
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by Kimberly Marcus
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataMarcus, Kimberly.Exposed / by Kimberly Marcus. --- 1st ed.p. cm.Summary: High school senior Liz, a gifted photographer, can no longer see things clearly after her best friend accuses Liz's older brother of a crime.eISBN: 978-0-375-89724-5[1. Novels in verse. 2. Rape---Fiction. 3. Photography---Fiction. 4. Guilt---Fiction.5. Best friends---Fiction. 6. Friendship---Fiction. 7. High schools---Fiction.8. Schools---Fiction.] I. Title.PZ7.5.M37Ex 2011[Fic]---dc222009051545
Random House Children's Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
This novel is dedicatedin loving memory to my father,
Herb Weiner,
who predicted I wouldgo into private practice,write a book,and appear on Oprah.Well, Dad,writing is, at its core,a private practice.Here's a book.And, as Meat Loaf sang,two out of three ain't bad.
Contents
Darkroom Photography, First Period
In the Hallway, After Last Bell
Left Out to Dry on Sunday Night
Monday Afternoon at the Dance Express
I'll Never Be Able to Make Up for This
Not Over the River or Through the Woods
Darkroom Photography, First Period
I am the first one here.
Viewing negatives on the light table,I find one and itchto open the chamberthat leads to the darkroom.
Soon, others stroll in:Javier, the Hoopster.Nathan, the Nuisance.Brenda, star of The Brenda Show.
The bell rings as Mrs. Prattbreezes through the door,clapping her handsto get everyone's attention.
Everyone's attention,I should say,but mine.
Because nobody needs to tellElizabeth Grayson,Photogirl,to focus.
Bringing to Light
I slip the photo paperinto the developing solution,sway it around with black plastic tongsand wait.
The hum of air from the overhead vent,the swish of chemicals,and the sucking in of my breathare the only sounds shiftingin the dim light of the darkroom.
I'm alonebut not for long.As white turns to gray,Kate is with me.The background of the dance studio blurredso the focus is all on her---legs extended in a perfect, soaring split.
The straight line to my squiggle,my forever-best friend.
In the Hallway, After Last Bell
"Boo!"
The word bursts from my mouthat the same moment my fingers pokeinto each side of her from behind,and Kate's books drop with a thud.
She whips around in an attemptto elbow her attacker,but I'm prepared and jump backout of her way.
"Liz!" she yelps, then laughs,waving her hands at my face,before we reach to re-gather her booksaround and between Friday's fleeing feet.
"Just trying to keep you on your toes," I say,touching her shoulder until it relaxes,until she gives me a forgiving grin.
"I'm on my toes enough," she says,and I can't help but smileat this pointed comebackfrom the Mistress of Modern Dance.
"I developed a shot of you dancing today."
Kate shakes her head."I can't believe I let you takepictures of me sweating."
But I tell her my begging paid off,that this shot is going in my portfolio.
She zips her booksinto the safety of her backpack,scrunches her forehead,and says I may want to rethink that---that she would hate for her ugly selfto be the reason I don't get into art school.
I take in her perfect, china-doll complexion,look straight into her blue-green eyes,and tell her, "Art schools now requireapplicants to submit photosof the ugliest person they can find.So you don't have a thingto worry about."
Friday Night at Salvatore's
We're at our favorite cheesy pizza place:plastic-coated, red-checkered tablecloths,Leaning Tower painted on one wall,a vineyard, maybe Tuscany, on another.
Sal, behind the counter,white mustache curled in handlebars,huge belly threatening to burstthrough his grease-splattered apron,singing along to piped-in Italian music.A walking cliché.
Amanda piles onParmesan cheese and hot-pepper flakes.Dee Dee blots off extra oil with her napkin.Kate uses a fork and knifeto cut her slice into bite-sized pieces.
By the time my three friendsare finished preparing their meals,I'm ready for dessert."What time should I come by tomorrow?"Kate asks as we leave.
"I'm staying on the Vineyardfor a few hours after work," I tell her.
"How about seven?"
"Sounds good," she says,closing the dooron Sal's serenade.
Work
Most of the kids who workfor the Martha's Vineyard Ferry Service,in the parking lots, at the ticket booth,or in the concession standson the boats, like me,work during the high season.A cool summer job.
But keeping my Saturday 8--2 shiftyear-roundgives me spending moneyand the chance to stay on the islandand hitch a later ferry home to Shoreview.
"See ya, Lizzie-Lou!" my father calls from the bridgeas I make my way down the ramp.
He's just Dad to me,but to everyone else he's Cap.Captain Robert Grayson,King of the Ferry,Noble Seaman of Nantucket Sound.
Photo Op
I get on my bikeand pedal right out of Vineyard Havenuntil I'm winding down country roadslined with old stone walls and grazing horses.
I lean my bike against an oaktinted with autumn's promiseand raise my camera to catch a shotof a wistful woman,gray hair in a long braid down her back,patting sweat from her neckwith a green bandanaas she pauses atop her ride-on mowerand stares out across her big yardat all the grass yet to be mowed.
Saturday Night Slumber
I peel off Kate's Sweet Berry facial maskand she peels off mine.We scooch, fresh-faced, onto the couchand paint each other's nails.
Cotton Candy's what I choose for herand she, with graceful strokes,applies a coat of Call Me Crimsonto the tips of my stubby fingers.
When Brian---mmm, Brian---calls from the diner on his break,he doesn't ask to see me later.He knows what night it is: Saturday Night Slumber.A Kate and Liz tradition.Our once-a-month sleepover,where nothing comes between us.
PMS
We pull photo boxesonto the den floorlooking for picturesworthy of a placein my college portfolio.
We start a YES pile,a pile for MAYBE,another for NO.
Kate holds a photo gently at its edges."You had really bad PMS that day," she says,and we both laugh, knowing PMShas nothing to do with my menstrual cyclebut everything to do with my"Preparing My Shot" mood,where everything goes quietand I turn in on myself, camera poised,waiting for the perfect momentto click.
The Gift
My brother, Mike,bought me my first camera---a gift for my twelfth birthday.He'd seen me eyeing itin a Hallmark storeat the Cape Cod Mall.
Mike didn't knowI was staring at the camera---on a shelf beside the scrapbooksand photo albums---not because I wanted to take picturesbut because it was lilac,my favorite color,and because it had a butterfly on it,right beside the lens,made of tiny rhinestones.
He wrapped it himselfwith the sports sectionof the Boston Sunday Globeand looked down at his feetwhen he handed it to me.
The first photo I ever took,with my very own camera,I took of Mike that day---his mouth open wide,tongue stuck out,displaying the remainsof his slice of my cake.
Kate's Passion
We're munching on popcornas Kate flips channels,stopping at a documentaryon World War II.
"I think I'll major in history," she says.
"Huh?" I must have heard her wrong.She's always gotten A's in social studies,but Kate was born to be a famous dancerlike that Twyla Tharp ladyshe gushes about nonstop.
"It's so cool to learn aboutwhat makes the world tick."
The Dance Express has beenKate's second home since she was four,and Carol and Steve have rolled outa bunch of dough from their bakeryto support this love of their only child.
I can't believe, with the way she moves,that she would want to do anything but dance."But you're the Mistress!" I remind her."You could be a star!"
"I still love to dance," she says."I just don't want to do it professionally."
I think about all her trophieslining the antique white bureau in her room."You're just scared you can't make it, but you can."It's the same thing we always fight about.
"I don't want to make it," she tells me,shaking her head and takingher toothbrush from her makeup bag."And I won't be able to dance forever."
I follow her into the bathroom off the den."You're taking something you loveand putting a time limit on it!"
"Well, some things are time-limited," she says,squeezing toothpaste from the tube,turning the faucet on.
She looks at my scrunched-up facein the bathroom mirror,crosses her eyes to lighten the mood,and adds, in a booming announcer-type voice,"But history---everything lives on through history."
Snapshot
We fold out the couch,tuck in the sheets,while I searchfor a more convincing argument.
Kate's cell phone ringsand she leans over,fishes for her baghidden under crumpled jeans.
"Hey! We're just hangin'.Yeah, Saturday Night Slumber."She rolls her eyes, then says,"Love you, too."
I pretend to yawn,rest my head on the throw pillowas if Trevor has put me to sleep.
She comes around the couchand rips the pillowout of my hand.
"I'll call you tomorrow," she says to him,"as soon as I get up."She rolls her eyes againand flips the phone shut.
"How's Mr. Whatever-You-Want?" I ask,having settled on my latest nickname.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means he's whipped," I say."He does whatever you want to do."
"That's not true."
Everyone knows and loves Trevor---solid basketball player,funny, all-around great guy.
But not everyone knowsthat Trevoris pretty much a doormatwhen it comes to Kate.
"Why don't you just break up with him?"
She tells me, "He's a nice guy. And he loves me."
"Yeah, and there are no othernice guys in the world.That's it! Stop dancing!Marry Mr. Whatever!"
I'm half joking, but she glares at me.
"You know what?I hate when you make upstupid little names for people.It's not funny."
She used to think it was funny.
I throw a blanket over the sheets."I can't believe you're mad at me,especially when you're the onewho rolls your eyes at everything he says."
"I do not!"She puts the phone in her bag,clenches the pillowwith both hands.
"Yes, you do, Kate.So what do you expect me to do?Say nothing? Be like Trevor?'Whatever you say goes, sweetie.'Take a chance for once!"
"Just because he might not be your idea of Prince Charming,just because I don't want to dance professionally,just because my plan for my life isn't your plan for my life---that doesn't mean I'm afraid to take a chance."
"Well, I would never let anythingget in the way of me taking pictures."
"Yeah," she says."That's because you can hide behind your camera."Her words are like a jab to my gut,and I want to hurt her.
"That's funny coming from someonewho wants to major in the pastbecause she's afraid of the future."
She looks like she's about to whip the pillow at mebut then she relaxes her grip and exhales,tells me I'll never understand.
I've gone too far and I know it,but she pushed me there."Listen---" I say, about to apologize.
She says, "I don't want to hear it,"puts down the pillow.
I'm mad that she cut me offand I don't want to say I'm sorryanymore.
So I tell her I'm going to my room to read.
She gets into bed,says, "Fine by me,"leans overand turns out the light.
Sticks and Stones
I'm in my roomby myself.
I left her downstairsto mope alone,to sleepalone.
Why should I alwaysapologize first?
I throw my book on the floor,flip my pillow to the cool side,and wonder how she can get mad at mefor calling people names.
She always saidshe loved the wayI could sum someone upin a snapshotor just a few words.
She asked me to come up with a namefor Kevin Foster last year (Boycreep #1)when I saw him kissing some skankthe day after he dumped her.
She loves itwhen I call her the Mistressand whenever I tell hershe's my forever-best.
Okay, calling her boyfriendMr. Whateverwas going a bit too far.But I call 'emlike I see 'em.
Morning
I look for Kate, but she's gone.She left, taking my nasty words with her.I didn't mean to hurt her.I didn't want her to leavewithout giving me a chanceto take the words back.
The Call
There's a lump in my throatthe size of Cape Cod Bay.I know I've got a big mouth,but nothing I've said beforeever made her leave.
"I'm sorry, call me,"I say to the machine.Then I call Brian.
"I'll pick you up after my shift," he says."And make you forget all about Kate."
Oh, Brother
I'm fishing socks out of the dryer an hour laterwhen Mike comes into the laundry room.
"Hey, Lizzie," he says,and I catch a whiff of stale beeras he dumps his clothesout of his gray duffel baginto the washing machine.
"When did you come home?" I ask,handing him the box of detergent.
"Late last night."He doesn't use the measuring cup,pours in too much soap."After a party?""How'd you guess?"I hold my nose. "Ever hear of toothpaste?"He cups his hand in front of his mouthand inhales his own breath."Ahh, you don't like Michelob mouthwash?"
I hate to admit---as he puckers his lipsand pretends to try to kiss me---that I miss these deep discussions.So instead I say,"Hope you don't try to kiss other girls, smelling like that."
Thoughts
When Mike left for collegea month agoI thought we'd stay close---maybe even grow closer.
I thought he'd call me upand invite me down for a visit.I'd pack a bagquicker than I could click my cameraand off I'd goliving a college lifeif only for a weekend.
I thought when he'd come home to visitwe'd hang out by the docksand make up boat stories like we used to do---who's stowing away,who's sailing off with someone's stolen loot,who'll wind up on a tropical islandor in a shark's bloated belly.
But I thought wrong.
He hardly ever calls me.The one trip I tookto Millbrook U
was when I helped lug stuffinto his dorm before Labor Day.
