Where You End (7 page)

“Nope.”

He shrugs and turns toward the door. I'm not quite done.

“Hey Adam,” I say before he can leave, “do you think it's a big deal to knock over a sculpture?”

“Well, it's a Picasso, but nobody stole it, and maybe it was falling apart in the first place.”

“But you said that couldn't be.”

“I did?”

“Yes? You said those things don't just fall over. You said it's impossible.”

“Yeah, well, I could be wrong.”

In theory, but he isn't. Someone saw me push it.

“Are you sure you're all right?” Adam asks.

I really do hate lying to this guy, so I walk past him without answering, toward my bathroom, and my hand brushes his leg on the way out. I turn on the shower and let the steam swallow me up. I run over our conversation many times before my neck relaxes under the hot water, then I draw a square on the glass and wipe it clear with my hands. I see tweezers, toothpaste, a cotton puff. Click. There's my picture. I can't help it. It's like breathing. Some people think in words, others in music. We think in stills.

I shave, to buy more time, and notice that my breasts seem bigger, almost swollen. I cup the right one in my hand and it feels sore. I poke the mole on my left one to compare: same. I lather enough jasmine shampoo to smell like an Indian wedding. Three times over. I'm going to have to make it up to Adam tomorrow. I'm also going to have to tell him about the Picasso. I can do it. He will understand. He'll help me out. He said my pictures were beautiful.

I wrap a towel around myself and realize I forgot to take my clean clothes in here. It's all right, I tell myself. It's only Adam.

Back in my room, he's gone, and I'm actually disappointed. I take off my towel and lie face down on the bed.
I miss you
, he said. The water drips from my hair, down the slope of my hips, to the bed. I think of Adam looking through my pictures. All the feeling in my legs rushes up to the tiny spot where my body touches the sheets, below my belly. I shift my weight onto one hip to ignore it, but the thought insists and I rub my body against the bed until it's too late and my fingers reach down between my thighs with great, hurried purpose to find a place where I'm forced to let go. When I lift my hot face from the pillow, I realize I'm not at all ashamed. Just hungry.

eight

YOU DO HAVE A CAMERA, RIGHT?

yes.

OK.

AND REMEMBER YOU CAN'T LET ANYBODY SEE YOU.

i understand.

YOU SOUND ANNOYED.

i don't know what you mean.

YOU SOUND LIKE YOU'RE THE ONE DOING ME A FAVOR.

just tired.

EVERYBODY'S TIRED. YOU AGREED.

i know. i'll let you know. i have a camera.

THIS IS NOT A GAME FOR ME.

me neither.

IT'S TOO IMPORTANT.

i understand.

GOOD. YOU DON'T. BUT GOOD.

nine

I wake up with a pair of headphones stuck to my face. My ears are killing me, and it takes me a minute to remember the music I was listening to. There was screaming and singing and guitar. There's a photograph on my belly, and the light is still on. I must've fallen asleep while looking at it. The picture is of Elliot on the Metro, on our way back from a show. He's looking down and smiling, as if he's shy but flattered. It's my favorite Elliot face.

Elliot loves music as much as I love photographs, maybe the way Paloma likes poetry and her mother likes the organ. He can't survive three hours without a song. He's been to a hundred shows. Wherever they would let in a kid, he was there.

The night of the picture, we'd gone to the 9:30 Club to see an Irish music man who sings like his heart is a boat in the middle of a storm. We were in the front, near the small stage, and I was too embarrassed to tell Elliot this was my first concert. My hair had been ruffled by plenty of painters and photographers, but no rock stars ever came to dinner at our house. I was trying to act cool, like I could hang with the crowd of people who'd come to see this guy sing. More and more people poured in, and Elliot took my hand and led me through the crowd to a good spot near the stage. He held my hand as we waited for the guy to come out. That's when Elliot put his chin on my shoulder and told me my life was about to change. Those were his words, not mine.
Your life is about to change
, he said. Because of one man, on stage, holding a guitar with a gaping hole.

