The following day I go straight to Ruth’s classroom with my photograph. If I can’t have love, I can at least be Ruth’s gifted student again. A promising young photographer of the future.
When I pull the photograph from its folder, Ruth lays it on her desk and stares at it. I watch her face, desperate for some sign of pride. When she doesn’t say anything for what seems like a full minute, I feel like I might burst.
“It’s an overlay,” I say. “Like you taught us last year.”
Ruth nods. “I see,” she says.
I can feel my body deflate.
“You don’t like it,” I say.
Ruth looks at me. This close, I can see the soft fuzz on her cheeks. Her eyes are dark and warm. “I like it,” she says. “But I’ve seen better from you.”
My throat contracts like it does when I’m going to cry.
“Its the best I can do,” I say. The tears pop into my eyes. I try to blink them away before she can see. “I don’t have any other ideas.”
Ruth puts her arm over my shoulder and pulls me to her. Even though she smells like incense, even though any kid passing by and seeing would tease me about it for years, she is warm and soft. I close my eyes.
“I see this has been a rough year for you so far,” she says in a quiet voice.
I keep my eyes closed and lean against her.
“You have a story to tell about it,” she says.
I take this in, my eyes still closed. After a few moments Ruth gently pulls me away from her, and with her hands on my shoulders she looks into my eyes.
“That’s where your self-portrait is,” she says.
I nod, understanding. I’ve been looking in the wrong place this whole time.
Tiffany and I are on the last late bus before we leave for Thanksgiving break. I sit all the way in the back corner this time. I don’t want her to talk to me again. She sits near the front, but after we start moving, she gets up and walks toward me. She sits in the seat directly in front of me. Then she turns around and rests her arm on the back of the seat, facing me.
“Don’t worry,” Tiffany says. “I’m not going to tarnish your glowing reputation with your friends.”
I look out the window, my mouth set.
“I just wanted to apologize for what I said last time.”
“Really.”
“Really,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said it.”
I’m not sure what to make of it, so I don’t say anything.
Neither does she. Then she says, “You can’t let them get to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“Ashley and the rest,” she says. “I once read there’s some study showing that people like Ashley are less likely than people like you and me to be happy because they don’t have to learn to cope.”
“I’m not like you,” I blurt. Immediately I wish I hadn’t said it, because Tiffany looks surprised, then hurt.
“Fine,” she says, and she gets up to go back to the front of the bus.
Thanksgiving morning Dad beeps the horn. I shake out my hair and put on my coat. Anne and I slide into the backseat. Dana and Dad smile at us from the front. Like every other Thanksgiving, we’re going to Dad’s parents in upstate New York. This year, though, Mom closed herself off in her bedroom when we left, and Dana’s the one in the passenger seat.
“How is everyone?” Dad asks.
“Fine,” we both say. We don’t say anything about Lionel. Or the fact that my period is officially four days late. Or that I have been off course with the contest and now I have only two-and-a-half weeks to come up with something.
Dad smiles. “Good,” he says. Of course.
At Grandma and Grandpas we sit around the table. Dad’s brother and his family are there. They are nice to Dana, but his wife keeps cocking her head at Anne and me like we need sympathy. Grandma is excessively chatty She slips Anne and me each a fifty-dollar bill. Grandpa sits quietly, saying nothing. I never before had an opinion either way, but I’m starting to think I don’t like this side of my family. Mom’s side may be emotional, but at least they have emotions, These people are like wax replicas.
Dana is polite, but I can see she feels the same way.
On the ride home she turns to Dad.
“Now I understand,” she says lightly.
“Uh-oh,” Dad says. He’s smiling.
“You’re just doing what you learned,” she says.
Anne and I look at each other. Nobody talks to Dad like this.
“What are you talking about?” Dad asks. He fiddles with the heat. He adjusts the rearview mirror. But he waits for her response.
“Nobody talks in your family.”
Dad laughs. “What do you call what my mother did all the way through dinner?” He puts a hand on Dana’s knee. “I don’t think she knew what to make of us.”
