"You stay right where you are, Russell," yells Nonna from the kitchen.
Welcome to the East Coast grandparents' house. Nonna and Poppy weren't born in Italy, but they embrace the whole waving-your-hands-around-and-yelling part of their heritage.
And my mom! It's hilarious to watch her regress to being, like, their kid as soon as she walks through the door of their house. The woman has master's degrees in theology and psychology, but as soon as she gets inside the Bossy New Yorker Zone, she turns into Yellen McYellalot.
My dad loves visiting the in-laws; he gets to sit around and talk shit with Poppy while eating one huge meal after another. Nonna won't let him help with the cooking or the dishes, either, no matter how much my mom protests.
"Ma, why do you do this?" my mom always yells when we first get here. "At home the boys all do their share. They don't sit around and expect me to wait on them hand and foot."
"Yeah? Well, you're in my house now."
My mom always ends up rolling her eyes like a teenager and saying, "How can you be such a throwback? You've only been to Italy twice!" Then she hugs my Nonna and cries, and they sit around drinking coffee and eating homemade biscotti and gossiping about the rest of the family.
After about twenty-four hours, my mom joins in with the lazing around and eating. She tends to let Garrett and me goof off, too. I think it's kind of a vacation from responsibility for her. If Garrett or I do something really out of line, Nonna or Poppy yells at us.
We've been here a whole week now. I need to get back to my peeps. Especially my Princess of Peeps. We've been texting and calling each other on our cells, but I need to feel Shannon in the flesh again. The longer I'm away from her, the more she seems like a dream, like I'll go home and she'll look at me politely and say, "Who are you again? My boyfriend? I don't think so."
"What's a nine-letter word for rapidly ascending or descending musical notes?" yells Poppy.
"Glissando," yells Nonna without even pausing. She used to teach piano lessons.
"I should have known that," mutters Poppy. "Can you believe this goddamn market?" He's talking about the stock market. He used to be some kind of financial guy, took the train into the city every day for forty years. He's, like, seventy now, but he's still got a full head of hair, silver with black streaks in it, all cool and Sopranos-looking. I've noticed other old ladies checking him out when we're with him. I definitely inherited my Italian Stallion magic from him.
Poppy divides his attention between his crossword puzzle and the TV, where stock quotes are scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
"So this headless corpse comes in," says my dad.
Errggh.
Poppy looks up, delighted.
"Male, about forty; killed by a shotgun blast to the chest. Filled with bird shot. But then the killer decided to burn the body," says my dad.
Guhh. I feel my breakfast threatening to come back out for a visit.
"Jesus," says Poppy.
"We figured the killer wanted to disfigure the corpse, hence the missing head and the burning. If there are no dentals and no prints, it's hard to identify the guy, right?"
"Right." Poppy could listen to these tales of atrocity all day.
"Only problem is," says Dad, "the body was burned mostly on the front, not the back."
"Yes?"
"And the guy had his name tattooed on the back of his calves. Jorge on the left calf, Rios on the right."
Poppy and Garrett crack up.
Even I smile faintly. Murderers. Will they ever learn?
"His head came in a couple of days later," adds my dad.
***
It's New Year's Eve. Garrett and I had planned to take the bus into the city and celebrate in Times Square.
"No," says Poppy.
I widen my eyes and look at my parents. They both shrug New Yorkishly, like, Hey, whaddaya gonna do?
"That's insane," adds Nonna for good measure.
"Why not?" asks Garrett.
"It's a mob scene like you wouldn't believe," says Poppy. "Trust me, you don't wanna go there. Stay home and watch it on TV in comfort with us."
Garrett and I look at each other.
"Besides, it's a scene tailor-made for the terrorists," adds Nonna. "Think about it: a gathering of thousands of people in one spot, waiting around like sheep for the slaughter. For hours."
Oh. The terrorists. Of course. They screw everything up. And way to freak me out, Nonna!
"Come on," I say. "Don't make us stay home. We're in New York!"
