Depth of Field

by Chantel Guertin

  Times Square is totally different in the middle of the day. At night, the lights are the showstopper. They illuminate the sky so that it looks like day. But it’s not reality. In daytime, the lights are still there, the ads still playing, the marquees with their scrolling messages still moving along, but it’s not just about the lights. I look around, take in the people. Sure there are tourists—standing at the ticket booth, staring up at the signs—but that’s not all.

  I hold my camera up to my face and focus in on two guys, walking in suits, cutting through the Square, then entering the tall glass building on the corner of 46th and Broadway.

  A group of girls in school uniforms stand in line to get into the Starbucks. Why didn’t I notice before—it’s not just a tourist trap. New York happens here, more than you expect. Is that what Dad liked about this place? Or was it something else?

  I think about Dad, how he wasn’t my dad, not technically. How he loved Mom, how he wanted to be with her, all that time. How his best friend was with the girl he wanted to be with, and when finally he wasn’t, it wasn’t an ideal situation—she’s pregnant, leaving New York because she has to—and he didn’t care. He wanted to be with her and that’s all that mattered. Wanted to be her partner. Wanted to be a father to me.

  I think back to not even two weeks ago. How different I thought this camp would turn out. How I thought I’d be in my element, not totally out of it. How different all of us are in the program, how we all had very different experiences being here. How I thought I wasn’t even going to speak to Ben at all, and now, how I spent maybe the most time with him out of anyone else.

  How life doesn’t always unfold the way you think, the way you see it. There are layers. I hold my camera up and start snapping. Focusing not on the obvious, but on the unexpected, on the layers. Changing my depth of field.

  CHAPTER 17

  On Friday, our mini end-of-Tisch-Camp gala is set to start at 7, but we’re all early, setting up, hanging out. Our mentors are supposed to come, but David isn’t here yet. It doesn’t matter. Not really. Ramona and I have put our photos up beside each other’s. She’s showing a series on movement. I have just one photo, enlarged and mounted on canvas. The caption on the little square of white paper beside it: Times Square. But it’s not the typical view of the busiest spot in New York. The focus is a gold ring. A perfect circle of gold set against the asphalt. I got down on my stomach, shot it at eye level, the chairs, the garbage, the feet of dozens of tourists, locals and those who trek through Times Square every day blurred out in the background. Something lost? Something about to be found? Does it belong to someone who comes through every day, who will find it later today, or maybe tomorrow? Or does it belong to someone who came only once, on vacation, lost it and will never see it again? Or someone who purposely threw it away?

  Mikael walks up behind me. We stand, side by side, taking in my photograph. Mikael’s hands are clasped behind his back. His body still, impossible to read. Finally he says, “You’ve come a long way in two weeks, Ms. Greene.” Then he turns and walks on to the next photograph.

  I hide a smile as Connor walks past. “Looks like you earned your sweatshirt.”

  This time I’m not embarrassed. Because I did.

  David never shows up, but it’s not like I won’t see him. He’s hosting the afterparty, for all of us, mentors and students and instructors included, at his studio. Everyone’s excited—there’s even a hint of jealousy that it’s my mentor who’s throwing the party.

  But my mind is on when I’m going to do it. When I’m going to tell David that I know. When I will change the course of history, and the course of my future. I keep playing through scenarios, trying to figure out what will happen after I tell him. The telling him, I’m not even worried about. It’s what he says next. What if my father scenario is just like Ben’s? What if David tells me there was a reason he’s shirked his responsibilities for all these years? What if he tells me he hasn’t changed his mind, doesn’t have any regrets over his decision? That my knowing makes no difference at all to him? What if he tells me he has no interest in having anything to do with me once the Tisch Camp wraps up, and with that, his responsibility as my mentor?

  I try to push the thought away, try to channel Dr. Judy, try to remember there’s no point in ruminating over what-ifs, but it’s futile.

