Where You End (10 page)

When I speed up, he keeps up; when I slow down, he slows down. He starts laughing first, then I follow him, and we laugh for a couple of rounds, until he says
you are funny
and I say
you have no idea
and he says
I never do
and I look at him, but he's not smiling anymore. He's Adam, focused on something in front of him. Bigger and more than I remembered him. Here is this person, I think. Nice to meet you, I think. Where have you been?

He seems to be reading my mind because, as we approach the next turn, he lets go of the handle and holds out his arm, toward me. There is his huge hand, waiting, and I do grab it, even though I'm scared our bikes will run into each other, even though I've never held Adam's hand. It's scary when we turn, and we almost lose our balance a bunch of times, but we make it around twice. I don't know who lets go first, but he doesn'
t follow me down the street, and I don't turn around to look.

When I get home, Mom and Dad are sipping tea and watching
The West Wing
re-runs. Their heads are small and still. That feeling comes over me again, the recognition. That's twice in one day. I take the camera out and aim. My mother turns her head, and I manage to hide the camera before she can smile and say
tomorrow, four o'clock, Ms. K said her door will be open
.

fifteen

GUESS WHAT I JUST NOTICED.

what?

PABLO.

???

NERUDA AND PICASSO HAVE THE SAME FIRST NAME.

they do.

SO DOES MY BROTHER.

right.

TOTAL SIGN.

sign?

THING THAT MEANS SOMETHING.

what does it mean?

NOT CLEAR YET. SOMETHING IMPORTANT.

ok.

HOW IS THE PICTURE?

coming.

YOU SEE? A SIGN.

sixteen

Before anybody has had their cup of coffee, I'm up and googling Picasso. It's now Tuesday, almost four days after I pushed the sculpture, and I want to remember what it looks like. I sift through pictures and writings about his sculptures until I finally find the one I am looking for. It's a small photograph; it probably belonged in a catalogue. The picture makes the woman look much shorter than I remember her, and it does not really show the texture of the metal, or the shape and light it was reflecting that morning. This picture is lying. It does not look like the thing I pushed. My mom calls my name, and I smell the morning starting.

After saying goodbye and promising to be cooperative during the meeting with Ms. K, I walk to the closest bus stop to ride to Paloma's house and see if I can get some more proof. The brother may not be home, but it's daylight. Maybe I can find something else. Here we go: picture number two. I go over the transportation route in my head, remembering where I have to transfer, and dig through my wallet for my student pass behind the movie cards and coffee receipts. I've had a pass since the eighth grade, when Adam and I were finally allowed to ride Metro on our own.

The N4 bus rolls up. I nod to the driver, show him the card, and move toward the back. Most of the passengers are older, carrying whatever groceries they can, lulled into peace by their daily errands. One woman sings to a baby, in Spanish, about an elephant balancing on a spider-web, bobbing her knees up and down gently. I can't tell if she'
s trying to keep him awake or put him to sleep. I pull out Paloma's Neruda book. Only one person is talking on her cell phone. The rest are fixed on the city moving past them, or their music, or their shoes. This is what the world looks like when I'm in school. Sleepy and safe. We cross the city and the houses get closer together, more people on the street, coming in and out of stores. I flip to a poem called “We Have Lost Even”:

“Always, always you recede through the evenings / towards where the twilight goes erasing statues.”

I read it in Spanish.
Estatuas.
The word for statues. It's still the middle of the day. No estatuas have been erased yet.

I spot the street and yell
back door
louder than I intended. The lady presses the baby to her chest. It's less than six blocks to Paloma's house and I have to stop to catch my breath, twice. I pass travel agencies, clinics, more bus stops, dollar stores, a rusted playground, restaurants with the smell of chicken and frying corn. The camera trembles in my hands.

In the daylight, the house is neither white nor yellow, something in between. It's sandwiched between two other houses, one bright blue and another bright red. I don't know how I'm supposed to hide. Thank God everybody is at work. Instinctively I look for a room with the lights on, but it's morning. There's nothing to distinguish one room from another. I don't know what I'm looking for. From across the street, where I'm standing, you can't see much. Just a bunch of shadows and reflections. Pablo, the little poet. Or Pablo, the budding Cubist.

Nobody moves inside the house. There are no cars parked in the front. Birds scatter like they can sense the trouble. I stay on this side of the street, put the camera around my neck, and think. Be brave, I tell myself. Stay alert. Let it in. I didn't tell anybody I was coming, so they couldn't be waiting for me. There is no ambush. A small, round woman walks into the front room of the house. She picks something bright from the ground, maybe a toy, and disappears again. A rush of energy fills my head, like the knot at the museum before I pushed the Picasso, and I get the camera ready.
The one who goes for it.
Isn't that what Adam said? Was that yesterday?

