Exposed (10 page)

“Objection!” Uncle Nate calls out,
and the defense attorney withdraws the question.

“Now, Ms. Morgan has reported that she was raped in her
best friend’s house, right?”
“And you’re that best friend?”
“She has reported that this horrible crime occurred while her
best friend was sleeping upstairs, right?”
“That was you sleeping?”
“And she has reported that the rapist was her best friend’s
brother, correct?”
“That was your brother?”
“Now I would expect that someone who had a houseguest
raped in her own house might feel shame. Would you agree?”
“And that shame might be double in intensity if that
houseguest were a friend, and perhaps double again in
intensity if that friend were a best friend. Would you agree?”
“Now, Ms. Grayson, you’ve known Ms. Morgan for years. Your
friend, trusted confidante, your ‘forever-best.’ Do you think
she is the sort of sick person who would lie to make you feel
that sort of shame?”

Uncle Nate jumps to his feet. “Objection! Argumentative.”

The judge says, “Sustained.”

“Now, you love your brother, right?”
“And, while friends are friends, blood runs deep?”
“Would you do anything for your brother?”

“I wouldn’t lie for him about something like this.”

Fast and Furious

These questions fire at me
like the clicks of camera
set on continuous mode.

But memories
of a brother, a best friend,
the worst night of our lives,
are impossible to fit
into the frame of yes-no responses
I’m expected to give.

So they swell up inside me.

Until there are no more questions
until there is no more space
until I leave the courtroom
in a flood of tears.

Adjourned

At the end of the day
I scan the hall for Kate
but I don’t see her.

Closing arguments
are Monday morning.
We should have a verdict
by Monday afternoon.

“I think things went well,” Uncle Nate says,
and congratulates Mike
for keeping cool on the stand,
congratulates me, too.

As we leave the courthouse
I put my hand to my mouth
to keep from throwing up
all over Uncle Nate’s
shiny black shoes.

Natural Light

I’m looking to do anything
to keep my mind busy this weekend.

I haven’t taken a portrait in a long time,
but Mrs. Pratt wants one taken in natural light,
and the sun glistens off the water
as I come down the ferry ramp.

I see an old man at the water’s edge
in a drab woolen coat.
He’s tossing bits of bread into the sea.

I lift my camera and zoom in,
waiting for the world to go silent.
As I hold the camera steady,
I’m moved by his desire to feed the fish.

Suddenly, gulls swoop down
snatching fish and bread
with sharp, angry beaks.
More join in—swooping,
snatching, screeching.

Is the old man here
to feed the fish,
or set a trap for them?

The ferry horn blows
and the man walks away.
His bag of bread empty,
my camera full of unused film.

Viewfinder

As the man disappears from view,
I think of the portraits I’ve taken—
the ones Mrs. Pratt calls
my “best work.”

Who’s to say the woman
mowing her lawn
is longing to be somewhere else?

Maybe the boy’s joyful look
has nothing to do
with old wooden horses.

I control the exposure
with my f-stop
and my light meter
and my shutter speed.

I wait for the moment
when things are as I want them to be.

Then I click and think
that says it all.

But it says nothing.

And instead of “Preparing My Shot,”
all I can think of now is:
“Photography Means Shit.”

Aftershock

I’ve lost
my best friend
my boyfriend
and my PMS mood.

All I have left
are my parents
on a live wire,
my brother
close to the third rail,
and my need
to connect to something.

Flash

I grab the shoulder strap of my camera,
rush toward the beach,
and swing the stupid useless thing
again and again
against a rough wooden pylon.

“Hey! Hey there! No, Lizzie! No!”

My father—
my so-slow-lately, so-careful father—
runs like a madman down the ramp,
grabs from my trembling hands
what’s left of my once favorite thing.

“He did it, Daddy. I think he did it.”

My hearts stops.
I feel it seize and stop.
I didn’t mean to say those words.
What have I just done?
WhathaveIjustdone???

