Where You End

by Anna Pellicioli

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

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

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

  “Yes, sure … ”

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

  “ … but does that mean I’m lucky?”

  “What do you think?” she says.

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

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

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

  “What do I love?” I say.

  “Yes.”

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

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

  Adam loves viewfinders, and donuts, and the horrible orange and brown color scheme in the Metro. He also loves mornings, and anything west of Minnesota, and, for a while, those super-salty cod strips you can get at the Japanese store in the burbs. He loves Guns N’ Roses and

  Jay Z and that sorry gazebo they built to commemorate the World War I soldiers. He would pay you to shampoo his hair for half an hour straight, and he was pissed when they took the panda back to China.

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

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

  I don’t know what I love.

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

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

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

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

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

  Today he looks like he’s coming to collect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Dad breaks in.

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

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

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

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

  “Which one, Miriam?” he asks.

  “Both.”

  “That’s not true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What is it, Sarah?” Dad says.

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

  “She described the Winogrand pictures.”

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

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

  “It means she lied,” Mom says.

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

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

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

  “Well, obviously … ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I wait.

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

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

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

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

  Taking an unappreciated picture of an altar in Columbia Heights.

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

  Dad rolls his eyes. “Sarah?”

  My mother shakes her head.

  “Did you know this?” he asks her.

  “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sure,” I say.

  “How have you been sleeping?” she asks.

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

  “Okay,” I lie.

  She checks a box on her sheet.

  “Have you been eating?”

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

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

  She checks another box.

  “Do you feel tired all the time?”

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

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

  “Not necessarily.”

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

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

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

  “It’s a project.”

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

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

  “I have to give her five pictures.”

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

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

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

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

  I haven’t seen her laugh like this since we missed the plane to my Opa’s funeral. She has a tendency to laugh through disasters. Dad strokes his neck, where a strange rash seems to have sprouted.

  “I can’t stop,” she says with tears in her eyes. “Sorry, I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Good thing I didn’t go out last night. Since I took the first picture for Eva, I’ve been sleeping through the night like a baby who no longer needs her mother. Dad rubs his palms all over his face and then glares at Mom, who shrugs and surrenders.

  “It’s okay,” Ms. K offers, slightly cold. “There’s a lot of tension in this room. Laughter is a way to—”

  “Are the pictures a kind of therapy or something?” Dad interrupts.

  Mom, who had managed to be quiet for a minute, now loses it again.

  Dad gives her a look and forges on. “Sarah, I’m trying to figure out what the pictures might do for Miriam. You said any pictures she wants, right?”

  Mom excuses herself to go the bathroom, and I swear I hear her mumbling “pictures, pictures” on her way out the door. Poor Ms. K. I feel sorry for her and her tiny ears.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Dad continues. “I’m not an expert, but you’re telling me Miriam has skipped school, and she can’t tell us why, and we’re not sure why we’re here, but what we are going to do about it is take some pictures ? You know she started taking pictures when she was three years old, right? It’s second nature for Miriam. It’s nothing. It’s easy.”

  “That’s what I’m going to do about it,” Ms. K says, cool as a fucking cucumber, making her comeback. “Would you like to talk about what you’re going to do?”

  Dad relaxes in a manner that suggests not defeat but interest. His toes squeak inside the tight leather of his good shoes. Amazingly, he has no comments to make.

  “Have you taken any pictures yet?” Ms. K asks, looking at me.

  Dad turns toward me. I’m caught off guard.

  “Yes. I have.”

  “Good, I guess. Good,” he says.

  “Do you have anything you want to say, Miriam?” Ms. K asks.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  “I think your parents want to make sure you’ll be honest with them, and that you’ll come to school, so we can all help you through this.”

  “Two pictures,” I say. “I already took two.”

  “Good,” Ms. K says.

  Dad sighs, just loud enough to let me know he’s on to me, that he doesn’t fully buy it.

  “I’m taking you to school in the morning, Miriam.”