And I only see him nowwhen a pile of faded jeansand smelly running gear comes homecrying to be cleaned.
And I don't want to miss him.But I do.
I Call Again
Carol answers the phone,tells me Kate came home at dawn,that she felt sickand didn't want to wake me.
And I feel sickknowing she's not.
Bright Penny Beach
"She probably has the flu,so stop worrying," Brian saysas we pull off our shoes and sockslater that afternoonand walk along the water's edge.
I love the beach in the fall---no crowds, no searing heat,no worrying about howmy bathing suit looks.
I worry less about Katewhen Brian findsa long, weathered stickand carves I love Lizinto the cold, wet sandon Bright Penny Beach.
As the tide rushes inand, with each ebb and flow,smooths the surface of his words,I imagine that Neptune himselfis sending our loveon a current from Cape Codall the way to Tahiti.
The Travel Channel saysTahitiis the most romantic place on earth.
But I stop believingwhen Briankisses me on the shoreof Bright Penny Beach.
At the Track Last Spring
The first time I noticed himhe was trailingtoo close for Mike's comfortas they ran sprints along the track.
After the whistle, Mike said,"You better slow down, man,"smiling, shaking his headjust over the line,sweat flying off his hair like rainoff a wet dog's coat.
Brian laughed,patting his glistening neck with a towel,and told Mike,"You better speed up."
"You ready to go?" I asked my brotheras I leaned against the chain-link fence,staring at this shiny new boy.
"Brian, this is my sister, Lizzie.Lizzie, this is Brian,just transferred here from Wilton.He's a junior, like you."
I took in his deep brown eyes,his sandy blond hair,his beautiful God-help-me lipsas they formed the word hello.
"Check it out, Brian!My sister's speechless!" Mike teased.
I grabbed Mike's towel from the fenceand whipped it at his headas Brian smiled.
At me.
Time to Study
"Sorry, I can't stay," Mike says to Momas she lays pale blue dinner plates out on the table.
"But we've barely seen you," she says."And dinner is ready."
Dad asks, "What's the rush?"
Mike slings his duffel over his shoulderand grabs a steaming new potatofrom the serving bowl,tossing it from hand to hand to cool it downbefore popping it in his mouth."I have to study," he says as he chews.
Mom's fingers still clingto that last piece of stonewareand I want to tell my brotherhe should studythe look on Mom's face,the way her jaw muscles just went slackand tightened again in a split second's time.
Left Out to Dry on Sunday Night
No ringing of my cell.Inbox is empty.No blink of forgivenesson the answering machine.
I leave another message,"Kate, call me. Please call me,"and my want hangsheavy on the line.
Best-Friends Collage
I'm putting together a photomontage,cropped picturesof Kate and me at our best,to help put last night behind us.
This 8½-by-11 sheet of paperisn't big enoughto hold every photo,so I pick some of my favorites: Noses, bright red,our arms draped arounda lopsided snowmanmade with six-year-old hands.
Flour on our cheeks,bowl of batter on the counter,messy nine-year-olds in too-big apronsattempting to bake something edible.
Buried up to our necksin the sand on Bright Penny,Kate's smile has a gap where a tooth used to be,must have been seven or eight.
More recent shots, too,of us being silly,of us being serious,of us being us.
I know this collageis a bit over the topbut I can't help myself.
I've never been goodat guilt.
Making Amends
I see Kate in the hall after first period."Hey! Feeling better?" I ask.
She shrugs---"Yeah. A little"---and tucks a strand of hair behind her left ear.
"I'm sorry about our Slumber," I say,handing her the collage.
She looks at it, bites her lower lip."I'm sorry, too," she says. "I have to go."
"No. Wait!"
But she's already rounding the corner,disappearing into a sea of students,and all I can see of heris her left hand,fingers clutching the patchwork pictureof friendship.
Whoosh
I just finished developingthe photo of the woman on the Vineyardand an idea starts swirling.
I leave the darkroom and place my handson the edge of Mrs. Pratt's cluttered desk.
"I'm thinking of focusingpart of my portfolioon Vineyard portraits.Not of day-trippers or rich summer folksbut off-season shotsof what-you-see-is-what-you-getyear-round islanders."
The swirling turns to a whooshingas I say the words aloud,and I hope she likes the ideabecause I like the way the whooshing feels.
She leans forward,clasps her hands around minelike we're praying together,and says, "That sounds wonderful."
WHOOSH!
Small Talk
"Hi," I sayat the end of the daywhen I catch Katecoming out of history class.
"Oh! Hi!" she says,acting surprised to see me,even though I always meet her here.
We laugh at Mr. Clay's "Staaap running!" squeakas he reams out some kid down the hall,and I ask her if we're okay.
She says, "Yes,"in a distant, formal waythat doesn't soundokay to me."I'm just in a rush."
And as I watch her dashdown the hallwayI wonder if she's rushing tosomething importantor rushing awayfrom me.
Home
Mom's in the kitchenemptying a bag of groceriesand singing some song aboutputting up a parking lot.
I tell her about my portfolioand she thinks it's a great ideabut worries about mespending a lot of timealone on the island.
"Take Brian with you?" she asks,then immediately shakes her head."You wouldn't get much work done that way.How about Kate?"I swallow hard. "We had a fight at our Slumber.""About what?"
"I said mean things about Trevorand laid into her about not wantingto major in dance."
Mom puts a loaf of bread on the counter."Kate doesn't want to major in dance?"
"See!" I tell her."I'm not the only one who thinks that's nuts!"
"Did you apologize?" she asks,handing me a gallon of milk.
"I tried."
She reaches upto put a can in the cabinet."You and Kate are like sisters.Everything will work out."
"Yeah," I say. "I hope so."
As I head to my room,Mom goes back to singingsomething about not knowingwhat you have until it's gone.
Ridiculous
I grab the catalogs from my deskand start thumbing through them.So what if Kate's still mad at me?I've got better things to think about:The School of the Museum of Fine Arts,Parsons,Rhode Island School of Design.
Packets of possibility.
Fine Dining
Brian's dad brings bundled energyand a heaping plate of friesover to the red leather booth I'm sitting in."Hi, Liz!" he says."Keeping my boy out of trouble?"
"Trying my best."
Brian scoots in next to me,kisses my cheek,grabs a fry.
"You've got a half hour left," Mr. Kent says."But it's a slow Tuesdayso I'll let you loose."
"Thanks, Dad."
Mr. K high-fives mebefore heading back to the kitchen.Brian points a french fry at my face."How ya doin'?"
He shakes the fry a bit before I answer,"I'm okay."
Yesterday, I gave Kate the collageand our friendship still doesn't feelpatched up.But I'm tired of talking about itso I bite the fry instead.
"How was work?" I ask him as I chew.
"Fine dining at its best," he says,which he means as a joke.
But you'll find no finer friesanywhere on Cape Cod.And no finer boythan my Diner Boy.
No More Hide-and-Seek
I walk toward the cafeteriaafter a bad night's sleep,which has little to dowith the diner food I ate last night.
Kate, Amanda, and Dee Deeare up ahead.
Kate sees me, pretends she doesn't,walks through the double doors.She's been avoiding meall week long.
I said I was sorry.That should be enough.But it's not and I'm doneplaying games.
In the Cafeteria
I sit across from her at our table,lean forward,make myselfunavoidable.
Kate focuses on everything but my eyes.She looks at her hands, the lobe of my left ear.I take a fumbled cocking-my-head-to-meet-her-gaze step.She drops her fork and bends down to get it,perfectly executing the dodge-and-duck dip.
She's the dancer; I'm not graceful,and this particular routine exhausts me.
"What's wrong with you?" I say.Amanda and Dee Dee stop eatingand stare at me, at Kate,at each other.
Kate busies herselfstirring her soup in slow circles,then says to her spoon, "Nothing's wrong.I just need some space."
Space?What does she mean by that?
Space from me?
Before I can ask, she stands up,swings her backpack over her shoulder,and grabs her tray.
We've always talked out everythingand now she won't tell me anything.
"What the hell is wrong?I said I was sorry!It was just a stupid fight!Besides, isn't Trevor the one you need space from?"
I'm in her face nowand everyone is looking at melike I'm a lunatic.And Trevor comes up out of nowhere and says,"What the hell does that mean?"
Kate glares at me like she wants to kill me,then runs from the room.
I still don't know what her problem isbut I'm trying to convince myselfit's not my problem.
I grab my pride and my lunchand walk away.
And Then There Were Three
"What's up with her?" I askwhen Amanda and Dee Deefollow me into the bathroom.
I can't believe I'm the onewho doesn't knowwhat's going on with Kate.I can't believe I'm asking them.
We're a foursomemade up of two twosomes,and although there are three of us in the room,I'm the one left out.
"She's been quiet with us, too," Dee Dee offers.
Amanda nods and says,"Maybe she needs some time alone."She puts her hand on my shoulder.I swat it away.What does she know about what Kate needs?
"But why is she avoiding me?"God, I hate how whiny I sound,but I can't stop.
Amanda says she doesn't know,and she probably doesn't.But there's something---a glint in her eye---that makes me think Amanda is enjoyingseeing me sweat it out,enjoying the fact that I have no clue.
"I'll talk to her," she tells me,hooking her arm into Dee Dee's,as her constant sidekickturns to offer me pitywith big doe eyes.
Advanced Portfolio
Mrs. Pratt makes her wayfrom table to table,looking at each of our portfolios.
She's looking at my stuff now,bent over, all serious,and my stomachis fighting its way up my throat.
She spoke to every other kidbut she says nothing to me,just grabs one of my picturesand holds it up over her head.
"This, my friends, is a perfect shot."
As she puts the picture back on the tableshe leans to me and whispers,"Liz, you can go places."
Perfect Shot
The young boy's face is bursting with energy:openmouthed grin,eyebrows arched,gray-green eyes wide with wonder---sparkling even---as he cranes his neckaround the larger boy in front of him in line,to get a good viewof the Flying Horses Carousel.
When I zoomed in on him last summerthe other tourists, flashing lights,piped-in organ musicfaded away---PMS to the max.
He'd been tapping his head---tap, tap, tap---with both hands, knobby elbows flared.I caught the shot in between taps,just as his hands left his head.
Hands too far from his skull---questioning.Hands too close---confusion.
But midway,midway it worked.It did what I wanted it to do.
It captured emotion.Pure exhilaration.
Like a Bird
I'm floating upflying highswirling aroundsoaringout of my mindwith glee.Until it hits me,midair,that the personI most want to tellhas flown away.
Second Most
I head to the gym at the end of the dayto catch Brian before track practice.He comes out of the locker roomand I run to himto tell him what Mrs. Pratt said.
"That's great, babe!" he says,and gives me a hug.
I pull the picture out."This one?" he asks,taking it from me."It's nice."
My stomach muscles clench."Nice?"
"No! I mean, it's really good!" he says,trying to recover."I'm proud of you."
The coach blows his whistle,and the guys head over to the bleachers.
"I gotta go, babe. I'll see ya later. Okay?"
"Yeah. Sure," I sayas he squeezes my handthen sprints away."That would be nice."
Third Time's the Charm
When I get homeI tell Mom what Mrs. Pratt saidand she calls Dad at work,has to shoutover the blare of the ferry horn.
Dad shouts back,"WAHOO! That's my girl!"says "That's my girl!" again,louder, even thoughthe horn has stopped blowing.
Family Pride
Dad's always been proud of me.Whether I was playing a potatoin the Fabulous Food Groups play,or skimming my Sunfish sailboat along the shore,or winning a hot-dog-eating contestin junior high.
Mom's proud of me, too.Though I know she wished I were the apple,wished I spent less time on the waterand more time on my homework,wished the prize was not a month's supplyof artery-clogging wieners.
Start Your Engines
In the morning, before school,I see Kate in the parking lot.
She raises her eyebrows,opens her mouthlike she wants to call out to me.
But then a car backfiresand she spins on her heels and zooms away,widening the distance between us.
Phone a Friend
Amanda calls on Friday night.
"Kate seems okay to me she said she's just had a lot going onlately with school and dance and I asked her why she's mad atyou and she says she's not so stop worrying."
I snort into the receiver and roll my eyesas she pauses for a much-needed breath."Thanks, Amanda. That explains everything."
"No problem! Glad to help!"
Amanda's dad is a psychologistand she wants to go to collegeand follow in his footsteps.God help us all.
Toppings
I get off the boat in Vineyard Havenafter six hours of stocking napkins,wiping counters,ladling clam chowder intoStyrofoam cups.
I walk past the Welcome Center,not empty, because it's a mild Saturday,but not teeming with day-tripperswaiting for buses or cabsor a ticket back home.
