Exposed (2 page)

Memorial Day

This Girl

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Darkroom Photography, First Period

I am the first one here.

Viewing negatives on the light table,
I find one and itch
to open the chamber
that leads to the darkroom.

Soon, others stroll in:
Javier, the Hoopster.
Nathan, the Nuisance.
Brenda, star of The Brenda Show.

The bell rings as Mrs. Pratt
breezes through the door,
clapping her hands
to get everyone’s attention.

Everyone’s attention,
I should say,
but mine.

Because nobody needs to tell
Elizabeth Grayson,
Photogirl,
to focus.

Bringing to Light

I slip the photo paper
into the developing solution,
sway it around with black plastic tongs
and wait.

The hum of air from the overhead vent,
the swish of chemicals,
and the sucking in of my breath
are the only sounds shifting
in the dim light of the darkroom.

I’m alone
but not for long.
As white turns to gray,
Kate is with me.
The background of the dance studio blurred
so the focus is all on her—
legs extended in a perfect, soaring split.

The straight line to my squiggle,
my forever-best friend.

In the Hallway, After Last Bell

“Boo!”

The word bursts from my mouth
at the same moment my fingers poke
into each side of her from behind,
and Kate’s books drop with a thud.

She whips around in an attempt
to elbow her attacker,
but I’m prepared and jump back
out of her way.

“Liz!” she yelps, then laughs,
waving her hands at my face,
before we reach to re-gather her books
around and between Friday’s fleeing feet.

“Just trying to keep you on your toes,” I say,
touching her shoulder until it relaxes,
until she gives me a forgiving grin.

“I’m on my toes enough,” she says,
and I can’t help but smile
at this pointed comeback
from the Mistress of Modern Dance.

“I developed a shot of you dancing today.”

Kate shakes her head.
“I can’t believe I let you take
pictures of me sweating.”

But I tell her my begging paid off,
that this shot is going in my portfolio.

She zips her books
into the safety of her backpack,
scrunches her forehead,
and says I may want to rethink that—
that she would hate for her ugly self
to be the reason I don’t get into art school.

I take in her perfect, china-doll complexion,
look straight into her blue-green eyes,
and tell her, “Art schools now require
applicants to submit photos
of the ugliest person they can find.
So you don’t have a thing
to worry about.”

Friday Night at Salvatore’s

We’re at our favorite cheesy pizza place:
plastic-coated, red-checkered tablecloths,
Leaning Tower painted on one wall,
a vineyard, maybe Tuscany, on another.

Sal, behind the counter,
white mustache curled in handlebars,
huge belly threatening to burst
through his grease-splattered apron,
singing along to piped-in Italian music.
A walking cliché.

Amanda piles on
Parmesan cheese and hot-pepper flakes.
Dee Dee blots off extra oil with her napkin.
Kate uses a fork and knife
to cut her slice into bite-sized pieces.

By the time my three friends
are finished preparing their meals,
I’m ready for dessert.
“What time should I come by tomorrow?”
Kate asks as we leave.

“I’m staying on the Vineyard
for a few hours after work,” I tell her.

“How about seven?”

“Sounds good,” she says,
closing the door
on Sal’s serenade.

Work

Most of the kids who work
for the Martha’s Vineyard Ferry Service,
in the parking lots, at the ticket booth,
or in the concession stands
on the boats, like me,
work during the high season.
A cool summer job.

But keeping my Saturday 8–2 shift
year-round
gives me spending money
and the chance to stay on the island
and hitch a later ferry home to Shoreview.

“See ya, Lizzie-Lou!” my father calls from the bridge
as I make my way down the ramp.

He’s just Dad to me,
but to everyone else he’s Cap.
Captain Robert Grayson,
King of the Ferry,
Noble Seaman of Nantucket Sound.

Photo Op

I get on my bike
and pedal right out of Vineyard Haven
until I’m winding down country roads
lined with old stone walls and grazing horses.

