Golden Hour

by Chantel Guertin

  I break away from Dace and rush into one of the stalls. While I spend some up close and personal time with the toilet, Dace distracts me with gossip from the party that we missed because we were too busy concentrating on our cocktails and bickering.

  Eventually I emerge, feeling slightly better, and Dace helps me clean myself up, then passes me a water bottle from her bag. “You can keep it.”

  As we walk down the hall, I fill her in on everything—Dylan, my mom and that David was the one who told my mom about me not getting into Tisch. “Blah blah blah back to Dylan. You know he got a show, right?”

  “What?”

  “Opening for the Cherry Blasters. Wednesday night.”

  “Why didn’t he—” and then I remember my missing phone. “We’ll go?”

  Dace bites her lip. “Ben and I sort of made plans for Wednesday night because he’s not working. But obviously I can cancel. You have to go.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t. Don’t cancel on Ben. All the more reason to get my license, right?”

  *

  Dace pulls into the DMV and pops her Fiat into a spot near the building. I really should’ve been driving here from school, to actually practice driving her car, but a wave of nausea made me decide to take the passenger seat one more time. “Listen,” she says, “I don’t want to bring up the Big V, but I need to.”

  “My virginity? I don’t think now is the time to talk about my sex life.”

  “Vomit. I love you, but if you vomit in my car, you’re going to have to look for a new best friend.”

  She hands me the keys and a small pink sparkly gift bag. “It’s empty. Makeshift barf bag. Use it in an emergency.”

  The DMV is green and white inside, the plastic chairs we sit on are cold on my butt. Dace sits beside me, and a second later, Mom walks in and sits on the other side. “You didn’t think I wasn’t going to come and wish you good luck, did you?” I’d texted Mom earlier from Dace’s phone, to remind her why I wouldn’t be home straight after school.

  A few minutes later, a grandfatherly looking man wearing khakis and a bright green Polo shirt calls my name. “Frankly,” he says, shaking my hand. His hair is graying at the temples, and he has a kind face and those crinkly lines at the eyes that make you look like you’re smiling even when you’re not. I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t.

  “Sorry, what?” I say.

  “First name Frank. Last name Lee. Ha ha, I know, my name is hilarious.”

  One foot in front of the other, Pippa. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t puke. I can do this. The SATs may have been a flop the first time around. I might be waitlisted for Tisch. But flu or not, I am passing this test.

  Once we’re both in Dace’s car with our seatbelts on, I check that all my mirrors are in the right place and then start the car. For the next 20 minutes, Frank Lee gives me commands and I do as he says. Things go pretty well until he says, “Three-point turn.”

  I stare at the road behind me in the rearview mirror. It seems narrower than it should. I want to ask him if we can just turn onto another street.

  “There’s a car behind me,” I say.

  “There are going to be cars on the road when you’re driving.”

  My heart is pounding. My mouth feels dry.

  The car behind me honks. Frank Lee puts his hand out the window and gestures for the guy to go around me.

  “All right, there you have it,” Frank Lee says. “No cars on the road.”

  I take a deep breath and look around and then turn the wheel to the left and press the gas pedal. I stop just before the curb. Check all my mirrors and blind spots, crank the wheel right, reverse, then straighten out. I did it.

  “Turn left at the light,” Frank Lee commands, “and park back at the DMV.” A wave of nausea consumes me as I pull up to the intersection. The red light gives me a nanosecond to breathe deeply and pray I make it through the rest of the test. The light changes and I inch into the intersection and wait to turn as cars zip past. The light turns yellow, as another car approaches. He slows and I turn the wheel, only then noticing that he’s speeding up. I’m not sure what to do: stop, or hit the gas and pray he doesn’t hit me. The gas pedal practically touches the ground and we’re through the intersection in the clear. I focus on the road, only then realizing that for the first time all day I haven’t felt sick. Not much of a consolation given I probably just flunked my test.

  Back at the DMV, I put the Fiat in park.

