Have I mentioned how much I love summer?
Okay, technically, September is not summer, it's back-to-school time. But we've been having a heat wave lately, so it feels like summer. Girls are wearing small clothes, and that is beautiful.
Summer is bare legs in shorts and painted toenails peeking out of sandals and yesss ... shoulders. Shannon's shoulders are the only ones I'm allowed to touch, but there are so many others to admire. Ahh.
As long as I'm discreet.
"Think they're real?" asks Shannon.
"Wh-what?"
She puts her face about an inch from mine. "That girl by Coffee Jones. The one in the white top. Nice rack, huh?"
I feel my eyes wanting to roll wildly, like a spooked horse, because I know I'm trapped. "Uh—" Houston, we have a problem. Please advise.
"That girl you were looking at," she clarifies.
The Houston in my head reminds me that the best defense is an offense. "Oh, that girl!" I exclaim, smacking my forehead. "Yeah. Nice." I waggle my eyebrows. "You want me to see if I can find out her name? Maybe we can get her number!" I start to move in the direction of Coffee Jones.
"Blake!" says Shannon, grabbing my arm.
But I keep moving, saying loudly over my shoulder, "Good eye, baby! You're right, she does have a nice rack!"
Shannon gasps and giggles, clawing at me. "Stop! Blake, stop!" she whispers. "Come back!"
"Excuse me," I call. The girls in front of Coffee Jones look over at me. "Hi," I say. "My girlfriend was wondering—"
Shannon squeals and races around in front of me, laughing and trying to cover my mouth with her hand.
I stop, and she falls against me so hard we almost end up on the ground. The girls by Coffee Jones turn away.
"I can't believe you!" Shannon is cracking up—a big belly laugh that fills up a space in my heart as well as the control center in Houston.
We stand there for a minute, just holding on to each other and grinning like loons.
Then she squeezes me tighter and says, "You're so fun. I love you."
Gulp.
The first "I love you."
I open my mouth.
There's a silence that is stuffed full of hope and dread and held breath.
"I love you, too," I whisper.
***
I go quietly insane the rest of the day.
My mom has been on a rampage about chores lately, so she makes me wash The Dog when I get home. I'm up to my elbows in soapsuds and wet dog when I suddenly think, Ohmygod, I said I love you to a girl!
Houston seems to have been shocked into silence.
Then my mom forces me to help her fix Nonna's famous minestrone for dinner. While I'm chopping carrots and green beans and leeks (heh ... leeks), I'm thinking, Ohmygod, I told Shannon I love her!
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Mom is frying bacon.
Maybe I should tell her.
Then again, she's been unnaturally cool about the whole girlfriend issue. I still remember what she said last month when I told her that Shannon and I were officially boyfriend and girlfriend: "That's great, honey. Can you hand me the USB cable?"
Here I'd been thinking we were going to have a soft-focus Mother-Son Moment. I'd confess I had fallen in love, and she would hug me. Maybe even cry. Then she'd tell me she was happy for me and couldn't wait to meet the young lady, and we would share a plate of cookies while we talked about Love.
Instead she asked me for the USB cable. She wanted to update her iPod, and I was blocking the drawer where we keep the cables.
"Hi," says Garrett, strolling into the kitchen.
I look at him. I wonder if he's ever told a girl he loves her.
"How was school, sweetie?" asks Mom.
He opens the refrigerator and grabs an energy drink. "Good." He chugs his drink, then strolls over and gives her a hug. "Mmm, baaaacon," he says in a Homer Simpson voice. "What are you making?"
"Blake is helping me fix Nonna's minestrone," she says. "It will be ready in about an hour."
"Nice," he says, and sidles up to me. "Mommoni," he whispers. (That's "Mama's boy" in Italian.)
I kick him, but he leaps away just in time. For such a big dude, he's fast.
The Dog Formerly Known as Prince barks, excited by the scuffling.
"Next time, you wash The Dog and make dinner," I say. "I have to do everything!"
"Blake," says Mom. "Garrett does his share around here."
