Where You End

by Anna Pellicioli

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

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

  “I’m sorry. I should have called.”

  “She was a little overwhelmed that day.”

  Ms. K might be baiting me.

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  “Turns out it was nothing.”

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

  It becomes impossible not to speak.

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

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

  “You said you spoke to all my teachers … ”

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

  That I have.

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

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

  “Maybe I grew up,” I say, shrugging.

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

  “Do you have another degree?” I ask.

  This time, she’s not surprised at all.

  “Yes,” she says. “I have a Master’s.”

  “In counseling?”

  “No, social work.”

  “The Terrapeens.”

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

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

  “Why did you move down here?” I ask.

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

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

  “Why were you late?”

  “I got sick.”

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

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

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

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

  She waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I know.”

  “I used to do it all the time.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And I’m still here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

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

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

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

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

  “So what do I do now?” I ask.

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

  “The truth about what?”

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

  “I am. I told you I was.”

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

  “Any pictures?” I ask.

  “As long as they’re yours.”

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

  “It’s part of yours.”

  “Is this why you called me in here?”

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

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “What?” she says, caught off guard.

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

  “Your parents called me.”

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

  “Miriam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they not tell you?”

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

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

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

  “Hey,” Adam says.

  “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “I have no idea.”

  “Okay … Did you bring your work?”

  I roll my eyes. My work.

  “The Green said … ”

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

  “All right, Meem. Just asking.”

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

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

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

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

  “How about the pictures in your camera? The ones I saw at your place the other day?” he says.

  I give him a disapproving look.

  “What? They’re good. They’ve got that thing the Green’s always talking about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know. The hope and the fear. You know what I’m talking about. How there’s only one feeling in the world and that’s what everything’s about?”

  “That’s two.”

  “What?”

  “Hope and fear. That’s two feelings right there.”

  Adam looks at me, smiles, and pulls my shoulders in close to his. There’s the coffee smell again. And his detergent. The smell of his clothes, his house, our time together.

  “Hand over the camera, Mardy Bum.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Arctic Monkeys.”

  “Right. Too cool for me. As in Mardi Gras?”

  “As in bummer. Let’s have it. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  The camera is in my bag. I took it just in case. I leave it in there.

  “Come on, remember? You’re my brave friend. You’re the one who gets the best pictures. I always stop to think. You’re the one who always goes for it.”

  “Goes for what?”

  “Now you’re fishing … ”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Gimme Bogart and I’ll show you.”

  “I don’t have it,” I lie.

  He looks at my bag, then looks away. Then he puts his hand on top of my head, right in the middle where it’s always cold. I keep my head as straight as possible until he takes it off. Neither one of us acknowledges this strange blessing. We walk the last few minutes without talking, just feeling the air between us shift.

  “Okay … ” Adam says as we reach the arts building, a gray, pre-fabricated cube. “Wanna see something?” His eyes are the size of two, dark planets.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “You can’t tell anybody though. You have to promise.”

  I raise my right hand, my left one on my heart. Adam takes his camera out.

  “Look,” he says, pointing to the screen.

  I frown. He knows my rule.

  “Come on. Come on, come on, come on. It’s not Bogart. It’s my camera. You have my permission to look.”

  I lean over and hold my hand over the screen to block out the light. There she is. The sculpture. Lying on the ground. And my witness in her white shirt.

  “Oh my God,” I say, before I can take it back.

  “I know, right? With the light on her face and all the feet around her. I wanted to get the guards—”

  “How did you get this?” I ask.

  “Fast. I was scared shitless. Ms. D was down there. That’s her boots right there.”

  I did not expect this. Adam seems to be waiting for something, but it could be me making it up.

  “It’s perfect,” I say quietly.

  He smiles, blushes a little, takes the camera back.

  “Are you showing that today?” I ask.

  “No way. Not after I heard the museum dude blamed somebody in our class. I’m not crazy, like you.”

