I’m not sure where to go. Home is out, since my father could show up there at any time. People in town would call the school to narc on me for ditching.
I drive to the northern side of Sweethaven. At the edge of Grave Woods, I pull off the road and into a copse of trees. My tires have worn grooves into the mud over the past couple of months. In seconds, I’m parked out of sight of anyone passing on the road. Safe. Lost.
George’s Nikon somehow ends up in my hand, and I strip it of its case, tossing my bag of equipment over my shoulder. It’s cold, but bearable, as I trek the half hour into the woods to the graveyard. With only three graves and said to be haunted, the tiny plot is little more than a few mounds of melting snow bowing to long-forgotten headstones. Nobody knows who Josephine, Thomas, or Susie were, but it’s obvious from the sad state of the stones that they died long ago. Somehow, I feel less alone when I come here.
Snow can be difficult to shoot, but those wasting piles, untouched by tires, are where I focus. If I’m not careful, the pictures will appear too dark or the snow will come out a shade of blue. The trick is to overexpose—to fool the camera into thinking there is more light than there really is.
Not so different from me. I’ve fooled everyone into thinking I’m more than I really am.
I adjust the ISO setting and use my exposure compensation dial. Then I linger like George has taught me. Everyone takes the picture of the kid with the birthday cake on his face, he said once. Wait for the unexpected. That’s the magic.
So I crouch and I wait, expelling my breath into my scarf. My right calf cramps, and my hip clicks when I shift to ease the discomfort. It’s silent, until something moves above me.
A crow perches on a branch a mere ten feet away, unaware it is a living, breathing graveyard cliché. I snap its picture and remember a nursery rhyme my mother used to lull me to sleep when a song could still do the trick.
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.
The crow looses a shrill “Ca-caw!” that is answered in duplicate. Suddenly a murder of crows is launching out of the tree tops, their blue-black feathers flicking white powder into the air. My finger is fast on the trigger, shooting as many pictures as I can.
Unlike that rhyme, I don’t believe the number of birds I see will determine my fate. But that doesn’t stop me from counting them through the viewfinder as they wing away.
Seven. Seven for a secret never to be told.
* * *
Soon my fingers are cramping from the cold, and I pack up my gear. I’ve lost hours in the woods capturing the crows, a deer, the way the ice crystallizes on the trees, the ground flattened by my boots. I don’t know if any of the pictures will be good, but sometimes I surprise myself.
The Jeep chugs to a start, and I pray the heater works. It finally kicks in when I pass Town Hall. There are people gathering outside the white clapboard building and pouring inside the huge oak doors.
Right. The candlelight vigil. I’d almost managed to forget about it. Perhaps that is the “magic of photography” that George describes.
No candles are lit, but the sun is only just beginning to set. As awful as they would treat me, I want to be inside that building. I want to sit on one of the long benches beside the Breens, listening to Carey’s friends talk about him. But I am not welcome, so I keep driving, hoping I haven’t been noticed.
I can’t go home to sit alone in the dark. I belong nowhere. Nobody wants me.
That thought brings on a raspy laugh. Can I sound any sorrier for myself?
Honestly, there’s only one place to go.
* * *
Twenty minutes of winding road later, I’m at the overlook. The last time I sat here, Carey and Blake were both beside me. We were just us, and things hadn’t blown all to hell.
Squinting down at Town Hall, I see they’ve lit the candles. Our school is small—only 429 students total—but a lot of the students will be down there, along with their parents. I can’t make out the individual flickers, but hundreds of flames shimmer and burn together. It’s beautiful and eerie and sad. My eyes never leave the sight as I climb out of the Jeep and pull myself up to sit on the warm hood.
Holding a vigil feels like we are saying good-bye. Giving up on Carey. I wish I could talk to him right now. Not to hash out what happened before he left, just to be with him. Wherever he is, if he is able to, he is worrying about me, Blake, and his parents. It’s his way. I squeeze my eyes closed. Carey, Carey, Carey. I think the words like a prayer. If I am fierce enough, maybe God will return my best friend.
“I miss you, Carey,” I whisper.
“Do you think he misses you, Q?”
The voice startles me, and I nearly fall off my perch. Angel stands beside my Jeep, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. Her car is parked behind mine on the shoulder, though I didn’t hear her arrive.
She dangles a six-pack of beer from her forefinger. “Mind if I join you?”
It could be any Saturday night from our past. Out of habit, I shrug, and she passes me the beer so she can hoist herself up next to me. She retrieves the six-pack and offers me one. I take it and crack the top, not because I want it, but because it’s the first thing she has offered me in months.
Sipping from her can, Angel studies the town below. The moon is bright, and her makeup has faded enough to reveal a pink zit on her chin. Her blond hair is tucked under a ski cap, and she looks like my old friend, the one I bumped hips with at a party almost a year ago.