Garrett bumps me hard on his way out of the kitchen. The Dog follows him.
I fume, chopping carrots.
Then the love thing smacks me in the head again: Ohmygod, I told Shannon I love her! A new worry is attached: Does this mean I'm supposed to say it all the time now?
Mom would probably know the saying-I-love-you rules. I should ask her.
I heave a big sigh. "What a day," I say.
Mom lifts each piece of bacon out of the pan and lays it on a paper towel.
"Wow," I add.
She glances at me, smiles, and goes over to the sink to start washing a bunch of kale.
"What a really, really crazy day," I say.
Mom turns off the water and puts the kale in her salad spinner. She does the spinning thing to get all the water off. It makes a lot of noise, so I say a little louder, "Man. What a—"
"How's it going, Blake?"
Finally. The suspense must be killing her.
"Good," I say. So how should I tell her? Mom, you probably don't remember your first love, but—
"Almost finished?" she says, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Uh—"
"You get the beans and tomatoes. I'm going to fry the veggies in the bacon drippings." She takes the cutting board full of chopped veggies and dumps them into the pan.
I grab cans of pinto beans and tomatoes from the cupboard and open them.
"Thank you, Blake. You've been a big help. I can take it from here."
"ItoldShannonIloveher." It comes out in a rush before I even know I'm going to speak.
Mom stops moving and smiles at me. "Honey. How wonderful." She turns off the stove.
Silence.
"So did she say she loved you back?" she asks after a moment. "No! I mean yes. She said it first. Then I said it."
"Ah."
My mom can mean a million things with that one syllable. She reaches out and gives my cheek a mom-like caress. "My young man. How do you feel now?"
I shrug and open my mouth to make a joke.
Nothin'. I got nothin'.
I hope this is a temporary condition, or I have no future as a standup comic.
"Well, I'm happy for you, sweetie. Love is such a treasure."
I'm still trying to figure out how to word my question—Am I supposed to say it to her every day now?—when Mom asks, "I was wondering how your friend is doing. Marissa."
"Marissa?" I say, puzzled. "Fine."
"How's her eye?"
"Oh! Cool!" I say, brightening. "It's all healed now, but I got some amazing shots of it. Wait till you see."
A look of professional patience comes over her face, and she says, "I was wondering if you think she's really okay, Blake. Does she have a boyfriend?"
Blink. Blink.
"Someone who might have a temper? I was wondering if you believe her when she says she got that black eye from someone bumping into her."
Ohhhhh.
"Mom," I say, relieved. "Yes. She wouldn't lie to me. She went to that Hurtle biking thing."
My mom's expression remains skeptical.
"Really. Don't worry. She doesn't even have a boyfriend."
"All right," she says. "That's good to know. I'm glad she's got you for a friend. I'm sure you would know if things weren't right with her."
"Um. Sure," I say. Is now the time to tell my mom about Marissa's tweaker mom? Or would that be breaking my promise to Marissa?
***
Marissa's the first person I see at the football game.
"Hey," I say.
/> She's sitting with her friend Bree and a couple of other girls I don't know. "Hey," she answers. Her face is blank and empty, as if the real Marissa has gone away.
I scan the rows of people in the stands. Shannon texted me that she was sitting with Riley and a bunch of other people. I glance back at Marissa. "You okay?"
"Shhure," she slurs.
I look at Bree, who gives me a challenging stare. "Her cat got run over," she says.
"Your cat got run over?" I say, looking back at Marissa.
Her face stays blank; she doesn't look at me. "She was old," she mumbles.
In my mind I see a picture of a black cat with a pink tongue. "Wizard Kitty died?"
Marissa's face crumples, and Bree throws an arm around her shoulders. "Don't make her talk about it," she says.
"Okay," I say. "Sorry."
Bree pats her coat pocket. "Don't worry. We're getting her drunk on."
I stand there for a second. "Sorry," I say again, and move away from them.
I wander around for a minute, looking for my peeps but thinking about Marissa. First a tweaker mom, now a dead cat. Could you possibly give her a break, God? I think. And now her friends are getting her hammered. I hope she'll be okay.