My father turns the camera over
in his big, soft hands,
takes in the shattered lens,
the cracked shutter.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry!”
I’m crying so hard my head throbs.

He lays the camera on the ground
and pulls me into his arms.
“You, Lizzie, have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yes, I do, Daddy!
I’ve screwed up everything!”

“So you’re not perfect, Lizzie.
No one is.
But you’re not
not perfect
because of Mike.”

I look up and see Randall
coming toward us.
He takes a few steps. Stops.
Takes a few more.
“Um, Liz? Is everything all right?”

“She’s okay,” my father tells him,
and I’m not sure I am,
but the words he said to me wrap
like an Ace bandage
around my heart.

Images

I’m in the courtroom
seated with my parents
behind my brother’s table
as the judge instructs the jury.

Every moment
of the past six months
has led to this.

The lawyers have finished closing statements
(Kate’s a slut. Mike’s evil.),
both creating images to show someone
the way they want them to be seen.

I used to be so confident
about who people were, who I was—
that woman’s a gossip, that guy’s a prick,
I’m a girl with a camera and something to say.

But, while listening to the lawyers plead their case, I realized
I no longer see things
in crisp black-and-white contrasts—
some things come in shades of gray,
hues that give pause and make me wonder,
make me want to know more.

And I think about what Javier said,
how you can’t sum up a whole life in a 5×7.
And now I get it.

But I wonder if maybe there’s still room
for catching magic in a moment
where a woman seems wistful,
or a boy, excited.

Where a girl,
as she dances,
looks lighter than air.

Verdict

The forewoman stands,
looks down at the paper,
looks up at the judge,
and says in a voice that does not waver,

“We the jury
find the defendant,
Michael James Grayson,
not guilty.”

Mom and Dad jump up, crying, and lean
over the banister, clutching my brother,
who lets out an audible sigh of relief.

Mom’s saying, “Yes! Yes!”
like she’s just won
a million dollars on a game show.

But I feel like a buzzer should sound
instead of a bell.
I think the jury got it wrong.
And this is the tricky part:
I’m glad that they did.

Better or Worse?

I don’t think he meant it
but I think he did it.
Was this justice?
I don’t think so.

But the thought
of my brother
rotting away in a cell
is almost as hard to take
as the thought of my mother
walking around like a zombie—
not dead, but not alive—
of my father trailing behind her
picking up parts as they fall.

The Other Side

Kate’s father makes a guttural sound,
her mother yells, “No!”
and they both reach for their daughter,
who is rocking back and forth,
eyes closed.

I wince,
let out a silent sigh,
a silent
I’m so sorry
,
then close my eyes, too,
hug her in my mind,
and pray she can feel it.

Shades of Memory

It’s Tuesday morning, one day down,
and I’m back in Mrs. Pratt’s room
cleaning up my space before class ends.
Javier comes over and sits down beside me.

“Hi, Liz.”

“Hi, Javier.”

He’s cracking his knuckles,
something he always does
while sitting on the bench
before a big game.

“So, I was thinking …,” he says,
and I wonder if he’s thinking
what an annoying habit that is.

But he seems so nervous
so I just say, “What?”

He covers one hand with the other
and asks me if I’ll be his date
for the prom.

His question sends a tingle through my body,
something I haven’t felt in a long time.
A tingle, I now know,
I’m capable of feeling again.

But all I can see
are pages of a magazine
with photos of two dresses,
in shades of pale yellow and sea-foam green,
and two girls cutting those pages out,
tacking them to a bulletin board
in a room filled with dance trophies.

“I’m sorry, Javier. I just can’t.”

And I leave the room before the bell rings,
before the cracking starts again,
before he can ask me why.

Picture This

It’s been a week since the trial
and Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table,
next to me, our chairs pushed close,
shoulder touching shoulder,
looking through my portfolio.

