I don't hear from Marissa the rest of the day.
Or the next.
***
Marissa's grandmother sounds, I don't know, really old when she answers the phone. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Stanmore?"
"Yes."
"Hi, this is Blake. Marissa's friend. Is she there?"
Mrs. Stanmore doesn't answer for a long time. Maybe she's losing her hearing.
"Mrs. Stanmore?" I say a little louder.
"Yes, Blake. I'm here."
"Is Marissa okay?" I ask, my heart thumping.
There's a wavering sound in Mrs. Stanmore's voice as she says, "Marissa isn't here right now, honey."
Oh. But is she okay?"
Silence.
"What's going on?" I say, a little sharply.
"I don't ... Marissa is—"
"What?"
"She's looking for her mom. She hasn't been home since yesterday."
"What?!" I say. "Where is her mom? Did you call the police?"
Mrs. Stanmore's voice breaks a little, and she sounds so tired when she says, "No. I haven't called the police. I can't. They won't do anything. Anne has a history of drug abuse, so they won't look for her. And Marissa told me she was going to look for her mom, so she's not really missing."
"But what happened?"
Mrs. Stanmore doesn't answer for so long that I think she's not going to. When she does, she doesn't sound tired anymore. She sounds mad. "The same damn thing that's been happening for ten years. I'm sick to death of it. I have to go now."
And she hangs up.
I click off the phone and stare into space. My first impulse is to head for Old Town.
Then I sit down, suddenly tired. Is it really my responsibility to go looking for Marissa? And why would she do that, anyway? Why would she stay out all night and worry poor Grandma to death?
I can see how Mrs. Stanmore would get sick of this crap.
***
"Mom?"
Mm-hm."
"What do you do when someone's got a messed-up family?"
My mom puts down her book and gazes at me. "Marissa?" she says.
I nod.
"Depends. What's going on?"
I hesitate. But my mom's a professional. It's not like telling Shannon or Riley. It's her job to keep things confidential.
"Marissa's mom is a meth addict," I say.
"I see."
"And her father is in jail."
Okay."
"She lives with her grandma."
"Mm-hm."
"And her mom was gone for almost a year, but then she came back. She ... I took this picture..." I throw my hands up. "Oh, it's a long story! But the bottom line is that Marissa's mom came back from wherever she was and went into rehab, and she got better, right? Then she got a job and she's been living with Marissa and her mom, Marissa's grandma, right? But now ... she's gone again!"
"Marissa's mother is missing?"
"Right."
"And where is Marissa?"
She went to look for her."
My mom sits up straighter. "Where would she go to look for her mother?"
I take a deep breath. "I think she probably went to Old Town."
My mom looks out the window into the darkness. "Get your coat," she says.
***
My mom wears her clerical collar when we go to Old Town. She hardly ever wears it outside the hospital. "It might help," she explains. "Sometimes people in crisis are more willing to share information with someone from a religious vocation."
Not to mention that they probably won't try to sell you drugs, I think.
We park downtown and start walking. My mom is calm and friendly. She smiles at people and even talks to them. People that I would cross the street to avoid. People who can barely get their words out, they're so drunk. Hard-eyed gutter punks who look like they'd just as soon slice you up as share the sidewalk with you. Glassy-eyed girls who stare down at the ground in shame when my mom approaches.
Some people melt into the shadows as we get near them, slipping down side streets where the lighting is dim. Some people huddle under blankets on doorsteps. The smell of urine and vomit rushes out at us from a scary alleyway.
No one knows Anne. Or they claim they don't. No one has seen Marissa. Or they claim they haven't.
Mom and I head back to the car. "One more place," she says. "It's a couple of blocks away, closer to the bridge."
I grit my teeth and follow, wishing we could just leave. It's clear that we're not going to find Marissa. My whole body feels cold and rock hard with tension.
She stops across the street from Pioneer Park. "Let's check the park before we go," she says.
