“What are you planning to teach me?” I asked Dad.
An ad came on and Dad pressed mute on the television. “Unfortunately, your old man is pretty unskilled. I know a bit about cooking and travel. And a very little bit about writing and animals, but other than that, you’d be better off with a meerkat for a pop, I suspect.”
We watched three more nature programs in a row—one on pandas (cute to look at, but basically jerks), one on eagles, and another on bobcats. The one we were currently watching was called Top Ten Smelliest Animals, which was pretty much Dad’s ideal program, combining list-making and nature as it were.
During another ad I asked Dad, “Is this how you spent a lot of time before you met Rosa Rivera?”
He pressed mute again. “Yeah, I was pretty bad there for a while,” he admitted.
I considered this.
“What’s Mom’s husband like?”
Dad nodded and then nodded some more. “He’s in building restoration. Nice guy, I think. Nice-looking. There’re probably better people to sing his praises than me.”
“And Chloe?”
“Smart, she says, but then you were, too. Cass and I, we pretty much thought you were the best little kid in the world, you know? We always said it was a good piece of luck, you getting left in that typewriter case.”
I nodded.
“Will coming by today?” Dad asked.
I shook my head. I hadn’t told Dad about quitting yearbook or our fight.
“You’re not spending as much time with him these days,” Dad said.
“I think we’re growing apart,” I said.
“Happens,” Dad said. “He’s a good egg, though. Takes care of his mom since his father died. Hard worker. Always been a good friend to you.”
“Will’s father died?” I asked. He had never mentioned it.
“Yes, that’s why they moved to Tarrytown. His mother wanted a good school where she could get free tuition for Will by teaching.”
I nodded.
The program came on again and Dad turned up the volume.
Since it was Thanksgiving, I thought about calling Will on the phone and making up with him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Our fight didn’t even have a scab yet, and in my mind he’d said worse things to me than I had to him.
When James got back on Saturday afternoon, he said he had an idea for my photography project. At his dad’s in California, James had noticed all these old cameras. He asked his dad if he could have them, and his dad said sure, because what else was there to do with a bunch of old cameras anyway. They were a pain really—you didn’t want to throw them out because of their perceived value, so they basically ended up taking up space.
“So, it’s supposed to be a personal story, right?” James asked. “My idea is that we go back to those steps at Tom Purdue with my dad’s old cameras and throw them down the steps, simulating your own journey two and a half months ago. In theory, the camera will take the picture either en route or at the point of impact. It’ll be an exercise in point of view. Does that sound like something Weir would like?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“We’re gonna need more cameras, though,” James said.
On Sunday morning we went in search of cheap cameras to throw down the stairs. The first place we went was the local pharmacy, where we bought five disposable cameras of various makes for around ten bucks apiece and fifteen rolls of film. James tried to pay, but I wouldn’t let him. It was my project after all.
We also went to a vintage electronics and repair store in downtown Tarrytown where we found four cameras in a dusty metal trash bin for five bucks apiece. We hoped they would still be functional, but we wouldn’t know until we saw the film.
The owner of the store kept looking at me strangely as I was paying. James had gone outside for a smoke.
“The record player,” he said finally. “You never came for it.”
“What record player?”
“You paid to get one fixed around the beginning of August, but you never came to pick it up.”
The owner ran into the back room and came out with a record player. The base was cherry with a pattern of swirls carved into the side. It was pretty, I guess, though I couldn’t imagine why I’d been getting one repaired. I didn’t have a single record.
My name was taped to the front: NAOMI PORTER.
Clearly, it was mine. I wondered what it was for.
“Use it in good health,” said the storekeeper.
When I got outside, James looked at me curiously. “Impulse buy?” he asked as he helped me put the record player in the backseat of his car.
We spent the rest of the afternoon throwing cameras down the steps of Tom Purdue. Some of them had timers, which we could set prior to throwing them. With others, we’d press the button and throw the camera really fast to get the shot in midair. Still others were total Hail Marys and we hoped they’d land on the button and take a picture as they hit the ground. I had no idea what sort of images we were getting, but at least it was fun.
On the second-to-last camera, James cut his thumb on one of the shattered lenses. He didn’t even realize it until I pointed it out to him. “How could you not notice?” I asked him.
James laughed. “I’m used to bleeding for you.” He held up his palm. I kissed it, right in the middle. I was about to move from palm to mouth when I saw Will watching us from the front doors of the school. When he caught my eye, he came outside really fast and started heading down the stairs.
“Hello, Naomi,” he said. “Larkin.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Working on the weekend?” James asked Will.
“Never stops,” Will said stiffly. “You’re bleeding, Larkin.”
“I blame her,” James said.
“Naomi,” Will said softly, “do you really think you should be running up and down these stairs without a helmet?”
“A what?” James asked.
“You know, for her head. If she reinjured herself—”
I cut him off. “I’m fine, Will.”
Will just nodded. “See you around. Naomi. James.” He nodded again as he said each of our names and then he was gone.
“It’s lucky he didn’t see us sledding.” James touched my forehead. “You’d look pretty cute in a helmet actually.”
Because he was cut, I tried to send James home without me, but he wouldn’t go. He insisted on helping me pick up the camera carcasses, which I was against. “When I was a kid,” he said, “I had a tendency to let other people clean up my messes. I’m trying not to be that way anymore.”
I pointed out that this wasn’t his mess; it was mine.
“Still,” said James. By then, the blood was practically pouring from his thumb. I wondered if he needed stitches.
“You wouldn’t be abandoning me if you stopped to get a Band-Aid, you know.”
I didn’t have time to develop the film in the school’s lab until the following Wednesday.
There wasn’t much to look at. A few shots of sky. Some concrete. A lot of black. Still, the point wasn’t always that the pictures be pretty, was it? Sometimes it was about the process, like with Jackson Pollock paintings. As I made enlargements of the photos, I hoped that Mr. Weir would see it that way.
Mr. Weir hated my project. “It’s an interesting gimmick, but it wasn’t the assignment. Your assignment was to tell a personal story in pictures.”
“This is a personal story.” I defended my project. “This is exactly what happened to me.”
“Naomi, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that this isn’t personal. It’s simply that the assignment counts for your whole grade, and I’m expecting something deeper.”
When the bell rang, I took my pictures with me and stuffed them in my locker.
“What did Weir think?” James asked. He was standing behind me at my locker.