So, the singer said a few words, and everybody laughed, and that's when he tuned his guitar and started singing, gentle and sad at first. Everybody got real quiet, and Elliot stood behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist and the guy got a little louder, and the room felt like it was rising, until he was actually screaming this song, but it was still a song, except it made so much noise, inside and outside.

Photographs don't make noise. They don't rise and fall like that. They don't fill the whole room and take over your insides. They just stand still and sometimes you have to squint to really see them. This was more like swimming. When the first song was over, I couldn't wait for the next one, but I also knew it would never feel like that again. I'll never forget that first song.

After the band left the stage, I looked at Elliot for the first time in hours, and he looked so incredibly happy, and I wanted every single bit of him. I wanted to live in the middle of those waves, to have something to scream about, to really understand what made that man write songs.

When we got on the Metro, our ears were still ringing, and we had to shout to hear each other. People were looking at us. I remember thinking everybody else looked tired. Elliot kept shaking his head and talking about how great it was, how it was so much better live than on the record. He leaned over and spoke in my ear, so I would hear him. He explained that music was like a knife for him, something that cut through everything. Then he sat back up, and that's when I took the picture.

It's of Elliot's face after the show, but it's about me. It's about the way I was looking at him and trying to understand him.

I drop the print on the floor and try to fall asleep. It
's late. It's been a long day. I kick the music off the bed, rearrange the blanket and read a poem from Paloma's book. Nothing helps. Fuck it. Do what you need to, Miriam.

Minutes later, I'm on the bike, crossing the city in the middle of the night, going much farther than I usually go. The hills are tough and gradual, but I'm so mad I can't even feel it. I start on the side of the street and end up in the middle, since no one is there to honk or run me over. It's a little scary, but mostly it's nice to be alone.

It's hard to explain, especially in the middle of the night after a really long day, but I think I get what Elliot meant when he said music was his knife. So, there's life, right? There's breakfast, and your parents, and the landscape outside the bus window, and your friends, and the guy you buy your coffee from, and your house, with your room, and your things, and your street outside your window.

Let's say you even have love, maybe sex, definitely fear. You're cruising—with your fair share of surprises and interruptions, but you're still cruising. Even when you get hurt, or when you are totally triumphant, you are sort of cruising, because the story is rolling, and you're in the middle of it, and it still makes sense. You're on the surface of your life. You are moving.

But sometimes, some days, some moments, something different happens. It doesn't have to be big. In fact, most of the time, it's not. Most of the time, it's a lady with a red coat who's crossing the street, and you can't take your eyes off of her. Or your mom undoes her hair, and it makes you want to cry. Or a dog runs toward you at full speed and you can't move, and you think he's going to rip into you, but you just stand still and he stops right in front of your legs.

Those moments are the knife. You don't know why, but things feel so clear and pure and real, you know it must mean something big, but you don't know what. Actually, when you try to figure it out, everything recedes and gets foggy, and you start moving again. That's why you need a knife. Once in a while, we all need to cut through the layers and access that place. Even if it means riding your bike across the nation's capital in the middle of the night to take a picture of a stranger's house.

Paloma's street is off a main road in Columbia Heights, where the buses have already stopped running for the night. There are only a few tired men coming home, maybe from work, walking under those bright store lights that make everybody look sick and yellow. Most people are in bed, including Paloma's little brother. But I can't sleep, so why not check the place out? She sounded antsy in her texts; maybe this will calm her down.

I get off my bike and walk it down the block. It's row houses. There are two street lamps, one at each end, so I'm relieved when I realize Paloma's house is in the middle, where it's a little darker and easier to hide. Thank God the whole block is asleep.

The house is three floors. A set of stairs leads up to a small concrete porch, where they crammed a rusty glider and a tricycle. There are bars on the first floor windows, and a basement apartment. I don't know what I'm supposed to look for, how I can make sure she knows I got the right house. On the top floor, I see a window covered in white spots. I use the camera to zoom in, and it looks like it's stickers, like the backs of dozens of stickers. This could be her brother
's room.

I take a picture before I can stop myself, then ride back to my bed in one hurried breath.