  The instructors tell us all we were a pleasure to have in the program and encourage us to keep practicing and that they hope to see us at Tisch next year or the year after that. There are lots of hugs and tears and clinking of plastic glasses filled with ginger ale. And then we file out of the building and make our way to David’s. We can hear the music coming from his loft as soon as we enter the building. Ramona skips over to the elevator and presses the button and the doors open and we—Savida, Izzy, Julian, Ben, Ramona and I—pile in, then the boys pull the big door down, and we head up. Savida and Izzy and Julian start dancing to the faint music and then Ramona kisses Julian, whoops and then plants another kiss on Izzy.

  “Don’t leave a brother hanging,” Savida says, pointing at Ben, but Ramona shakes her head. “I don’t mow my friends’ grass.” There’s a moment of awkward silence, but then Ramona announces, “Group hug!” and we all wrap our arms around each other.

  “This is it. Our last night. When are we all going to be in an elevator again together?” Savida moans, and we all squeeze tighter. Ben on one side of me, Ramona on the other. Sure, there’s a chance we all get into Tisch, but Ben, Ramona and Julian would go next year, while Izzy, Savida and I are still juniors, so it’s another year off.

  “At least you two will still see each other at home.” Julian nods at me and Ben.

  The elevator bounces as it reaches the fifth floor, and then the boys open the doors and we file out and down the hall. The door to David’s studio is open, and the music is near-deafening. There’s a DJ in the corner and the place is packed. There has to be at least a hundred people here.

  We dump our coats and hats and mitts on the pile at the door.

  Stella comes through the door, says hi and walks over to another girl—and I realize it’s Talia. Talking to Gisele Bündchen. I squeeze Ramona’s arm excitedly. “Be cool,” she whispers, but how can I be cool when we’re at a party that looks like it should be in the pages of InStyle?

  Someone who looks exactly like Justin Timberlake is DJ’ing in the corner. I snap a discreet pic on my phone and send it to Dace. She’s going to die.

  David’s on the other side of the room, by the couch, and my stomach flips. David. My mentor. My dad? He gives a nod, raises his beer, and I wave back as he takes a swig.

  The DJ, upon closer inspection, isn’t actually JT. But he’s spinning Pharrell Williams and Ramona drags me into the crowd to dance. She throws her head back, singing along, and I do too. “I’m going to miss you!” she yells. “Promise you’ll come visit in the summer. And we’ll show each other our love on Instagram.”

  Songs later, Ramona and I take a break to get a drink at the fully stocked makeshift bar in the kitchen. Ben comes up behind me. “So this is it,” he says, clinking glasses with us. “I’m gonna go get more ice,” Ramona says, making her way to the freezer.

  “Can you believe two weeks ago we were total enemies?” I say, taking a sip of my Coke.

  He grins. “I hope we’re not total enemies now.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s possible. Who would’ve thought it? Can you believe it’s back to boring Spalding tomorrow?”

  He shakes his head. “Not for me.”

  Ramona passes by, flanked by Izzy and Julian. Julian’s carrying a bowl of chips and Ramona’s got her arm linked through Izzy’s. She catches my eye and points over to the couch, where they’re heading. I nod but my focus is still on what Ben’s just said. I look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going back.” Someone bumps into me, pushing me closer to Ben. He puts a hand out to steady me.

  “You’re staying the weekend?” I
say, but there’s something in his voice, in his eyes, that tells me that’s not the case.

  “Nope. Going to Killington. Dropping out to be a snowboard instructor.”

  “Um, what?” I know I’ve been wrapped up in my own drama, but this seems like it came out of nowhere.

  Lana Del Rey’s “West Coast” comes through the speakers. That line about why she’s leaving feels strangely coincidental.

  “I was always going to do it after high school, but I figure what’s the point in finishing? So I can do what? Go to college for the sake of going? When I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life after high school? And I don’t have any burning desire to go back to Spalding, that’s for sure. The school where everyone hates me?”

  I look around, trying to process this moment. The lights are dim, the music playing. In the corner, where the couch and chairs are, the mood is mellow. People deep in conversation. Like us.

  “But … you can’t just leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d—I mean …” I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. So I bail on my emotion and stick to facts: “You’re going to throw away high school, a diploma, all because you can’t wait to be a snowboard instructor?”