I head up the streethalf a blockand cross over to the other sideso I can get a wide shotof a girl in ripped jeans,tattoos and piercings, sitting,knees up, head back, eyes closedin front of Crazy Cows Ice Cream Shop---weathered shingles, windows shut,padlocked door---sign next to her readsFLAVORS OF THE WEEK.
Distraction
Calvin James,pitcher for the Shoreview Sharks,throws great parties,and Kate's at a dance competition in Bostonso there's no danger of seeing her here,no danger of mecrowding her sacred space.
She's not returning my calls.She's making plans without me.She's pretending she doesn't see mewhen I pass her in the hall.I've been too consumed with her.
So I goto be okay without her.To be with Brianand be okaywithout her.
And except for a few timesevery few minutes,I hardly think about Kateat all.
In Calvin's Kitchen
"Now I know, now I know," Amanda sings,giddy from beerand wearing a stupid grin."I know why Kate won't talk to you."
This knowledge is fun for her,but my icy stare lets her knowI'm in no mood for games.She hops up on the counterand bumps her heelsagainst the wood-grained cabinet.
"Callie told Dee Dee that Mike told Tanner that he and Katewere doing the wild thing at your house last weekend whileyou were asleep."
Now I know.
Once Upon a Time
When we were sixKate told methat when we grew upshe would marry Mikeso we could be sisters and best friendsat the same time.
When we were twelveI found his class picturein her desk drawer---a heart drawn on the backin pink pen.
When we were fourteenKate's body started changingand she'd laugh when Mike said,"Looking good, Katie."
Did he say that this time?
This time,did she do morethan laugh?
Some Nerve
"I can't believe you," I say,standing at Kate's door Sunday morning.She looks at me,confused.
"When I said you should dump Trevor,it wasn't an invitation to mess around with Mike."
Her eyes grow wide.Her face pales.
"I'm not thrilled, Kate,but it's nothing to freak out about.It's no reason to treat melike I did something wrong."
She moves, barefoot,onto the cold front stepsand closes the door behind her."Who said I messed around with Mike?"
"Mike told Tanner and---"
"Mike told Tanner?"Her eyes bug out of her head.
"He said something about a wild night."
Kate bites hard on her lower lip,so hard it turns white.I can tell her mind's racing,but she doesn't say a thing.
"Well, did you?" I ask.
She looks like a rabbit frozen in light."We didn't have sex."
"Fine, but something happened.Did you guys kiss?"
She closes her eyes and I know it's true."I'm sorry, Liz. I can't ...," she says.
I'm madshe fooled around with my brother.I'm madshe's been treating me like crap.
But I push the anger insidebecause big, fat tearsare rolling down her cheeksand I can count on one handthe times I've seen her cry.
"It's okay, Kate.No big deal."I reach out to touch her arm."I'll tell everyoneMike's delusional."
If I wasn't so relievedto finally know what's wrong,I might be offendedas she pushes my hand away,tells me she has to go,and heads back inside.
"You're an Ass"
You have reached Mike and Jordan.We're too busy studyingto pick up the phone.Please leave a message at the beep.
Homeroom, Monday Morning
"Did you talk to Kate?Is Mike the reason she broke up with Trevor?"Amanda's wearing that dumb old smirkand shifting her eyebrows up and down.
"She broke up with Trevor?"
"Yesterday," Amanda said."He said he'd forgive her and she broke up with him anyway.I hope the night was worth it."
"Get a life," I say."Mike has an active imagination."
She opens her notebookbut won't let it go."I hear Kate's pretty active herself," she says,and I know she's joking but I'm not in the mood.
I lean across the aisleand her notebook falls to the floor,revealing a long list of guys' nameswritten on the back(some with one heart, some with two,some scratched out completely).
"Leave Kate alone," I say."She doesn't want to talk about it."
Amanda bends over, grabs the notebook,and mumbles loud enough for me to hear,"Maybe she just doesn't want to talk about it with you."
Big Men in a Small Town
This wouldn't be such big newsif Kate hadn't cheated onthe dream date of so manygossipy girls.
Trevor's got his fan club here,and if they trash-talk Kate,maybe he'll notice them.
This wouldn't be such big newsif Mike weren't so fast on his feet,but his trophies and photographsand clippings from the Cape Cod Timesline a display case in a hallwayof Shoreview High.
He's got his props here,making it all look so easy.
Trouble is, now his big headand his big mouthmake Katelook easy, too.
Fanning the Flame
I am the firefighter,putting out tiny rumorsbefore they have time to grow and spread.
"Kate did not sleep with Mike!""She doesn't own a lacy bra!""My parents didn't barge in on them!""She is not a two-timing slut!"
But whenever Kate sees meshe proceeds to the nearest exitlike I'm the fire.
Trippin'
Mrs. Pratt clucks her tongue and tells usthat on Sunday, November 16,the School of the Museum of Fine Artsis hosting National Portfolio Dayat the Hynes Convention Center in Boston.
This is a huge event where college recruiterswill look at our portfoliosand give us tips to make our photos pop.
I've had the day circledon my calendar for months.Still, my heart skips a beatas she says the date out loud.
"I've arranged for transportationfor those who plan to go," she says."It's a great opportunity to seewhat schools are looking for."
The bell rings like a starter gunand an image plays out in my head:college recruiters hurdling over tables,knocking kids to the floor,to grab what they're looking for---my portfolio.
Footwork
I stepped up to the plate on Monday,stepped on the rumors since then,careful to step aroundmy friend's bruised ego.
Now it's Thursdayand I thought things would be better,but Kate's still avoiding me,and walking on eggshells isn't easy to do.
My shell cracks when she pretendsshe doesn't see me as she heads down the stairs.
Letting Her Have It
"Get over it, Kate!Let it go already!"
We're at the bottom of the stairwell,near the emergency exit,my body now positioned to keep hersfrom flying back up the stairs.
"Everyone will stop talking about itif you stop letting them thinkit was such a big deal."
Letting Me Have It
She's silentfor a long minute.Then she looks straight at me,straight through me,and tells mewhyit was such a big deal.
Mike
My brother is a track star.My brother is a partier.My brother is a bit of a chauvinist pig.My brother, even when he annoys me,is someone I love.
My brother is notwho Kate says he is.
My brotheris nota rapist.
"Mike Raped Me"
Her words bring white-hot pain,like my gut is being sliced open by a doctorwho forgot to give me drugs.
I want to scream at herbecause she must be lying,but my voice is small and far awayand all I can manage is,"What are you saying?!?"
And she is small and far awayand she says,"I can't."
And she tries to move past me,but I need more.I deserve more.I won't let her go."Talk to me!"
She looks to the staircasethen over her shoulder towardthe emergency exit.She runs for it,my "Please!" drowned outby the shrill of the door's alarm.
Under the Stairs
Under the stairs that leadfrom the upper level of my house to the landingand down again to the den in the basement,there's a closet.
Behind a rack of musty-smelling coats,out of size, out of style, or both,and suits that Dad hasn't worn in years,that closet curves around to a sloping crawl spacetoo small for storage, but just the right sizefor a little girl.
When that little girl was meI would bring my dolls or my crayons or,when she wasn't looking,Mom's Divine Rouge lipstickto that secret space.
I'd pull the string, with the knot on the end,that hung from the bare bulb,and push past the garmentsthat separated my real lifefrom my imagination.
More than anything, I wishI could fit into that closet now.
A Not-So-Simple Question
"How are things?" Mom askswhen I come in the door.
What do I do? WhatdoIdo??
I want to tell her but I'm freaking outand having her freak out now, too,would only make things worse.
Luckily, I don't have to tell herbecause she's not waiting for an answer."Mike left a message for you," she says."Said to tell you he was calling you back."
I'll figure out how to tell Mom and Dad later.
Right now,I have something to tell my brother.
He Says
"I would never hurt Kate!We had sex! I didn'trape her!"
He says she was sleeping on the couchand woke up when he brought his bagdown to the laundry room.
He says they talkedand then he kissed her.He says she kissed him back."Then we had sex. It was just sex, Lizzie."
"That's not what she says."
He asks me why he'd even tell his friendshe had sex with Kate if he raped her---why he would be that stupid.
And I guess he has a pointbecause my brother could not bethat stupid.
Signs
She had no bruisesthat I could see.No cuts, no swollen eyes.
I saw no scratches,next morning, on Mike.So which one's telling lies?
Keeping Secrets
I can't believe this is happening.I'm about to hang up the phonebut Mike says something that stops me."It's not like it was the first time we hooked up."
"What?"
He keeps talking."We never had sex before.But we kissed. Last year."
I can feel the hairs tingleon the back of my neck."When?"
I scan my brain for any memoryof Kate telling me anythingclose to this.I get nothing.
"One night in the kitchen,while you were sleeping downstairs.She came up to get something to drinkand I was having a late-night snack."Mike forgets that Cap'n Crunchis supposed to be a breakfast food.
"Foster just dumped herand she started crying,then we kissed for a while."
"How come you didn't tell me?"
"She didn't want you to know.Figured you'd be mad or something.Said you always said I was 'off-limits.' "
Now I know my brother'stelling me the truthbecause I used those exact wordsmany times,joking but not really.
Off-Limits
We sat on the front steps,the sun hanging low,and watched himcome up the driveway after a runtaking deep breaths, hands on his hips.
She said he was her princein sweaty sneakers.I laughed and saidhe was off-limits.
We chased his car, waving,as he left to take Mary Draperto the junior prom.She said, "He looks cute in that tux."
"Put your eyes back in your head," I said."He's off-limits."
When we watched himplay footballin the backyard with his friendsshe said, "He could tackle me anytime."
"No, he can't," I said."He's off-limits."
She didn't listen,kept secrets from me,cheated on Trevor,crossed the linewith my brother.
Five Minutes Later
Mike calls back,tells me I've got to set her straight,that it was just sex.
Tells me not to tell Mom and Dad."They'll kill me if they knewI had sex in the house."
There's a pleading in his voicethat stirs something inside me.
Before I can say anything, he says,"Who else has she told?"
Panic
Panic makes its way up my spinelike ice water through a straw---who else has she told?
Who Can I Tell?
Brian makes it over herein ten minutes flat.I swear to myself I won't crybut before his dented chariotpulls out of the drivewayhis shoulder is drenched.
He puts his foot on the brakebut I flap my hands,telling him to keep going.
He heads toward Bright Penny,but I don't want to pollute our beach.So I make him pull into the deserted parking lotbehind the town hall,and we sit on a worn wooden benchwhere everything spills out of me:thick, sticky, black,like oil.
A Mess the Morning After
It's always pitch-blackin the room off the darkroomwhere we process film into negatives.If the tiniest bit of light gets init can ruin the roll.
It took me a long time to get used toloading the film onto the development reelsin the darkbut I've gotten so good at itthat everyone asks for my help.
I'm helping Carla right now,Carla with zero personality,large, yellowed teeth,and a good photographic eye.
But I can't get my fingers to workat alland I'm pretty sure I've destroyedall the shots she tookat her family-with-big-teeth reunionand I'm spilling solutionall over the place.
But I'm glad for the darkness.
Otherwise, Zero Pwould seeI'm spilling tears, too.
Watching
When I come out of science classI see Kate by her locker,smiling while Amanda gabs away.
I can't hear Amanda's words,but how can Kate be smiling?
At the Sink
I come out of the stall in the girls' roomto find Katestaring in the mirror.Panic spreadsacross her face when she sees me.
"Will you talk to me?" I ask.
She's shaking her head and I knowshe's about to say noand I don't want her to say noso I tell her that Mike saidhe would never hurt her.
Her eyes don't move.They're fixed on me."You believe Mike."
She hits the button on the soap dispenseragain and again,but there's nothing left.
I ask her what I'm supposed to think whenshe won't tell me anything.
"I told you he raped me," she says.
"What else do you need to know?"
"I need to know whyyou kissed him last yearand never told me."
There's a crazy-scary fire in her eyes."I'm not surprised he told you that.He wants you to take his side.I bet he didn't tell you about the pillow."
I ask her what she's talking aboutand she says, "Figures."
She shuts down.I can actually see her shutting down,body sagging, eyes closing,head tilted to the side.I'm losing her.
There are things I should saybut I can't speak.
She turns awayand the nagging question,the one I shouldn't ask but I need to ask,pushes out of my mouth."Kate, have you told anyone else?"
"No," she says, and I close my eyes,waiting for the words not yet,but the wrrshhhhh of the hand dryerand the solid closing of the door as she leavesare the only sounds bouncingoff the tiled walls.