  “Well. It was a little more excitement than I normally get, but you have good instincts and you’re a confident driver. Congratulations,” Frank Lee says. “See you on the road.”

  And minutes later, I have my license. And the Fiat’s still a barf-free zone.

  TUESDAY, MAY 9

  On Tuesday morning I wake up early, get out Mom’s favorite cookbook, its pages worn and wrinkled from spills, and turn to one of the dog-eared pages in the middle of the book: Mom’s famous waffle recipe, her notes in the margins. They don’t turn out as well as when Mom makes them on account of the fact that I’m a pretty terrible cook and we only have one egg in the fridge so I improvise with mayonnaise, which is supposed to be a substitute for egg, but I’m not totally sure it works. They taste a little tangy, but I figure it’s the thought that counts, and there’s always cereal as backup.

  “What’s this?” she says, rubbing her face when she comes into the kitchen. Things are definitely less chilly—Mom couldn’t exactly let an event like me getting my driver’s license go by without making a bit of a big deal—but we’re still acting weird.

  “Your famous waffles.”

  “It’s not Sunday.”

  “I know, and they’re also not as good as yours. Let’s just call them apology waffles? They’re also kind of burnt.”

  “Oh sweetie.” She puts an arm around me and gives me a half smile. “Is there coffee?”

  “Yes. Except I lost count on scoops. It’s very strong.”

  “I never mind.”

  I pour her a cup and hand it to her.

  She takes a sip. “Perfect. So, who wants to go first?”

  “I think I better. So first—and these are in chronological order, not order of sorry-ness—I’m sorry that I lied about applying to other schools, which why did I even lie to you about that? And I’m sorry I didn’t correct the autocorrect about getting into Tisch, or tell you why I really went to New York. And I’m sorry if I made things weird by asking Hank to keep my secret. And I’m sorry about the party, and skipping school.” I take a breath. “I got myself into this whole mess and I felt like I had to get myself out, and I didn’t want to confide in you about any one thing because then I’d confide about everything and you’d be so disappointed in me, just like Dad must be so disappointed in me. I couldn’t take it. At least with my lies, you were proud of me, even if it was unwarranted. I wanted to fix it.”

  “Oh Pipsqueak,” Mom says, putting down her coffee and wrapping her arms around me.

  “Does this mean you forgive me?” I whisper when we pull apart.

  “Yes, of course. That’s not to say I’m not angry with you. It was stupid not to apply to any other colleges. This is your life. The future is scary and the unknown is scary, but sometimes being scared is a good thing.”

  “I guess.”

  “And I definitely think when you’re already making bad choices and hiding them, adding a party, where you and everyone you know—or don’t know—is drinking underage is a terrible idea. And having Charley at the party . . .”

  “I know.”

  Neither of us says anything for a minute.

  “That said, I think this is a tough time for you, and maybe I didn’t check in with you enough, to see how you were doing. To give you a chance to talk to me.” She puts her arms out and I let her hug me again. “We’re going to figure this out.”

  “OK,” I sa
y, into her robe. “But I can’t really breathe.”

  She pulls away from me and laughs. And I laugh too, tears in my eyes.

  After breakfast I ask Mom if she wants to walk to school with me. “I know it’s kind of pointless, because then you have to walk back home again. But—”

  “I’d love to. Let me get dressed.”

  “Do you want to walk along the water?” Mom asks as we’re walking down our street toward Waverly. “I know you always like that route for taking photos.”

  “Sure. I’m not really taking photos much anymore.”

  “I noticed. I guess that was sort of a leading comment. Why aren’t you?”

  I fill her in about the Vishwanathan meeting.

  “But you love photography.”

  “I know. That’s the problem. I’m supposed to be finding other things to do, but so far, I haven’t found anything else I’m any good at.”

  We turn onto the path that leads down to the water. It’s a sunny morning, one of those mornings where you can tell it’s going to be really warm. I take off my black jean jacket but my black T-shirt and black jeans soak up the sun. “You know,” Mom says, “I’m not sure you have to succeed at whatever you try in order to prove to Tisch that you have other interests. Maybe you just have to try. Maybe it’s the journey, not the destination kind of thing.”