It’s a quiet moment
in sharp contrast to twenty minutes ago
when I opened my acceptance letter
from Parsons School of Design.

She’s oohing and aahing
over photos old and new
and I’m glad for the return
of her singsong sounds.

“I’ve missed looking at your work,” she says,
and I’m happy because she voiced
the words I hoped to hear.
And because I believe her.

She reaches for a picture
taken from the rear of her and Dad
as they sat together last spring
on the wrought-iron bench
in our garden out back.

“I remember that day,” she tells me.
“The irises were coming up.”
A real and true smile graces her lips.
“I didn’t know, sneaky girl,
you were hiding out behind us.”

I tell her I remember, too.
And that I loved the way she and Dad
sat silent, holding hands,
leaning into one another,
watching flowers bloom.

“I’m surprised we didn’t hear you.”
She puts the picture down,
reaches for another.

“That’s because I was PMSing,” I say.

And it doesn’t hurt
this time
to say it.

Minor and Major

It’s the middle of first period
and the hallway is empty
as I bring a note from Mrs. Pratt
to the principal’s office.

I stop at the wall near the cafeteria,
papered with college-acceptance letters.
I find my letter there.

Then I search until I find hers.
Kate’s going to Cornell.

“Impressive, huh?”

I flinch, because I didn’t hear Amanda coming.
For a girl who talks nonstop,
she’s surprisingly quiet on her feet.

“Yeah, it is. I’m happy for her.”

“Congrats on Parsons, by the way. I’m going to BU.”

Even though we still have classes together,
Amanda and I haven’t talked this much in ages.

“You holding up okay?” she asks,
gently squeezing my arm.
Her hand is warm.

“I’m holding up.”

“Kate’s holding up, too. She’s decided to minor in dance.”

Hearing this makes me want to hug Amanda,
because Kate minoring in dance
is a major-good thing.
But I don’t hug her because it still stings
not hearing Kate’s news from Kate.

Before I can say “That’s great,”
Amanda’s mouth moves again.
“Anyway, I gotta go. I was supposed to be making a quick trip
to the bathroom and then I saw you and if I don’t hurry up my
bladder will burst and it won’t be pretty.”

My head throbs listening to her,
but my heart feels lighter.

Baby Steps

I’m at my desk
looking over the stuff from Parsons
when the phone rings.
My mother calls to me from the kitchen,
“Lizzie! Pick up. It’s Mike.”

He’s been back at school for two weeks now,
we haven’t talked since the trial,
and I reread a sentence about dorm life four times
before picking up the phone.

“Hey,” I say,
in a bad attempt to sound casual.
“Hey,” he says back,
and there’s too long a pause until he adds,
“Congrats on getting in.”

I tell him “Thanks,”
trying to push from my brain
an image of him running through the door,
picking me up from behind, spinning me around
in a fit of brotherly pride.

There’s another pause before he says,
“Well, I gotta get going.”

I say, “Okay, bye.”
The line goes dead.

And I’m left feeling
things I can’t explain
because I’m not sure
how to be his sister anymore.

I don’t know how to forgive him,
especially since he doesn’t think
he did anything wrong.

And I’m not sure he forgives me
for not believing him.

Maybe someday we’ll sit
across from one another
in some therapist’s office
and try to find a way to be okay.
But I’m not willing to do that yet,
and neither is he.

At least that’s one thing
we can agree on.

Pomp and Circumstance

As I walk to the podium,
I hear the familiar sound
of my father’s “Wahoo!”
even though people were asked
to hold their applause
until the last diploma is given.

I get back to my seat,
between Jacob Gorman and Stephanie Griggs,
four years of my life on my lap
in an embossed, padded folder.

When they call out “Brian Joseph Kent,”
he holds his diploma high over his head
then gives me that smile and a thumbs-up
as he passes my row.

I nod and smile back,
my heart warming a bit as my hand
touches the spot, just below the base of my neck,
where our palm tree rests.