“That’s what I mean,” Dana says. She puts her hand over Dad’s and entwines her fingers with his. The diamond on her engagement ring catches the light. “Nobody talks about what’s really going on.”
We are all silent. I can feel Anne next to me, neither of us moving a muscle.
“That’s true,” Dad says finally.
Dana puts her other hand over the one she’s holding. I remember what she said after the gallery about nobody liking how I can’t accept things the way they are. People come around, she said. I guess she was talking about Dad. Even though it can be uncomfortable at times, Dad appreciates her way of looking at the world. I look out the window at the bare, bony branches of the trees. The sky is darkening. It’s that time of day I love, when everything shifts, showing something new. In the back of my mind I know Dad must like that about me, too.
When we get home, Mom is at the kitchen table.
“How was it?” she asks. She’s got that fragile thing in her voice that tells me she doesn’t really want to know. I throw my coat over a chair and go to the fridge for a drink. I’m not interested in getting pulled into her drama.
“It was weird,” Anne says.
Mom perks up. She’s wearing sweatpants and slippers. I wonder whether she even left the house today. “Oh?” she says.
“We missed you,” Anne says.
Mom turns her mug of tea around and around. “Really?”
“Of course,” Anne says.
I pour some juice and lean against the counter as I drink. Mom looks right at me, hopeful, I roll my eyes and put my glass in the sink.
“You know where I stand on the matter,” I tell her.
She takes a sip of tea and says nothing. After a moment she looks back at Anne. We have an understanding now, I guess. I won’t accept her crap, and she’ll still love me, even though she doesn’t like it.
I let the nurse lead me through the doors to a long fluorescent-lit corridor. The nurse is small and dark-skinned. She puts a gentle hand on my elbow when we reach the room. She smiles kindly and motions for me to sit. An examining table with stirrups sits in the center of the room. A clock ticks loudly on the wall. It smells sharp and sterile, like the color white. The nurse sits across from me with a clipboard.
“I’m just going to ask you a few questions, Jessica,” she says. “And then we’ll do the test.”
I swallow, “Okay,” I say.
“Age?”
I hesitate. “Fourteen,” I say. But the nurse doesn’t flinch.
“How long have you been sexually active?” she asks.
“It was only one time,” I say. A nauseous feeling creeps along my skin. I cross my legs, then uncross them again.
The nurse smiles at me. “Okay,” she says. “Are you monogamous right now?”
I look at her. I don’t know what she means.
“Are you having sex with more than one person?”
“No,” I say. I twist my hands in my lap. They’re sweaty and nail bitten. I don’t want the nurse to think I’m a slut, that I sleep with anyone. “It was just the one time,” I say again, trying to make her understand.
“Were you using birth control?”
I shake my head and look down. My thighs spread on the chair. I cross them once more. I feel awkward and ugly, like I’m taking up too much room.
“Have you thought about getting yourself onto some birth control?” She is looking right at me now. Clearly this isn’t a question on her form.
“I didn’t know I was going to need it,” I say. I don’t mean to sound defensive. The whole situation happened so fast. I want her to understand.
I bite my lip, just wanting this to be over.
“Date of your last menstrual period?”
I calculate the date.
“Okay,” she says. She hands me the small plastic cup on the counter. “You can use the bathroom at the end of the hall.”
I hold the cup in both hands. This is it, the moment of truth.
“Jessica,” she says. She leans forward. Her eyes are brown and pretty. “If it turns out you are pregnant, you aren’t alone. We’re here to support you.”
I look down, tears in my eyes.
“Okay,” I say.
She puts a hand on mine. Her hand is warm and soft. “No matter the outcome, you’re going to be all right,” she says.
“Okay,” I say again.
Afterward I sit in the waiting room. My heart won’t settle. It feels like it might jump right out of my body onto the floor. The clock on the wall says only three minutes have passed. The nurse told me they would know in five. I gnaw at a hangnail. The girl across from me is flipping through a People magazine. How can she be so calm when my whole world is being decided behind those doors? I haven’t let myself think about what I would do or, worse, who I would tell. I look up. Six minutes. What are they doing back there?