I scan the front room and spot a colorful corner where a flame is flickering and beginning to make shadows. It's from a small wooden table against the wall. The table is covered in a pink cloth and there are all kinds of random objects on it. The candle is in the back, made of glass, covered in turquoise paper. In the center, I see a silver frame,
with a picture of a woman laughing. The frame is sur
rounded by orange flowers that look like marigolds. There are two smaller, black-and-white pictures that are yellow around the edges. Those don't have a frame. One is balanced against a coffee tin, and the other is tucked into the strings of a tiny plastic guitar.

I take the picture and count to seventeen in front of the not-quite-yellow house. Then I run to the bus stop. On the slippery bench under a broken shelter, I try my hardest not to break my rule and look at the screen. I'm sure I have found an absolute treasure, that what I saw at Eva's house is some kind of mirage. I want to check if I was dreaming. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about a picture. Was that candy scattered around? Were those Mardi Gras pearls? Was the bowl full of salt or sugar? I want to hear the story that only pictures can tell.

I get on the bus and hide Bogart away under the rest of my things. I move to the back and call Eva right away, clutching my camera bag with the other hand. No texts. I tell her what I saw.

“You found the altar,” she says. “What about my brother?”

All that excitement quickly turns into shame, as the bus jerks forward and I grab the sweaty pole to steady myself. She insists she needs a picture of her brother as soon as possible. She sounds more desperate than the last time we spoke.

“I'm sorry, Eva. There was a woman, but I only saw her for a second.”

“A woman?” she says. “What did she look like?”

“I don't know. She was kind of short. It was really just a second.”

“Young? Old? Light? Dark? What was she doing?”

“I think she was sort of dark … ” I whisper, worried about what the other bus riders might think.

Eva huffs, and I start to get annoyed. This was supposed to be my prize picture. I spent months taking pictures of people's front rooms and never found anything as remotely interesting as the altar.

“Well, do you want to see the picture or should I erase it?” I ask.

“Erase it,” she says, her voice cold, flat, sharp.

“
Fine,” I say.

“Erase it and get a picture of my brother.”

“I skipped class to get this shot,” I say, no longer caring who can hear me.

“You did a lot worse than skip class, Miriam.”

“I don't know what you want,” I say.

“
Yes you do,” she says. “I don't need pictures of dead people. It's already been four days. Get me a picture of my brother, or I'll walk over to the Hirshhorn and tell them myself.”

I hang up. Eve
rybody on the bus acts like they can't see my eyes welling up. I turn on the camera and look at the picture. It
is
candy, and there are at least four strands of the pearls, some foreign money, a glass of water, and a giant, smooth stone. Whatever story it's telling, Eva can't bear to hear it, but it's too late for me. I want to know.

seventeen

“To simplify a radical equation, you have to find the greatest even power.”

Mr. L's dry-erase marker squeaks out roots and variables in dark blue. We copy it down in our notebooks, hoping to hang on to the concept long enough to get our homework right. I missed every class except for Calculus today. When it's time to go, I wish I could stay and spend the rest of my day practicing this straightforward task, in this room, with my quiet, patient, odorless teacher. But after everyone's left, Mr. L just gathers his things and asks me if I'll do him the favor of turning out the lights when I go.

So I go.

“Have a seat, Miriam. You're a little early,” Ms. K says when I knock on her office door.

“Yes, sorry.”

“No problem, but I'd rather have your parents here before we start.”

“Okay,” I say.

“It's a family meeting, and you—
we
—might say something they should hear as well.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

Ms. K sips her tea and checks her email. I bet she has a Facebook page. I bet she's bummed about the schoolwide lock. I bet she's friends with Jon Stewart. The sound of the keyboard is driving me crazy.

“So, do you like it here?” I ask.

She turns her head toward me, but her fingers are still typing. She's wearing a headband, and I swear she's got the smallest ears I've ever seen. They're not pointy, like elves'; just baby ears, like they didn't grow with the rest of her.

“Yes,” she says. “It's a great school.”

I fatten my lips and nod.

“Do you like your job?” I ask.

Ms. K moves to one of the armchairs facing my couch. She tucks her long skirt between her legs before crossing them. She doesn't seem annoyed that I interrupted her work. Maybe no one has asked her whether she likes it yet. The rings on her fingers are made of either plastic or glass. Tapping them seems inappropriate, but I want to. God knows why I want to.

“I love my job,” she says, looking straight at me.

“That's good,” I tell her. “You're lucky.”

That's what my father is always saying.
Find a job you love, Miriam. Do what you love, Miriam. Make sure you care, Miriam. Follow your passion, Miriam.

“I know I'm lucky,” Ms. K answers, smiling. “And so are you.”

