Not After Everything (7 page)

I think Jordyn will leave me to finish the other shirt alone, but instead she pulls herself up onto the counter and watches me. She obviously doesn't trust me not to start a fire or something.

But I must do okay, because she doesn't intervene. She doesn't even make any comments about what a moron I am. When I finish that shirt and go to hang it back on the hanger, she's examining the suit and the tie.

“I think you're done. This looks okay. Actually, it looks like it's never been worn.”

“Just the one time,” I say, mostly to myself. But she hears. And she gets it.

“Don't go thinking we're friends or anything. And don't think I'm not still pissed at you. Because I'm pretty sure I'll resent you forever for the jacket.” She hops off the counter and heads back to man her station.

I smile watching her walk away.

• • •

Henry positions me in my newly pressed blue shirt against a plain white backdrop, then against the black one. Then he has me change into the suit. The pants are only a little too big on me now. Not enough that anyone but me will notice.

As I replace the blue shirt with the white one, Henry chuckles, pointing to the iron burn on the back near my armpit. “And that's with help?”

“No, that's from before. I told you I wasn't very good at it,” I say, pulling the tie around my neck. I've never been particularly good at tying a tie either.

“Looks like you need some help again,” Henry says.

Oh, god, please don't make Jordyn help me with this
. But it's Henry who walks over and pulls the tie out of my hands. He places it around his neck, quickly and expertly ties it, and loops it back over my head.

“Didn't your old man ever teach you how to properly tie a damn tie?”

“He's not really a tie kind of guy,” I say.

“Do I look like a tie kind of guy to you?”

I smile. “Good point.”

When he finishes, he fixes my collar and brushes my shirt across my shoulders. And I can't look at him for a sec. Jordyn has no idea how good she has it. What I wouldn't have given for my mom to have left my dad to find a guy like Henry who could teach me to do things like tie a goddamn necktie.

“Jordyn! Can you set up the big fan out here?” Henry bellows.

“I can do it,” I offer.

“We're trying to get you not to sweat through that suit.”

Jordyn is back through the curtain and pulling the big fan across the room in no time. It's on wheels, so I don't feel so bad.

“Thanks, kiddo. The lights are already fighting the AC. It's gonna be unbearable this afternoon.”

Jordyn plugs in the fan and turns it on.

“Okay, Tyler Blackwell, let's get you situated.” Henry pats a podium-type thing. Or is it a column? Whatever it is, it's black. The backdrop is dark gray and there's a circle of lighter gray in the center thanks to Henry's keen eye for lighting.

He has me lean one elbow on the colopodium. I do as told, but I feel like such a douchebag. Especially because Jordyn's watching.

Henry snaps and snaps and snaps whether I'm ready or not. I vow that I will never make fun of models again. Okay, in all fairness, I probably will, but I'll admit that their job's not as easy as it seems.

“Well, Hank, it looks like you actually made a good investment for once,” Jordyn teases Henry.

“You shut up over there.” Henry chuckles.

“I'm just saying not all of your purchases are well thought out.”

“Hank?” I ask.

“She knows it drives me crazy.” Henry shakes his head. His smile not only reaches his eyes, but it reaches across the expanse of the room. I can actually feel it from where I stand.

Jordyn's smile is as big as his.

And all of a sudden it kind of kills me knowing that I will never, ever have that—the kind of unconditional love only a parent can give—ever again.

“There you go, GQ,” Henry says. “Give me that model pout.”

When we finish with this setup, Henry tells me to change back into my normal clothes. Then he takes a few more shots of me in my gray T-shirt. He has me sit on a metal stool in the center of a backdrop the color of faded, weathered wood.

“I really can't thank you enough for this, Henry.”

“Don't thank me yet. We gotta go look at the results first.” He pops out the memory card and tells me to have Jordyn load it and let us know when it's ready.

I do this on my way to take my stuff back out to my car. She doesn't look up from her computer or say a word as she snatches the memory card from my hand and plugs it in. When I return, she's on the phone rearranging the schedule for tomorrow. I peek around the screen, checking if my photos are loaded yet. She swats at me like I'm an annoying fly, but I manage to see the screen anyway. It's just her precious scheduling system, so I head back to where Henry is and wait.

Unfortunately the door chimes and we'll have to wait till after the session to see if Henry was able to capture anything other than my inner douchiness.

The next clients are a new family: young mother, young father, and very little baby. They tell Henry that they want to do something really arty, like, with them all tastefully naked. Henry shoots me a look that they don't see and I'm forced to cough in order to cover a laugh.