"Did you hear your grandmother?" asks Poppy, his eyes flashing. He's got these piercing black eyes; he looks like he's about to jab his finger at me and say, "Drop it, or you'll sleep with the fishes!"
"But—" I try one last time.
"Put a sock in it, Blake!" he yells. Heh. Somehow I don't feel yelled at when Poppy yells at me.
Sure enough, this New Year's Eve finds Garrett and me decaying in front of the TV, watching other people party in one of the most famous landmarks in the world. I don't know about Garrett, but I'm all anxious now, expecting bombs to go off at any moment. When the lighted ball finally drops and no one explodes, I can actually feel my body relax.
We all cheer and drink our champagne. I've never drunk cat piss before, but I feel certain it is similar to champagne. The olds kiss one another, then insist on kissing Garrett and me. I think about Shannon. I hope she's not kissing anyone. Except her frigid mother and her living-dead father.
And tomorrow we fly home!
***
"Calm it down, Studly," says Garrett, wheeling into the parking lot of school.
"What?"
It's the first day back from winter break. I seem to have brought back the Zit That Ate Manhattan on my chin. I keep staring at it in the passenger mirror, aghast.
"You're like a puppy," continues Garrett. "You're practically leaving nose prints on the window. Calm it down or you're going to bark like a dog when you see your girlfriend." He eases the car into a space and sets the parking brake but doesn't shut off the engine.
I wait for him to continue his insult/advice, but he's silent now, listening to the radio.
Ah. Cappie is announcing.
"Good morning, freaks and geeks. That was 'Wake Up' by Arcade Fire on KWST. How are you this sludgy Monday? Feeling like you've been bludgeoned?"
"Yes, we're back. Back and slack after two weeks of jack," says Cappie. "Did you miss me? It's cold and dark without the light, isn't it? Don't worry, babies, Chick Trickster is here. I'll be gentle with you. Here's Early Mo with a little ditty called 'Five A.M.' This is 88.1—KWST."
There's a small smile on Garrett's face. I almost call him on it. I'm about to say something like, "Speaking of puppy love," but I don't. We're both happy to get back to our girls; at least mine lets me acknowledge her in public.
When I see Shannon across the hall, I feel like I've had all the air in my lungs vacuumed out.
When you haven't seen someone you love—there, I said it—for almost two weeks, it's not exactly that you forget what they look like, but their image starts to get blurry in your mind. Here's my girl, in all her three-dimensional, succulent glory, right in front of me.
A wave of shyness hits me. I force myself not to put my hand up to my chin, where the giant zit laughs at me. I hope she doesn't take one look at it and think, Eww. Pimple Boy does not think he's going to kiss me with that pustule so near his lips?
"Hi," I say. I stare at Shannon, soaking up all the things I missed while we were apart: her hair is so shiny and soft—I want to touch it. Her eyes are so blue they make me think of summer. Her lips are so perfect, I need to taste them.
Two weeks ago I would have walked up to her and put my arms around her. Now I feel ... not exactly afraid, but unsure. She looks too good for me.
"Hi," says Shannon.
"Hey, Blake," says Kaylee. "Have you seen Riley?"
"No," I say. "I just got here." I barely glance at Kaylee; I'm busy with my
detailed inspection of my girl. It's good that she's wearing a bulky winter coat, because otherwise I might start to slobber. In general I don't love winter, when girls have everything covered up with lots of clothes.
"How are you?" Shannon asks. She seems shy with me, too.
"Good. Great." I nod like a bobblehead. "Now."
She smiles and looks down.
"See you," says Kaylee, and leaves.
"I missed you," I say in a low voice.
She looks up at me, not smiling now, and moves closer. I can smell her flowers-and-rain scent, and I kind of shiver when she takes my hand. "I missed you, too."
She reaches into the collar of her coat and pulls something out to show me. Is she wearing the necklace I got her? Aw. My girl.
Wait. That's not the necklace I got her.
"Look what my parents got me for Christmas," she says.
I lean closer. It's a black velvet ribbon with a jeweled piano attached to it—the black keys on the piano are made out of something dark and sparkling, and the white keys are made out of something pearly, I think it's called mother-of-pearl. "Wow," I say.