Red Eyes
There's a light tap-tap on my shoulderas I grab my coat from my locker.I spin around, hoping it's Kate,but Trevor's standing there---one hand scratching the back of his head,the other shoveddeep in the pocket of his jeans.
"Hi, Trevor."
He doesn't say hi back,just blurts out,"Is Kate okay?"
I'm not sure how to answer this.I'm not sure what he knows.I look straight into his eyesand see that they're rimmed with red.
I look at this crumpled boyand wonder if Katewould have kissed Mike,would be accusing him of rape,if I hadn't picked on Trevor,hadn't told her to take a chance.
He stares at a spot on the floor."She broke up with me."
I tell him I know,and he walks awaylooking like a lost dog,leaving me filledwith so much sorry.
Slumber-Party Games
When I get home I call Mike.He picks up on the first ring.He says he knows nothing about a pillowexcept that maybethey were tossing one aroundon the couch,and he can't understand whyshe's saying these things.
I hear that pleading again,the tone a younger Mike usedwhen Mr. Rubin, Little League coach,failed to believe Mike didn't stealScott Rubin's glove,identical to the glove Mike wore.Scott, who couldn't run bases to save his life.
Failed to believe himuntil Scottfound his glovebeneath the bleachers.
Straight To ...
It's late Friday afternoonand the sky is turningthe color of pumpkins.
Dad asks,as we rake leaves into piles,how things are going.
"They're going," I say,and I pray he doesn't needmore than that.
I pray he doesn't ask mewhere they're headed.
Happy Girl
I'm happy to be on this ferry today.
Happy to be away from school,away from my parents,who should probably knowwhat I can't tell them.
Happy to be training Randall,who can't even manageto work a microwave,who doesn't know me at all.
It's cold on this early afternoon.Gray clouds hover, not allowing meto shoot film in the best possible light.
But I am happy.Happy, that's me.
High-Speed Film
I take a zillion pictures:weathered rowboats lined upon the strip of shore along Beach Road,scrub pine, driftwood,rusty blue bike, long abandoned.
I used to take photos a few times a week,but now my camera fills my afternoons,my weekends, the holes in my lifethat Brian can't fill.
I used to take time to look,to see.
But now time is something to get through,so I aim and shoot at everythingcrossing my line of vision.
Party Boy
Mike shows up at Kyle Jagbee's party.He's not supposed to be here.He's supposed to be at school,but he used to run track with Kyleand Mike's always up for a party.
I'm hanging in the den,my camera focused on Briancelebrating his team's big win,when something crashes out on the patio.
Along with everyone else,I run out backand find Mike lying on the ground,while his best friend, Tanner,slams his fist into Mike's face.
Damage Control
"What did you do?"I hiss in his ear,helping him into the patio chair,blood dripping from his nose.
"I was just joking around with Callieand Tanner went nuts," he says,as if there's nothing wrong withhitting on his best friend's girlfriend.
"Like you joked around with Kate?" I ask,watching drops of blood pool on his sneaker.
I'm sure I look like the caring sisteras I grab a napkin lying nearthe shattered glass of the overturned tableand hand it to him.
"I told you," he whispers,his voice full of gravel,"I didn't rape her."
I believe him.But I'm pissed that he ruined the party,pissed that he fooled around with my forever-best,so I tell him to try telling that to Kate.
He reaches outfor his half-empty bottle of beerbut I grab the bottle before he canand throw the beer in his face.
Then I leave himbrewing.
A Caring Sister
A caring sistermight worrywhen rubber burns in the drivewayand Mike's car peels off.
But allI feelis relief.
Stunned
It's three a.m. and two policemenare at the door.
I thought Mikedrove back to school,but when the doorbell ranghe emerged from the den,all bloodshot eyes and Mentholyptus breath.
Mom and Dad stand thereas a cop asks Mike where he wasearlier tonight.
Mike tells the cops he was at a party.
Dad rubs his hands across his faceand Mom looks hard at my brotherwhen he admits that, yes, he did leave the partyand go to the home of Katherine Morganat approximately twelve-thirty a.m.
Dad crosses his armsand Mom's mouth falls openwhen he admits to throwing rocks at her windowand taking off when Kate's dadcame barreling out of the house.
Dad tells Mike not to say anything else, asks the cop,"Are you charging my son with something here?"
Mom moves toward my brother,like she's the track star,when the old cop with the pockmarked facesays they have a warrant for Mike's arrest.
"He's being arrestedfor throwing pebbles at a window?" Dad yellsas Mom grabs Mike by the arm,a vein threatening to explodein her long, thin neck.
The older cop looks at Dad and says,"No, sir. Your son is being charged with rape."
Mike's face loses color, our eyes meet,and he looks and sounds like he's about to cry."I told you, Lizzie. I swear I didn't do it!"
"There must be some mistake!" Dad sayswhen the younger cop asks my brotherto place his hands behind his back,asks my mother to take her hand off Mike's armas he reaches to his belt for the cuffs.
"Don't worry! We're right behind you!" Mom calls outwhen the cops lead my brother to the squad car.
My parents stand therea second longer.Then they turnto me.
What I Know
"What do you know about this?" Mom asks,yanking off her robe.
I shiver, sure as if I'm lying naked in snow.
I tell her that Kate says rapeand Mike says not.That it happened at our Slumberafter I went upstairs.
She grabs for her coat."After the big fight?"
"It wasn't a big fight!" I yellas guilt spreads its wings like a falcon,talons clawing my gut,digging in.
The Best Trick
When we were smallMike and I thoughtDad's friend from collegewas better than Houdini,the way he could make coinsvanish into thin air.
But now Uncle Nate's traded his pouch of changefor a law degree and a Brooks Brothers suit,and it's my dad who's on his cell phoneheading out the door, hoping Uncle Nate can make thisnightmare disappear.
Priorities
I should be sound asleep,dreaming of Briansailing me away to Tahiti.
Instead, I'm staring at the ceilingimagining my parents at the police station---warped scenes from Law & Orderplaying out in my head---worrying about my brother,hating Kate for pressing charges,and missing my forever-best friend.
Almost Morning
They speak in hushed tones.They think I'm sleeping."What are we going to do?" she asks."I don't know," he says.
Bedsprings creak, and I picture my motherpropping her back up against the headboard."Why would she say such things?""Shhh," says Dad, "lower your voice."
But my mother,the lady with a kind word for everyone,Kate's second-biggest fan,doesn't lower her voice one bitwhen she calls Kate a bitch.
Bad Dream, Bad Girl
I'm screaming at Mike.Why did you go there?Why did you go there?
He squints at meas if I'm askingthe dumbest question on earth,and tells me he went therebecause I told him to.
My eyes shoot openand I remember the last wordsI spoke to him before he took off:Try telling that to Kate.
Unspoken Concern
What was it liketo spend the night in jail?Was it dirty?Did you sleep?Were you scared?
I can't bring myselfto ask these questionsas he comes through the door.
But I wonder.
Wants
Brian hurries to wipe grease from his handsas soon as he sees me walkinto the diner.
I don't know what I look likebut my lookhas him concerned enoughto tell his dad he needs to take his breaknowat the height of Sunday brunch.
He tries to usher meinto a boothbut I shake my head and walk outside.He follows.
"Mike spent the night in jail.Kate pressed charges."
"Holy shit!"His hands fly up to hold the sides of his headand I can see dried ketchup stuck to his elbow.
"I can't believe this," I say.
"Neither can I," he says,looking at his dad peering outthe glass door of the diner, tapping his watch."I don't think I can get off right now."
"It's okay," I say,wanting to be by myself---wanting himto not let me be alone.
Something to Cling To
Nothing is steadyexcept for the feelingof my camera in my hand.
Then and Now
I spent the first semester last yeartrying to figure outhow to adjust the camera settingsto get the right exposure,how to make a test strip,a contact sheet,how to develop and enlarge a print.I never thought it would make senseand debated dropping out of class.
But now my fingers moveover the controlsand my brain knows---because of the amount of light,the film speed, the type of picture I want to take---exactly what I need to do.
Working withmy manual camerahas becomeautomatic.
No Escape
Every spot I find to take photosis a memory.
The parkacross from Shoreview Heights Beachwhere Mike played ball---me and Kate watching the gamesfrom nearby swings.
The beachwhere Kate and I sunned and swam.She, a graceful dolphin.Me, splashing around like someonein need of a lifeguard.
I force myself to focus on the smaller picture---the diamond patternin the rusting chain-link backstopbehind home plate---the stones of the jetty,snails clinging,to avoid being sucked out to sea.
Ouch
I'm laying on my bed, lights out,facing the wallwhen Mom comes in and sits beside me.I feel her warm hand on my back.
"Sweetie, I know this is hard for you.I don't like the idea of Mike having sex with Katebut that's what happened.Mike would never force her.Guilt can do ugly things to peopleand it's done ugly things to Kate."My back stiffens, but I don't turn to face her."I don't think you should talk to Kate anymore,but if you do"---and she says it like I should---"tell her that it's not too late to take it all back.It's not too late to make it go away."She kisses the back of my head before she leaves.
My mother has pinnedall her hopes on me.And I can't pull outthe pins.
Monday Morning
Instead of being back at Millbrookin faded jeans and sneakers,Mike's got on his navy blazer.
Dad's wearing a dark gray suitand Mom's in lavender linen,their faces tightly pressed,as they head to the courthousewhere my brother will be charged.
I watch them gofrom my bedroom window,in my wrinkled cotton pj's,skipping school because I feel like crap.
Physical or psychological?Who gives a shit.
I'm staying right here.
Knowing
Brian calls at noon and tells meit's a good thing I stayed home."They're talking about it, babe."
I hang up the phone and cry,because knowing they woulddoesn't makeknowing they areany easier.
Gotcha
I imaginebeing downstairs that nightin my secret space,door ajar just enoughfor me to lean outslightly to the leftand catch a glimpseof what's happeningon the pullout couchcamera raisedshot takenindisputable handheld truth.
Feet
I'm back in bed an hour laterlooking at a photoof the soles of Kate's feet.I took it last springfor an assignment:Take a picture that represents Work.
Kate agreedonly after I promisednot to tell anyone the feet belongedto her.
There's work in these feet.Old work: a rough calluson the ball of her left foot.New work: a blister,shiny and exposedon the tip of her right pinky toe.
Soft blur of the backgroundhighlighting the hard workof strong, solid feet.
If I can convince Kateto let me take pictures of her sweating,to let me take pictures of her feet,I can convince Kateto doanything.
Monday Afternoon at the Dance Express
I'm in the parking lotimagining hertrying to lose herselfin the sway of the music,in the movement of her limbs.
I wait a bit for the dancers to clear.Some say, "Hi, Liz,"thinking, I'm sure,that I'm here, as usual,to meet up with my best friend.
And each simple greetingis like the scraping of a fingernailagainst a fresh scab.
Convincing Kate
When Kate comes outI beg her to talk to me,beg her to drop the charges.She shakes her head, tells me she can't,kicks a pebble with her sneaker.
When I ask her if she can't or she won'tshe leans against the brick wall of the building,bites her lower lip, and tells me I should go.
When I scream, "Mike says it was just sex!"she throws her black nylon dance bagonto the groundand gets right up in my face.
"Just sex?" she says."Just sex?"
Those two words andthe dambreaks.
She Says
She says she was sleeping on the couchand woke up when he came inand they talked for a whileand then he kissed herand she didn't mindeven though he had beer on his breath.
She says he said,"Hey, you're beautiful."
She says he got on top of herand she told him to get offbut he wouldn't moveso she told him she'd yellif he didn't get off of hernowand she was sure he wouldbut he didn't and she says it again,"But he didn't."
She says that instead he said,"Shhh, Katie. You're so beautiful."
She says he took the throw pillowwith the pink and yellow flowersfrom under her head and put it over her face.
She says he said,"We're just having fun."
She says the pillow smelled musty and it was hard to breatheand one arm was pressed between her body and the couch andshe hit him and tried to scratch him on the back with herother hand but he grabbed it and pushed it under her bodyand she thought her shoulder would pop and he rubbed hishands all over her.
She says he said,"Nice, Katie."
She says she tried to scream again and he pressed the pillowharder and grabbed at her sweatpants and her underwearand got them down below her knees and he felt so heavy and shecouldn't breathe, couldn't breathe and then it hurt ithurtsobadand then he was done.
And she's looking at mebut she's not here anymore.And I open my mouthto say something to bring her backbut she holds her palm outas if she might wave good-bye,and says he moved the pillow.
He moved the pillow and she could breathe and she was sohappy she could breatheand he ran his fingers through her hair and she jumped up,pulled her pants back on.