  I stop at the entrance and a cold, airless dread fills my chest. Adam holds the glass door open. I don’t want to go in.

  “After you,” he says.

  I shake my head again, and his face falls. He doesn’t get it.

  “Miriam?” he says.

  We walk inside, and I lean against the wall in the hallway.

  “What is it?” Adam asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I didn’t eat very much this morning.”

  “You want me to get you something?” he asks.

  “No, it’s okay. Go ahead. I have something in my bag.”

  Adam reluctantly leaves, and I wait for him to be out of sight before walking back out through the glass doors. I take a long breath and find a place to sit, turning my face toward the sun. Second period just started. The campus is empty. Elliot is in American History, and Maggie is in Spanish. Because I’m pathetic and memorized their schedules, I know they don’t have any classes together today. That means they’ll have to meet by the oak tree, or the front doors where Elliot and I first spoke. I try to push those details out of my mind, to focus on the warmth on my nose and my cheeks and how it’s burning my eyelids a little.

  I still haven’t gotten my period. It’s now officially two weeks and three days. I should probably take the test already. A girl can’t spend her life waking up in the middle of the night and riding her bike until she’s tired enough to fall back asleep, especially taking pictures of stranger’s houses. It’s going to get too cold for that soon. I’m going to have to come up with a better compulsion.

  “Hey!”

  I open my eyes again and look for where the noise came from. I can’t see anybody.

  “I’m right here, by the gates” she says, and I recognize the voice now.

  Paloma is standing behind the gates of my school, waving for me to join her. I’m completely paralyzed. I can’t decide if I should just ignore her, but then again she could scream “Picasso,” over and over, until everyone walks out and stares. No school guard can keep a girl like that out. I walk over, checking behind me for any onlookers.

  “Hi,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” she says.

  “I’m at school,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, I know. Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

  Right. “It’s my break,” I lie.

  “Oh. Well. Do you want to take a walk? Do they let you do that here?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s probably better if I stay though. I have stuff to do.”

  “Okay. I just came by to see what it looks like. You have the picture, right?”

  I give my
creepy stalker friend the once over. She’s wearing the same thing, for the third time now. The jeans, the shirt, the gold fish necklace.

  “Aren’t you cold like that?” I say.

  She shrugs. “You sure you don’t want to go for a walk?”

  “I have work.”

  But I feel sick lying to the one person who seems to know the truth. I resolve not to ever lie to this girl again. She could very well be my knife.

  “I’m supposed to be in class,” I say.

  “What are you doing out here then?” she asks.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About what?” she asks.

  “Stuff I can’t figure out,” I say.

  She nods and we both stand quietly for a minute, each on our side of the fence.

  “Maybe I can help you” she says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m starting to think it’s just never going to be the same.”

  She laughs a little, not a mean laugh; more like a wise, tender laugh.

  “Nothing is ever the same,” she says.

  I check for Bogart in my bag and consider showing her the picture I took last night, but instead I take out my green sweater, the one I was wearing at the museum. I hand it to her.

  “I can’t take that,” she says.

  “Go ahead,” I say, “it’s cold.”

  “Thanks.” She pulls out the sleeves before slipping it on. It’s tighter on Paloma than me, but I can tell she’s grateful.

  “How long have you been out here?” I ask.

  “A while,” she answers.

  “I do have your picture,” I say, “but can I show it to you later?”

  Her eyes open wide. “After school,” she says.

  In my head, I run through all the people who could notice her, and then I remember Adam’s picture of the statue. He would recognize her. He has that kind of memory, and she’s his kind of girl, the kind he’d want a portrait of.

  “Can we meet somewhere else?” I ask.

  She narrows her eyes. I half expect her to grab my arm and write something on it, but instead she just names a time and place. I agree, and she walks away with my sweater on, looking both ways before crossing the street.

  I turn around and find my spot in the sun, where I sit and realize there’s nothing in my back pocket. That’s where my phone was, so it must’ve fallen out in Ms. K’s office.