"Isn't it gorgeous?" she says, peering down at it.
I open my mouth to agree, but nothing comes out. I swallow.
Shannon looks up at me and a change comes over her face. "I was going to wear your necklace," she says quickly. "But it really looks better with low-cut tops. And it's winter right now, so it's cold."
I nod.
"I'll be able to wear it all the time when it gets warmer," she adds.
I force a smile onto my face, hoping it doesn't look as painful as it feels. My hand creeps up to the disfiguring zit on my chin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two words to live by: Flip it. As soon as you get your shot horizontally
flip the camera and take it vertically
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography
"Welcome back, my tenth grade tormentors," calls out Mr. Hamilton. He is practically bouncing off the walls. "I hope everyone had fantastic holidays!"
Could he cheer down once in a while? We, the captive audience, are in a fragile, post-vacation state.
Marissa is not in class today. I'll call her later. Maybe she and her fractured family all glued themselves together for such a festival of merrymaking that she's burnt. I wonder if they go visit the dad in jail. But I doubt it. She wouldn't tell me what he did to end up in prison, just that "some things can't be fixed, no matter how sorry you are."
Every time I glance over at Shannon, her necklace leers at me. It seems to be saying with a glint, "This is the one you should have known immediately was perfect for her. Loser."
By lunchtime Shannon has tucked the offending item away under her sweater. Maybe she could feel me dying a little every time I looked at it.
Kaylee and Riley join us for lunch, and now I'm irritated by them. Do we have to be this tight little foursome all the time?
I perk up talking about New York, feeling like a jet setter among the country bumpkins.
"Too bad your gramps wouldn't let you go to Times Square for New Year's," says Riley. "That would've been cool. You could've called us on your cell from the crowd, and we could've looked for you on TV."
"That would have been cool," I mutter.
"Yeah, too bad," echoes Kaylee. "Because what if you never go there on New Year's again?"
My mood falls to the ground.
Shannon slips her hand into mine and squeezes.
And just like that, I feel better. She's some kind of wonderful. Like the song says.
***
Marissa is absent again today. Huh. Now that I think of it, I didn't hear from her over the break, either. Not that we e-mail or call on a regular basis, but before she and her mom left our house that night, we did say to each other, "Talk to you over the break."
I hate this sinking sensation I get in my gut when I think of Marissa and her mom. Why can't everything be okay for them now? Her mom finished rehab, she's got a job, Marissa is happy. Maybe her mom can save up for an apartment and they can live together, and maybe someday even Gus, the brother, will forgive the mom for whatever it was she did to him when he was a kid.
I picture all of these hopeful fantasies for Marissa's life; then I watch them smoke and curl up around the edges and crumble into ash.
Mr. Hamilton is poking through our journals this morning.
I riffle through the pages of mine. I did write some stuff. Not much, though. I don't know a lot of guys who journal. I was bored on the plane ride back from New York, so I wrote about the trip. And I wanted to write about Shannon, but I was too embarrassed. Don't tell anyone, but I, er, copied some of my photo homework into the journal. Shhh.
"Good work, Shannon," he says. "Very prolific, Aisha. Let's see, Riley. Nothing? Nothing? It's January, you'd better get to work. Okay, Blake, hand it over."
I hold up my journal and say, "I trust you'll find this is all in order," like I'm on some old-fashioned TV show.
The corners of his mouth twitch, and he pages through my journal, pausing to read something. I panic: Is it obvious that I used some of my photo homework to pad the journal?
He hands it back to me, saying, "Very eclectic. But you'll need to write a lot more before the year is over."
After he walks away, I turn a quizzical look on Shannon and she whispers, "It means varied. Um, diverse. It's actually a very good word for you." She reaches for my notebook. "Let's see."
I pull it out of reach.
She widens her eyes. "Blake! Come on."
"Not unless you let me read yours."
She lowers her chin and looks at me from under her lashes. With a slow smile, she hands it over.
I snatch it out of her hands before she can change her mind. She reaches for mine, and I hold it out of reach again.