I lean my bike against an oak
tinted with autumn’s promise
and raise my camera to catch a shot
of a wistful woman,
gray hair in a long braid down her back,
patting sweat from her neck
with a green bandana
as she pauses atop her ride-on mower
and stares out across her big yard
at all the grass yet to be mowed.

Saturday Night Slumber

I peel off Kate’s Sweet Berry facial mask
and she peels off mine.
We scooch, fresh-faced, onto the couch
and paint each other’s nails.

Cotton Candy’s what I choose for her
and she, with graceful strokes,
applies a coat of Call Me Crimson
to the tips of my stubby fingers.

When Brian—mmm, Brian—
calls from the diner on his break,
he doesn’t ask to see me later.
He knows what night it is:

Saturday Night Slumber.
A Kate and Liz tradition.
Our once-a-month sleepover,
where nothing comes between us.

PMS

We pull photo boxes
onto the den floor
looking for pictures
worthy of a place
in my college portfolio.

We start a YES pile,
a pile for MAYBE,
another for NO.

Kate holds a photo gently at its edges.
“You had really bad PMS that day,” she says,
and we both laugh, knowing PMS
has nothing to do with my menstrual cycle
but everything to do with my
“Preparing My Shot” mood,
where everything goes quiet
and I turn in on myself, camera poised,
waiting for the perfect moment
to click.

The Gift

My brother, Mike,
bought me my first camera—
a gift for my twelfth birthday.
He’d seen me eyeing it
in a Hallmark store
at the Cape Cod Mall.

Mike didn’t know
I was staring at the camera—
on a shelf beside the scrapbooks
and photo albums—
not because I wanted to take pictures
but because it was lilac,
my favorite color,
and because it had a butterfly on it,
right beside the lens,
made of tiny rhinestones.

He wrapped it himself
with the sports section
of the
Boston Sunday Globe
and looked down at his feet
when he handed it to me.

The first photo I ever took,
with my very own camera,
I took of Mike that day—
his mouth open wide,
tongue stuck out,
displaying the remains
of his slice of my cake.

Kate’s Passion

We’re munching on popcorn
as Kate flips channels,
stopping at a documentary
on World War II.

“I think I’ll major in history,” she says.

“Huh?” I must have heard her wrong.
She’s always gotten A’s in social studies,
but Kate was born to be a famous dancer
like that Twyla Tharp lady
she gushes about nonstop.

“It’s so cool to learn about
what makes the world tick.”

The Dance Express has been
Kate’s second home since she was four,
and Carol and Steve have rolled out
a bunch of dough from their bakery
to support this love of their only child.

I can’t believe, with the way she moves,
that she would want to do anything but dance.
“But you’re the Mistress!” I remind her.
“You could be a star!”

“I still love to dance,” she says.
“I just don’t want to do it professionally.”

I think about all her trophies
lining the antique white bureau in her room.
“You’re just scared you can’t make it, but you can.”
It’s the same thing we always fight about.

“I don’t
want
to make it,” she tells me,
shaking her head and taking
her toothbrush from her makeup bag.
“And I won’t be able to dance forever.”

I follow her into the bathroom off the den.
“You’re taking something you love
and putting a time limit on it!”

“Well, some things
are
time-limited,” she says,
squeezing toothpaste from the tube,
turning the faucet on.

She looks at my scrunched-up face
in the bathroom mirror,
crosses her eyes to lighten the mood,
and adds, in a booming announcer-type voice,
“But history—everything lives on through history.”

Snapshot

We fold out the couch,
tuck in the sheets,
while I search
for a more convincing argument.

Kate’s cell phone rings
and she leans over,
fishes for her bag
hidden under crumpled jeans.

“Hey! We’re just hangin’.
Yeah, Saturday Night Slumber.”
She rolls her eyes, then says,
“Love you, too.”

I pretend to yawn,
rest my head on the throw pillow
as if Trevor has put me to sleep.