"What? Mom!" I say. "No way!"
She looks at me.
"Mo-om! People get murdered over there!" I protest. "Dad would flip if he knew you wanted to go into Pioneer Park. At night."
"Blake."
"No. No way."
"Blake, take it easy. You can wait here."
What? Mom, no."
"I'll only be a minute. It's possible that Marissa has gone there to look for her mother. It's a well-known spot to buy drugs."
"Mom, I know!" I practically yell. "Please don't go over there. I'm not kidding. Those people are serious. They will not care that you're a ... a religious vocational person. MOM!"
She's walking across the street.
I run after her.
And you will not believe this.
That's where we find Marissa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
If I could tell a story in words, I wouldn't need to lug around a camera.
—Lewis Hine, American photographer (1874–1940)
Marissa's teeth are still chattering.
She's sitting at our kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea that my mom made for her. But she's still cold.
Not just cold. I think she's so far beyond upset that it's a speck in the distance.
She stayed out all night last night, she told us on the drive home. Walking around town. When it got to be the dead of night, like three a.m., she went into the Pioneer Mission chapel and sat there, trying to stay warm while she waited for morning.
"Why didn't you call your grandma?" I ask.
"At three in the morning?" she snaps.
"Yes!" I snap back. "Don't you think she was awake worrying about you anyway?"
Marissa's lips tremble, and all of a sudden tears come spilling down her cheeks. "I know," she whispers. "I suck. I should have called."
My mom stays by the stove, heating up some soup. "Blake, give Marissa the phone," she says. "She can call her grandma now."
Marissa cries harder. "What am I going to tell her?" she moans. "I didn't find Mom!"
"That's a secondary issue at the moment," says my mom. "First let's relieve your grandmother's worry about you."
Marissa dials her grandma's number. "Hi," she says in a voice barely above a whisper. She squeezes her eyes shut. "I know. I know, Gramma. I'm sorry." A pause. "I'm at Blake's. He and his mom came looking for me." Another pause. "I know. I will. Okay." Marissa looks up at my mom. "Should she come get me?"
"No, honey," says my mom. "I'll take you home. But first have some soup."
"Okay." Marissa speaks into the phone again. "Blake's mom will bring me home. She made some soup, so I'm going to eat first." Pause. "No. Not since yesterday. I know, Gramma. Please don't cry. I'll be home in a little while. I love you, too."
Marissa hangs up and hands the phone back to me. She raises the cup of tea to her lips with shaking hands. I almost lean across the table to hold the cup steady for her. Instead I flatten my hands on the table, because they're shaking a little, too.
My mom places a bowl of soup in front of Marissa and one in front of me, too. I look at her questioningly, and she tilts her head at Marissa, as if to say, Don't make her eat alone.
I pick up a spoon. The Dog Formerly Known as Prince pads under the table and lies down by Marissa's feet. M
aybe he senses that she could use some extra comfort. Or maybe he just smells chicken.
Marissa and I eat in silence while my mom putters around the kitchen. By the time we finish, Marissa has stopped shaking. Her eyelids look heavy and her shoulders sag with exhaustion.
My mom comes over to the table and tilts her head at me again, indicating I should give her my seat. I carry my bowl to the sink while Mom slides into my chair and folds her hands together on the table in front of her.
"Marissa."
"Yes."
Marissa sets down her spoon and looks at my mom's hands. She can't seem to look my mom in the eye.
"You won't do this again," says my mom.
A blast of silence hits the room.
I wait. Marissa doesn't look up.
"It's inconsiderate and destructive," adds my mom. "You could get into real trouble wandering around those potentially volatile settings. And it's not fair to your grandmother. It's time to show her some consideration."
"Okay," says Marissa. Another tear slides down her face.
"Let's get you home. It's late."
I glance at the clock as we stand up. It's almost midnight! And we have school tomorrow. It feels like we've been in a time warp.
"Thank you," Marissa says to my mom.