The wife asks that the “girl” help them, instead of me. She's uncomfortable being naked with another man in the room. I guess Henry doesn't count.

Jordyn still doesn't look up at me when I tell her what's going on with the family. I expect her to laugh with me when I explain about the tasteful nakedness. But she's all business.

As I waste time checking Instagram—like I care that Justin Ramos had an orgasmic shake at Smashburger or that Gwynnie Yang posted another duck-face pic—I feel the pull of Jordyn's computer taunting me with the evidence of my humiliation. I can just peek, right? Or, better yet, I could erase the ones that make me look like a complete tool. There's no way Henry kept count of all the pictures he took. He'll never know.

I listen carefully for footsteps as I inch toward Jordyn's side of the circular counter and bump the mouse. The screensaver vanishes. Then I understand that Jordyn's not avoiding me because she's embarrassed. It's because she's back on the jacket. The screen is on eBay—she's found something similar but not exactly like hers. The auction ends next Saturday at midnight. She's put in a bid for $150 and another person has just outbid her by one dollar. One of
those
. The “buy it now” price is $600. I wonder how much she paid for the ruined one. I feel the leather again; so smooth until you reach the white
slut,
then it's rough and cracked. I scrape at it with a fingernail, but it's useless. It's fucked.

I think I hear shuffling right on the other side of the curtain and I freeze, trying to remember how to put the screensaver—alternating photos of Jordyn's mom, Henry, and Jordyn on vacation—back up so she doesn't see me snooping. Then I hear Henry ask Jordyn to move something, and her voice answers from the other side of the room. I hurry and write down the details of the auction so I can find it, then I click on a few things until I figure out the screensaver, and breathe a sigh of relief when Jordyn's mom's face nuzzled into the side of Henry's neck pops up.

When the Tasteful-Nakeds finish, Henry informs me that we'll have to wait till next time to check out my photos. They have family game night over at Jordyn's dad's place.

Well, I have no reason to be jealous, because I get to go home and play “How Drunk Are You?” with my dad. We have family game night every night.

On Thursday, when I exit the gym after last period, I'm faced with a horde of cheerleaders. They're in the hall, spewing insults at a pitch I'm convinced only other teenage girls can hear well enough to decipher.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Sheila was too good for you anyway!”

“Asshole!”

And various other, more imaginative insults fly at me while I stand there, blocking the gym exit for those who had the misfortune of following me out of the locker rooms.

I stare past Sheila's friends, trying to wait it out without making the situation any worse. The reactions on the faces of passersby are fairly amusing, ranging from uncomfortable to annoyed to absolutely horrified for me. Truth is, I'm enjoying how completely normal it all feels. It takes every ounce of self-control not to smile.

“What the—” Sheila pushes her way through the mayhem. “What the hell are you guys doing? Have you lost your freaking minds?”

“We were helping,” Julia, a junior who loves it when people call her mini-Sheila, says.

“How exactly is this helping?” Sheila turns on the others. “What's the matter with you? His mother
died
. Have a little compassion. Jesus.”

“He can't use that excuse forever.” Julia pouts.

“Seriously? It's his
mom,
not an excuse!”

Julia's posture withers under the intensity of Sheila's glare.

“Okay, people, move it along,” Sheila says. “Show's over.”

I step out of the gym so the rest of my classmates can finally get around me. “Thanks,” I say.

“I didn't tell them to do that.” She nods toward the girls, now waiting in a clump down the hall.

“I know.”

“Just so we're clear.”

“Crystal.”

We stand there a minute. It's awkward as hell. I can't look at her for more than a fraction of a second at a time.

“Look,” Sheila sighs, “it's not like a few days ago I wasn't saying all the things they were just saying. I mean, the way you strung me along was pretty shitty.”

“You're absolutely right.” I lean back against the wall, then take a deep breath and push on. “It's just . . . After my mom, things between us started to feel so . . . strained. I know you wanted to help, but you didn't really know how to help me, and I could tell it frustrated the hell out of you. And—I don't know. It made me pull away. I was sure you were going to break up with me as soon as it was, like, socially acceptable. I should have ended it then. Given you some space, or your freedom or whatever. But then there were times where we were like the old us, and I thought maybe we'd get through it. Then school started. And then I'm pretty sure you only stayed with me, and would
still
be with me, if I hadn't ended it, just so you could milk the tragedy-boy angle.” She makes a face and I say quickly, “Don't deny you didn't love the extra attention, because—”

“How can you even say that, Tyler? Jesus. And you started off so well. But then you had to go and turn into the dick you've been lately.
I'm
pretty sure
you
only stayed with
me
because I'd have sex with you. And now that you're getting it from that goth skank, you—”

“For your information, I
am
having sex with someone, mind-blowing acrobatic sex, but that has nothing to do with breaking up with you, it's just a bonus. And it's not
that goth chick
. Is that why you destroyed her jacket? Because, what the fuck, Sheila? Who even does that?”

