This main room opens into three other rooms. In the center, encased in glass are two sculptures, one very large and the other medium sized. The smaller one is odd. It looks like a bunch of twisted tree limbs roped together with delicate birds perched on top, but then these weird tree hands are attached to the ends of the limbs and they look like they might attack the birds.
The larger sculpture is of a woman sitting, a robe or sheet draped across her from the waist down, but the rest of her is exposed. The detail to her body makes me look away quickly, but not before I notice that her face is practically featureless. I want to go look at it closely, study her face and see if it really is as blank as it looks, but I’m too embarrassed that people will think I just want a cheap thrill or something. Ahmed’s eyes open wide, and he chokes out a half laugh/half cough. He looks over at me with a stupid grin on his face, but I pretend not to notice and study the smaller sculpture instead.
The crowd is a strange mix of well-dressed adults and concert T-shirt, jeans, and beanie-wearing college kids. I scan the room. No Mom. I loosen my tie, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in my button-down shirt and khakis. I wish I’d worn jeans. I decide to ditch the tie altogether and shove it in my pocket.
An old, bald man comes up to Mr. Killinger. I am so intrigued by the twirly white mustache on his face that somehow draws even more attention to his shiny, bare head, that I barely pay any attention to what he is saying. His mustache twitches and moves with every word he says, and it looks exactly like the kind you see on cartoons. It loops upward and curls perfectly on both sides, giving him the strange appearance of having an unusually gleeful grin.
“Ah, Luka, these must be your prized students,” he says and his mustache twitches. He smiles, I think, as he looks at us.
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Killinger says proudly. He introduces all of us to Dr. Hoyt, the head of the Fine Arts department, professor, and his mentor.
We shake hands with the man, who continues looking at us. He reminds me of the Monopoly guy. Then I think of how Mom used to play Monopoly with me sometimes.
Mr. Killinger walks us over to one of the three smaller rooms, where each of the three walls holds one of the collections from our class. My collection is on the far wall, directly opposite of the arched entrance we’d just come through.
“There they are,” Mr. Killinger says, holding out his arm as we all walk into the room. Steve-O and Lisa walk to their collections with their different groups of friends and family.
I stand still. I suddenly get the urge to turn around and run. I can’t believe I did this; people are not going to understand why I did what I did. Dad . . . God, Dad would hate me forever, and if Mom showed up, this would just set her off. What the hell was I thinking? Not to mention Charlotte who would never speak to me again once she realized I didn’t use the pictures of her.
“Come on, my man,” Ahmed says as Dad comes up behind us. They start walking toward the photographs, but I stay where I am. I don’t think I can move.
I stare at them from here because each image is already etched in my memory. I don’t have to get any closer. I watch Dad and Ahmed as they make their way over to my exhibit.
Instead of having the story progress with each picture, I wanted the viewer to get the whole story at once, so I arranged my frames for that effect. I see Dad slow down as he processes the images. I can’t see his face, only the back of his head. I watch him run a hand through his hair. What’s he thinking? What if he doesn’t understand? I keep my eye on his back. His shoulders slouch. I had justified these pictures to myself so many times, but now I really think I made a huge mistake. Ahmed looks back at me with a look that lets me know he gets it.
The photos are black and white. The first picture is of Dad blindfolded, and the last one is of me blindfolded. They remind me of hostage pictures, which I guess in some ways I felt like they were. Dad had lipstick on his otherwise crisp, white shirt, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you can tell how he’s feeling.
I made sure the distance of my picture with the blindfold was the same as Dad’s, so the dimensions of the picture would be the same if they were lined up next to each other. I look at the one of myself, in that chocolate smeared T-shirt and my stuffed mouth. It’s still really hard for me to look at it.
In between my picture and Dad’s, there are five pictures of Mom. I struggled trying to find a way to show she was gone, but that she was still there—always there. I had some photos of her stored in my camera, so even though I hadn’t been able to photograph her, I was able to use this close-up I had taken of her when I first got my camera. I cropped bits of her; her mouth, her forehead and hair, her eye and eyebrow, and her cheek, and I used them individually, so there were four pictures that were little pieces of Mom. And in the very center, there’s the full picture of her intact, but I blurred and manipulated the image so you can’t see her well, so it looks like she moved at the last second. The message of her photographs is that you never get the full picture of who she truly is, not even those closest to her.
I played around with the shading of each, so while you can definitely make out each photograph, they still have a dark, foreboding look. Perhaps even then, I knew something bad was going to happen.
I turn my focus back onto Dad. He shakes his head now. What had I expected?
He finally turns back and looks at me. It’s not the expression I had expected to see on his face. In that one look he gives me, I can tell all the things he wants to say but can’t, and has never been able to say. I realize how alike we are, how we can’t say the things we want to say. And I suddenly feel this surge of sympathy for Dad. I know he sees things in those pictures he had previously chosen to not see, had ignored, and had purposely missed, because I had too.
“Hey, you.” I hear a voice from behind me. I turn around and it’s Charlotte. She’s here.