She says he said,as she ran for the stairs,"Hey, you're something."
a ≠ b
It's mild out but I'm freezing.There's a pressure in my headthat doesn't feel right.And "It was just sex, Lizzie"does not add upto this.
I'm Sorry
I reach out for herbut she holds her armstight around her middle,tears streaming,and, for the first time ever,she apologizes before I do.
"I'm sorry, Liz,but I can't be with you anymore.Every time I'm with you,I see him."
I know I should say something soothing,but I didn't expect this.I did not expect herto be donewith me.
She's crying hard now.So am I."This isn't my fault!" I say.She says she knows.
"I thought we were friends!Forever-best friends!"
"We were," she whispers,and I have to strain to hear,watching her breath form a white cloudas it hits the autumn airand disappears.
Empty
I run,not knowing where I'm going, but I run.Around the building, down the street,my sneakers smacking the pavement so hard,shooting fire up my shins.
I run past twelve years of friendship,matching clothes and birthday parties,jumping on beds and catching crickets,too-long phone calls and belly laughs,passing notes and building dreams.
Mold
When I get home I run downstairs,grab the pillow from the couch,hold it close to my noseand gag.
Flesh and Blood
Could someone I've lived with,someone I love and trust,do something so heinous?
Am I related tothis?To someone capable ofthis?
This and That
My eyes move back and forthscanning the shelf in my roomuntil I find what I'm looking for.
I pull down an album of family photosand flip through, faster and faster,until all the memoriesblur togetherlike those tiny bookshe and I used to love,with stick figures that seem to movein one fluid motionwhen you fan the pages quicklywith your thumb.
I stop at a snapshot,Halloween.I think I was six.
This boy, wrapped head to toe in gauze,the only one able to lure a princessin a pink gown, jeweled tiara,and scuffed white sneakersout of her castle by convincing herthat Frankenstein,coming down the front walk of the Cohens' house,was just a kid wearing a maskto hide a monster zit.
This boy, who held her handthat whole evening long,even when his friends ran pastspraying shaving creamand calling to him to ditch Cinderella.
This boy, who helped her conquer her fearand collect her treats.
How can this boy be that guy?
Because of Him
Because of Mike,I found Brian.Because of Mike,I lost Kate.
Monday Night Dinner
Mom spoons rice onto her plate,passing the bowl to Dad,as Mikeshoves food into his mouth like it's his last meal.
"What happened in court?" I ask.Mom's back stiffens, then relaxes.She asks if we can just have a normal dinner.Normal?
Dad sets the rice bowl on the tableand tells me that Mike was charged,a court date set.Mom slams her fork down and glares at Dad."When is it?" I ask.
Mom says, "In about six months,"and pleads, "Can we eat now?"But she doesn't eat.She pushes her rice around a bit,shakes her head,and leaves the room.
Dad takes his napkin from his lap,wipes each corner of his mouth,and goes after her
as Mike and I stare at each otherfrom opposite sides of the table.
"I didn't do it, Lizzie.Do you really think I could do that?"
"Kate told me everything," I sayas I bring my full plate to the sink.
Everything
"I told you everything!"
"Not the same everything!"
He slams his fists on the table."That's because she's lying!"
"So you didn't hold a pillow over her face?"That freezes him.
"Is that what she said?" His voice cracks."What else did she say?"
I say nothing.
He stands up fast, his chair falling to the floor."Lizzie! Holy shit! I would never do that!"
My father appears in the doorway."Your mom's not feeling well! Quiet down!"
Mike turns to him."Dad, Kate told Liz a bunch of lies about that night."
"Lizzie?" Dad moves toward me."What did she say?"
"Nothing! She said nothing!"
I push past him and run to my roomtrying to remember something---trying to remember if Kate said no.
Thinking When Drinking
Maybe he thoughtif she didn't say nothat meant she was sayingyes.
I know she didn't want itbut maybe he thought she did.
Back to School
In the corner of the main lobbybefore Tuesday's first bell,Amanda, Dee Dee,and other girls drawn to dramacrowd around Kate, hugging her,whispering in her ear.
Her body is tight and I knowthe last thing she wants is a pity party.
I want to rush over,take her hand, pull her away.But I didn't make the guest list.
News Is Spreading
Determined to prove I can handle thisI walk to class chin up,even though Kate won't talk to me,even though I look like the bad guy---same high-set cheekbones,same cleft in our chins.
I'll Never Be Able to Make Up for This
I'll join Habitat for Humanity.I'll bring food to the hungry.I'll teach the illiterate to read.I'll walk for miles, barefoot,to raise money for sick children.I'll volunteer every weekendat the Seaside Home for the Elderly.I'll even donate every drop of my blood.
But will the hospitaltake bloodfrom me?
Wednesday's Child
Dee Dee finds mein the art room,chin down,avoiding the cafeteria."Are you okay?" she asks.
I am so grateful for concernthat it takes all my effort not to cry.All I can manage is a shrug.
She tells me everything will work out andI know that's the biggest of fattest lies,but I grab on to it anyway."I hope you're right," I say.
She squeezes my arm and leaves.She doesn't ask me to join herin the cafeteria.She doesn't offer to eat her lunchhere with me.She doesn't tell me that she's on her wayto have lunch with Kate,even thoughI know she is.
Passing Notes
Amanda passes me a note in homeroomand I open it,happy that she's trying to make a connection.
Kate dropped out of dancingand her mom's taking herto a therapist next week.Just thought you'd want to know.
I'm glad Kate's going to therapybut the fact that she quit dancing altogethermakes me want to cry.
And the fact that Amanda sits thereall smug with her insider infomakes me want to shovethis note down her throat.
But I take the paperand those feelings,fold them up tight,and tuck them away.
Holding It Together
"I'm fine, thanks," I sayevery time Mrs. Pratt asks how I'm doing,a smile pasted on my facewith Please-God-Save-Me Glue.
Gossip
I'm at the library after schoolcramming for a physics test.
I look up and seeJen Millson and Sari Cobb,two girls I hardly know,in the stacks near my table.
They're talking about Mike.
They say he had a knifeand that he told Katehe would slice her upif she tried to scream.
I walk over to them,but before I can say"He did not have a knife!"they grab their books and check out.
My Muse
When I get to Mrs. Pratt's room todaythere's a quotewritten in bright blue markeron the assignment board beside her desk.
Everyone has a point of view.Some people call it style,but what we're really talking aboutis the guts of a photograph.When you trust your point of view,that's when you start taking pictures.
"Who said this?" Mrs. Pratt asks us,tapping the marker against the board.
Before most kids finish reading the quoteI say, "Annie Leibovitz,"my favorite photographer.
"Very good, Liz."
She tells the otherswhat I already know about Annie---how she's most famousfor her portraits of celebrities,how she takes risks with her art.
"Now it's your turn to take risks," Mrs. Pratt says."I want you each to create a self-portraitthat says something about you---that shows the world your point of view."
Self-Portrait
At the end of classI tell Mrs. Pratt I can't do this.She says, "Yes, you can."
"I'll just throw a bag over my headand take the shot.Is that what you want?"
She matches my hard glarewith warm eyes.
When I read the syllabusback in SeptemberI couldn't wait to get to this assignment.
Now it's here and I don't wantto turn the lens toward me.
And He's Off
It's Thursday,and when I come homeMike's not here.
Uncle Nate told Mom and Dadthere was no needto put everything on hold until the trial.
So Mike's gone back to Millbrook---to his dorm,his friends,his life.
Friday
On my way to gymI see kidsmoving overto the left side of the hall,the right sideblockedby three orange pylonsand Mr. Frick,the janitor,with his long, wide broom."Careful of the glass, kids,"I hear him say.
I get closerto where he standsand nearly tripover the gray rockthat shattered the display casecontaining the homageto my brother's feet.
Biological Germs
All week long the kids at school---even the Nuisanceand Zero P---look at meand don't look at meand stay as far awayfrom meas possible.
Good-bye, Photogirl.
Hello,Sister of a Rapist.
Changes
I come home to find my motherin Mike's roomon the edge of his bed,her hand smoothing overthe worn denim comforter.
I want to keep going but she looks so ..."Mom?"
She lifts her head and says,"Hi, honey."Her voice soothing, soft, sad.
"Mom, are you okay?"
"I'm okay, sweetie," she says,looking down again to tracethe stitching of the spread with her finger."Everything will be okay."
She stands,smooths out the spot she rose from,and asks how school was.
"It was fine, Mom.Just fine."
Painted Ponies
When the ferry docksin Vineyard HavenI take the island busto Oak Bluffsand head up the streetto the Flying Horses Carouselto get a shotthrough a dirty windowof horses with no ridersbrass ring out of reach.
Dead
Like an unprotected photograph,some friendships fade.People grow apart, lose touch,want different things.Dreams, woven together,unravel.
But losing Kateeats away at melike a dirty old gullpicking at fresh prey.
Some daysI want to scream at that bird,"I'm not dead, you stupid thing!Leave me alone!"
Other days I lie there,making no sound at all.An offering.
Like Syrup on Sunday
Brian's on break next to mein a booth near the kitchen.We're sharing a heaping pileof blueberry pancakes,listening to his dad grillingone of the new cooks."Is over easy too hard for you, Shandling?Is your brain as scrambled as this order?"
A baby two booths downwants no part of her high chairand lets everyone on Cape Cod know.A tray of silverware clatters to the floorand a group of men laugh so hardone shoots coffee out his nose.
I dip my last bit of breakfast into adark brown pool of sweetnessand let the sounds of normalsoak in.
Lather, Rinse
I head down the aisle in CVS andwhen I reach out to grab a bottle of Pantene,Kate's mom comes around the cornerswerving just quickly enoughto avoid collision.
The shampoo thuds to the floorand rolls a foot away.We both watch it go and come to a stopbefore our eyes meet.
"Hello, Liz."Stiff, formal.
"Hi, Carol."Done.
She walks toward the prescription counteras I hightail it to the exit,the bottle of shampoostill in the middle of aisle 9.
What does she think of me, this womanwho taught me how to make cookies from scratch?Does she hate me? Blame me?Does any part of her miss me?
Hallway Traffic
Amanda and Dee Dee both makea high-speed attempt at smiling at meand keep on going.
I know Kate can't standthe sight of me.I shouldn't be surprisedthat they chooseto follow her lead.
I'm really startingto hate them all.
But Most of All
I hate myselfbecause if I'd keptmy big mouth shutthere would have been no fightno reason for me to go upstairsand leave heralone.
Mixed Emotions
I've seen these girls around school.They're juniors, I think,and they're too busy eating french friesand talking about guysto notice me in the booth behind them.
I'm waiting for Brian to go on break,pretending to work on an English essay,and listening to them as they spin out a listof the hottest guys they know.
"Mike Grayson's cute," one of them says,and I force myself not to lift my head.
"How can you say that?" the other girl asks.
"My brother used to run track with himand I talked to him once when he hung out at my house.""Really? Wow!""Yeah, really! There's no way he did that.""You're probably right.He doesn't look like a rapist to me."
I let out a sigh, then swallow hard.
Relief and disgustare two emotionsnot easily blended.
Undercover
"No one's really talking about it.""Of course I'd tell you if they were."
I'm amazed at how smoothly these wordsslide off my tongue,a sled on a well-groomed hill.
The softening of lines on my mother's brow as I say them,the way my father pats, then squeezes her hand,is worth the shards of ice that slicejust beneath the layers of white.
Some Sailor
As I walk by the bridgeDad waves and I wonderhow my father,capable of navigating a trillion-ton boatin all kinds of weatherand pulling her safely into port,will steer his familythrough this storm.
New Route
I imagine the ferrymaking a sharp turn south,her motors churning outa wake of raging foam,meat the helmheading for open water.
Sunday, November 16
Three a.m. beams bluefrom the periwinkle clockon the nightstand by my bed.
Four weekends sinceour last and finalSaturday Night Slumber
Wide awake.No slumbering here.
Portfolio Day
I should be glassy-eyed and cotton-headedafter a sleepless night,but I'm pumped with adrenalineas I enter the Hynes Convention Center.
This place is nuts.So many kids, so many portfoliosso many lines, so little time.
I planned ahead,got the layout of the hall online.
The woman from Parsonshas gray hair pulled back in such a tight bunthat for a moment I imaginethe skin on her forehead might tear off.Her red eyeglasses hangfrom a silver chain around her neck.
She just grinned at the girl in front of meand said, "You've got your work cut out for you, dear."I turn to watch the girl walk awaywith her portfolio between her legs.
The woman tap, tap, taps her magnifying glassagainst the table to get my attention.
"Do you have something to show me?"
