I took Sparrow’s photo to lunch. There was no way Jack could have asked his friends about it—it would be too out of character; there would be too many questions. So I was left showing it to my friends. They wouldn’t think there was anything out of the ordinary about me being out of the ordinary. I didn’t tell them where I’d gotten it—I just said I was wondering if any of them had seen this guy around. And as they responded, I couldn’t help thinking about you you you and how they knew you.
Matt was actually your first boyfriend—or “first ex-boyfriend,” as you would tease him. In fifth grade. Or maybe sixth. It lasted a few months, just so you could get something from him for Valentine’s Day. I think it was over on February 15th. He would tease you about it, even when you weren’t in the mood for teasing. He couldn’t tell the difference. said, “Dude, look at that hair! I’ve never seen anyone at this school try that out.”
Fiona had been friends with you—maybe even good friends—until you started spending all your time with Jack and, to a lesser extent, me. She was shaken after everything that happened, but not to the point that she felt the guilt as well as the shock. studied the picture for a while. Then she turned it over, read the caption, and handed it back to me. “Nothing,” she said. “Sorry.”
Katie thought you were a downer. She even said it to me once, shortly before: “I just can’t spend too much time with her. She’s a downer.” I give her points for being the one to admit it. But did she ever ask herself why? said, “He kind of looks like you. Not the hair, obviously. But there’s something about him that reminds me of you.”
Charlie was drunk one time and asked me why I wasn’t the one sleeping with you. That’s how he put it. told Katie she was out of her mind. But he didn’t recognize Sparrow, either.
Who else would know? When you were here, in this cafeteria, Please come back. Please. you’d usually sit with Jack and his friends. When he talked to you, you seemed to fit in, but when someone else was talking, or he would be distracted, you just looked lonely over there. At least to me. But whenever I would tell you that, you’d say, “I’m fine. I just slip out of it, you know?” And I’d say, “I’ll catch you,” and you would say, “It’s not the kind of slipping you can catch.”
“Where did you get that?” Fiona asked. She wasn’t staring at the photograph—her green eyes were focused on me, only me. “If it was your photo, you’d know who was in it.”
“I found it,” I said, knowing how lame this sounded. “In the hall. I figured whoever it was would want it back.”
“I still think it looks like you,” Katie said.
“Whatever,” Charlie said.
I felt foolish for trying. And part of me wanted to give in to the foolishness—to make copies of the photos and hang them around the halls like Wanted posters—asking Have you seen this man? Maybe offering a reward. As a way of solving this uncertainty mystery. Only, if I did that, the photographer would know. She would see it, and she would retreat. She’d cover her trail. You and I are walking in the snow. “Why are you walking backwards?” I ask. You point in the direction we came from. “So they’ll think that’s where I’m going.” You point to where we’re going. “And that’s where I’m from.”
I changed the conversation. I thought I’d gone unnoticed. But after school, Fiona tracked me down.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I shoved my books in my locker. Closed it.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You’ve been weird for a week now. Something’s going on.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumbled. Then I realized I was staring at the ground, not her. She’d never believe me if I didn’t look at her. So I did, and the expression on her face was part pity, part annoyance, part understanding.
“It’s like—” she said. Then stopped.
“What? What is it like?” I asked.