“You’re here,” I say. And she looks so good that my heart feels as crushed as the night I lay in the falling snow on her front lawn. Her hair is pulled back, and she looks all soft and gauzy in the white sweater she’s wearing that I just want to lay my head on her chest and see if she feels like a cloud. I have to stop. I can’t keep falling for this girl.
She gazes over my shoulders and sees the photos behind me.
“Where’s your . . . is that it?” she asks, walking past me. And I wish I had explained to her why she’s not up there, but now it’s too late. She looks back at me, and I don’t know if that’s shock or betrayal or confusion on her face, but it unnerves me. I look back at Dad who is still standing in front of and staring at the images, and I suddenly feel like I’ve done the worst thing possible to both of them. How I have set them both up in a way. I look at all the people in the gallery, the strangers I’m sharing my darkest secrets with and realize what an idiot I am. I need to get out of here.
I start heading out of the room just as Dr. Hoyt comes in, adjusting some kind of small microphone attached to the lapel of his jacket.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” he says as his voice comes through hidden speakers. I need to get away from here. But Mr. Killinger spots me making a getaway, and he makes his way across the room and follows me.
“Charlie? Hey, Charlie!” I walk faster, but he catches up with me right outside the main gallery room, and he grabs me by the elbow. The hall is now empty as everyone makes their way to the room with the photo collections. The speakers are in every room, including the hallway, so we hear Dr. Hoyt’s voice everywhere. Most people are making their way toward the photo exhibits.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Killinger asks. “He’s about to announce the winner of the scholarship.”
“I know,” I say. “I . . . I just can’t go through with it. I’m not going to win anyway, but I can’t be in there.”
“Charlie, you deserve to be in there,” he says.
“No, it’s not that, it’s just, those pictures, my pictures, I . . .”
His face softens. “Charlie, I kno
w it’s easier to hide behind the lens, trust me. I know you feel vulnerable, exposed, but, man, what you did. That’s amazing. That’s the kind of rawness only a true artist can capture.”
“But . . .”
“No, listen to me . . . putting yourself out there, that’s the kind of thing that’s going to make things better. Being honest and reaching out like that, Charlie, that’s what you have to do.” And the way he says it makes me believe him.
Dr. Hoyt’s voice is still booming over us, explaining the contest and the difficulty of choosing just one winner, but that the photographer they had chosen displayed a rare honesty in his collection that was apparent from first glance.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce the winner of our first novice photography contest and the first recipient of the Robert Koster Young Photographer scholarship. And the winner is . . .” Killinger keeps his gaze on me and doesn’t let go of my elbow.
“Mr. Charlie Grisner and his collection, entitled Us.” Applause follows his announcement.
I look at Mr. Killinger, sure I didn’t hear right. He smiles and says, “You did it Charlie. Did you hear that? It’s you.” I shake my head because this can’t be real. He nods. “That applause? That’s for you, Charlie. Now get in there. Go.” I don’t move. “Go!” he yells.
My brain isn’t functioning, and I just do what he says. I run down the hall, through the main gallery, and into the room where Dr. Hoyt is speaking, and the applause is slowly dying down as people start looking around confused.
“Mr. Charles Grisner,” Dr. Hoyt repeats, right before he spots me making my way to my collection. “Ah, there you are. And now perhaps Mr. Grisner will say a few words.”
Even though Mr. Killinger had told me to be prepared to make a speech in case I won, I hadn’t thought I would really win and after everything with Mom, I never came up with a speech. And now, here I was, in front of all these people, out of breath from running here and from the disbelief of actually winning, with nothing to say. But I know I have to go up there and talk. I find Dad in the crowd, and he’s applauding like crazy. My feet keep moving and I feel like I’m not even really me as I head toward the small lectern that has suddenly been placed next to my collection. I take a deep breath and step up on the podium.
I clear my throat and start, “Um, hi, and thanks. Thank you, Dr. Hoyt and Rennington College for this opportunity.” I take a deep breath because I really feel like I’m going to fall over. “So, um, yeah, my name is Charlie Grisner.” Am I talking? Are these words really coming out of my mouth? “And this is my collection. The inspiration for it is my mom.” My voice starts quivering as soon as I mention her. I don’t know if I can go through with this, but then I just start thinking of Mom and Dad and me and everything that’s happened, what’s happening right now, and what might happen in the future. And I just keep talking.
“See, my mom. She’s not like other people.” My voice refuses to recover; it shakes and trembles. “She leaves. She’s left a lot throughout my life. I’ve never known where she goes, I don’t know why she goes, but she does, and she leaves us behind. And it’s hard on me and my dad and I . . . we’ve never known what to do about it so . . .” I don’t look at him because if I do, my voice will stop working all together. “We just go on, but that was a mistake because, because we almost, she almost . . .” But I can’t say it, I can’t say she almost died because . . . I can’t. “And it made me realize how much I love her, and it made me want to understand her and stop blaming her and hating her for leaving.”