  He shrugs as Savida passes by, leans in to Ben, says something in his ear. He nods and I feel a stab of … what is that? Jealousy? No way. I watch as she walks away, then turn back to face Ben. His blue eyes are fixed on me though.

  “Well, have you at least talked to Dr. Judy about this plan?”

  “She’s going to ask me what I think is the best decision. And I think this is the best decision. They’ve already got a ton of snow, and they’re hiring. It’s perfect timing.” He shrugs.

  “But … what about your dad and photography—you’re getting good …”

  “C’mon, Pippa. I’m sucking less. We both know I was never going to make it as a photographer. It was just about my dad. Which in hindsight was so stupid. My mom kept trying to protect me, telling me my dad was just busy. But she knew.”

  He shoves a hand in his pocket. “You’re lucky your dad is dead.”

  I stare at him, shocked. “It’s astounding what a dick thing you just said.”

  “Shit. That came out wrong.” He puts his glass down on the counter. He crosses his arms. He does look miserable. “God, I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, I didn’t even ask you: what—what are you doing about that whole situation? Are you going to tell David that you know?”

  The kitchen seems, suddenly, very crowded. “Can we get out of here?” I ask and grab Ben’s hand and lead him out to the balcony. There are two heat lamps out there, warming up the cold December air. The Empire State Building’s in the distance, the Diamond Hotel too. There are a lot of memories in that skyline.

  “If I were David?” Ben says, putting his hands on the railing and leaning over to look down at the street below. He stands back up and faces me. “I would want the chance to get to know you.” The wind blows my hair in my face and I turn my face into the wind, to blow it back. He blows in his hands, then rubs them together.

  “Pippa, I like you. I like you as more than a friend. I always have. Over the past few months, when you weren’t talking to me? It was the worst. And I just kept thinking if I can get to New York, if we can get out of Spalding, out of school, out of the setting where I treated you so wrong, maybe I can show you I’m different. That I made a mistake—” He reaches out and pushes away a strand of hair that’s blown back into my face. I don’t stop him.

  “Sometimes I’d see you in the hallway between classes, and you wouldn’t know I was there, and you’d be laughing and smiling, with Dace or whoever. And I just saw the true you. I’d imagine that one day that would be me, with you. That you’d be laughing and smiling because you were hanging out with me. And this past week …”

  “Ben, I—”

  “I know. And I know it’s wrong for me to even be telling you this. I have no place telling you. Putting you in this position. And I don’t want to put you in a position. I’m not trying to. I just … I know you’re with Dylan, and I can’t change that. I had my chance before you really got together with him, and I know I screwed up. I was so screwed up. And I have to live with that. But I can’t go back to Spalding. I can’t be there and see you every day and know I can’t be your boyfriend. But I also couldn’t leave without telling you.”

  Something catches Ben’s attention behind me and I turn around to see. There’s a crowd that’s formed around someone who’s just come in. I shift to the left to try to see, but it’s just some old guy I don’t recognize. I turn back to Ben, but he’s standing, frozen. He looks strange. He looks astonished.

  “That’s my dad,” Ben says, moving past me, through the sliding glass doors and into the loft. Ben goes straight to the group of people. Recognition flashes in Ben’s dad’s eyes. He takes a step away from the crowd, downs the rest of his drink and stretches out his hand to Ben.

  And then I turn away. This is Ben’s moment with his dad, and it seems almost surreal how quickly things change. How just a moment ago he was out here, telling me … telling me he likes me? How did this happen? And what do I even think about this? And is the moment gone? Ben’s gone, and he’s about to get his dad back. Which seems like a sign, that it’s my time to go confront David. To tell him that I know he’s my dad. To tell him he doesn’t have to hide it anymore.