I drive to the northern side of Sweethaven. At the edge of Grave Woods, I pull off the road and into a copse of trees. My tires have worn grooves into the mud over the past couple of months. In seconds, I’m parked out of sight of anyone passing on the road. Safe. Lost.
George’s Nikon somehow ends up in my hand, and I strip it of its case, tossing my bag of equipment over my shoulder. It’s cold, but bearable, as I trek the half hour into the woods to the graveyard. With only three graves and said to be haunted, the tiny plot is little more than a few mounds of melting snow bowing to long-forgotten headstones. Nobody knows who Josephine, Thomas, or Susie were, but it’s obvious from the sad state of the stones that they died long ago. Somehow, I feel less alone when I come here.
Snow can be difficult to shoot, but those wasting piles, untouched by tires, are where I focus. If I’m not careful, the pictures will appear too dark or the snow will come out a shade of blue. The trick is to overexpose—to fool the camera into thinking there is more light than there really is.
Not so different from me. I’ve fooled everyone into thinking I’m more than I really am.
I adjust the ISO setting and use my exposure compensation dial. Then I linger like George has taught me. Everyone takes the picture of the kid with the birthday cake on his face, he said once. Wait for the unexpected. That’s the magic.
So I crouch and I wait, expelling my breath into my scarf. My right calf cramps, and my hip clicks when I shift to ease the discomfort. It’s silent, until something moves above me.
A crow perches on a branch a mere ten feet away, unaware it is a living, breathing graveyard cliché. I snap its picture and remember a nursery rhyme my mother used to lull me to sleep when a song could still do the trick.
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.
The crow looses a shrill “Ca-caw!” that is answered in duplicate. Suddenly a murder of crows is launching out of the tree tops, their blue-black feathers flicking white powder into the air. My finger is fast on the trigger, shooting as many pictures as I can.
Unlike that rhyme, I don’t believe the number of birds I see will determine my fate. But that doesn’t stop me from counting them through the viewfinder as they wing away.
Seven. Seven for a secret never to be told.
* * *
Soon my fingers are cramping from the cold, and I pack up my gear. I’ve lost hours in the woods capturing the crows, a deer, the way the ice crystallizes on the trees, the ground flattened by my boots. I don’t know if any of the pictures will be good, but sometimes I surprise myself.
The Jeep chugs to a start, and I pray the heater works. It finally kicks in when I pass Town Hall. There are people gathering outside the white clapboard building and pouring inside the huge oak doors.
Right. The candlelight vigil. I’d almost managed to forget about it. Perhaps that is the “magic of photography” that George describes.
No candles are lit, but the sun is only just beginning to set. As awful as they would treat me, I want to be inside that building. I want to sit on one of the long benches beside the Breens, listening to Carey’s friends talk about him. But I am not welcome, so I keep driving, hoping I haven’t been noticed.
I can’t go home to sit alone in the dark. I belong nowhere. Nobody wants me.
That thought brings on a raspy laugh. Can I sound any sorrier for myself?
Honestly, there’s only one place to go.
* * *
Twenty minutes of winding road later, I’m at the overlook. The last time I sat here, Carey and Blake were both beside me. We were just us, and things hadn’t blown all to hell.
Squinting down at Town Hall, I see they’ve lit the candles. Our school is small—only 429 students total—but a lot of the students will be down there, along with their parents. I can’t make out the individual flickers, but hundreds of flames shimmer and burn together. It’s beautiful and eerie and sad. My eyes never leave the sight as I climb out of the Jeep and pull myself up to sit on the warm hood.
Holding a vigil feels like we are saying good-bye. Giving up on Carey. I wish I could talk to him right now. Not to hash out what happened before he left, just to be with him. Wherever he is, if he is able to, he is worrying about me, Blake, and his parents. It’s his way. I squeeze my eyes closed. Carey, Carey, Carey. I think the words like a prayer. If I am fierce enough, maybe God will return my best friend.
“I miss you, Carey,” I whisper.
“Do you think he misses you, Q?”
The voice startles me, and I nearly fall off my perch. Angel stands beside my Jeep, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. Her car is parked behind mine on the shoulder, though I didn’t hear her arrive.
She dangles a six-pack of beer from her forefinger. “Mind if I join you?”
It could be any Saturday night from our past. Out of habit, I shrug, and she passes me the beer so she can hoist herself up next to me. She retrieves the six-pack and offers me one. I take it and crack the top, not because I want it, but because it’s the first thing she has offered me in months.
Sipping from her can, Angel studies the town below. The moon is bright, and her makeup has faded enough to reveal a pink zit on her chin. Her blond hair is tucked under a ski cap, and she looks like my old friend, the one I bumped hips with at a party almost a year ago.
