“And so ‘photo’ means light. And ‘graph’ means drawing or writing. So, therefore, ‘photography’ means drawing with light. If you think about it, it’s pretty interesting. Because we think of photography as just something our parents do to make sure they remember us when we were babies, but really it’s a science and an art about light and how it reflects in the world.”
Tillie had written the assignment, an essay on “What I Love” in the autobiography unit in her English class, begrudgingly. It had been three weeks since she’d given up photography, and it seemed so stupid to still talk about it, but she didn’t know enough about anything else.
She felt nauseated up there, giving a speech. Presenting in class was the worst. In the back of the classroom, people giggled, so she spoke as fast as she could.
“They used to say that photographs captured people’s souls.” She had to go faster, the laughter was getting louder. “But even though that’s obviously not true, people were very superstitious back then. People were scared of it. Since its invention, photography has struggled to be respected, but now it has finally been accepted as an art form. Thankyouverymuch.”
She sat down.
Everyone was still laughing. Possibly it wasn’t at her, but it felt like it was. She recalled Jake saying, You’re so paranoid that other people are judging you … You thought you saw something you didn’t … Maybe he was right.
After English class, Diana Farr, flanked on either side by two of her usual sidekicks, stopped her in the hall.
“Great speech,” Diana said, and the two girls snickered.
“Um, thanks,” Tillie said, keeping her head down.
“So why’d you try and ruin my life?” Diana said next, jolting Tillie into looking up into her eyes.
“Um, what?”
Diana’s arms crossed. Her hip jutted out to one side.
“You told me Joaquin liked me,” Diana said.
“He does,” Tillie maintained.
“He doesn’t!” Diana snapped. “I’ve been waiting for him to ask me out for a month! I’ve turned down Ian and Ahmed and Christian! And then I finally text him last night, saying, ‘What’s the deal? I like you a lot, obviously,’ and he goes, ‘You’re awesome and pretty, but I don’t know how you got that impression. I like someone else.’” Diana grimaced. “Someone else…”
“The pictures made it look like he liked you!” Tillie stammered. “He kept … staring at you!” Maybe he’d just been staring at her like everyone stared at her, Tillie realized. Maybe it was nothing special for him, and maybe, once again, Tillie knew nothing about other people at all.
“Well, you were wrong,” Diana said. She put a hand up as if to shush Tillie, though Tillie hadn’t said anything more. “Stop messing with my life. Just stay away from me.”
“Yeah,” her two sidekicks parroted.
And with that, Diana Farr and her friends strutted off.
“You asked me to mess with your life!” Tillie yelled after them, though they were too far away to hear her.
Tillie took a breath and put her hand to her chest to touch her camera, but it wasn’t there. What a shame. Diana’s perfectly highlighted hair would have made a great subject for a photograph as it swayed down the hall.
Without the constant promotion of Diana Farr, and certainly without her cameras, her life as the Lost and Found would officially be over. Tillie tried to muster up a feeling of loss about this, or indignation, or something, but, to her surprise, she just felt numb. It was a relief to go back to being no one. After everything that had happened, it would be nice to disappear again entirely. Besides, she didn’t have any cameras left, anyway.
“Hey, Lost and Found!” someone said as Tillie walked, head down, toward her locker.
Tillie didn’t answer.
“Hey!” There was a moment’s pause. “Hey!”
Tillie recognized the voice of Tom Wilson, whose love note she’d found. Had it been just a few weeks ago? It felt like a lifetime.
Tillie kept walking, determined to get away from what would surely be one of the last calls for the Lost and Found.
* * *
Tillie had spent the past three weeks, most of April, avoiding Jake and re-creating her previous existence as a middle-school hermit. It helped that her parents had grounded her, which meant she had to come home right after school. They took away her cell phone and gave her Dad’s old pager. “It’s from the days of antiquity,” her dad said. “It’s for emergencies,” her mom insisted. Every time Abby saw her she tried to get Tillie to come to lunch with her, and even asked a couple of times why she hadn’t texted her back, and Tillie told her she was in trouble for getting bad grades in math, so she had to make sure to work on homework every day. One day Abby asked her why she didn’t have her camera anymore, and Tillie said, “Actually, my favorite one broke, so…” and she felt like she might cry, so she turned on her heel and sped off as best she could. This humiliating interaction made her want to escape Abby, and all other human beings, even more.
A couple of times, as she went from her lunch in the math room toward art class, she thought she heard Jake’s voice, and she hid inside the nearest girls’ bathroom until there was no way he could still be around.
Ms. Martinez had spent the last three weeks acting like nothing had happened. She complimented Tillie’s work and smiled at her. She didn’t offer her any winks, it was true, but she also didn’t give her disappointed gazes.
And then, one afternoon, Ms. Martinez announced who she had chosen to be featured in the school art show that year: Deshaun Washington. Matt Ross. Tillie Green.
Deshaun and Matt bumped chests and did a boy-hug. Tillie looked away from Ms. Martinez.
“Congratulations, guys.” Ms. Martinez beamed as the class applauded half-heartedly.
She showed them Deshaun’s clay sculpture of a turtle, Matt’s collage self-portrait, and a photograph of Tillie’s dad. In it, her dad bent over a plate of uneaten mashed potatoes, reading a newspaper, and behind him in the reflection of the kitchen window’s glass was Tillie with her camera, focused directly on him. It was the kind of photo that Tillie thought of as a “trick”—it only looks cool, when really it’s clichéd and has been done a million times. But the lighting in the shot was good, and she had been proud enough of it to turn it in for one of their “free subject” assignments.
“No,” Tillie said.
The class quieted.
“I mean, no thanks,” she amended.
“Oh, Tillie, but it’s an honor! We hang them in the hallway, parents come, and then they’re up for a day or two.”
“No, it’s okay,” Tillie said. “No thanks.”
Ms. Martinez gave her a long stare. Then she raised her voice and said, “Who thinks Tillie’s photo should go in the art show? Come on, guys!” Her forced peppiness reminded Tillie of her mom, and Tillie grimaced.
A couple of unexcited “woo”s could be heard, and other than that it was silent.
“Okay.” Ms. Martinez surrendered, her eyes lingering on Tillie for a moment, and moved on.
* * *
Leaving school and heading toward the bus, Tillie saw a familiar face in the line of cars waiting to pick up kids. Jake’s dad sat there, tapping on his cell phone, looking up every once in a while, probably to see if his son or maybe his girlfriend was among the throngs of people rushing out. After a few minutes, Jake appeared and jumped into the front seat. His dad said something and Jake laughed. Maybe he’d told him one of his classic dad jokes, Tillie thought. Jake opened the window a little bit and hollered something to a group of older kids. The kids laughed, and Jake’s dad laughed, too. For a brief moment, Tillie thought she saw the smile wipe off of Jake’s face and then paste back on again, but she couldn’t be sure. Father and son drove away together, and Tillie shuffled off to the bus.