Mom pulls her gently into an embrace. "Sweetheart," she says. "It's time to let go."
Marissa buries her face in my mom's shoulder and cries and cries, like something big is falling away from her.
***
The next morning, I shiver inside Monty, waiting for the car to warm up while Garrett scrapes ice off the windshield. It got down to freezing last night. What if we hadn't found Marissa?
I unwrap a cereal bar and take a bite. If Garrett catches me eating in his car, he will punish me. Probably with his meaty fists. But I'm starving. I didn't have time for breakfast. Uck. It tastes like sawdust and paste. Why can't Mom ever buy Pop-Tarts?
Garrett moves toward the driver's side door and I hide the yuck-bar in my pocket.
He drives in silence for a few minutes, cranking up the defroster to clear the condensation from the interior windows. Finally he says, "What the hell, man?"
I jump. "What."
"What the hell went on last night?"
"Huh?"
"You and Mom were gone for hours; then you came home with that girl Marissa. I could hear you guys."
"If you could hear us, then you know what was going on."
Pause. "Dad made me go back in my room."
"Oh. Well." I'd rather eat ten sawdust bars than talk about this. "It's a long story, and I don't feel like going there right now."
Garrett doesn't answer, just glances at me and keeps driving. When we get into KWST range, he flips on the radio. It's Carter this morning, yammering about the new skate park. Garrett turns off the radio. If it's not Cappie announcing, he doesn't care enough to listen.
"Dog," he says.
"What."
"Are you in trouble?"
"Huh?" So tired.
"Did you get your girlfriend... your friend—"
What are you talking about?"
Did you get that Marissa girl in trouble?"
What? No. What?"
"Pregnant, man! Did you forget to put a hood on the anaconda?"
"Oh my God!" I'm ice-down-the-back awake now. "No!" I look at him. "Why would you think that? And how many times do I have to say it? She's. Just. A. Friend!"
"Okay, okay," he says, doing a shushing hand motion in my direction. "I get it."
I fume. He drives.
"But listen."
"Just leave me alone, all right?" I'm pissed now.
"Dog. Listen. I'm sorry. I just want to say one more thing." I scowl out the window.
"Always wrap it before you tap it. Maybe you should start carrying a condom around. Just in case."
"Maybeyou should... shut up," I finish lamely.
***
"Hey," I greet Marissa in photo later that day. I didn't have a chance to talk to her in English. "How are you, um, feeling?"
"Good," she says. Her eyes look clear and un-heartbroken. "Much better. My grandma and I talked last night. Not too long, because it was so late. She's going to get me a cell phone. She doesn't ever want me to be out of touch again."
"Finally!"
"And I'm going to do what your mom said." She looks down at her hands. "I'm going to let go. I can't fix my mom. I hope she's okay, but I can't make her come home or stay straight." She swallows, and her eyes get shiny. She shakes her head impatiently and takes a deep breath. "anyway! I need to focus on school and getting my driver's license and normal stuff like that. Ever since my mom came back to town, my life has been ... well, it's just not how I thought it would be."
I nod.
"I hope she's okay," she says. "But things were better when she wasn't around."
I nod harder.
"So what did I miss this week?"
I take out my notes and tell her about choosing three photographers that we're supposed to try to emulate.
"Who did you choose?" she asks.
"Walker Evans, Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Manuel Alvarez Bravo."
"I know the first two. Who's the third guy?"
Mr. Malloy isn't in the room yet, so I go to his bookcase and pull out The Abrams Encyclopedia of Photography. I open the book to the pages about Manuel Alvarez Bravo and hand it to Marissa.
She reads the text. "Look, he lived to be one hundred," she says, pointing to the dates of his birth and death. "Maybe photography keeps you healthy." She studies the photos next. "Wow," she breathes. "Look at how pretty that shot is." She's looking at the girl, nude, stretched out on the terrace.
"I know!" I say. "I like that one, too!"
