Chapter 1: Monday, May 29, 2017
LESSON I
The Picture
1
Monday, May 29, 2017
Five minutes left.
This might be the first time I’m late. Holding my beloved Canon up high, I swim through the sea of after-school activities. I swirl past Beethovians and their violins, shove swimmers with soaking hair out of my way, and skid my elbow in the process of pressing the doors to the field open.
The tidy lawn reeks of a fresh trim under the afternoon sun, while exiled puddles of grass clippings silently decompose on the sidelines. Treetops of pine and fir tower in the horizon, swallowing our town whole and shielding us from the low buzz of hustling highways we cannot see. A whistle pierces the hot air and startles the butterflies swirling through the honey-soaked marigolds. The match has begun. I pick up the pace.
The bleachers are not nearly as crowded as they used to be. Half our school’s population is boycotting the boys’ soccer team. I can’t even remember the last game I attended. My resistance started long before it became a trend, but after the incident, my abrupt absence went under the radar. It so happens that someone from our committee must attend today’s match, and the job was assigned to me despite the best efforts of my coy scuffs.
I find a good spot away from the piercing sun. On the empty sideline, I secure space to fiddle and move around with my camera. All I need is a couple of good shots of the athletes kicking the air, then I can quietly blend in with the passionate parents shouting unsolicited advice at their already frazzled kids and leave at half time.
I have finals coming up, straight A’s to maintain, and my duty as valedictorian to fulfill. I also need to get a head start on the reading for Columbia law school this summer. The choice was strategic: Mom and I planned it together for years. The big city is relatively close, her and Dad spent parts of their youth there, and the school has an exceptional reputation and foreign exchange program. Studying in Europe is part of my long-term plan, and Columbia has just the right connections.
From my first taste of a golden star in the margin to approving pats on the back from thrilled teachers, my whole life has charged itself toward success. I can already smell the delicate floral shops by the underground station, merged with warm cigarettes and tiny espressos at the tables next to me as I’m having a crunchy almond croissant at a petit but charming café where I’m a regular. It’s my final day before I graduate from the Sorbonne and return home to start my internship in a top New York law firm. Life is not just good, but delicious and very, very bright.
The first step to this life will happen in a few weeks. Everyone will be blinded by the shine in my velvet gown on this very field as I give the final speech of our year. I will give them one that will have parents sobbing and classmates’ jaws harden in jealousy. It’s not long until the quiet girl glows brighter than the sun and dazzles the world with her accomplishments. I bite back a creeping smile, born from greedy thoughts, spreading my lips. I can see it all slowly fall into place. Everyone has almost perfectly followed the manuscript I wrote in my head. Almost.
The thirsty smile withers and replaces itself with the exhausting bitterness of defeat. I made a few miscalculations. While the majority of my comrades will be blinded by the glorious and merciless daybreak of my success as valedictorian, there is one person wearing sturdy double-glazed, specs as she stands unfazed by the sun I rub in her face. No matter how boastful my accomplishments ought to be, it won’t deter her. It won’t change the fact that she was elected as president of the photography club and I wasn’t.
“You!” Coach Jones’s hairy knuckles point right at me. The balding man with a rowdy voice that turns heads all the way from East to West Block abandons his struggling boys to waste time on me. “You from the yearbook committee?”
“Technically the photography club.” I correct him, wiggling my camera in the air like it’s a wand casting a spell on him.
“Thought they’d send Carol?” He shields his eyes from the striking sun with one hand, inconveniently taking his hat off to use as a fan with the other. He has a funny tan line on his forehead.
“I thought so too.” I shrug.
He sighs a little too heavily for my liking and carefully closes the preferred space between us before he stealthily delivers his cryptic message. “In case Carol forgot to tell you, please leave him out of the photos, yeah?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Number seven.” Coach Jones points toward the blond boy who’s flashing us the biggest frown from the field. He has dozens of small cuts and bumps and bruises embroidered onto his pale skin. It’s almost like they were intentionally sewed into his face to draw attention away from his perfectly arched eyebrows and naturally long lashes. What is he doing on the field? Is he playing?
“Flynn!” It barely slips my lips before Coach Jones hushes me and glances around as if the name rolling off my tongue were a curse.
