I’d been up since dawn taking pictures of tiny things with my macro lens. I captured dewdrops. I captured pollen. Insects. Moss. I took a picture of a dead beetle. I called it Dead Beetle. I took a picture of my pinkie toe. I called it Dad Says I Have My Mother’s Feet.
When I looked at small things—macro things—the big picture faded away.
I sat down in the hammock and balanced and then lay back. When I did, I realized that when one is looking up through trees at the sky, there is nothing a macro lens can capture. Nothing small. I took a picture of the view with my lens turned back to standard. I called it Nothing Small.
It was two days before my graduation from high school and I was more worried about Ellie than I was about getting a dress. I wanted to talk to her about the argument I’d overheard in the chicken house two nights before. I worried about how girls buckle.
Jasmine Blue didn’t allow a television in her house, so Ellie had never been desensitized to the commercials and stereotypes. Jasmine Blue didn’t allow magazines in her house, but Ellie knew what all girls knew—we were here to be whatever men wanted us to be.
We were here to touch their tipis.
I tried to think of one single message out there that said the opposite, but I couldn’t think of one. Everywhere I’d looked for seventeen years said, under the slick imagery, “You are here to look pretty, keep quiet, and touch tipis.”
I didn’t want Ellie to get pregnant. I wanted her to be educated about sex and how much bullshit “pulling out” was. I didn’t want her to catch a sexually transmitted disease from a guy who owned books about serial killers.
I waited in the hammock until eight thirty to go and find Ellie. I found her mucking out the runner duck house that was over by the small pond. She still looked mad, so it was a perfect opportunity to just ask her if she was okay.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You look pissed.”
“I am pissed. But I’m fine,” she said. “Just the usual bullshit.”
“What usual bullshit?”
She propped her chin on the handle of her shovel and sighed. The ducks ran around outside. Runner ducks walk upright. She had two different colors of them. The chocolate-colored ones were my favorite.
“Just—you know—Rick. It’s complicated.”
I nodded. “I heard a little bit of your fight Thursday,” I said. “I didn’t like what he was saying to you.”
She sighed again.
“You know about safe sex, right? And diseases? And all that?”
“I know enough,” she said.
“Well—uh—be careful, will you?” I wished I could take her to the library and hand her over to the librarians. Please teach her about everything, I’d say.
A minute passed and I picked up the broom and swept out some wood shavings from the corner.
“I think my mom was right,” she said. “I did it too early and now I regret it.”
I felt my heart stop for a second. “You did it?”
We’d promised, on that day when we found the picture of the butter penis, that we would tell each other on the day we did it. I felt cheated, like I did every other time Ellie changed the rules.
She nodded. “Like, two weeks ago. I mean, the first time. We’ve been doing it since, too. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“But I thought you weren’t going to do it.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she said.
“Then why are you so mad?” I let that echo around the duck house for a few seconds. Then I said, “You can stop anytime you want.”
“He lives here.”
“So?”
“Yeah. I can see that. But still.”
She started to cry. “I don’t know what to do.”
I didn’t know what to tell her.
I hugged her even though lice spread somehow.
I didn’t care. Ellie needed a hug so I hugged her.
“And I have bad news,” she said.
“Oh?” I said.
“My mom found the petrified bat.”
“Did she toss it?”
“Not quite. I still have it. But it’s—not like we remember it.”