The zipper sticks, and she lets out a sigh,but them a "hmmm"as she flips through the pagesof my portfolio.
"Not bad. You might want tomake this one a bit bigger,and your matting could be a little neater,but not bad at all."
My zipper sticks againas I try to close the portfolioand I hear her tapping.
But when I look up she gives mea wink and a smile.
Warped Sense of Normal
For a few weeks things fallinto this strange rhythm.
I go to schooleat lunch with Brianpretend that Kateisn't sitting across the room.I go to workhelping Randallwho at this rate will neverhandle in-season crowds.I go hometell my parentsabout my college applicationsmy high SATs.
And sometimesif I try real hardI can make myself believethere's nothing left to say.
But ...
Even if no one says itthe word rapehums soft and constantlike water runningthrough the pipes in our walls.
Not Over the River or Through the Woods
We usually spend Thanksgivingat Grandma Grayson's in Connecticutbut my father decided it was bestthis yearfor us to spend holidays at home.
Customer Assistance, Please
Mom has always been a talker,making friends and conversationwherever she goes.
We'd be in the supermarketpicking up pasta salad to bring to a picnicand she'd start talking to the checkout lady---when we were already running late---complimenting the woman's abilityto scan items so quickly.
"See you soon!" Mom would chirpwhen everything was bagged and in the cart."I hope so!" the lady would chirp back.But Dad's the one at Bag & Buy nowshopping for our holiday mealbecause, these days, Mom's words comeslowly and with effortand she avoids public places,keeps her eyes to the floor.
I want to run to Bag & Buyand tell that checkout ladyto stop tallying up those turkeys
and call my mom nowbecause I have no ideawhat to do to help her.
Giving Thanks
It's Thanksgivingand I'm thankfulMike's off skiingwith friends in Colorado.
Dinner and a Movie
Brian pulls into the drivewayand turns off the chariot's engine."That was fun," I say.
He kisses my neckand everything fades away."And this is fun, too...."He kisses my lips. "And so is this...."
He kisses me moreand I'm gratefulthat he keeps going.
Despite the cold outside,the windows and my entire bodysteam up.
When he puts his handagainst my breastsparks fly.
Wham! Wham!
We pull apart so fastBrian hits his headon the driver's-side window.
"Elizabeth Grayson! Get in the house now!"My mother stands beside the car, her handshattering the barrier of careful wordsshe and I have been tryingso hard to build between us.
Brian Running
As Mom stomps toward the houseBrian rubs his face with his hands,says he should go,leans across me to open my door.
I've always admired his speed,the way he zips around the trackleaving other guysin the cloud of his dust.
But now I worry, someday soon,he'll run away from meand I'll be lefthunched overalone and unable to catch upchokingon all he's kicked behind.
Bzzzzz
I storm after Mom into the house."We weren't doing anything!I was just kissing him good night!"
"It looked like more than that to me."
I fly up the stairs, hot on her heels."What were you doing? Spying on me?"
"I wasn't spying. I got worriedwhen you were both out there so long."
"Worried about what, Mom?Worried that Brian would rape me?"
My words stingand Mom flinchesbefore escaping to her roomleaving me in the hallwaystill buzzing.
I Knew Nothing
After a fender bender last summer,Mom screamed at Dad,"You can pull a ferry into port,but you can't avoid a mailboxin your own stupid driveway!"
I thought that was family tension.
But I was wrong.This.This is family tension.
Final Portfolio Prep
Mrs. Pratt claps her hands."Time to get serious now, folks."
I stayed up late last nightrearranging things,adding in the Vineyard shots,taking out what no longer fit.
She leans over my shoulder,her black wavy hair pulled back,giving off a berry-infused scent."Liz, there's something about these pictures."
I'm waiting for her to go on,to say how I've really dug deep this time,how my photos are filled with intensity.Instead, she puts her hands on my shoulders."It's like you're trying too hard."
I dig the nail of my middle fingerdeep into the tip of my thumb.
"And you're forgetting simple things---the exposure's off here,no focal point here.This one's good but would be better with a filter."
I wish she'd stop talking.I get it already.What's the pointof this damn portfolioif I've lost my touch?
"Your original portfolio was really strong, Liz,and portraits have always been your thing.I don't see any portraits here."
I wish she would justshut up.
"Maybe stop worrying about new photosand go through some of your old ones."
I've lost my talent.I can't do this anymore.When I look through the lens now,I no longer know who I see.
And I can't go backto my old stuff.It hurts too much.
Juggling Act
As tempting as it seemsI can't run off with the circus.Because the only one that comes around here,to the Barnstable County Fairgrounds,doesn't come until Julyand outside my windowDad's stringing his hopesalong with white lights of Christmas.
Final Bell
The last bell rings and students cheeras they leave Shoreview High for winter break.I'm not cheering or leaving, though.I'm heading to the art room.
"I'm glad you came," Mrs. Pratt says,sitting at one of the long tables,the photos I gave her yesterdaylaid out before her.
When she first asked me to meet with herI said no.What was the point?
Then I decided the pointwas to get into art schooland out of Shoreview.
"Tell me what you think are your strongest pieces."I look at the photos of Kate.I will not cry.Instead, I shrug.
"Liz, I've tried not to pry,because I thought that's what you wanted,but I'm sure this has been hell for you."
My hands are clenched.I will not cry.
"If you can't go through these now, I understand.But there's great stuff here."
She holds up the photo of Katedefying gravity with her soaring split.My heart rips.Tears flow.
Mrs. Pratt moves my photosso they won't get wetand pulls me into her arms.
And I don't worry if it's okay to cry---I just do.
When the Tears Stop
I'm too wiped out to be mortifiedbut not too stupid to seethat Mrs. Pratt is right.
The original photos---the portraits---are the better ones.
I'll use these pictures to get into art school,where I'll focus on something differentlike landscape photography---or still-life shots, where all aspectsare controlled by me.
As I'm getting ready to leave,Mrs. Pratt pulls out a newer picture---one I threw in to make sureI had enough shots.
"I really love this one, too," she says."It's so interesting."
It's my self-portrait.
"It's not supposed to look like that," I say."I wanted the bag to cover my face,but the timer went off beforeI could pull it all the way down."
"Talk about how thingscan be interpreted differently," she says,turning the photo toward me."I thought you set the timer to catch yourselftaking the bag off."
Pit Stop
I'm so happy to be away from school,sitting on the floor in Brian's roomopening my Christmas present.
It's a necklace, with a silver charm.A palm tree.
"For Tahiti," he says,and this is no way matches upto the new pair of sneakerswrapped in a box beside me.
I kiss him, long and slow,until he pulls away.
"I have something to show you."He gets up and goes over to his deskgrabs a thick manila envelopeand brings it to me.
The label, in the upper left corner, readsUNIVERSITY OF MASSACHUSETTS AMHERST,and I know what it means,and I know that western Massachusettsis eons away from the tropics.
He'd been hoping to get in,early decision,and he did.
I squeak out how happy I amand bury my face as I hug him,trying to hide my tears.
But I know he knowswhen he squeezes me and says,"It's not too far from wherever you'll be,and just a pit stop on the way to Tahiti."
He wanted this.He worked for it.He deserves it.
But this pit stop isn't a rest area.It's a crater, opening upswallowing me whole.
Christmas Dinner
"Thanks for supporting me," Mike says,when Mom finishes instructing Dadon the proper way to carve a turkey.
"Don't be silly," Dad says,lifting his eyes from the butchered bird.
Mom looks at Mike like he's handed her a present."Of course we support you."
Dad holds the platter out to meand I stab a piece of meat with my fork,choosing to give my familythe gift of silence.
New Year's Day
Brian's at a family brunchthat I didn't want to go to,and I'm filling out college applicationsbecause I've made a resolutionto get away.
I snort when I get to an essay choicefrom the Museum School:"What individual (artist or otherwise),event, or personal experiencehas had a profound effect on your art?"
I write about Annie Leibovitzbecause she's a willful woman---because she'sthe easier choice.
Oh, Daddy
Dad comes in as I'm finishing the essay."How's the college stuff coming?"
I'm not sure he wants an answer,maybe he's only asking so thatsomethingwill fill the empty air that hangs between us.
I want to run into his armsand give him a tight squeeze.I want to tell himeverything.
I look up into his hazel eyesand the laugh lines,the ones he says he gotfrom smiling so hardwhen his children were born,now look like cracks inhard, parched earth.
"It's coming along, Dad," I say,pushing my chair back as I riseonto the balls of my feetand lean in to kissmy father's weathered cheek.
Dipping
It's Sunday morning and I sit beside Momon the cream-colored couch in our living room.I need to know some thingsand this couch---the only one in the house I'll sit on now---is as comfortable a place as anyto search for answers.
While Mom pours over the obituaries,a habit since Gramps died,I reach for the front page of the Cape Cod Times.The lead article, "The Polar Plunge,"has a photo of folks smiling as they leapinto the icy surf at Bright Penny,a yearly fund-raiser for cancer research.
"What if he's found guilty?" I ask,stepping into unchartered seas.
"He won't be found guilty!" she sayswith such force that I shift my gazeand notice her hands clenching the paper,her once-long nails chewed to nubs.
"But what if he is?"
She raises her eyes from the deadand glares at me."Guilty? You think he's guilty?"
I jerk my feet out of the frigid water."I mean what if he's found guilty."
With this reworked sentenceher hands unclenchand she lays the paper on the table.
"He won't be," she says, as feeling beginsto return to my toes.
Done and Gone
Applications filled out.Recommendations in sealed envelopes.Slides of photos carefully arrangedin plastic slide-holder sheets.
I kiss each package in frontof the scruffy-faced manwho works at the Shoreview post office,my lips chilled from February's frost.He raises his eyebrows and says,"Important stuff, huh?"
I nod and say, "Very,"as he stamps the wordsFRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CAREonto my hopes for a future.
Some Celebration
It's early Friday eveningand Mom's taking me to dinnerto celebrate sending my portfolio off.
As we head toward The Big Surf,she makes a quick turn."I just need to stop at Nate's to sign some papers."
So now, instead of pulling scallopsout of baked stuffed lobster,I'm in Uncle Nate's officesitting in this under-stuffed chaircovered with scratchy upholstery.
"Lizzie, I'd like to put you on the stand," he says.I let out a short, high-pitched laughand turn to face Mom, who at any minutewill jump right in and tell him that's ridiculous.
But Mom's eyes keep shiftingfrom my face to her lap.She says nothing.
"Is this why you brought me here?You knew what he was going to ask me!"
My mother looks to Uncle Nate,who stacks some folders,opens a desk drawer,puts the folders in.
"I just need you to establish a time line," he says."To say what time you left Kate and went upstairs."
He's still talkingbut I can't make out the wordswith the phrase You left Kateechoing in my head.
Bird's-Eye View
The seagull is peckingat a dead crab---a Saturday afternoon snack.
"Can you put the camera downfor a minute and come over here?"
Brian's words distract me.The bird flies off.
"Brian!" I jerk my head toward him,the camera strap cutting into my neck."I missed the shot!"
He digs his hands deepinto the pockets of his jeansand kicks at the sand,"Well, I miss you."
Waves crash along the seawalland a salty mist sprays his face.I tell him there's nothing to miss,that I'm right here---that I came straight home from worklike he askedto be with him.
"Yeah, you're here, all right.Acting like everything'spicture-perfect."
I tell him that's not true,that nothing's perfect,as tears mix with sea sprayand I slump down onto the cold, damp sand."What am I supposed to do?I'm a mess!"
"I don't think you're a mess," he says,sitting down beside me,taking hold of my hand,his body a shield from the biting wind.
An Invitation
Brian tells me his cousin Cameronis having a party tonight in Brewster,that no one from school will be there.
I tell him I'm not up for a party,that I just want to be with him.
"I want to be with you, too.But there's nothing wrongwith hanging out with other people."
"Fine," I say. "Go hang out with other people, then."
He says he meant we should hang outwith other peopletogether.
I jump up---"You don't like being alone with me?I'm too screwed up for you?"
"Damn it, Liz!" he says as he stands,brushing sand off the back of his jeans."I don't think you're screwed up, but you do!"
I tell him he has no idea what I think.
"That's because you don't talk to me anymore," he says."Talk to me, Liz!"
I can't.I want to but I can't.And with each tick of silenceI see him sprinting away.And if he leaves, what then?
I move two steps closer to him,wrap my arms around his waist,and bury my head in his coat."Okay, I'll go."
"What?" he asks,putting his hands on my shoulders,forcing me to look at him.
"I'll go to the party."
Maybe if I go,he'll stay.
