Hold Still Part 20

He pulls out slowly, responsibly, drives down the block, turns the corner, and parks.

I unbuckle and climb into his lap, he puts his hand on my face, we kiss hard like in movie scenes that usually make me uncomfortable and squirmy. I open my eyes and see the reflection of his taillights in a house's window.

"Turn off your lights," I tell him.

He turns off the lights.

His hand moves, softly, up my s.h.i.+rt, across my back. I kiss his neck and taste salt, kiss harder. I squeeze my legs around him.

"We should get to the store," he murmurs, then touches my hair.

The steering wheel digs into my back but I hardly feel it, and he runs his hand down my thigh, traces the groove of my knee.

"Yeah, we should," I say.

We kiss until my mouth feels swollen.

When I pivot off his lap and back into my seat, exhausted, happy, the clock says 9:55.

"What time did we leave?"

"I don't know," I say. "We should hurry."

"7-Eleven's closer."

"Yeah, let's go there."

He turns his lights back on and starts the car. I watch him as he drives. I touch a small curl above his ear, the place where his neck fades into shoulder, down to his arm that rests on my lap.

His beautiful, freckled, perfect arm.

"Taylor," I say. And I've said his name a million times, but this time it sounds different, like I'm the first person to ever say it, like he's the only person in the world with that name.

"Yeah?"

I lace my fingers through his. He parks the car. I don't answer. All I wanted to say was his name.

"What flavor?" he asks.

"Anything with caramel."

He squeezes my hand and lets go. Opens and shuts his door. Walks into the fluorescent glow of the 7-Eleven.

10.

"I think it best that you focus on moving forward," Ms. Delani tells me, consulting her grade book.

It's after school and we're in her back office. Books sit neatly on shelves, tins of tea rest on a table in the corner, her motel images line the walls.

"I love these," I tell her.

She follows my gaze to her photographs. "Thank you," she says. "They aren't anything yet. Well, yes they are. They are the beginnings beginnings of something." of something."

"What do you mean by the beginning?" I've never thought of a photograph as something leading to another. I want her to explain.

"All of my work is intimately connected to the process of coming to understand myself. My last series, the one you came to see at the gallery, dealt with fragmentation and unification."

She pulls a drawer out from a tall, wide cabinet and spreads a few photographs in front of me. "These were the beginnings of that series."

Each photograph is of a different woman in a different room. I recognize Ms. Delani in our cla.s.sroom, leaning against the whiteboard, which is covered in photography vocabulary and diagrams. The next photograph was taken in a small, cluttered kitchen. A girl sits at a round table next to a stack of newspapers. She looks familiar, but I can't place her.

"That's my dad's kitchen," she says.

I look closer at the girl. She's wearing a roomy university sweat-s.h.i.+rt and her hair is in a high ponytail. She's sprawled across the table, leaning on an elbow.

"It's you, you," I say.

"Yes."

"When you were in college?"

"No. Two years ago. You already knew me then."

"Are you serious?"

I can't hide my amazement and she laughs. I've never heard her laugh like this. She sounds younger, like someone who might be seated at the table next to me at a restaurant, or in the row behind me at the movies. Like someone Davey and Amanda would be friends with. I move on to the next photograph. Again, I hardly recognize her. Her hair is down, lying perfectly straight, skimming the tops of her shoulders. She is sitting on her knees on a bed staring straight at the camera. On either side, candles burn on bedside tables. She's wearing a tiny satin camisole. My first instinct is to be embarra.s.sed that I'm looking at my photo teacher barely dressed, but then I remember the countless images of nudes I've seen over the last three years of her cla.s.s and it seems less strange.

"I was inspired by Cindy Sherman," Ms. Delani says. "You remember learning about her work, don't you?"

I nod. "She photographs herself as different characters."

"Right, only I wasn't trying to become someone other than myself, I was working to reconcile the different parts of me: the teacher, the artist, the lover, the daughter, the friend. And so on."

"These are amazing," I say.

"They were a starting point. Much like these motel shots. The self-portraits were too literal. I moved on to household objects, but they were too static. I ended up with dolls. Still objects, but inherently representational of the female figure. By taking them apart, examining pieces separate from the rest, putting them back together, I was able to really wrestle with the issues I was working through."

"What issues are you working through now?"

She gathers her photographs and puts them back into the file drawer. I worry that what I asked was too personal.

She sighs. "Well, Caitlin, I imagine that they are issues we share. A pervasive feeling that something is missing. Darkness. Vacancy." Her photographs echo her from their spots on the wall. A dozen "Vacancy" signs glowing in the dark.

"I always always begin too literally," she says. "But as I was saying, it's only the beginning of this project." begin too literally," she says. "But as I was saying, it's only the beginning of this project."

She turns from her pictures to me.

"So, let's get back to you you now. What will you photograph to make up for a year's worth of shoddy pictures and missing a.s.signments?" Her words are harsh, but she smiles as she says them. now. What will you photograph to make up for a year's worth of shoddy pictures and missing a.s.signments?" Her words are harsh, but she smiles as she says them.

"Aren't you going to give me an a.s.signment?"

"I don't think so," she says. "It will be more interesting to see what you can come up with on your own."

She points to her collection of books. "If you'd like to browse these for inspiration, go ahead. I have hours' worth of grading to do."

I get up and run my fingers across their spines. Sarah Moon. Walker Evans. Mona Kuhn. All the photographers I love.