Under the covers, a few hours left until morning, I think of a knife. I think of a knife making a clean cut, and I can see what's underneath, but it's hard to keep my eyes open. It's hard to look at what's inside. It's hard to be there for all of it. But I have to. Everybody has to. We all need a knife. Elliot's knife was music. I like to think my knife is photographs, but what I'm really scared of, what scares me most of all, is that maybe my knife was Elliot. And what am I supposed to do now? Go back to cruising?

ten

HEY, NOT MAGGIE! I DID SOME RESEARCH.

research?

PICASSO HAD FOUR CHILDREN.

ok.

BY THREE DIFFERENT WOMEN.

ok.

HE WAS A COMMUNIST.

oh.

LOTS OF HIS ART HAS BEEN STOLEN.

that sucks.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

i did not steal.

PARDON ME. DESTROYED.

HOW IS THAT PICTURE COMING?

I have it.

I KNEW IT.

eleven

“Go ahead and move those books, Miriam, so you can sit on the couch.”

Ms. K
's room looks out on the parking lot, where the seniors have written their last battle cries on their car windows in magic marker that won't wash out in the rain: Watch out, 2014. We've grown facial hair. We've had sex. We've walked home wasted. We have 357 Facebook friends. We know what motivated Othello and how many liters of water must be added to change the level of acidity. We're ready.

“Do you want any tea? I have some sugar in that closet,” she says in a calm voice.

This is a new addition, the spa greeting. The last time I was in this office, I was a sophomore. I hadn't met Elliot yet, and I was still debating which AP classes would be most challenging, how we could sculpt my “edge.” Mrs. C, our previous counselor, was into edges. Ms. K, the new woman, is into tea, and I'm in no position to refuse.

I got called in here this morning during the last ten minutes of advisory, before classes start. I began to sweat when I got the note, and now I'm down to my last layer of clothes. Either Paloma packed it in and called the school, or the museum did. It
's Monday—three days have passed since the field trip. It's about time someone figured it out. I should be grateful. This part will be over, and I can erase last night's picture.

“I only have green left. Is green tea all right?”

Sure. I look around the room for clues, something I can work with. There are no diplomas on the wall, no pictures of children in a silver frame, no knickknacks or itchy pennants. The only thing is a huge close-up of a forsythia bush, an explosion of thousands of bright yellow flowers.

Ms. K hands me the tea in a Styrofoam cup. It tastes like my front lawn. I sweeten it with two packs of sugar and keep the wrappers in my hand, unsure of how to get rid of them. I hope she gets to the point right away. I've had enough of mystery meetings.

“So, Miriam, how's it going?”

Obviously we're going to play some kind of game for a while. “Good” is a good-enough answer for now. I pick up a blue pillow my mom would buy and immediately put it back where I found it. My mom is going to erupt when she finds out. She's going to make me hold up that sculpture up for the rest of my life. I'm going to take out loans for the Picasso while everybody else goes to college.

“I called you in here so we could talk a little. Do you want to tell me what's on your mind?”

Ms. K stays quiet, which makes me extremely uncomfortable, which makes me sweat even more. Sipping my tea would help, but it's unbearably hot, so I just cup it in my hand and look around for a place to set it. Would Styro­foam stain the side table? Can I put cream in green tea? This is the stuff we need to know, what they should be teaching us in school. I take a breath. She seems serious about wanting to know what's on my mind.

“I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to say.”

“Right,” she answers patiently, like she's been trained. “You can start with anything you want. Do you know why you're here?”

I have some guesses, but I'm not quite ready to share them. I shrug.

“Do you have any questions?” she says.

Sure. For instance, who exactly called you and what did they say? Are you familiar with Picasso? Have you ever been to the organ rehearsal at the National Cathedral? Is your period always regular? Do you know Elliot?

“Where did you go to college?” I ask.

Ms. K looks a little surprised, but she quickly gets it together again.

“Maryland. University of Maryland. Not too far from here.”

I comb through my mascot inventory, one of Dad
's favorite car games.

“The tortoises?”

“Terrapins,” she says.