Jack Daniels in Brewster
The first sip searsthe lining of my throat.
I swallow hardbecause I need to feelsomething.
I swallow morebecause I need to feelnothing.
The Party Scene
Some guys are playing quarterson the black granite islandin Cameron's kitchen.
I leave Brian thereand make my way to the family roomwhere music is playing,couples getting close.
I'm warm and woozyas I lean my body against a wall,the vibrations of surround soundmassaging my back.
Cameron is sitting near mein a maroon upholstered chair.A girl with a purple stripe in her hairis on his lap, facing him,her knees bent over the chair's curved arms.
I'm close enough to hear heras he slides his hands under her shirt.She's telling him to stop.
He says, "Shhh,"and I move toward them
in one long stride,pulling her off him, the contentsof her blue plastic cupsplashing the chair, the wall,her stark white blouse.
"Did you not hear her?" I scream."Because I did!"
She yells for me to let go of her arm,Cameron says, "What the hell?"and Brian is suddenly beside me,leading me out the door.
Wake-Up Call
"Wake up, Liz, you're home," Brian says,shaking my shoulder,sending things spinning.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Quarter to twelve."
I tell him it's early and he says,"It's been a long night."
A sickly sweet tasterises to my mouth.I swallow it down and realizethe fuzzy dream I had earlierwas not a dream at all.
"Oh, Brian---"
He doesn't let me finish."Listen, Liz. I can't talk about this now, okay?"
He always turns off the enginefor a few minuteswhen we get to my house.But tonight the engine's still running.
"I'm really tired," he says."I just want to go home."
And I whisper in his ear, "I'm sorry,"as he leans across me and opens my door.
He always waits until I'm insidebefore driving away,but the second my feet hit the lawnthe chariot disappears.
Watch Me
I run into the houseand head straight to my room,but not before Mom comes out of the bathroomand catches a glimpse of mebawling my eyes out.
She's standing in my doorway nowwringing her hands.A modern-day Lady Macbeth.
"I'm your mother!" she's wailing."Please tell me what's wrong!"
I shake my head and slam the door.
Mike's futuremay be spent behind bars butright noweverything's clanging shutin a home on Fairview Terrace.
Red Means Go
I'm sitting on the chariot's hoodwhen Brian gets off work.He sees I'm here,his shoulders slump,but he holds the door openfor me to get in.
"You okay?" he asksas we leave the parking lot.
"I'm so sorry, Brian.I'm really sorry.Are we okay?"
He says the worst thing.He says he's not sure.
"I told you I didn't want to go to the party!"
"Yeah, that's right," he says. "You told me."
He grips the steering wheel,keeps his eyes on the road.
"Brian!"I don't even try to stop the tears from coming.
He leans over and opens the glove box,hands me a pack of tissues."I just don't know what to do anymore, Liz."
I ask him what that's supposed to meanand he says he can't make me happy.But that's so silly because he can, he does."I am happy. I'm happy with you!"
"Well, I'm not happy, Liz."
And with those wordsa silence dropslike a curtain at the end of a play.
I ask him if he's breaking up with meand he says he doesn't know what he's doing anymore,that right now he's just taking me home."Let me save you the trouble," I say,reaching for the door handle."Pull over."
He shakes his head,tells me he's not leaving mein the middle of the road.
"Yes, you are," I tell him.And at the next red lightI'm gone.
What Do I Know?
It's amazing how you thinkyou know someone so well,then one day you come to seethat you really don't knowthat person at all.
And you wonderwhat that saysabout you.
Off the Hook
When I get homeI can't escape to my roombecause Mom's sitting on my bed.Without even looking at me she says,"We talked to Uncle Nate---"
"I don't care!I don't care about Uncle Nateor the trialor anything!"
Now, she looks."Lizzie, what's wrong?"She moves toward mebut I back away.
"Brian and I just broke up.Not that you care!"I try not to crybut it doesn't work.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," she says."Of course I care."
"No, you don't!"
She grabs a tissue from my nightstandand hands it to me."Is that what you think?" she asks.
How could I not?There's no way the hell of my lifecould match up in her eyesto what my brother's going through.
"I'm sorry, Liz," she says,raising her arms in the air."I'm doing the best I can!"
I tell her, "I know.But it's not enough."
She's quiet for a minuteand I feel sad for her, sad for us.I wait for her to put her arms around me---to tell me that she really wants to hear about Brian---when the phone rings.
"That's probably Nate, he said he'd call me right ..."I tell her she'd better answer it then,and she hesitates a secondbefore heading to the kitchento take the call.
Framing
The Nuisance hangs my self-portrait,the one with the bag half-onor half-off,on the wall in the art room.
Mrs. Pratt points to it,telling us that she lovesthe way it makes her thinkabout the subject, about the taker.
"Me too," says The Brenda Show.
I used to love this part of class,where Mrs. Pratt focuseson a particular aspect of a shotand everyone shares their thoughts.
But this time it's all about me,and I no longer like the spotlight."I told you it wasn't supposed to look like that.It doesn't tell the whole story."
"I know, Liz," she says,and the Hoopster adds,"You can't sum up a whole life in a 5×7."
Reality Hits
There were moments,up until this one,when I could forget about the trial.I was taking photos,working extra shifts,watching The Brenda Showwhen I had some downtime.
But now it's Apriland here he is,Nike sneakers on the landing,orange toothbrush by the sink,Cap'n Crunch backon the pantry shelf.
And I'm pissed offwatching him,feet up on the coffee table,remote in hand,loungingon that couch."How can you sit there?"
"What?"He flips the channel.
"How can you so casuallysit there?"
He turns to look at me."Would you like it betterif I were sitting in jail?"
I take too long to answerbecause what I'd likeis for none of this to have happened.
"Yeah. That's what I thought," he says,turning back to watch TV.
Almost Over
On Friday morning, as we driveto the Barnstable County Courthouse,Mom turns to Dad and says, "We'll get past this."
She says this as if it's a marker in the road like:Once we get over the Bourne Bridge we can stop to pee.
But instead of being sturdy,made of steel,this feels like somethingtoo rickety to cross.
Bearing Witness
"That's not right!" I say,when Uncle Nate tells me I'm sequestered---that I can't be in the courtroomduring any testimony but my own.
"I'm sorry, but it's the law."
This doesn't fly with Mom."The jury should see that we all support Mike!"That's her need, not mine.
I do want to be therebut for different reasons.
Even thoughnothing I say can help Kate,and what I do saymight make things worse,I want to bein that courtroomto make up for not beingdownstairs.
Sequestered
I do my time in the witness roomwatching made-for-TV movies,trying to keep my mind off the showtaking place down the hall---the one without a scripted ending.
But I can't help wonderingif she's on the stand yet,if Uncle Nate is making her feellike she's the one on trial.
At around one p.m.Mom, Dad, Uncle Nate, and Mike come in.Dad says to me, "The first part is over.They presented their case.After lunch, it's our turn."
"What did Kate say?Is she okay?"
My brother crosses the roomlike he's in a meet."What do you mean, is she okay?I could go to jail because of her!"
It's true. He could go to jail.But will he?And if he does,whose fault would that be?
All Eyes on Me
It's odd to be called as a "witness"when I didn't witnessa damn thing.
Taking the Stand
Kate's not allowed in here---she's sequestered, too---but as I move up the aisleI see Amanda and Dee Deeseated behind Kate's parents.
Dee Dee gives me a warm lookand I can't tell if it's pity or compassionand I'm not sure it matters anymore.
I sweep my eyes around the roomwhen I reach my spot on the stand.Brian's not here and I know there's no reasonfor me to expect he would be.
Still, I stare at the courtroom doorshoping he'll burst through themlike tape at the finish line,but he's finished with me.
My family is here.Mike, his hand on his temple,Mom and Dad behind him,staring at me, willing loveor their idea of the right wordsmy way.
To Tell the Truth
My throat is drymy body is shakingI keep thinking I'll saythe wrong thing.
Uncle Nate sticksto the questions we went over,and I'm sure, to the jury,they seem pretty straightforward,but answering them on the standfeels a hell of a lot differentthan it did in his office.
When he gets to the questionabout why I went upstairs,I say we had a fight.
He asks what we fought aboutand I tell him,"I thought her boyfriend was boring,I told her she was staying with him and giving up dancebecause she was afraid to take risks."
What made me think getting that off my chestin this room, of all places,would make me feel better?
"It would be taking a riskfor her to have sex with your brother, wouldn't it?""Yes, but ...""Thank you, Miss Grayson.No further questions, Your Honor."
Yes and Yes and Yes and ...
"How long have you known Ms. Morgan?""About ten years."
"And you were best friends for most of that time?""Proud to be her friend?""Trusted her?""Shared personal secrets?""Called her your 'forever-best' friend, didn't you?""You are aware that Ms. Morgan has claimed she was raped?""You understand rape is a serious charge?""That one convicted of rape might lose not only his reputationbut also his freedom?""And you understand that, even though it's not fair,being raped might damage the victim's own reputation?""And yet Ms. Morgan has come forth to say that she was rapedby the defendant, right?""Would it be fair to say that someone who would make upsuch a story would be dishonest and dishonorable?""And for all the years you've known Ms. Morgan,have you known her---your 'forever-best'---to be a dishonest and dishonorable person?"
"Objection!" Uncle Nate calls out,and the defense attorney withdraws the question.
"Now, Ms. Morgan has reported that she was raped in herbest friend's house, right?""And you're that best friend?""She has reported that this horrible crime occurred while herbest friend was sleeping upstairs, right?""That was you sleeping?""And she has reported that the rapist was her best friend'sbrother, correct?""That was your brother?""Now I would expect that someone who had a houseguestraped in her own house might feel shame. Would you agree?""And that shame might be double in intensity if thathouseguest were a friend, and perhaps double again inintensity if that friend were a best friend. Would you agree?""Now, Ms. Grayson, you've known Ms. Morgan for years. Yourfriend, trusted confidante, your 'forever-best.' Do you thinkshe is the sort of sick person who would lie to make you feelthat sort of shame?"
Uncle Nate jumps to his feet. "Objection! Argumentative."
The judge says, "Sustained."
"Now, you love your brother, right?""And, while friends are friends, blood runs deep?""Would you do anything for your brother?"
"I wouldn't lie for him about something like this."
Fast and Furious
These questions fire at melike the clicks of cameraset on continuous mode.
But memoriesof a brother, a best friend,the worst night of our lives,are impossible to fitinto the frame of yes-no responsesI'm expected to give.
So they swell up inside me.
Until there are no more questionsuntil there is no more spaceuntil I leave the courtroomin a flood of tears.
Adjourned
At the end of the dayI scan the hall for Katebut I don't see her.
Closing argumentsare Monday morning.We should have a verdictby Monday afternoon.
"I think things went well," Uncle Nate says,and congratulates Mikefor keeping cool on the stand,congratulates me, too.
As we leave the courthouseI put my hand to my mouthto keep from throwing upall over Uncle Nate'sshiny black shoes.
Natural Light
I'm looking to do anythingto keep my mind busy this weekend.
I haven't taken a portrait in a long time,but Mrs. Pratt wants one taken in natural light,and the sun glistens off the wateras I come down the ferry ramp.
I see an old man at the water's edgein a drab woolen coat.He's tossing bits of bread into the sea.
I lift my camera and zoom in,waiting for the world to go silent.As I hold the camera steady,I'm moved by his desire to feed the fish.
Suddenly, gulls swoop downsnatching fish and breadwith sharp, angry beaks.More join in---swooping,snatching, screeching.
Is the old man hereto feed the fish,or set a trap for them?
The ferry horn blowsand the man walks away.His bag of bread empty,my camera full of unused film.
Viewfinder
As the man disappears from view,I think of the portraits I've taken---the ones Mrs. Pratt callsmy "best work."
Who's to say the womanmowing her lawnis longing to be somewhere else?
Maybe the boy's joyful lookhas nothing to dowith old wooden horses.
I control the exposurewith my f-stopand my light meterand my shutter speed.
I wait for the momentwhen things are as I want them to be.
Then I click and thinkthat says it all.
But it says nothing.
And instead of "Preparing My Shot,"all I can think of now is:"Photography Means Shit."
Aftershock
I've lostmy best friendmy boyfriendand my PMS mood.
All I have leftare my parentson a live wire,my brotherclose to the third rail,and my needto connect to something.
Flash
I grab the shoulder strap of my camera,rush toward the beach,and swing the stupid useless thingagain and againagainst a rough wooden pylon.
"Hey! Hey there! No, Lizzie! No!"
My father---my so-slow-lately, so-careful father---runs like a madman down the ramp,grabs from my trembling handswhat's left of my once favorite thing.