I've only been drunk once before. I yakked all over Riley's dad's car, which made the fun-drunk part seem less fun.
Then I see Riley and George and Bald Jake and oh! hottie Dez and Aisha and ... my heart does a trembly thing I've never felt before ... Shannon.
She's sitting between Aisha and some guy I don't know. I feel a spurt of Neanderthal possessiveness. Both girls are turned toward the strange guy, but they look polite, not fascinated. Probably like, "Hi, what's your name again, what school do you go to, etc."
I make my way up into the stands. When Shannon catches sight of me, her face lights up. I'm not even kidding.
One minute she's normal, the next minute she's beaming light. Even the strange guy notices and turns to see what she's looking at.
Me. That's right, Guy We Don't Know. I made her look that happy.
Is she going to say it again? Are we going to say I love you all the time now? I'm not sure I'm ready for that.
But I can't wait to get to her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saturation:
The dictionary definition says, "to soak, impregnate, or imbue completely." That's
not what we're talking about in photos. The brighter your colors, the more
saturated they are; the duller your colors are, the less saturated they are. Get it?
You can adjust those levels in Photoshop, but try not to get them pregnant
especially the skin tones, because you can wind up making people look weird.
—Blake Hewson, homework, Photo II
Ahh, the weekend.
Time for sleeping in, racking up new high scores on the Mind-bender, and hanging out with friends in RL instead of IM. Unless you've got a mother like mine, who is way too involved in your schoolwork. Then the weekend involves being woken up before you're ready, fed a healthy breakfast, and herded toward your desk. Tyrant!
I slump at my desk, flipping through my homework assignments. Biology ... so don't care ... history ... zzzz ... photo ... hey. I wonder how Marissa feels today after getting tanked at the game last night. I pull out my cell phone and scroll through the names, looking for her phone number. She doesn't have her own cell yet; she uses her grandma's land line, like some kind of pioneer girl trapped in the 1990s.
She answers. "Hello?"
"Marissa! Hi. How are you?"
"Fine. Blake?"
"Yeah. I wanted to see if you were okay."
I'm fine. Why?"
"I just thought, you know, you might be feeling bad today." A thought strikes me. "Do you even remember talking to me at the game last night?"
"I talked to you? Oh." She gives a bitter laugh. "No, I don't remember. I barely remember being at the game."
"Dude, I'm sorry about Wizard Kitty."
Silence. I'm about to ask if she's still there, when I hear a quiet sound that makes me realize she's crying. "I had her a long time," she says finally. "I got her when I moved in with my grandma."
"Oh, Mariss."
She takes a big breath and gets herself under control. "Sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to bawl all over you."
It's okay."
"I just miss her. I keep thinking I'm going to turn around and she'll be there."
"Yeah." I look around for the Dog Formerly Known as Prince. I have a sudden urge to pet him.
"And I miss my mom!" she bursts out.
"Aw, dude, sorry." It's weird to think that Marissa misses her mom, even though her mom was gone for so long before. "Can't you call her at"—rehab, I almost say—"that place?"
"No. She's not allowed to have calls."
"That sucks."
"I know. Thank God for Grandma. She helped me"—Marissa struggles with her voice for a second—"bury Wizard Kitty. In the garden."
"Aww."
"So at least she'll be near flowers and stuff." She chuckles a little. "Her ghost can haunt the birdbath."
"Does your grandma, um, know that you got loaded last night?"
"No," says Marissa. "She was asleep when I got home. I had the bed spins for a while, but I didn't throw up."
"Whew!" I say. "That's good. You wouldn't want to wake up dead from choking on your own vomit!"
"Uh..." says Marissa uncertainly.
"Of course, better your own vomit than someone else's."
Pause. "What?" she says.
"It's a line from This Is Spinal Tap."
"What's that?"
I clutch my head. "What's that? Don't tell me you've never seen Spinal Tap."
"Nope. Is it a movie?"
"Marissa," I say. "Get your ass over here right now. You need to see this movie. It is pure comic genius, and ... and I can't even talk to you until you've seen it."