She sips her tea, so I sip mine. I'm good at stalling.

Ms. K tells me about
the process
without really telling me what we're processing. I nod along, and she appreci
ates the gesture. It's pleasant and informative. She says she's spoken to my teachers, who all agree that I'm talented and smart. That's nice. I still don't know why I'm here, and I'm not about to ask. She has not mentioned a call from a woman named Paloma yet.

“So, Ms. D told me you were late to the bus on Friday … ”

Ah-ha. I stay silent. I have a strategy, and I'm going to stick with it.

“She said you felt sick. Are you all right now?”

“Yes.”

“I think she was worried when she couldn't reach you.”

“I'm sorry. I should have called.”

“She was a little overwhelmed that day.”

Ms. K might be baiting me.

“Why's that?” I ask.

“Turns out it was nothing.”

Now that's definitely bait. There's something she's keeping from me. We sit for a long time, long enough to feel uncomfortable, like I should move another pillow or something.

It becomes impossible not to speak.

“What did the other teachers say?” I ask.

She looks at me again, and again, she waits.

“You said you spoke to all my teachers … ”

“Yes. That's right. Most of them said that last year you had a bit of a dip in your grades, but you've pulled them back up,” she says.

That I have.

“Some say you're quiet, a lot more reserved.”

This cannot be enough reason to speak to a counselor. Ms. K is full of shit.

“Maybe I grew up,” I say, shrugging.

“Maybe you did,”
she says, almost irritated but not yet.

“Do you have another degree?” I ask.

This time, she's not surprised at all.

“Yes,” she says. “I have a Master's.”

“In counseling?”

“No, social work.”

“The Terrapeens.”

“Terrapins. I got my Master's in New York.”

Ms. K works at one of the most prestigious, progressive schools in DC. We don't wear uniforms. We have an amphitheater. We call our teachers by their last name initials, like in a futuristic novel. We have a vegan option at the cafeteria, a bottomless art budget, Black and Latino kids, gay kids, and kids with photographic memories. We all go to college, eventually. We're fine.

“Why did you move down here?” I ask.

“Why were you late to the bus on Friday?”

“Is that why you spoke to all my teachers? Is that why I'm here?”

“Why were you late?”

“I got sick.”

Ms. K runs her hand through her short black hair and pulls at her earring, smoothing the blue stone. Her rib cage moves up and then back down, taking her pink scoop-neck with it. Ms. K is very pretty when she's focused. She seems to be thinking hard, too hard for someone with the upper hand. Maybe she doesn't know after all.

“Anyway, I was saying … everybody says you hand in your work on time, but that you don't really participate.”

I imagine what kind of kids Ms. K worked with before, in New York. Maybe those people actually needed her. I'm a brat who won't admit to a highbrow crime. She's got more important things to do. She looks young, maybe thirty. Doesn
't she want to go back to where a difference makes a difference?

“Did you talk to the Yoga teacher?” I ask, hoping to push her enough that she'll get to the point, whatever it is.

She waits.

“Because I take Yoga once a week, in the freezing room. It's good to get different perspectives.”

“Yes,” she says, a hint of tension in her jaw. “I also talked with Mr. Green.”

Mr. Green is my Photo teacher. He's the only one who deserves a full name.

“He said you take great pictures, that you're very talented.”

The words sound like I fished for them, wet, dirty, flapping around for life. Why won't she get to the part where I'm bad? Why won't they talk about what makes me bad?

“He also said you haven't been showing at critique. He's afraid you are taking a break at the wrong time.”

I reach for the rush I used to feel before critique, but it's like trying to remember summer in the middle of a cold winter. Just the memory comes back, but none of the actual heat. I think of Mr. Green
's gloomy office, that wall full of holes from the pictures we pinned up so that, one by one, they could be stripped of their mystery. We grilled each other every week. It was our own little search for truth. Every week we elbowed our way into each other's lives, looking for some kind of beauty. I used to look forward to that. Fuck you for bringing it up. Fuck Mr. Green for telling you that.

“I still take pictures,” I say. “I'm just not showing.”