"He did it, Daddy. I think he did it."
My hearts stops.I feel it seize and stop.I didn't mean to say those words.What have I just done?WhathaveIjustdone???
My father turns the camera overin his big, soft hands,takes in the shattered lens,the cracked shutter.
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm so sorry!"I'm crying so hard my head throbs.
He lays the camera on the groundand pulls me into his arms."You, Lizzie, have nothing to be sorry for."
"Yes, I do, Daddy!I've screwed up everything!"
"So you're not perfect, Lizzie.No one is.But you're notnot perfectbecause of Mike."
I look up and see Randallcoming toward us.He takes a few steps. Stops.Takes a few more."Um, Liz? Is everything all right?"
"She's okay," my father tells him,and I'm not sure I am,but the words he said to me wraplike an Ace bandagearound my heart.
Images
I'm in the courtroomseated with my parentsbehind my brother's tableas the judge instructs the jury.
Every momentof the past six monthshas led to this.
The lawyers have finished closing statements(Kate's a slut. Mike's evil.),both creating images to show someonethe way they want them to be seen.
I used to be so confidentabout who people were, who I was---that woman's a gossip, that guy's a prick,I'm a girl with a camera and something to say.
But, while listening to the lawyers plead their case, I realizedI no longer see thingsin crisp black-and-white contrasts---some things come in shades of gray,hues that give pause and make me wonder,make me want to know more.
And I think about what Javier said,how you can't sum up a whole life in a 5×7.And now I get it.
But I wonder if maybe there's still roomfor catching magic in a momentwhere a woman seems wistful,or a boy, excited.
Where a girl,as she dances,looks lighter than air.
Verdict
The forewoman stands,looks down at the paper,looks up at the judge,and says in a voice that does not waver, "We the juryfind the defendant,Michael James Grayson,not guilty."
Mom and Dad jump up, crying, and leanover the banister, clutching my brother,who lets out an audible sigh of relief.
Mom's saying, "Yes! Yes!"like she's just wona million dollars on a game show.
But I feel like a buzzer should soundinstead of a bell.I think the jury got it wrong.And this is the tricky part:I'm glad that they did.
Better or Worse?
I don't think he meant itbut I think he did it.Was this justice?I don't think so.
But the thoughtof my brotherrotting away in a cellis almost as hard to takeas the thought of my motherwalking around like a zombie---not dead, but not alive---of my father trailing behind herpicking up parts as they fall.
The Other Side
Kate's father makes a guttural sound,her mother yells, "No!"and they both reach for their daughter,who is rocking back and forth,eyes closed.
I wince,let out a silent sigh,a silent I'm so sorry,then close my eyes, too,hug her in my mind,and pray she can feel it.
Shades of Memory
It's Tuesday morning, one day down,and I'm back in Mrs. Pratt's roomcleaning up my space before class ends.Javier comes over and sits down beside me.
"Hi, Liz."
"Hi, Javier."
He's cracking his knuckles,something he always doeswhile sitting on the benchbefore a big game.
"So, I was thinking ...," he says,and I wonder if he's thinkingwhat an annoying habit that is.
But he seems so nervousso I just say, "What?"
He covers one hand with the otherand asks me if I'll be his datefor the prom.
His question sends a tingle through my body,something I haven't felt in a long time.A tingle, I now know,I'm capable of feeling again.
But all I can seeare pages of a magazinewith photos of two dresses,in shades of pale yellow and sea-foam green,and two girls cutting those pages out,tacking them to a bulletin boardin a room filled with dance trophies.
"I'm sorry, Javier. I just can't."
And I leave the room before the bell rings,before the cracking starts again,before he can ask me why.
Picture This
It's been a week since the trialand Mom's sitting at the kitchen table,next to me, our chairs pushed close,shoulder touching shoulder,looking through my portfolio.
It's a quiet momentin sharp contrast to twenty minutes agowhen I opened my acceptance letterfrom Parsons School of Design.
She's oohing and aahingover photos old and newand I'm glad for the returnof her singsong sounds.
"I've missed looking at your work," she says,and I'm happy because she voicedthe words I hoped to hear.And because I believe her.
She reaches for a picturetaken from the rear of her and Dadas they sat together last springon the wrought-iron benchin our garden out back.
"I remember that day," she tells me."The irises were coming up."A real and true smile graces her lips."I didn't know, sneaky girl,you were hiding out behind us."
I tell her I remember, too.And that I loved the way she and Dadsat silent, holding hands,leaning into one another,watching flowers bloom.
"I'm surprised we didn't hear you."She puts the picture down,reaches for another.
"That's because I was PMSing," I say.
And it doesn't hurtthis timeto say it.
Minor and Major
It's the middle of first periodand the hallway is emptyas I bring a note from Mrs. Prattto the principal's office.
I stop at the wall near the cafeteria,papered with college-acceptance letters.I find my letter there.
Then I search until I find hers.Kate's going to Cornell.
"Impressive, huh?"
I flinch, because I didn't hear Amanda coming.For a girl who talks nonstop,she's surprisingly quiet on her feet.
"Yeah, it is. I'm happy for her."
"Congrats on Parsons, by the way. I'm going to BU."
Even though we still have classes together,Amanda and I haven't talked this much in ages.
"You holding up okay?" she asks,gently squeezing my arm.Her hand is warm.
"I'm holding up."
"Kate's holding up, too. She's decided to minor in dance."
Hearing this makes me want to hug Amanda,because Kate minoring in danceis a major-good thing.But I don't hug her because it still stingsnot hearing Kate's news from Kate.
Before I can say "That's great,"Amanda's mouth moves again."Anyway, I gotta go. I was supposed to be making a quick tripto the bathroom and then I saw you and if I don't hurry up mybladder will burst and it won't be pretty."
My head throbs listening to her,but my heart feels lighter.
Baby Steps
I'm at my desklooking over the stuff from Parsonswhen the phone rings.My mother calls to me from the kitchen,"Lizzie! Pick up. It's Mike."
He's been back at school for two weeks now,we haven't talked since the trial,and I reread a sentence about dorm life four timesbefore picking up the phone.
"Hey," I say,in a bad attempt to sound casual."Hey," he says back,and there's too long a pause until he adds,"Congrats on getting in."
I tell him "Thanks,"trying to push from my brainan image of him running through the door,picking me up from behind, spinning me aroundin a fit of brotherly pride.
There's another pause before he says,"Well, I gotta get going."
I say, "Okay, bye."The line goes dead.
And I'm left feelingthings I can't explainbecause I'm not surehow to be his sister anymore.
I don't know how to forgive him,especially since he doesn't thinkhe did anything wrong.
And I'm not sure he forgives mefor not believing him.
Maybe someday we'll sitacross from one anotherin some therapist's officeand try to find a way to be okay.But I'm not willing to do that yet,and neither is he.
At least that's one thingwe can agree on.
Pomp and Circumstance
As I walk to the podium,I hear the familiar soundof my father's "Wahoo!"even though people were askedto hold their applauseuntil the last diploma is given.
I get back to my seat,between Jacob Gorman and Stephanie Griggs,four years of my life on my lapin an embossed, padded folder.
When they call out "Brian Joseph Kent,"he holds his diploma high over his headthen gives me that smile and a thumbs-upas he passes my row.
I nod and smile back,my heart warming a bit as my handtouches the spot, just below the base of my neck,where our palm tree rests.
"Katherine Cecily Morgan"
Who will be her maid of honor?Which friend will hold her baby first?Who will sit beside heron a summer porch swing,when hairs gray and memories start to fade,and remind her that she was onceThe Mistress of Modern Dance,Photogirl's forever-best?
Not me.It won't be me.
Memorial Day
I'm sitting on the stone jetty at Bright Pennyholding my brand-new Canon,a graduation gift from Mom and Dad.
It's warmer than usual for this time of yearand the first hints of summer,in bathing suits and stark white skin,make their way onto the beach.
I'm panning the shoreline,not really looking for a great shot,just enjoying the feel of this new,familiar object in my hands.
Through the lens someone catches my eyeand I worry, once I know I've been spotted,that she'll think I was aiming at her.
Kate holds a book in her right hand;a light green towel hangs around her shoulders.
She doesn't come over,doesn't put her towel down,but clutches it to her chest with her free hand,like she's protecting herself from the windor maybe from me.
I want to tell her I'm sorry,sorry she got hurt,sorry for so many things.
I want to remind her that she once said,"Everything lives on through history."And let her know that I thinkthat means the good stuff, too.
But she won't be able to hear me.She's too far away.
So I standand walktoward her.
This Girl
She doesn't run off,though her eyes tell meshe wonders if she should.
"Hi," I say, once I reach her,gripping on to my camera like a lifeboat.
Then, in a rush of words that tumble like waves,I tell her I'm sorry about the trial,sorry that she had to go through that.
She looks past me toward the water,as if she's searching for something."I'm sorry he wasn't convicted,but I'm not sorry I testified."
She turns her eyes from the surfto look straight into mine."As scary as it was,I said what I needed to say."
And she did.
This girl,who I never thought would take a risk,has done exactly that.
Not far from where we stand,a mother in a straw hat pullsa red plastic shovel from her beach bagand gives it to her toddler.
A horn blowsas a ferry carries its heavy loadacross the sound.
"Bye, Liz," Kate says.She releases her grip on the toweland turns to go.
The toddler giggles, a gull cries,water laps against the stones of the jetty.Kate's footprints form a path behind her.She doesn't look back.
And I raise my camera as she walks,bathed in morning light,across the sand we grew up on.As sound fades away, I rememberthe words of Annie Leibovitz:When you trust your point of view,that's when you start taking pictures.
This girlis starting now.
The Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN) is the nation's largest anti-sexual-assault organization. RAINN operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673). The National Sexual Assault Online Hotline, as well as many helpful resources, can be found on their website at rainn.org.
acknowledgments
There are many people to whom I am indebted for their support and sage advice during the writing of this novel: To my mother, my brother, my sister, and all of my extended family, for always believing in me.
To Julio Thompson, for his legal expertise.
To Judy Cronin, chair of the Unified Arts Department at Dartmouth High School, and Christine McFee, teacher extraordinaire, for allowing me to shadow the darkroom photography class over the course of a school year. And to the students in that class who put up with my learning curve and my endless questions.
To the world's most fantabulous writers group: Carolyn DeCristofano, Deanna Garland, Leslie Guccione, Valerie Kerzner, Brian Lies, Wiesy MacMillan, Barbara O'Connor, Delia Weikert, and Mary Wisbach.
To Cindy Lord, Nancy Werlin, and Diane M. Davis, for much-needed early encouragement.
To Linda Urban, for being my "Go To" girl.
To Alma Fullerton, for all the late-night plotting (and plodding!) sessions.
To Tracie Vaughn Zimmer, my poetic muse, for your careful ear and your gentle soul.
To Sarah Aronson, for your friendship, for multiple reads, and most especially for suggesting I try writing a few scenes in poetry to see where that might lead.
To Stacy DeKeyser and Audrey Vernick, beautiful writers and equally beautiful friends, for all the thoughtful critiquing, hand-holding, and necessary butt-kicking and for always, always being there.
To Joy Peskin, for first encouraging me to try my hand at writing a novel and for your long-standing support and belief both in my writing and in me. This novel would not exist without you. Go, Daled!
To Tracey and Josh Adams, the "dynamic duo" of Adams Literary, for taking me under your wings and helping me soar. I am so lucky to have you both in my corner!
To Ellice Lee, rock-star art director, for designing a cover that so perfectly zooms in to the heart of this story. And to the Comma Queens of Copyediting, and the rest of the amazing Random House crew, for the wonderful work you do.
To Shana Corey, for totally "getting" this book from the get-go. Your keen eye and gently probing questions have taught me so much about how to push a story to the next level. And your enthusiasm and warm, bubbly personality make you a dream editor. A million thanks!
And lastly, to Jake and Abby, with all my love, for being wonderful children and for your willingness to eat too much take-out food while I wrote this book. And to Jon, for being the best friend and husband I could ever have hoped for. I love you.
about the author
KIMBERLY MARCUS lives with her husband and two children near the beach in Massachusetts, not far from the ferry to Martha's Vineyard. She is a clinical social worker specializing in the treatment of child and adolescent trauma. Exposed is her first novel.
You can visit her on the Web at kimberlymarcus.com.
Table of Contents
Darkroom Photography, First Period
In the Hallway, After Last Bell
Left Out to Dry on Sunday Night
Monday Afternoon at the Dance Express
I'll Never Be Able to Make Up for This
Not Over the River or Through the Woods