"Damn it, Smithers," she says in a crabby old man voice. "Don't make me come over there!"
Okay, Mr. Burns gets me. I hand it to her.
We both settle down and start reading.
Oh, she's addressed her entries to Mr. Hamilton. He's her epistle-er. Heh. Here's an entry about me. She wrote about the homecoming dance and said I looked about as comfortable in my tux as a four-year-old in a wedding.
I flip through some more pages. Here's some stuff about a fight with her mom. Evil minion of Satan. And some deep thoughts on music. Haha! She doesn't like Cappie very much. More about me. Sweet.
Oh, here's an entry about our first fight. Aw. She felt really bad afterward. "How could I be such an insecure shrew?" she wrote. Hmm. Shrew. I almost ask Shannon what a shrew is, but I've got the gist. She's deep into my journal, anyway.
I keep reading the entry about our first fight:
I hope he knows how much I like him. Maybe even love him. Not that I would tell him that! (Don't you tell him, either, Mr. H.!) I mean we just started dating a month ago—it's too soon to use the L-word. I remember our first kiss ... I saw stars. No, really. It was in August, during the Perseids star showers. He was so cute. He was worried that this older guy, Andrew, was going to hook up with me.
I nod at the memory. I was! Big, hairy Andrew.
But I wasn't attracted to Andrew. For one thing, he was really boring. And Blake is so funny! He was making up all these crazy names for the constellations that night, like Little Bo Peep Tripping over Her Sheep and the Sprawling Giraffe. Hee! And when he called the Little Dipper the "espresso cup to the stars," I was hooked. I've been crazy about him ever since.
I glance over at Shannon to say something mushy, but she's paging rapidly through my journal now.
I flip through some more pages of Shannon's journal. I'm all over the place in here!
Oh.
No.
And now I know what she's looking for in my journal: some mention of her.
I close my eyes. Insert headsmack here, I think. How could I be so stupid? I barely wrote anything about her. At most, I reported boring stuff like, "Shannon and I went to the movies a
nd saw XYZ."
I breathe in and out, wanting to grab my notebook and say, It doesn't mean anything! Just because I didn't write about you doesn't mean I'm not crazy about you, too. But I sit and wait.
Finally she closes the notebook and sets it on my desk without looking at me. "Eclectic," she says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Depth of field:
Where things are in the shot, and how they're related to each other
—Blake Hewson, homework, Photo II
Mr. Malloy looks distracted today. And my God! He's not wearing his beret. What is happening? Is the world collapsing in on itself? I really wish Marissa were here so we could laugh about it.
"Today is—" he starts. He looks down at his desk. He walks over to the bookcase and makes a sweeping arm gesture by the books. "Today is free study day. Please work alone or in small groups, and uh, peruse some of the masters of photography. Make a list of at least three critically acclaimed photographers. Your homework will be to, to ... emulate their style."
"How long do we have for the homework?" asks someone.
"Uh," says Mr. Malloy. "Two weeks." You can tell he just made this whole thing up on the spot. He sits down at his desk and shuffles some papers around. The man's got something on his mind. Probably wishes we would all go away.
I carry The Abrams Encyclopedia of Photography back to my desk, wishing we had a Moody Corner in here so I could curl up in a big, comfy chair while I look at the pictures. There's a full-page black-and-white photo of some guy's penis—shot by Mapplethorpe, of course—which I'm thinking the school would not be thrilled to know is in our classroom. If Principal Ito knew that Mr. Malloy had basically just given us an assignment to stare at some guy's baloney pony, I'm thinking he might not be very supportive.
There are lots of other nude photos in the book, too. I really love one by Manuel Alvarez Bravo called "The Good Reputation, Sleeping." It's a female nude. She just looks so peaceful and relaxed, stretched out on the terrace. And you wonder why she's got wrappings or bandages or something around her feet. Maybe she's a ballerina? She looks so beautiful. I wonder if I'll ever get to take nude photos. How do you shoot them without being embarrassed? Or worse, sporting a boner?
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