"But I love this shot even more." She points to his famous "Optic Parable," a photo of an optician's shop, with lots of eyes and reflections of eyes in it. "I wish I could take pictures like that."
It strikes me as interesting that she doesn't comment on the photo on the opposite page, "Striking Worker, Assassinated." It's just what it sounds like: a dead guy, blood pouring from his head and pooling on the ground next to him. The thing that gets me every time I look at that photo is how young and handsome the guy is. He's wearing nice clothes and a fancy-looking belt. When he got dressed that morning, he just thought he was going to a protest about workers' rights. He had no way of knowing it was the last time he would go anywhere.
Marissa turns the page and says, "I'm thinking of entering my series of flowers in the photo contest."
"Me, too," I deadpan. "I have so many flower shots to choose from. How will I ever decide?"
"Don't disrespect my flowers." She laughs. "Why don't you go ahead and enter your string-cheese series?"
"Me? I don't do the cheese, girl! I don't do heartstrings. I am all about bikers and empty streets and snakes!"
She guffaws. "Stuffed snakes, yes!" She pulls my portfolio in front of her and flips through the images. "Ooh, you have lots to choose from. I like this. And this one. Jeez, look at all these shots of my bruise. You're so stunted. Oh!"
I glance over. She's staring down at the photos of her mom that day in her backyard.
Shit. Why did I put those in my portfolio?
"Sorry," I say.
"It's okay." She flips through the photos, her face impassive. "Too bad about the flash burnout on this one."
I look over at the shot she's indicating. "The what?"
"The flash burnout. You got too close to the subject. So the flash overexposed her. Well, me, I mean."
It's the last shot I took at Marissa's house. It's the only one I took of Marissa and her mom together. I was in such a hurry to leave that I didn't take enough time to frame them. I was too close, and the flash overexposed Marissa's face, turning it bright and blurry.
"Yeah, it would have been a good shot otherwise," I agree.
Marissa slams my portfolio shut, and I jump.
"Sorry," she says. "Sorry."
She touches my hand quickly.
I look down at my hand in surprise.
She jerks her hand back and fumbles with my portfolio, pushing it toward me. "Here."
"Thanks." I reach out for the portfolio, and our hands brush again as I take it from her.
A gigantic silence opens up between us.
It's not until class is over that we speak again.
"Blake?"
Yeah?"
"Do you think I could, um—"
I wait.
"I feel weird asking, but would it be okay if I use your laptop to edit my photos?"
I hesitate.
"It's okay, you can say no! It's just that I don't have Photoshop on my grandma's old computer. I could do it at school, but ... in fact, you know what? That's what I'll do. I can go to the computer lab after school—"
"It's okay," I interrupt. "When do you want to come over?"
"Really?"
"Sure. How about this weekend? You can come for dinner."
Marissa beams. "That would be great!"
Okay, I'll let you know."
It's not until I'm walking down the hall that I think of Shannon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dragging the shutter will liberate your ambient light.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography
This time I'm smart enough to tell Shannon, even though I reallyreallyreally don't want to.
This time she doesn't pout or compare the number of times she's been to my house versus Marissa. She thinks it—I can see it in her calculating expression—but she says out loud, "Is she coming over on Saturday?"
In a rush of relief I say, "No! No, it doesn't have to be Saturday. I'll tell her to come over Friday, and that way you and I can get together Saturday. Okay?" Buddy? Pal? Sweetheart?
Shannon nods. "Okay. I've got a piano recital at four that day. Do you want to come? We can go out after."
Bobble bobble. "Yes! Sure!"
***
"Don't forget the Rule of Lug Nuts," calls Garrett.
"The what?" I'm a nervous wreck. Mom and I are heading out the door for my driving test at the DMV.
"Let's go, honey," says Mom, hurrying to the car.
Garrett comes galloping into the living room. "Don't tell me you don't know the Rule of Lug Nuts!"
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