  “Dad, you don’t have to … ”

  “I am. For a little while. And I’d like for you to meet with Ms. Kiper again.”

  Ms. K nods in approval. The mother may be nuts, but at least the father is cooperating. I nod.

  “We’ll all meet again, after she hands in her pictures,” Ms. K tries to reassures us. Dad looks at the door, hoping Mom will walk in with an apologetic apple crumble. No sign.

  “Sure. Thank you for your time and your help. Sarah and I will be in touch.”

  They shake hands. I smile at Ms. K. We walk out to find Mom cornered by Mr. Green, the Photo teacher. In a moment of great tenderness and (let’s face it) pity, my father stuffs the car keys in the pocket of my jacket and nudges me toward the exit. I’m so relieved to escape, I run down the hall on my tiptoes so they won’t notice me. I’m glad Mom is there to distract him. The Green has always had a bit of a photo crush on her.

  eighteen

  what do u love?

  nineteen

  The car smells like wet paper cups. I switch the radio on. It’s playing a sleepy song Elliot might have liked. The voice is high but not whiny, and there’s a super synthesized choir that makes it all sound like it’s lifting, a little like that night at the show. I watch my parents walk back to the car. Mom motions for Dad to drive.

  “I have to go back to work for a while. Do you want to get some food before we go home?” he says.

  “I can make pasta … ” she says.

  “I thought maybe it would be easier to get some food.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  No word on Mr. Green or the giggling fit in Ms. K’s room. No word on the skipping.

  “What do you want to eat, Miriam?” Mom asks.

  “Whatever.”

  She sighs.

  “Look, I shouldn’t have laughed like that, right in front of your teacher.”

  “Not my teacher … ”

  “Fine. Your counselor, Ms. K. I don’t know what happened. It was so tense in there, and you weren’t talking, and Dad was sweating like crazy, and when she told us about the assignment, i
t all seemed so … ”

  “Ridiculous?” I offer.

  “Absurd.”

  My chest tightens at how appropriate the word is, for everything from the sculpture to Eva’s photo request to the meetings with Ms. K. We just spent half an hour with a woman who is trained to rescue people with real problems, and all we did was fidget about missing class. Then we scheduled another meeting.

  At the next intersection, a crossing guard stops us with her palm and keeps her hand there while she greets the kids and parents by their names, telling them she’ll see them tomorrow, inquiring after their collapsing art projects, praising their choice of glittery shoes. The spires of the Cathedral show themselves behind the hilltop. I remember the organ.

  “Actually,” I say, with unexpected purpose, “could you drop me off at the library on Wisconsin? I want to check out some books for another project.”

  My parents look at each other for consensus, which I have always found comforting. Mom’s hair spills through the headrest as she looks over to give me the green light.

  “Be home for dinner, all right?” she says.

  “No more lies, Miriam,” Dad adds. “No more skipping class.”

  I nod. “Thank you, guys. Thanks for coming today.”

  They beam at my nugget of appreciation, and I feel dirty but relieved. Sure, bean. No problem, love. Any time. Of course. We’re here for you. We’ll get through this. This is good, it’s all right. No big deal. And on and on until a delivery truck honks at us and I’m pushing the heavy doors into the land of carpet and germs and ideas protected by shiny, plastic coats.

  REAL MEN READ, a poster behind the library desk announces. Except it’s all women peering at me from behind their glasses, taking a pause from inputting the latest bar code, casting a side-glance from behind their carts. I remember that librarians don’t speak unless spoken to.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “where’s the art section?”

  “Past the computers, in the back left corner.”

  I smile and head to the art section, where I drop my bag next to a dusty armchair.

  I go for the photo books first and end up with a pile of Adam’s favorites—Robert Frank, Lee Friedlander, good old HCB. I like their portraits best. They’re almost perfect. You can see the fear in people’s eyes, and the thrill. Everybody likes to be looked at, but most people don’t really like to be seen. These guys can really show you a person.