I almost laugh.

“Do you feel lucky?” she asks.

“Should we be talking about this?” I ask. “Before my parents get here?”

“I asked the question,” she says.

“Lucky how?” I ask. “
I mean—I know I'm lucky. I go to a school with a big lawn and Ivy League teachers and photo labs. I've got a darkroom in my basement, a house with a porch. There are people who don't have anything. Of course I am
lucky.
”

“I'm not really talking about school, or your house.”

My face is hot. “What are you talking about?”

She uncrosses her legs and leans her elbows on her knees, getting closer.

“Well, you have parents who care about you, good friends … ”

“Yes, sure … ”

Ms. K is mad focused now. She just switched it on, like a social work ninja. She looks like she
's waiting for something.

“ … but does that mean I'm lucky?”

“What do you think?” she says.

I think I'm a dragonfly in your spiderweb, that's what I think. That's not what I say.

“I don't know. You're right. I have people, but you found what you love, you know? You can give me random assignments and help people get it together. You enjoy it. You must feel powerful and important and like you did something at the end of the day. Don't you?”

“What do
you
love, Miriam?” she says in this soft, eerie voice. I know it's an open question, but I still feel like I'm supposed to get it right.

“What do I
love
?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Like—what do I love
doing
or what do I love, like, in the
world
?”

She doesn't clarify. She just waits again, like a comatose crocodile ready to pounce. Eva would have so much to say here. This would be a dangerous question for Eva. This is exactly what I should ask her the next time we meet.

Adam loves viewfinders, and donuts, and the horrible orange and brown color scheme in the Metro. He also loves mornings, and anything west of Minnesota, and, for a while, those super-salty cod strips you can get at the Japanese store in the burbs. He loves Guns N' Roses and
Jay Z and that sorry gazebo they built to commemorate the World War I soldiers. He would pay you to shampoo his hair for half an hour straight, and he was pissed when they took the panda back to China.

“I don't know, Ms. K. I have to think about that.”

Elliot loves music, and biographies of musicians, and obscure music venues where the bouncers are vegan. He loves the ocean, and Old Bay fries, and gangster movies that are not
The Godfather
. He loves birds and leather, and he especially loves my behind. He loved every picture I took, and he loved how warm my hands were, and Arlington in the snow.

I don't know what I love.

The clock above Ms. K's head says four, and, like yodeling Austrians in a cuckoo clock, my parents pop through the office door.

My mother walks in first, her thousands bracelets rattling as she shakes Ms. K's hands. My father gives her his best flash-fiction smile and puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it hello. I find this mix of determination and anxiety unbearable.

“Take a seat,” Ms. K offers, and they settle next to me on the sofa. Dad's thin navy socks are sagging under his work suit. He is by far the most uncomfortable person in the room.

My father has always explained every little thing to me. He's always had full confidence in my ability to reason. From taking turns at the slide to ordering my own breakfast at the diner, he's never missed an opportunity to teach me something: how to be kind, how to play fair, how to persist.

You got that, Miriam?
he always said. If I looked vacant or tired as I nodded, he would ask me to repeat what I learned until he felt sure he had given me something to hold on to.
Good. Now,
put that in your life pocket, Miriam.

Today he looks like he's coming to collect.

“So, I'm sure you've all been to parent-teacher conferences before, but is this is the first time you've met with a social worker?”

My parents nod. Mom hasn't looked at me since she walked in the door.

“So, we're here to talk about Miriam, and to address some of the issues that have come up in the past week.”

Mom is nodding so hard her head might snap off, and every time she nods, the bracelets jingle like back-up singers.

“Miriam is a talented artist, a smart young woman, and a good student. Everybody knows you are an exceptional photographer.”

That makes four times she's called me talented since we met. I look at Mom, the real photographer, but her eyes are unwavering. She is completely committed to Ms. K. Dad cracks a quick smile, crosses his legs, and pulls at the hem of his pants.

Ms. K tells them about what the teachers said, about how nobody is here to judge and they all just want to help.

Dad breaks in.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” he says. “Miriam”—he's looking at me now—“do you know what Ms. Kiper is talking about? Do you know why we're worried?”

“Because I'm more quiet than I used to be?”

“That too. You also took everything off your walls and painted your room a sad green color. And you mess with your mom's dinners. But let
's start with an easy one. Why were you late to the bus on Friday?”

“I was not feeling well. And I went to the Winogrand.”

“Which one, Miriam?” he asks.

“Both.”

“That's not true.”

Mom's voice comes from the end of the couch, and she refuses to look at me. Shit. I forgot about her talk with Adam. He must've told her.

Ms. K looks confused. “Weren't you sick?” she asks.