“I know.”

“I used to do it all the time.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And I'm still here.”

Ms. K squints and stares, like she's lost an earring in my eyes. It's uncomfortable.

“I mean—I show up for class. I'm there. Why does he need me to get critiqued?”

“Well, I'm not sure, but I imagine he thinks you are good and you could be even better.”

“Oh, I know I could be better. For sure.”

“I mean really better. Good enough to go into fine arts, good enough to exhibit, maybe even good enough to make a life out of it. Like … uhm … like the photographer … Winogrand.”

Now that's too much. The rising punk in me takes over. I stifle a laugh and she retreats, pulling back from her pep talk. She knows she tried too hard. She's hurt.

“A lot of students would love to hear that.” She rights herself.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

Now that we've established I'm not that student, I hope she gets to the point. Stop rubbing my lies in my face. Get to the part where I pushed the Picasso. Tell me why I did it and what you're going to do about it. But she won't help me. She just closes her notebook and sets it on the coffee table between us.

“Well, I'm here to help, and you can come in any time. We just wanted to check in to make sure that everything's okay. And everything seems to be okay.”

In a fog of vague counselor terminology, I sense the meeting coming to an end, and I'm actually disappointed. Paloma obviously wimped out. That, or she really wants that picture, so she's willing to wait. In any case, no one here knows what happened. They all still think I got sick. At this point, even Winogrand would get a kick out of all this. But then why am I here? Why
the process
?

“We'll stay in touch,” Ms. K says, offering to take my empty cup. I fight the urge to tear the cup into eight legs and hand her a Styrofoam spider, just so I can stay a little longer while she looks at it.

“So what do I do now?” I ask.

“Well, when you're ready, you can tell me the truth, and we'll be happy to help you out.”

“The truth about what?”

“The truth about anything you want. Maybe why you're not taking pictures?”

“I am. I told you I was.”

Then she tells me to come back in a week with five new photographs. She actually sounds pleased with her decision, so that's probably the closest to a punishment I'm going to get. Ms. K thinks this is an original idea.

“Any pictures?” I ask.

“As long as they're yours.”

“Is this part of
the process
?” I ask.

“It's part of yours.”

“Is this why you called me in here?”

“I called you in because we thought you could use a talk.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“What?” she says, caught off guard.

“You said, ‘we thought you could use a talk …' ”

“Your parents called me.”

Of course they did. They beat her to it. They probably talked to Adam and the whole dream team conspired to get me in here and get me happy, or whatever it is they miss about me. I get up and stuff the sugar paper in my back pocket.

“Miriam?”

“Yes.”

“Did they not tell you?”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the talk, Ms. K. I'll do the assignment.”

She gives me a wimpy smile and says she's looking forward to the pictures. I nod and walk out.

Adam is sitting on the steps outside the building. People are walking to and from class, their bags and hats and braids bouncing with every step. I think I see Elliot, but I
'm
wrong. It's always someone else. This happens often. I walk past Adam.

“Hey,” Adam says.

“Hey.”

He jumps to his feet and, like his girl on Friday, hurries to catch up. I keep my head down and walk.

“
I came to meet you so we could walk to Photo, and Ann told me you went to see Ms. K.”

Ann. That's what her name is. Maybe they're together now. Adam would never tell me either way.

“How did Ann know that?” I say, not really expecting an answer.

“I have no idea. What were you doing in there?”

“I have no idea.”

“Okay … Did you bring your work?”

I roll my eyes.
My work
.

“The Green said … ”

“I know what he said, Adam. I was there last week.”

“All right, Meem. Just asking.”

He looks concerned again. He looks straight at me, and I feel a thousand little Anns staring at us, burning me with their envy. I've had this guy's attention since he was twelve. It's not my fault he turned out so good-looking. It's not my fault he's not a shithead like the rest of them. I didn't
make
him smile like that. I didn't give him that face.

“I don't have any work to show,” I say, hoping that will stop him.

“Well, he said you could bring old work in. He said you could bring whatever.”

“I know. I just don't have something … I just don't want to show.”