“Whatever. I should have let the girls berate you. But you know, you go ahead and keep hiding behind your tragedy. It's obviously worked very well for you this far.” She flips around and struts off toward the rest of the herd, all giggling, practically stamping their feet and snorting with glee.

God, I'm glad to be done with her and all her bullshit.

• • •

Almost immediately after I enter the studio that night, practically in unison with the door chime, Henry bellows for me.

“I got a last-minute gig,” he says as I make my way through the curtain. “I need your help, like, thirty minutes ago. Almost thought about calling Jordyn in, but she's working at the animal shelter tonight and she'd kill me if I made her miss it.”

I picture Jordyn wearing her goth getup while holding kittens and almost laugh.

“Didja hear me? Jordyn show you how to handle all the paperwork stuff?”

“Don't worry, Henry. It's under control,” I say with a reassuring smile.

“Good. Now get over here and help me with this, would you?” He pats the table sitting in the middle of a setup.

We move the table aside and then I straighten up his mess—the man is a walking tornado; gum wrappers, toothpicks, anything that aids a person who's recently quit smoking, plus various lens caps and cords—and I head back up to the counter just as the client arrives.

A woman with one of the most unfortunate faces I've ever seen—eyes too close together, nose too long, serious lack of a chin, and the kind of buckteeth I didn't know still existed after the advent of orthodontics—enters with her equally ugly son who must be around seven or so. Actually, the ugly son
bounces
in. The kid is either suffering from severe ADHD or he's just done a line of coke.

The woman is wearing pink, and I mean
pink,
lipstick on her buckteeth in addition to her lips. I'm about to inform her of this until she points her bony witch finger at me. “We will be doing four changes of clothes. And each change will require new backgrounds and props. Now, take me to see the props. I'll let you know what works for me.”

I smile and say, “You must be Mrs. Hill.”

“It's Mrs.
Reynolds
-Hill,” she says, like I should know better.

“Of course. Excuse me for one minute.” I step behind the curtain.

Henry's setting up the white backdrop.

“Your gig has arrived,” I say with a tone that lets him know it will be a fun shoot.

Henry grins. “One of those, huh?”

“She wants to take a look at the props in order to see what works for her.”

“Fantastic.” He wipes his hand over his beard. “Send her back.”

I do. I expect her to take her demon offspring with her, but she does not. The child ricochets across the room and—

“What's your favorite animal?”

“Uh, I don't know, a lion?” I'm trying to check the jacket on eBay. Auction's up to $286 already and I have till Saturday to figure out what to do. I've signed up for an e-mail alert every time someone bids and I just hope to Christ no one opts for the buy it now price.

“Mine's a shark, which is totally better than a stupid lion. What's your favorite color?”

“Black.” I press
ENTER
on my bid of $290. Yeah, I'm one of those guys now too.

“Black's not a color, dumb-ass. You're not very smart for a grown-up.” He hops over and picks up every single picture frame we have on display—well, every frame he can reach, anyway, knocking them over and smearing greasy fingerprints all over the glass.

Coke-baby's photo shoot is a total party. The mother complains about everything she can possibly complain about. She even
tsk-tsks
some of Henry's camera angles. I don't know how he remains so cool. I want to grab her by her soccer-mom ponytail and drag her out the door. And the kid? He might be the literal spawn of Satan. I swear his head even does the Linda Blair 180 at one point.

When they finish, the mom tries to argue her way into getting free retouching. I don't know what to do, but Henry hears it from the back and comes up and puts her in her place.

“We outsource the retouching, so we have no say in the pricing. It's all pretty standard. So I guess it depends on how much retouching you want. You don't really have to do any, it's a personal preference kinda thing.”

The woman wants to argue more, but Satan's spawn has now started throwing a tantrum about it taking too long and wanting ice cream and shit. Henry smiles as she drags the kid toward the door and tells her he'll see her on Monday to pick out which prints she wants.