I think of Ted. How could I not? He’s probably at work right now, his heart perfectly calm, His heart probably has no reason to batter against his chest, banging and banging like an insistent knock.
“Jessica?” The nurse stands at the door with that damn clipboard. She smiles. Does that mean the test is negative?
I follow her, my legs as thick and heavy as wooden posts.
In the small room she smiles at me.
“I won’t keep you waiting,” she says. “Your test was negative.”
I breathe out. My body lightens.
“But if your period doesn’t come in another week, we should test again.”
“Thank you,” I say. I move to leave.
“One more thing,” the nurse says. She hands me a small brown paper bag from the counter. “It’s condoms,” she says.
I look down. “I don’t need them,” I say, hating that I sound defensive again.
“That’s fine,” the nurse says. “But in case you do.”
Monday the school is buzzing with excitement. It seems the principal brought in a sex educator from Canada to talk to us about birth control. We all skip third period to gather in the gymnasium. I can see Anne and Lionel near the front with the other juniors. I do my best to be invisible. I don’t want anyone thinking about the parties and what I did with Jason and Josh.
The sex lady is older, at least Mom’s age. She has graying hair and glasses. Her body is square and stout. I guess I expected someone young, maybe someone sexy. I hear mumbling. Others are surprised too. She puts a well-worn cardboard box on a table and hooks up a laptop to the projector. A big screen is already pulled down behind her. Someone dims the lights. I hear some giggling. Then a clinical drawing of a penis lights up the screen. The room goes quiet, and the sex lady starts talking. For some reason, I think of the retarded boy’s penis I saw so long ago. I’ve seen two since then, but this is the one that pops into my mind. I squeeze my eyes, willing it to leave.
After a bit she changes the slide to show girls’ reproductive organs. Then the real show begins. She dumps out the box and lines up various objects: a condom, a diaphragm, a packet of pills. I recognize them all from the book Mom gave Anne and me, and, of course, from the clinic. The snickering and whispering get louder, and teachers shush the room.
Just then I see Elisabeth. She is looking right at me.
“What?” I mouth.
But I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking about those pictures of Ted. She’s wondering what I already know about sex, and about the gulf between us that keeps expanding. She’s wondering if it’s even possible to cross it, now that the gulf’s grown this big.
After school I take the bus to the mall with the money Grandma gave me. My thought is if I get some new clothes, maybe I’ll feel different. Better.
As I’m riffling through tops in Wet Seal, someone catches my eye. It’s Tiffany. I look back at the colorful shirts quickly, but she’s already seen me.
“Are you following me or something?” she asks. She’s holding a pair of jeans with rhinestones sewn along the pockets.
I snort. “You wish.”
There’s a guy with her, a huge guy with a shaved head and a bull-ring in his nose. I don’t recognize him. Tiffany sees me looking.
“This is my boyfriend, Nash,” she says. “He’s a senior at Bergen High.” The public high school in town.
I shrug and look back at the shirt I’ve pulled from the rack. It’s a revealing turquoise half shirt. I push it back between the others, hoping Tiffany didn’t see it. I don’t want her to think I would dress like that. And I don’t look back up, because I also don’t want her to keep speaking to me, although I can’t believe she’s talking to me at all after I was so rude on the bus last week.
“I don’t get you,” Tiffany says then.
I shrug again, my heart batting against my ribs. “What’s to get?”
“We used to be friends,” she whispers.
I swallow, unsure what to say. I keep flipping through the rack, but every single shirt looks stupid and ugly. I drop my hands to my side, anger rising suddenly and uncontrollably into my throat.
“You’re the one who ruined it,” I say.