  “I never really thought about that. You know, succeed was my one-word mantra in Monday Morning Meditation.”

  “Monday Morning Meditation? How much of your life have I missed?”

  “I only went once. And I got kicked out for taking pics on my phone. Definitely not a success.”

  “You know I choose a word to live by each year.”

  “You do? How do I not know this?”

  Mom shrugs, and then pulls off her sweater and ties it around her waist. “It seemed corny, I guess.”

  “What’s your word?”

  “Brave. I figured, the last year you’re living at home was a good year to be brave.”

  “Oh Mom,” I say, “but you’re always brave.”

  She gives a light laugh. “I don’t feel it. Most of the time I feel lost. You know for a long time I was a mom and a wife and I was really happy. And then Dad died, and now you’re going to college, or not, or whatever”—she holds up her hands—“no pressure.” She grins. “But eventually you’ll move away from home. Then it might just be me. And what will I have to do?”

  “But you have Hank. I thought . . . you two were moving in together.”

  She gives me a funny look. “No. What would make you think that?”

  “Charley said he was taking over my room. And then I saw the mortgage application so I didn’t know what to think. Was that . . . to pay for me to go to college? Because I didn’t get a scholarship?”

  Mom twirls her hair, then flicks it away. “Not exactly. I was just . . . looking at options. I want you to have the best opportunities and I don’t want you to be in debt for the rest of your life to get them.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t go into debt for me.”

  “Yes, actually, I can. It’s called being a parent. Anyway, I’m sorry I worried you.”

  “I was thinking maybe I shouldn’t go backpacking in July with Dace. Like, maybe I could get a job instead. Ben said he can probably get me hired at White Water World.”

  “Let’s think about it. And talk about it.”

  We approach the edge of the school grounds, and I turn to Mom. “We should do this more often.”

  “Yeah,” Mom says, hugging me. “We should.” She turns to head home, then stops. “Oh. I can’t believe I forgot to give this to you,” she says, pulling my phone out her purse. “I found this in the backyard—the screen was smashed so I took it in to get fixed yesterday. Seems like you’ve been missed. Not that I was looking at your messages but it’s been making a lot of noise.” Mom’s put one of those massive black waterproof cases on my phone. She hands it to me.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Mom heads back in the direction we just came from, and I look at my phone. There’s a bunch of texts from Dace, and one from David checking in on me, but my eyes jump to Dylan’s.

  Dylan: You OK?

  Dylan: Call me when u can.

  Dylan: If you’re reading these texts but don’t feel like replying, press 1.

  Dylan: Maybe your fingers are broken. All of them. Could you use your chin to let me know?

  Dylan: Or your nose?

  Dylan: OK I’m just going to assume you’re on a technology break and this has nothing to do with me.

  Dylan: I got you a photo pass for my show. RFBR is playing on Wednesday night. I want you to come.

  Dylan: If you’re a big fat hairy dude who’s found this phone and is reading all these texts, I do not have a photo pass for you.

  Dylan: This is getting weird. I’m going to stop texting now.

  Dylan answers on the first ring.

  “I’ve never shot a concert before.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a yes.”

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 10

  “You’re not on the list. And the pit is full. Sorry. Next.” The guy with the clipboard, manning the Will Call booth for media, looks past me to the next photographer in line. Someone bumps me from behind.

  “Wait. No, I’m here for RFBR. The opener.” The nervous lump in my throat seems to be growing by the minute.

  Clipboard dude scribbles something on his clipboard. “Oh. All right. It won’t be busy for the opener. But you need to come back right here”—he points to a random spot in the foyer—“before the Cherry Blasters go on and hand your pass back.”

  I clear my throat. “Of course.”

  He hands me a lanyard with a laminated pass and then points me toward a group of legit photographers, and I realize that I am likely the only one here who has never shot a concert before. My legs are wobbly, but I make my way over to the group.

