He uncovers my eyes, and sweeps his arm out toward a huge pile of wood lying on the brick patio that separates the house from the garden. It’s cut in thick planks that are at least ten feet long. Dad’s standing there in front of the gigantic messy pile, smiling all proud like he just bought me a beach house in Fiji and a private jet to get me there.
“Wood,” I say, confused.
“It’s all sanded already. I got you a top-of-the-line saw, too. That should be coming on Monday.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
He shrugs. “I have no idea,” he says. “You’re the expert.”
My parents have this crazy idea that I’m good at building things just because once I went to this arts-and-crafts summer camp and made a little wooden stepladder that actually turned out okay.
“That was like a million years ago,” I remind my dad. “I was twelve.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it again soon.”
“This is a lot of wood.”
“There’s plenty more when you need it. I don’t want you to feel limited.”
All I can do is nod my head up and down, up and down. I mean, I know what’s going on. I hear my parents talking about me, sounding all worried. I know that this is supposed to be some alternative to therapy. Dad thinks it’s a really great gift that will take my mind off my screwed-up life.
He stands there, looking hopeful, waiting for me to react. Finally, I walk over to the pile and run my fingers across a piece on the top. I knock on it with my knuckles. I can feel him watching me. I look up and force a smile.
“Great,” he says, all final, like something has been decided.
“Yeah,” I say back, like I understand.
10
The first day Ingrid and I ditched was gray and cold. We left at lunch and I was sure someone would catch us, but no one did.
Once we were safely out of view, we started walking up this hill to where the condos are all jammed up against one another; windows look into neighbors’ living rooms. It was so quiet.
The diner or the mall? Ingrid asked.
Too many people at the mall. I kicked at some rocks on the path and watched the dust rise.
When we got to the top of the hill, Ingrid ran into the middle of an empty street. She turned to face me, wavy hair blown across her face, arms lifted until they stuck straight out at her sides. She started twirling. Her red skirt billowed. The wind blew harder and she spun so fast she was a blur. When she stopped she crouched over.
Oh my God. She laughed. Oh my God, my head.
She tried to walk back over to me, stumbled, and laughed harder.
You’re such a nerd, I said.
A middle-aged woman came toward us from between two condos and my stomach tightened. But she just walked by us, didn’t even say anything. We were at the top of this hill and we didn’t have anywhere to go.
I turned around. Look, I said.
Below us was our school, a collection of rectangular boxes. Even though we knew that the kids were studying for tests and kissing and worrying about one another, in that moment they were so small—only colorful specks moving around.
This feels good, Ingrid said.
The day was gloomy, so I got this idea. I said, I bet there’s no one at the park. And I was right. When we got there, the field where little kids usually ran around was empty. No one was sliding on the slide or dangling from the monkey bars. We made sure that there wasn’t anyone at the sandbox and then Ingrid put her hands on my shoulders. You, my friend, she said, are a genius.
She ran over to the swings and I followed her. I sat on the rubber seat, and started to pump really hard with my legs. We were both going so high, moving through the air together, shouting our conversation because of the wind and because we didn’t have to worry about anyone listening. We got so high that I thought any second one of us might go all the way around. Ingrid had her camera around her neck and she clutched it to her chest with one arm so it wouldn’t fly off.
The clouds were low and heavy and dark. Then the sky turned this bright gray and it started to rain.
Ingrid snapped a photograph of me swinging before she tucked the camera under her jacket, but if she ever developed it, she never showed it to me.
Soon it was pouring. The cold felt good, and we kept swinging until our hair and our clothes were drenched, laughing, talking about something that I can never remember, even though I try.
11
Ms. Delani stands in front of us, her smile tight across her face.
“Today,” she says. “I’m going to hold short conferences with each of you to establish your personal artistic goals for the semester.”
She scans the room, probably wondering if any of us are worth her precious time. In her other life, she’s a real artist. Once Ingrid and I went to this tiny gallery in the city for one of her openings. We were the only students who showed up—she hadn’t mentioned it to many people. Everyone there was dressed up, and there were a couple bottles of champagne and a platter of grapes and some Brie. We had spent the whole BART ride trying to predict what her art would be like.
When she caught sight of us in the gallery, she touched the arm of the man she’d been talking to and came up to us. She gave us these quick, firm hugs, so casually, like she’d hugged us a million times before. She introduced us as two of her most promising students, and Ingrid and I showed off for her, dropping names of the famous photographers she had taught in class. All her photographs were of the same things: doll parts scattered over brightly colored fabric. Porcelain arms and legs and middles, but mostly heads. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but I hadn’t been expecting that. They were beautiful, but kind of unsettling at the same time.