“I was,” I say. “I was sick and I was going to the Winogrand. I was on my way and that's when I got sick, so I didn't go. I didn't get there.”

Mom frowns. Ms. K pushes her knuckles against her lips. She's thinking.

“I'm sorry,” she says to my parents. “Is there something I should know?”

“Well,” Mom says, “I don't know if it matters.”

“What is it, Sarah?” Dad says.

What is it, Sarah? I think. Out with it, Sarah.

“She described the Winogrand pictures.”

Dad throws his hands up. “I don't get it. Go on.”

“She means that Miriam wanted her to believe she was at the exhibit,” Ms. K says, slowly re-animating.

“It means she lied,” Mom says.

“All right, let's not get too carried away over this,” Dad interjects.
“Miriam, why did you tell Mom you were there?”

I scan Ms. K's expression, which has gone from condescension to mild panic, like she may have left the gas on at home. She looks like something's struck her, but she's not sure what.

“I didn't want her to worry,” I answer.

“Well, obviously … ”

“Is this what this meeting is about?” I interrupt, exasperated by their interrogation tactics.

Dad smooths back his graying hair, what's left of the thick head of curls I used to pull at when I rode on his shoulders.
Ouch, bean, don't pull so hard. But I'm going to fall. No you won't, I'm holding your ankles. But you're so tall. Don't worry bean, you're not going to fall.

“Miriam,” he says, his tone more gentle now, “what's going on?”

“Nothing's going on, Dad. I've just been a little off.”

Ms. K sighs. The panic is gone from her face now. The only thing left is defeat.

“Miriam, I'd like to give you a chance to tell your parents yourself.”

This is it. Here it comes. My father covers his nose and mouth with his hands like he is praying, then he looks at my mother, who has lost all motion, and back at me. This room is a still. The whole world is nothing but landscape.

“Tell us what, Miriam?” he says, raising his voice a little.

I wait.

“Miriam skipped her afternoon classes yesterday, and she hasn't been in school all morning today,” Ms. K says, serious as a stroke.

“
What?
” M
y father looks at my mother for an explanation, but even her bracelets have lost their voice. “She skipped classes to go where?”

Ms. K points to my corner with her eyebrows. My father is exasperated, but all I feel is relief. It was not the sculpture. I skipped class. This was her big news.

“Okay, Miriam, where were you?” he says, losing his patience.

Taking an unappreciated picture of an altar in Columbia Heights.

“I was not feeling well. I went home.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Sarah?”

My mother shakes her head.

“Did you know this?” he asks her.

“No.”

“Well, was she home when you got there yesterday?”

“Yes, Seth. She's seventeen. She wakes up. She takes a shower. She goes to school. She comes home. She goes off. She comes back.”

“If I can say something … ” Ms. K interjects. Here we go. Ms. K pulls out a clipboard with a piece of paper and a pen.

“Miriam, is it okay if I ask you a few questions, in front of your parents?”

Dad wiggles his nose to adjust his glasses, which breaks my heart. I try not to look at either one of them.

“Sure,” I say.

“How have you been sleeping?” she asks.

I stop for a minute. I can't tell if this is a trick question. Maybe Adam told her about the pictures. Maybe my parents know I've been sneaking out. They don't look guilty, though, or even angry. They just look confused.

“Okay,” I lie.

She checks a box on her sheet.

“Have you been eating?”

I think back to this morning's muffin, still wrapped on the bottom of my bag.

“I've been feeling a little sick, so not as much as usual.”

She checks another box.

“Do you feel tired all the time?”

“Not all the time. But yes, a little. I mean, a lot. Sometimes.”

“Do you think she's depressed?” Dad asks.

“Not necessarily.”

I'm sure this is the kind of vague language that makes Dad want to reach across the room and choke the social worker.

“
Our time is almost up,” Ms. K says, “but I've given Miriam an assignment.”

“Good,” Dad says. “What kind of assignment?”

“It's a project.”

“
Like an apology, or a reflection … ?” He's trying to remember the kind of punishment teachers used to give when he got in trouble, to make you think, to give you a little shame.

“Miriam, why don't you tell your parents?”

“I have to give her five pictures.”

I detect a stirring in my mother's corner. I don't think Dad remembers anything like this from his school days.

“Yes,” Ms. K says with a hint of pride, “
five new pictures.”

The couch is trembling a little, and my mother's bracelets slide down her arm all at once as she brings her hand to her mouth in a familiar gesture. She's laughing. When she starts like this, she cannot stop. Dad is exasperated, but Mom has gone completely bananas. Ms. K uncrosses her legs again, and rests my file on her lap, waiting and smiling nervously.

“I'm sorry,” Mom says between fits of loud giggles, fanning her hands in front of her face.