Dylan slides down the side of the ticket booth, until she’s sitting next to me. She doesn’t try to hug me, she doesn’t even sit that close.
I decide that if this is a new friendship, if that’s what this is, then I’m going to start things out honestly.
So I say, “It actually feels strange to be here with someone else.”
And I don’t know how that sounds, and I hope that it doesn’t seem like I want her to leave. I hold my breath and she says, “Yeah, it must,” and she doesn’t sound offended, and she doesn’t get up to go, and I am filled with gratitude because it’s been way too long since I’ve just spent time with another person. I’m not ready for it to end yet.
24
It’s been weeks since junior year started, and Ms. Delani still isn’t looking at me. We spend first period in the dark, looking at projections of famous landscapes. Even though I wish I could hate everything she shows me, I get caught up in the photographs. We start with Ansel Adams, who is pretty overused by now. I mean, his stuff is all over inspirational posters and calendars, but the landscapes are still amazing. The entire front of the classroom goes from wa terfalls to forests to mountains to ocean. Looking at them makes me feel small, in a good way.
We move on to Marilyn Bridges. Ms. Delani stands at her desk, stating the obvious.
“Here we have a cityscape. Notice that the sun is brightest on the focal point. The surrounding buildings are in shadow.”
She goes through a few more, then says, “Now let me show some examples of student work from past years.”
She sits down and opens a new file on her computer. And I know that this is a stupid thing to wish for, but I hope that one of the photos she’s about to show will be mine. I know she didn’t like my picture of Oakland, but I took so many last year that I thought were pretty good. I took one of the Golden Gate Bridge from right below it, looking up. It was cool because it was of something that’s been photographed a million times, but I’d never seen a picture taken from that angle. I picture the image big, covering the wall. In my head I hear Ms. Delani saying, Excellent work, Caitlin. I hear it so clearly, every syllable.
An image of cranes on an open field appears on the screen.
“See the nice use of line in this piece?”
Click. Sand and waves and Alcatraz in the distance. Click. A strange rock formation. Click. A hill with little flowers on it and clear blue sky.
I blink. I’ve never seen Ingrid’s hill this big. The flowers look so full. I can see individual blades of grass. I want to close my eyes and be transported there, to that place, to that day. I remember the ground, cold under my bare feet. Ingrid’s purple scarf wrapped around her neck.
Ms. Delani clicks the hill away and there’s another landscape, but I don’t see it. Instead, I see Ingrid’s eyes up close, so blue, the way they looked through the lens of my camera.
Click.
Ingrid’s fingers covered in silver rings.
Click.
Her careful, delicate handwriting.
“See how interesting the negative space is here?”
Click.
The huge red sunglasses that covered half her face.
Click.
The pink-and-white scars on her stomach.
“Look at the contrast.”
Click.
A deep cut on her arm, bleeding.
Click.
Her eyes, vacant.
Click.
The word ugly carved into her hip.
Click.
“The tree in this image is not the focal point. Instead, the shadow is emphasized.”
The lights flash on.
Ingrid disappears.
I need to scream, to smash something. I grip the side of my desk so hard that my hand feels like it’s about to split open. Ms. Delani stands in front of the room in expensive-looking pin-striped pants and a crisp, button-down shirt. Her hair is smooth and perfect; her skin is perfect; her red glasses frame her eyes perfectly. She walks to the blackboard and starts to write something, but I interrupt her.
“Um . . .” My voice is shaky, loud. I don’t know what I want to say, but I know I have to talk. Everything is blurry. “Did you get permission to use those pictures?” I sound crazy, the words come out so loud.
Ms. Delani pauses and lowers the chalk she’s holding.
“Which pictures?” she asks.
“All of them,” I say. “All of the pictures by students that you showed without even giving them any credit, without even saying their names.”
No one will look at me. For once, Ms. Delani seems unsure of what to say next. I’m probably spraining my hand, but I can’t stop squeezing the desk. Some girls giggle nervously and then Ms. Delani smiles. She scans the class with bright eyes and says, “Caitlin has made an interesting point. In the future, I will consider asking students for permission to use their work as examples.”
Then she pivots toward the board and begins to write.
25
Next period, a freshman comes into class with a yellow slip. My history teacher peers at it.
“Caitlin.” He extends his arm, dangling the paper from his fingers like it smells bad. I get up.
“Take your things,” he says, and the blood rushes to my face.
I follow the directions on the paper and go to the office. The secretary doesn’t look up when I stand at her desk.
“I got this?” I say, and hand her the paper.
She glances at it. “Ms. Haas’s office is down the hall,” she says.
I trudge down the hall to the office, but the door is closed and I can hear voices inside. My heart starts pounding—did Ms. Delani call my parents? I can picture them in there, sitting next to each other, Mom dabbing her eyes with a tissue, Dad patting her hand and looking worried. The door swings open, and out walks Melanie.