"Actually," I say, "if it's all right, I'd really like to look through the drawer you told me about. The one with all of Ingrid's pictures."

"Of course," Ms. Delani says. She points toward her cabinet. "Bottom drawer. I'll be up front. Take as much time as you need."

Ms. Delani lets me use the cla.s.sroom phone to let my parents know I'll be here past dinner, and then I settle on the floor of her office and pull open the drawer. Just as she told me, there are hundreds of photographs of me. Some I recognize, others I never knew existed. I set the images of myself aside. Go on looking.

I find a photograph of Ingrid's room-paper lanterns hung at varying heights casting soft light across her magazines and scattered clothes. I set it down in front of me. I place one of her mom and dad sitting by the pool in their backyard beside it. Buried near the bottom of the file is one of her desk with colored pencils and a soda and her journal, now my journal, open to an early entry. There is one of her bathroom counter strewn with makeup and hair spray and bobby pins. Another of her reflection-a close-up of her photographing herself in the mirror. Most of her face is hidden by the camera. I touch the tip of her chin. Place it next to the others.

Ms. Delani appears in the open door. "I'm going to make myself some tea," she says. "Want a cup?"

I nod, keep searching.

Her record player. Her pink toes in brittle gra.s.s. The corner of Davey's living room: out the window, raindrops cling to telephone wires. out the window, raindrops cling to telephone wires.

Ms. Delani steps around the photographs and sets a steaming mug on the windowsill next to me. She slips quietly away.

Her legs with a cut below one knee. Her dad, asleep on the sofa. I discover and sort and stare, concentrating so hard that I don't notice how dark it has become until Ms. Delani flips on the light. I blink. Stand up. Examine her office floor, covered with pieces of Ingrid's life.

I gather all the photographs I've chosen and walk out to the cla.s.sroom. Ms. Delani is sipping her tea, reading a novel. I look at the clock. It's almost nine.

"Oh no," I say. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time."

She glances from her book. "No trouble," she says. "Did you find the inspiration you were looking for?"

I shake my head. "Not yet."

She shuts her novel, takes the last sip of her tea. "Sometimes inspiration strikes; other times you have to hunt it down."

"Could I borrow these?" I ask her.

She takes the group of photos from me. Looks at a couple.

"I'll get you a folder to carry them in," she says.

After I help her lock up, we walk to the parking lot together, climb into our cars, and say good night.

11.

Later, after I've finished the dinner Dad reheated for me, I sit on the floor of my treehouse and lean against the one wall I've built so far. From up here I can see the faint outline of the hills, some lights from houses a mile or more away. I lie down on my back and look up at the stars. I put my headphones on and listen to some sad, wistful music. Just when it starts to get too cold, I take Ingrid's journal out of my backpack and open to the next entry. It's been so long since I've read-most of the time it's enough just to carry it with me. I turn on my flashlight and sit with my knees dangling off the edge, into the black sky.

I look out at the black sky, and try to understand how Ingrid could have done this. I try to remember those guys, to picture them more clearly. I think one of their names was Kevin. Kevin and Lewis, maybe. Leroy? Kevin and Leroy? When exactly was this? What else was going on in my life on this day? I can't believe that I could have seen her after this, the day after or even that night, and not have known. But that's exactly what must have happened. Maybe she knew she could act like nothing had changed; maybe she got that good at pretending. Or maybe she thought that I would have noticed, and was disappointed when I didn't.

Through a few branches, I can see a light in my house switch off. It's my parents' bedroom, and I imagine them climbing into bed, worrying about me out here. I know I should go back inside so they'll get to sleep, but I can't do that right now, even though it sounds good to climb down and leave the cold and try to forget about everything for a little while. Instead, I keep reading. The letters are short this time, one after another.

I keep turning the pages until I find a longer entry. dear caitlin, dear caitlin, I read, I read, this is a real letter this is a real letter. My heart stops. I shut the book.

There was no suicide note. That's something I knew for sure. Her mom called my parents and told them-no good-bye, no suicide note.

But now. After so many months.

The night is cold. My parents must be tossing and turning or fast asleep. I open the book and flip through the rest of the pages.

They are all blank after this.

I knew it was coming, but it's still hard to understand that after I read this, there will be nothing left of her for me to discover. I turn my flashlight off and all the light that's left comes from the moon and the living room of my house. A gust of wind comes. All the leaves above and below and around me rustle. It's the sound of losing, or of starting over. I can't decide which.

I turn my flashlight on. I read.

For what feels like a million years, I lie on the hard, cold floor of my treehouse. Then, somehow, I climb down the ladder, feel my way through the dark of the yard, turn off all the lights in my house, and make it to my room.

I have her journal. I have her photographs. But still. There is so much missing. I crawl under my blankets and curl my body as tight as I can. I s.h.i.+ver and rub my feet together. Try so hard to get the cold out.

12.

In the morning, I make my way down the stairs and find my parents in the kitchen.

"I don't think I'm up for school today," I tell them. They exchange glances. I trace the outline of the doork.n.o.b with my finger. "I want to stay home and finish my treehouse."

I look down at the kitchen floor and move my blue sock along the gray tiles. I know my parents are giving each other silent messages.

"What about your schoolwork?" my dad eventually asks.

"Could you get the a.s.signments from Dylan?" my mom suggests.