  In the corner of the entranceway, next to the black metal doors that lead into the venue, I lean against the wall and go over David’s instructions from this afternoon when I called him to ask advice on shooting a concert: ISO 1600, a shutter speed of 1/160th and an aperture of f2.8. David said by putting the settings as low as possible I’d reduce the risk of having to adjust the settings in the dark and making a mistake, or missing a good shot because I wasn’t ready.

  “You’re new, huh?”

  I turn to face a girl with shiny black hair, the ends tinted purple. Freckles dot her nose. She’s wearing a plaid shirt and cut-off jean shorts, with black high-tops.

  “It’s that obvious?” I say.

  “Nah, just that we all work the same shows. You get to know a face. Also, I like how you don’t feel the need to wear all black either.” She nods at my light-wash jeans and grey sweater.

  I laugh. “I’m Pippa.”

  “Jaime.”

  “Who are you shooting for?”

  “I’m with Rotate.”

  “Wow. I love that site.”

  “Yeah, it’s great.” She pushes her sleeves past her elbows.

  “So is this your full-time job?”

  “Pretty much. I do this, some weddings and work as a waitress to make sure I can pay my rent when photography’s slow. What about you?”

  “I’m still in high school.” The words come out before I realize there could be repercussions for admitting that.

  She whistles. “Using your camera to sneak into a 21-and-over show, huh?” Is she going to tell on me? Then she smiles. “I used to do that too.”

  Someone shouts up ahead and the line starts to move. Not all the photographers follow Clipboard Dude—most are waiting for the Cherry Blasters, not interested in shooting three songs of an unknown opener’s set, Jaime explains. “But I always shoot the opener. You never know who might make it big, you know?” I nod and
follow her into the theater, staying in line, and stopping so there’s about a foot between us. I pull my camera up to my face, wishing I’d checked the settings one more time before coming out, but it’s too late, I’ve got to hope for the best. It’s only when I’m standing there, the venue in near-darkness, the only sound that of the excited crowd, that I realize I’ve been so focused on getting here, getting in, and getting myself ready to take pictures, that I haven’t focused on the fact I’m about to see Dylan. Onstage. Performing. To a massive crowd.

  And then the stage lights go up. The screen hanging at the back of the stage is illuminated, and the RFBR emblem—the same one that’s on the front of the drummer’s kit—is projected onto the screen. Then the guitarist, drummer and bass player emerge from the left side of the stage. They make their way across the stage to their instruments, and a split second later, the speakers are pounding. And then Dylan walks out. Black jeans, gray T-shirt and a confident swagger. Hair swept to the side, stubble on his chin. He scans the crowd, picks up his guitar and slings the strap over his head. I quickly look around to get my bearings, then slide the camera into place, seeing the stage through the viewfinder. Guitars jangling, the drums keeping a poppy beat. I start clicking away, focusing on Dylan first, closing in on his face as he sings in the microphone and sways to the music between verses. I don’t move around too much for the first song; for the second song I try to get a wider lens on the band, to fit them all into the shot. I pull the camera away a few times to check the shots but then remember I don’t have a lot of time, and put the camera back up to my face. I snap away but then the camera fails to shoot. I pull it away and check the screen. Memory card full. Has it been that long since I downloaded my photos?

  I have two choices here—stop shooting or start erasing, but I don’t have time to be selective with the shots. I skip to the oldest shots on the camera and start deleting, hoping I’ve saved everything to my computer. The second song ends. I’m not sure how many photos I’ve erased, but I’ve got to make the next ones count. There’s only one song left in the three-song photo opp. As the drummer counts them in, the screen behind the band switches from their logo to a video—there’s a wide shot of a pool and then I realize: it’s the video. Camera in front of my face, I play with angles the best I can, to get both the band in the video and the live band together in the shot. Then I zoom in on Dylan and blur out the video for a few shots. And then I see myself. I’m there, in the video. And I zoom in, past Dylan, past the band, as video-Dylan jumps into the water and meets me, under the water. I snap a shot just as our lips meet. My camera beeps. Memory card full.