It’s me, all right. Smoking on the school steps, alone in a blur of kids coming and going. I’m the only thing in focus. Which is kinda cool. Cigarette in hand, smoke seeping through my lips, clouding my face—but you can still tell it’s me. I look pretty badass.
Xander looks at it. “My grandfather told me, ‘This guy is a rebel. He’s pushing people away, but what he really wants is for someone to care.’ ”
I snatch it from Xander’s hand to rip it up. But something catches my eye and I bring it closer for a better look.
The jean jacket.
“If you really wanted to be alone,” Xander goes, “why are you sitting on the steps?”
“Yeah,” Izzy adds. “Why’d you even come? It wasn’t for school.”
I remember now—the day I wore his jacket. October 16.
I clench my jaw. Take a deep breath. “It was Randy’s anniversary.”
No one says anything.
“My parents went to the cemetery…” I swallow, “but I couldn’t.”
I still haven’t. Haven’t even cried. Not once. What kind of stone-cold bastard doesn’t cry over his own brother?
I keep my eyes on the picture. “So, I came to school. I sat on the steps all morning. Never went to a class. Never even spoke to anyone. But I had nowhere else to go.”
I feel him then, Randy, the weight of him on my chest, his hands locked around my throat like when we were kids.
Give up, Hulkster? You can’t win.
It happens whenever I think of him. I stop, take a couple more breaths, and it goes away. But he’ll be back. He always is.
“I wore his jean jacket. I’d lost mine and it was cold that day.” I remember taking it from the closet, the smell of him still on it. The ghost of him in it. Mom had finally given away all his stuff, but she’d forgotten about his jacket. And when I slipped it on, it was like he was there behind me, arms around me just ready to tackle me to the ground.
“What are you looking at in the photo?” Alice asks, leaning in. “What’s in your hand?”
It’s a small square between my fingers, but I know exactly what it is. “My football card. I was looking for my smokes and I found it in his pocket.” I shake my head and toss the picture back on the pile. “Yeah—like he was pointing the finger from the grave.”
“Or maybe,” Alice says, so quiet I can barely hear her, “like Isabelle said, maybe he was just a proud brother.”
“Is that…?” Izzy snatches a picture from the pile on the floor and glares at Xander. “You said you destroyed that picture.”
“I did,” Xander goes. “This one is a different shot.”
“Wilson meant all of them.” She frowns as she looks at it. “You should’ve destroyed them all.”
“But he specifically said: ‘Destroy this picture and its negative.’ ” Xander seems confused. “That is not that picture.”
I sneak a look at the photo in her hand: a close-up of a girl sitting at a table, face hidden behind the curtain of hair, X-acto knife in her fingers. Sunlight catches on the tiny triangle blade waiting over her smooth inner arm.
It’s beautiful. And terrible. All at the same time. Dramatic. Just like Izzy.
“We can’t see your face,” I say, trying to help. “It could be anyone.”
She rips it in tiny pieces and throws them in the trash. “Yeah. But it IS me.”
“It’s you, then,” Alice goes. “It’s just one moment.”
“Yes. YES!” Xander looks at her. His eyes light up. “One moment. You see that, you get it, right, Alice?”
Alice blushes.
“Easy for you to say, Alice,” Izzy says. “It’s not your moment that’s exposed. It’s like…I’m naked.”
Normally, I would have made some smartass comment about seeing her naked, but not now. I know what she means. I felt like that when everyone was staring at my picture. Like they were seeing that hidden part that no one should. A part of me that even I had never seen before.
I look at the photos sprawled all over the floor. The hundreds of naked moments Xander saw but everyone else missed. He’s weird, but somehow he seems different to me. Like, I’m seeing him more clearly, too.
“How do you do that?” I ask. “Time it just right, I mean, to catch that moment.”
He looks at me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “I dunno.”
“Is it something you learned in Photography class?” Alice asks.
Xander shrugs. “I just watch.” He picks up his camera and looks through it. Lowers it and adjusts the lens. “They happen all the time. Most people are so caught up in their moment they don’t see all the ones happening around them, I guess.”
It makes sense. I’ve been so busy with my Randy stuff, I had no idea Izzy was so stressed, that she was cutting. Hell, I didn’t even know she’s adopted.
“You’re creeping them.” Izzy waves her hand at the pile of pictures. “Invading privacy.”
Xander shakes his head. “I only see what’s there for everyone to see. The Yearbook classroom door was open. Hogan was sitting on the school steps.” Xander lists the facts like it’s so obvious to him. “If you do something out in the open, why are you upset when people see it? Like Facebook. Or Instagram. You put up pictures of yourself on vacation in your red-and-white-striped bikini. So, why am I a creep for looking at them?”
Izzy crosses her arms over her chest. Rolls her eyes. Her typical answer when she hasn’t got one.
He has a point, though. She always puts up selfies. Pictures of her pouting and posing in different outfits, or lying on her bed, or trying new hairstyles or makeup. As though her hotness depends on getting enough likes.
“Anyone could see these things,” Xander points at his pictures, “if they zoomed in like the Tank does. It all depends on what you focus on.”