The room is silent and I can feel the swell of emotion in my chest rising to my throat. I clear my throat, look down, and will the stinging in my eyes to go away. I have to do this. I have to say this.
“I thought that maybe these pictures might help me figure her out, figure us out, my dad, me, my family. That maybe I could see in them what I can’t see when life is going on all around us. Maybe in the frame of a picture, I might be able to zoom in and piece things together, because . . .” I stop and take another deep breath. “Because, I need to know who she is, who we are. I don’t want to pretend everything’s okay anymore. I just want to know who she is.”
More words start coming out of my mouth, and the more I talk, the more I realize that I had been afraid of Mom in some ways and how even though she’s the one who left, we’re the ones who stayed clear of her. I think of Tanya Bate and how people won’t go near her. I wonder what we’re all afraid of, because in the end, we’re all the same. Even those who are different. All we have to do is come out of the boxes we build around ourselves because the truth is we’re the ones who close ourselves up, hide ourselves in our own tiny compartments, leaving no room for anyone else. And if we come out and learn to trust people and actually care to know one another, then maybe we would understand each other better. I keep going on and on, and even though I think I’m not making sense anymore, I can’t stop talking, even as I look over everyone’s heads and the arch above them.
I scan the audience, which is the worst thing I can do because Dad is crying, which makes me start to choke up and then I see Mr. Killinger who is nodding and cheering me on. And there’s Ahmed, the way he’s always been, weird and spazzy and cool and the greatest friend in the world. He pounds his fist over his heart and throws me a peace sign.
And next to him is Charlotte, whose eyes are glistening and who I don’t understand and maybe never will. She’s looking back like she’s seeing me for the first time, and there’s something about the way she does it that gives me hope that maybe now she’ll let me get to know her, too, the real her. And I know that as soon as I’m done with this damn speech, as soon as the two of us can be alone, I’m going to tell her everything. And also, how she doesn’t have to live up to some unrealistic idea of who I perceive her to be because if anyone knows that nobody’s perfect, it’s me. And I won’t ask her to save me because I know she can’t, the same way Dad couldn’t save Mom. I just want to know who she really is, and I want her to know who I really am.
Then it starts—an applause so loud and crazy that I think the earth might shatter and swallow me whole. And it’s over; I’m done and I’m not even sure what I said, but I know it was right because I feel like the world’s been lifted off my chest, where I’ve been carrying it all this time. I look around, notice people looking at me; but not like they feel sorry for me, not like they pity me. I think they understand me. I want to remember this—the applause, the looks on their faces, how good it feels to say what I had to say. I look over at the pictures of Mom on the wall, and it’s bittersweet. She’s here, but not here.
I look out at the audience again. And that’s when I see her, standing by herself in the main room right outside of this one. She’s framed by the arch that separates the two rooms. And it’s like I dreamed her up because she’s smiling and she’s clapping and tears are falling down her face, like she’s proud of me. I can’t remember when I felt so full. And I don’t try to figure out if she hatched some elaborate escape from New Day Center, or if she convinced one of the counselors to bring her here on a day pass, or if she’ll still be here if I blink. I don’t know because I don’t know Mom. But I’m glad she’s here now. Maybe, just maybe, the laws of the universe will work in my favor this one time. I think of all the crap I’ve been dealt and wonder if this is the beginning of something new. Maybe things will be okay this time. Maybe I’ll finally learn who Mom is. Maybe we’ll be all right for once.
I close my eyes and see all the puzzle pieces floating around in my mind. I hear them and watch them click in place—and that’s when they finally become clearer to me. I see how nobody can save any one person, but also, how everybody needs someone. I see how shutting yourself up in a tiny compartment can suffocate you. I see how bottling everything up and stuffing it down can weigh you down. I see how sometimes you need complete darkness to see things you couldn’t or didn’t want to see before. I realize that sometimes what’s real isn’t pretty, but what’s pretty isn’t
always real. And now I see that I can be the real Charlie Grisner.
I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and breathe.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My eternal gratitude to my family:
My husband, Fernando: Because I never knew such goodness before you—everything good can be traced back to the day I met you.
My children, Ava and Mateo: Because you inspire me to be better. Because you teach me lessons nobody else can. Because your sweetness cuts right to the heart of me.
My brother, David: Because in your quietness, I’ve always sensed a kindred spirit.
My parents, David and Miriam Torres: Porque ustedes han vivido el sueño Americano y saben que estas calles no son hechas de oro, pero de lagrimas y gran sacrificio. Como los quiero y admiro. De sus lagrimas, flores.
Also, my sincerest thanks and appreciation to those who guided me on the road to publication, particularly:
My friend Margarete Bermudez: Because you read the really early, terrible drafts of this and you’re still my friend.
My agent, Kerry Sparks: Because you saw something in this and believed in it. Thanks to you, Charlie found a home and I realized a dream.
My editor, Marlo Scrimizzi: Because your incredible talents truly completed this book and made it the work it is today.
Ryan Hayes: For the amazing cover and interior design that just so perfectly fits Charlie’s story.
The Downside of Being Charlie Page 20