She comes around the couch
and rips the pillow
out of my hand.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says to him,
“as soon as I get up.”
She rolls her eyes again
and flips the phone shut.

“How’s Mr. Whatever-You-Want?” I ask,
having settled on my latest nickname.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s whipped,” I say.
“He does whatever you want to do.”

“That’s not true.”

Everyone knows and loves Trevor—
solid basketball player,
funny, all-around great guy.

But not everyone knows
that Trevor
is pretty much a doormat
when it comes to Kate.

“Why don’t you just break up with him?”

She tells me, “He’s a nice guy. And he loves me.”

“Yeah, and there are no other
nice guys in the world.
That’s it! Stop dancing!
Marry Mr. Whatever!”

I’m half joking, but she glares at me.

“You know what?
I hate when you make up
stupid little names for people.
It’s not funny.”

She used to think it was funny.

I throw a blanket over the sheets.
“I can’t believe you’re mad at me,
especially when
you’re
the one
who rolls your eyes at everything he says.”

“I do not!”
She puts the phone in her bag,
clenches the pillow
with both hands.

“Yes, you do, Kate.
So what do you expect
me
to do?
Say nothing? Be like Trevor?
‘Whatever you say goes, sweetie.’
Take a chance for once!”

“Just because he might not be your idea of Prince Charming,
just because I don’t want to dance professionally,
just because my plan for my life isn’t
your
plan for my life—
that doesn’t mean I’m afraid to take a chance.”

“Well, I would never let
anything
get in the way of me taking pictures.”

“Yeah,” she says.
“That’s because you can hide behind your camera.”
Her words are like a jab to my gut,
and I want to hurt her.

“That’s funny coming from someone
who wants to major in the past
because she’s afraid of the future.”

She looks like she’s about to whip the pillow at me
but then she relaxes her grip and exhales,
tells me I’ll never understand.

I’ve gone too far and I know it,
but she pushed me there.
“Listen—” I say, about to apologize.

She says, “I don’t want to hear it,”
puts down the pillow.

I’m mad that she cut me off
and I don’t want to say I’m sorry
anymore.

So I tell her I’m going to my room to read.

She gets into bed,
says, “Fine by me,”
leans over
and turns out the light.

Sticks and Stones

I’m in my room
by myself.

I left her downstairs
to mope alone,
to sleep
alone.

Why should I always
apologize first?

I throw my book on the floor,
flip my pillow to the cool side,
and wonder how she can get mad at me
for calling people names.

She always said
she loved the way
I could sum someone up
in a snapshot
or just a few words.

She
asked me to come up with a name
for Kevin Foster last year (Boycreep #1)
when I saw him kissing some skank
the day after he dumped her.

She loves it
when I call her the Mistress
and whenever I tell her
she’s my forever-best.

Okay, calling her boyfriend
Mr. Whatever
was going a bit too far.
But I call ’em
like I see ’em.

Morning

I look for Kate, but she’s gone.
She left, taking my nasty words with her.
I didn’t mean to hurt her.
I didn’t want her to leave
without giving me a chance
to take the words back.

The Call

There’s a lump in my throat
the size of Cape Cod Bay.
I know I’ve got a big mouth,
but nothing I’ve said before
ever made her leave.

“I’m sorry, call me,”
I say to the machine.
Then I call Brian.

“I’ll pick you up after my shift,” he says.
“And make you forget all about Kate.”

Oh, Brother

I’m fishing socks out of the dryer an hour later
when Mike comes into the laundry room.

“Hey, Lizzie,” he says,
and I catch a whiff of stale beer
as he dumps his clothes
out of his gray duffel bag
into the washing machine.

“When did you come home?” I ask,
handing him the box of detergent.

“Late last night.”
He doesn’t use the measuring cup,
pours in too much soap.
“After a party?”
“How’d you guess?”
I hold my nose. “Ever hear of toothpaste?”
He cups his hand in front of his mouth
and inhales his own breath.
“Ahh, you don’t like Michelob mouthwash?”