  I make my way inside, through the crowd in the studio, to the kitchen, but he’s not there, so I head into the hall to the stairwell, to the roof, which has to have at least 50 people on it, drinking and smoking, the rooftop warmed by more heat lamps that glow in the night. I walk around, past a group lying on blankets and pillows, talking, and then three girls sitting together on folding chairs, drinking and laughing. A guy sitting against the wall, texting on his phone. Two guys by the railing, smoking. And then I see him. David’s standing with a girl, his hand on her butt, his face buried in the long black waves of her hair. She’s wearing a hat—gray and white with a pompom on top. David kisses her—really kisses her. Full tongue. It’s not a sight I’d recommend—your parent slipping anyone the tongue. And then the girl changes her position. The light from the heat lamp illuminates her face. Savida.

  Repulsion propels me back down into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, and then I’m down the hall, back into David’s loft, and through the masses of people drinking, laughing, dancing, back to the balcony, which feels safe. There’s a couple at the far end, but otherwise, it’s empty. There’s the skyline I saw moments ago—New York City all lit up—but it no longer looks magical. It feels vast and I feel lost. I focus on the point where the tip of the tallest buildings meet the dark sky, and I try to process what just happened. Up there, on the roof. I feel sick. Savida? She’s 17. David could be her father. And then, well, that thought—David, a father—hits me. I wanted so badly for David to take over the role of being my dad, so that the sadness I feel every day, every hour, of Dad being gone could be gone too. Like a do-over. And I could erase the fact that my dad was dead. Have a fresh start.

  Clearly, there’s no fresh start to be had. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I was trying to wipe out the 16 years I had with Dad just to eliminate the pain of his death. I think about what Emmy said, how Dad acted like my dad, right from the start. David’s not a bad person, and he’s a good photographer, but a dad? My dad? Somehow, in just a few short minutes, that seems unimaginable, and definitely undesirable.

  A guy walks out onto the balcony, and for a minute I think—hope?—it’s Ben. It’s not, but now I want to find Ben, want to talk to Ben. To tell him what happened. I head back inside, through the throngs, to the couch, where Ramona’s still sitting with Izzy and Julian. She jumps up. “Where have you been?” she asks, hugging me. “I’ve missed you, roomie!” She’s tipsy, and I hug her back, steadying her.

  “I know—sorry—but have you seen Ben?”

>   “He just left.” She plops back down on the couch and skooches closer to Izzy, patting the velour beside her, for me to sit. But I stay standing.

  “What? He left? Already?”

  “He was pretty upset,” she says, eating a chip.

  “About his dad?”

  “His dad?” she looks confused and shakes her head. “No, about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Oh god, come on,” Ramona says. “The dude can’t stop talking about you. It would be super annoying if it wasn’t you. The guy’s in love with you.”

  I shake my head. “He’s not in love with me.”

  Julian pipes up. “Uh, the dude followed you to New York. It doesn’t get much more romantic than that.”

  “It’s kind of pathetic, actually,” Izzy says, but Julian reaches over Ramona to smack him on the head. Izzy gives him a dirty look.

  “He didn’t come here for me,” I say, exasperated. “You don’t know the whole story. And besides I have a boyfriend.”

  Ramona nods. “Yeah, yeah. But Ben’s leaving. You might never see him again. Just think about that.”

  “This is too much drama,” Julian says, nodding to Izzy. “Let’s go harass the DJ.” The two of them get up. Julian pats me on the shoulder. Once they’re gone, I turn back to Ramona.

  “What should I do? What would you do?”

  “If I were you … I’d go,” Ramona says, playing with the silver chain around her neck. “At least to say goodbye.” She stands, grabs my hand and starts leading me through the crowd, toward the door. She finds my coat in the heap on the floor, hands it to me and pushes me out the door. I turn back to look at her and she blows me a kiss. “Listen to your gut.”

  I hurry to the elevator but it’s taking forever, so I push open the door to the stairwell, and head down the steps, and out on to the street. It’s cold, and I pull my hood up over my head and then grab my phone from my back pocket and text Ben.

  Me: Where r u?

  No answer. I look in both directions for any sign of a yellow cab. The temperature has dropped, and there’s a thin layer of ice on the sidewalk. My ballet flats slip and slide as I pace along the sidewalk, but then I spot a cab. I point at it. “You.” And the cab pulls right over to the curb. I open the back door, slide into the backseat and give the address of the dorm to the driver. I check my phone again. Still nothing.