, before they finally say something. Mr. Killinger says that’s good. It shocks in a raw, honest, thought-provoking way, but it seems like it shocks them more in a this kid is a freak kind of way. Eventually though, it gets easier, especially when they tell me it’s really good. And I think they mean it. Then I start to actually believe them. I look at the kids in my photography class, all so very different from one another: Punks, Preps, Loners, Stoners, Ordinaries . . . and yet, we’re sort of the same somehow. This hiding behind the lens and snapping things maybe others don’t see, we all have it in common. It’s important to us.
As the week goes on, as everyone shows me their collections, like mine, their photos somehow tell me things about them I’d never known. I feel a strange sense of belonging. Part of me doesn’t really care about winning, but then after I set up my exhibit in the school’s theater for judging, I start to wonder—and hope—that I do have a chance.
That Friday during class, Mr. Killinger drops the bomb on us.
“So,” he starts as soon as the bell rin
gs, “just want to let you know that there’s a new procedure for choosing the winner.”
Everyone stares at him.
“You won’t actually know who has won until the night of the exhibit.”
“Aw, man, Mr. Killinger. That’s total cheese. How’s the winner supposed to set up his collection at Rennington if he doesn’t know he’s won?” Steve-O Carter yells from the back. He thinks everything is cheese, but he brings up a good point.
“Hang on. Actually, it’s pretty cool. As you all know, preliminary judging started yesterday here at school, which is why all of you set up your collections in the theater. Well, the judges were so floored by your talents, they decided to showcase the top three collections at Rennington instead of just the winner as originally planned. There will still only be one scholarship, but at least two more of you will have your work displayed at Rennington.”
Steve-O perks up and listens. So does the rest of the class.
“And the scholarship recipient will be announced on the night of the final exhibit.”
The room is buzzing. Cheese or not, everyone was excited and wanted to be one of the three finalists.
“When will we know who the three finalists are?” someone asks.
“Right now,” Killinger says, and he whips out a note card from his back pocket. People start to hoot and holler. Mr. Killinger waits for silence. Everyone begins to hush each other.
“In no particular order,” Killinger begins, eyeing us and pausing for dramatic effect, “Lisa Wakefield.” Lisa squeals and everyone claps. Mr. Killinger waits.
“Steve Carter,” he booms again. Steve-O jumps up on a table and pumps his fist in the air. Everyone cracks up and then starts shutting each other up. Mr. Killinger waits again.
“And finally,” he says. Everyone is waiting, people are whispering please, please, please.
The Downside of Being Charlie Page 15