She laughs.
Ahhh. I made a sad girl laugh.
She asks for a rain check on the movie, and we say goodbye.
CHAPTER TWELVE
You are hereby forbidden to clutter up your shot.
Unless the shot demands chaos.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography
Talk about gritty. Mr. Malloy calls my photos gritty, but he's never actually been to the grit-a-palooza that is Hurtle.
I'm surrounded by bikers. Not the ponytailed, leather pants–wearing, Harley-driver kind. The kind who ride flimsy, naked-looking bicycles and, for some reason that is still not clear to me, want to go kamikaze-ing down this steep, winding hill so fast that if anything goes even the slightest bit wrong, they will end up as red smears on the pavement.
Marissa convinced me to come. She wanted to see her brother Gus again, and she knew he would be at Hurtle.
"Are you going to do it? Ride your bike down that crazy hill?" I asked.
She looked at me like I had asked something completely random, like "Are you really a female?"
"Of course," she said. "But you don't have to. Just bring your camera. It's wild. You'll love it."
She was so right. I do love it. I couldn't take a boring photo here if I tried.
I zoom in on a trio of skateboard dudes with baggy pants and scabby legs. I guess people on skateboards can Hurtle, too. Then I shoot a tall blond goddess girl who looks like she should be granting wishes or frolicking in a meadow instead of pushing her bike through a crowd of tough guys. Here comes a bunch of people with a combined total of piercings that could stock a small jewelry store. There's a guy with his whole face tattooed! I inhale audibly over that.
"What?" says Marissa. She's sitting astride her bike, hanging back with me. After the elbow in the face, she's decided not to go near the front.
I flick my eyes in the direction of Tattooed Face Boy.
Her eyes widen and we exchange appalled looks.
There's a grandmotherly type of woman pedaling sedately around behind the scary hard
core types. Who in the what now? What is Granny thinking? She's going to be toast once these people take off.
"Oh my God," I say.
"Now what?"
"Some people brought their kids!"
I see parental types milling around with little kids whose bikes still have training wheels on them. Some of the kids are even on tricycles.
"What the hell?" I say.
"Turtle," says Marissa.
I blink at her.
"It comes after Hurtle. People who don't want to Hurtle can Turtle."
"Wha—?"
She grins. "Even you could Turtle."
"All right, enough with the digs at Frosty!" I say, patting my snow-white bike. "And I get it. Turtle is for geezers and little kids. But no way. It's still a steep hill, no matter how slow you're going!"
"Blake, the people who do Turtle turn off at Roseway Drive and circle the park. They don't blitz down the hill." She gives me a friendly punch on the shoulder. "You could follow behind and get some string-cheese shots."
I make a face at her. We call photos of little kids and old people doing cute things string cheese, because they're cheesy and they tug at your heartstrings. Marissa kind of likes it when she comes across a string-cheese photo op. I, on the other hand, would lose my gritty reputation if I took shots like that.
"I'm going to wheel on home after everyone takes off," I say. "Thanks for bringing me."
"Sure."
"So where's your brother?" I ask.
"I don't see him yet," she says. "But he'll be here. He's always here on Fridays."
I train my lens on a couple of wiry-looking guys in yellow bike shirts bending and contorting really slowly. My mom does yoga, and that's what it looks like.
"Who would put their kid in a shirt like that?" says Marissa. "Get a shot of that little boy. Poor kid."
I aim in the direction she's looking and see a cute kid, maybe five years old, wearing a black T-shirt and sporting an unfortunate haircut—you know, the kind where the hair is short in front and then there's a "rat tail" hanging down in back. The shirt says V.I.M.F. in big silver letters. I can think only of one interpretation for that: Very Important Mother ... well, you get it.
The kid is accompanied by his ... dad?...a tough guy with a shaved head and hooded eyes. Where's the mom? Oh, there she is: standing a bit farther back smoking a cigarette and fidgeting. Her eyes jump all over the place, and she nods nervously every few seconds. I shoot some photos of the happy family, then turn to Marissa.
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