“You know he’s got a bit of a reputation these days, but he’s been a good kid this season. We need him on the field,” he explains. “We’re just so damn—uh, apologies. I mean, we’re just so close to that fucking title, and we can’t afford to let some rumors get in the way.”
Flynn Woods crosses his arms over his strong chest. He would rather waste time scowling at us than chase after the ball with his teammates. None of their desperate calls can make him turn his head. His threatening green eyes are all ours.
I hate that I’ve missed the way he’s looking at me. Even when he’s frowning.
“You want me to cut him out of the yearbook?”
“The school wouldn’t be too pleased, seeing the boy that supposedly—”
“He didn’t do it.” I end the ridiculous accusation.
I know Flynn better than anyone. He doesn’t care about anything else other than playing sports-themed video games, showing off his athletic hoodies, and, of course, working his ass off to impress the scouts Coach Jones promised to invite if they made it to the end of the summer league. He’s given his blood, sweat, and tears to be recognized for his sharp technique and light feet that slide in just the right direction before the opponent has even kicked the ball. He wants us to christen him as “the best” behind his back. He would never let a girl jeopardize his chances of getting his hands on the one thing he’s craved for as long as I have known him.
I know that very well.
“Listen, I don’t think he did it either.” Coach Jones attempts to reassure me, as if for a split second he knew that I’m silently grieving the times I rebelled against my personal goals in life and allowed myself to sneak off with Flynn to the hills.
“I’m not trying to make matters worse for the team.”
Or does he mean himself?
“By excluding Flynn from the yearbook when he already feels like an outcast?” I raise an eyebrow—more at myself than at him. Why am I getting so defensive? Flynn literally broke my heart.
“You must understand that we have a reputation to restore, and as long as he’s—”
A ruckus on the field startles us. Big Boy Green, who is still not used to wearing contact lenses, has kicked another player instead of the ball. He’s earned the enemy a penalty. The ref flashes a yellow card all up in his bewildered face so he can see it. The other boys are backing him up, climbing over each other like they’re vile animals let loose in a jungle gym. Except for Flynn—he looks up at the sky and yawns. It’s not looking good for the young professionals in lime-green shirts.
Coach Jones takes this as a chance to flee our conversation with a final comment. “I trust you to do your job, Carol—uh-oh, it was?”
“Sierra.”
“Sienna! Sorry!” He jogs away and leaves me to censor Flynn for sensitivity. I watch the players drown out each other’s voices to make their loud, useless, loud points come across as more insightful. Just like real men.
Flynn’s unfazed: withdrawn from the match like a turtle retracted into his shell. He knows it doesn’t matter if he aces this match, if he weasels his way through the challengers and showers his team in pride and glory. He will not be recruited by any scout as long as Audrey Morgan’s incident remains unsolved.
I point the camera at Flynn, who is innocently cloud-gazing. I snap a solo shot of the sad boy on the field. It will be mine to keep. A memory of his pink cheeks soaking up the sun like we’re back together on the hills behind school.
I study my creation. The pixels outlining his Adam’s apple popping out as he throws his head back. The mysterious bruises on his face and neck turning yellow. His shadow cast long under the low sun… It’s long and long and dragged out all the way on the grass.
I zoom in.
The silhouette that lurks in the trimmed grass behind him is the wrong shape. It’s too broad and the outline is heavy, almost like his shadow is wearing a suit with bulky trousers and a brimmed hat. This shadow clearly belongs to a grown man from a silent film in the Jazz Age, or maybe the side character in a classic Western.
I look back and forth between Flynn and the weirdly shaped thing. The shadow is not mirroring him… no, not at all! Flynn’s hands are visibly resting on his hips, while his shadow’s hands are neatly tucked away in his pockets—something Flynn’s shorts don’t even have…
The whistle blows and the match resumes, the sun casting moving shadows behind each of the sprinting players. I watch Flynn as he makes an effort to be at least remotely close to the ball. His shadow is back to what it’s supposed to look like—short-ish. I pry my eyes away from the boys while trying not to lose my mind over the odd picture staining the innocence of my camera. No second glance changes what my eyes pick out from the darkness of the lawn.
There is a silhouette of a grown man in a suit lurking behind the clueless boy.