“I think that kid might need some major retouching,” I say as the door closes.

“I don't even know if I got one shot where he didn't look deranged. Monday'll be fun.”

I don't work on Monday. Part of me is relieved and part of me is bummed—I'd kind of like to see her reaction.

“Hold on,” Henry says as he pushes the curtain out of his way. He quickly returns with the memory chip. “Plug her in. Let's see what the damage is.”

I do as asked. It's not as bad as we thought. Little bastard is actually photogenic. He's one of those kids who's so ugly, he's cute. Damn. I was hoping for a good laugh.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Henry says, pulling open the
drawers, searching
for something. “It's gotta be here somewhere . . .” After a few minutes of rifling, he gives up. “I don't want to mess with Jordyn's system too much. She'll make my life hell.”

“What are you looking for?”

“The chip with your pictures on it. Aren't you curious about how they turned out?”

“I forgot all about that,” I say. I didn't forget; I just hoped that he had.

“Sure you did,” he says with a grin.

• • •

Dad's home when Captain and I get back from our run. After school, it was either jerk off in the shower or get out of the house and do something productive. Since the first option would still be there after the second, it was only fair to take Captain for a run.

But now Dad's sitting on the couch, watching some ghost-hunting show, drinking what looks like the last of an entire case of beer, from all the empties on the coffee table and floor. Oh, and a Jack Daniel's bottle is at his feet.
I haven't
been gone more than two hours. I can tell he's in the in-between state and I brace myself—unfortunately, I can't lock myself away for the night because I'm starving. Fucking biology.

For dinner this evening, I have ramen or ramen to choose from. God, I have to talk to Henry about money tomorrow. The bad thing about ramen, especially at this very moment, is that it requires me to be in the kitchen long enough for Dad to start shit with me. He's down in the family room. Seven stairs and a railing separate us, but we have a clear line of sight on each other. And he can make it up those seven stairs much quicker than one might think possible.

I'm hyperaware of his every movement. Every hair on my body is alive, like it's sensing a shift in the electric currents in case I need to flee the storm before lightning strikes.

I feed Captain by picking the kibbles from the bag with my hand and placing them in the bowl with minimal noise. Dad clears his throat and my jaw snaps shut. I freeze, sure he's heard my teeth hit together and he's going to view it as an opening. He takes a swig of JD right from the bottle and sniffles. As I stir my ramen, I hear Captain descend the stairs, his tags clinking against each other with every step. Dad sighs and I hold my breath, waiting for him to take out his aggression on Captain again, but the flap of the doggie door clacks shut after he's made his way outside. I jump when the flap clacks again and Dad shifts on the couch. I brave looking and see the self-satisfied smile on his face as he scratches Captain's ears and lets Captain lick his face. What is he up to? I mean, he's obviously fucking with me, but what's his endgame?

And now that my ramen's finished and Captain, the traitor, is all taken care of, I have two choices: Sit at the kitchen table and jump every time Dad takes a breath, or retreat to my bedroom to take shelter and wait out the Friday night storm. I choose option two. Now all I have to do is descend those seven stairs with my ramen in hand, balance said ramen as I unlock the door to the basement, lock the door behind me, and I'm home free. But I'm so on edge that I fumble with the keys longer than planned while trying to balance the ramen.

I wait for something to fly at my head—a bottle, a snot-filled, wadded-up napkin, a fork, a knife. He's not picky. But instead, he lets out a low laugh and mumbles something about what a fucking disappointment I am and how I killed my mom, the usual shit, to Captain, who's now curled up in his lap. Once I'm through the door, I calmly close it, and when the lock slides into place, I feel completely drained. Like after an adrenaline rush how your body just wants to shut down. I swear he has a bible that he uses to plot his various methods of torture. Today: psychological warfare. Next up: Who the hell knows?

I try to talk myself out of my nightly ritual because I'm so afraid I won't be able to keep myself from doing something to Mom's pictures after having to deal with Dad's shit, but I just can't. It feels like I'd be insulting her or something. All I feel tonight when I see her face is sad. I almost understand her wanting to escape. But why the hell couldn't she talk to me about it? I could have helped. I would have skipped practice in a heartbeat if she'd asked. Why didn't she just ask? Her depression seemed managed. The lows weren't any worse than usual. Why didn't I sense it coming? Was there something that happened that sent her over the edge? I just wish she'd left me some kind of clue, even like,
Tyler, this is what happened that made me understand there's only one way out. I hope you're smarter than me. I hope you're able to figure out another.