Tiffany cuts her eyes at me. Her dark hair catches the fluorescent lights from the store. I know we’re both remembering the party in sixth grade, where she let every boy there touch her breasts. This was the party that had clinched the deal for her, where she earned her status as the school slut. After that party, and after everyone in school knew what she had done, I avoided her in the hallway and wouldn’t take her phone calls. When Mom asked why I wouldn’t talk to her, I made up some story about how she had betrayed me. Of course, it was me who had betrayed her, left her alone with no friends. That’s when Elisabeth and I started spending more time together. I knew what I had done was crappy, but my friendship with Elisabeth helped me forget the guilt. And, soon enough, things seemed like they had always been this way. Ashley and her friends at the top,Elisabeth and me one step down, and Tiffany way at the bottom.
I bite my lip, seeing clearly now how that all worked out.
Nash puts an arm around Tiffany, pulling her toward him. For a brief moment I feel happy for her that someone wants to keep her safe. But Tiffany pushes him away. Her face is pinkish, and her eyes are slits.
“Do you really think I wanted all those assholes to touch me?”
I stay perfectly still, what she just said hovering around us like smoke. Like bad perfume. Of course she didn’t want them to touch her breasts. How could I have been so stupid? A feeling I don’t recognize is making its way up my body, moving through my feet to my legs.
Tiffany throws the jeans she is holding on the floor. Tears pop into her eyes. She is waiting for me to say something.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak. “I see now—”
“No, you don’t,” she says, interrupting me. “You’re like the rest. You don’t see anything.” She grabs Nash, and they leave the store, arms around each other.
I don’t move, the feeling now in my throat. I know what it is: Shame. Thick and horrible.
“Do you need any help?” I turn to see a salesgirl. She’s not much older than I am, with hair dyed hot pink. She’s not looking at me, and she looks bothered. I follow her eyes to the jeans Tiffany threw, which lie twisted and crumpled on the ground.
The next day Nash waits for Tiffany in an old Buick after school. Tiffany walks right by me and slides into the car. I can see them kiss through the dirty windows.
“Gross,” I hear Ashley say to one of her friends. “Nobody wants to see that.” They are standing near me.
“She should keep that to herself,” her friend says.
“Why can’t you just let her be for once?” I blurt. My chest feels tight. A lump sits in my throat. Ashley turns to see me.
“I’m sorry,” Ashley says. “Did you say something?” Her friend looks on, her chin high.
“Tiffany may not be our friend, but she’s a human being,” I say.
“Oh, please,” Ashley says. “Since when did you get all WWJD? You’re the one who dumped her when she stopped looking good on your social resume.”
“That’s not true,” I say quietly. Tiffany’s voice chimes in my mind: You don’t see anything.
“Besides,” Ashley says, “why should I have to see her make out with her nasty-ass boyfriend?”
“So don’t look,” I say. You don’t look at anything else, I think, but don’t say.
“You’re right,” Ashley says. “I won’t.” She and her friend turn to go.
I get it. She won’t look at me, either, if she doesn’t want to.
After school I take my Canon and go to the park. I need some time to think, and my camera helps me see things clearly. I realize, walking with my hands stuffed in my pockets, I haven’t done this in a long time. I haven’t taken time to look through my camera without the pressure of getting something right for the contest. A bunch of kids run around the playground. One little girl in a striped scarf laughs as she runs, her hands in the air. I aim my Canon and snap! Another girl sits on a bench with her mother, drinking from a juice box. Her mother, though right next to her, looks lost in thought. Snap! I get that one too.
I walk on, holding my camera tight against my side. I see a familiar entrance into the woods, and my breath catches. It’s the place I went with Ted. My legs feel heavy, but I force myself to go there, to see. Perhaps there’s something there for me, some sign of what has happened to me over these past few months. Some keyhole into who I am now. The wind blows sharply against my face. I can hear the kids yelling on the playground and cars whizzing by on the highway nearby. The trees have lost most of their leaves, so I can see the spot where we were. Where I first let Ted take me too far. The smell of the woods—the dead leaves and pine—makes my head swim. I step into the woods, pushing branches out of my way. I hold up my camera and look. In the circular space of the lens is a barren clearing. There is nothing, only leaves and dead branches. It is neither beautiful nor horrible. It’s just empty.