Knowing I’ll never download them,
Just glad to be behind the lens again.
Photography soothes me,
Creates an outlet for my anxiety,
A drain in my body where
I can physically feel the tension flow out.
I wonder if Mom found her outlet
In money,
Fast cars,
Beautiful men.
I wonder if that’s why she left Dad,
Left me and Rose,
Left her whole life
To move across town to a new house,
A new husband,
New kids,
New new new.
I capture a duck taking flight,
It’s feathers glossy and bright,
Though the bird is clearly mature.
I wonder what’s so wrong with being old,
With the comfort of a long marriage,
A whole family.
“WINGS!”
Trevor’s voice floats to me on the air.
I don’t turn.
He can see me, because
The dock isn’t that long.
I’m leaning against the railing,
Staring into the water.
My reflection ripples on the miniscule waves,
Making my face wavy and my features distorted.
Trevor settles next to me,
His back to the water,
His eyes on me.
“You’re late,” I say,
“I have to be home for Rose at four.”
“We’ve got time,” he says,
Smoothing down his hair.
“Sorry, Wings. I swear.”
“Why do you call me Wings?” I ask, and
Stand up straight to look at him.
Trevor glances away,
Suddenly not so calm and collected.
I remember the apprehension and
Indecision
I caught in his expression yesterday.
“Remember when we used to come here?” he asks
Instead of answering.
“Before all that stuff with your mom happened?”
He sighs.
“I miss doing that.”
He pins me with a meaningful look.
“I call you Wings because we used to be friends.”
“Trevor—”
“I miss you, Livvy.
Why does it have to be this way?
I mean, I get why you think so,
But I think you’re wrong.”
I step back and lift the camera.
“I’m not wrong.
You wanna shoot or what?”
“I’M NOT WRONG,”
I repeat to myself as I drive home.
The shoot was short, yet
Nearly perfect.
I’d captured Trevor as
A vulnerable boy who loves fishing.
I caught him casting,
Reeling,
Patiently waiting.
I know I’ll be able to get at least one
Good shot for my portfolio.
One that shows the little boy behind
Those murky-water eyes.
My entry needs ten photos, and
I have two that showcase completely different sides of the subject:
Teenage uncertainty, and
Childhood love.
I don’t allow myself to hope
To win the Junior Excellence in Photography award.
“What will it change, anyway?”
When Rose rides in the car with me, and
I talk to myself,
She always asks, “Who you talking to, Livvy?”
“No one, kid,” I always answer.
“Myself.”
Trevor’s right: We used to be friends.
But things change, and
There’s little either of us can do about it.
It’s dealing with the change
That makes us into the type of person we are.
So he’s flirtatious,
Hot, and
Sought after.
I’m closed,
Quiet, and
Only noticeable because of my buzzed hair
And the rumors about my mother.
Not exactly what I want to be known for.
I want to be friends with Trevor, but
It doesn’t feel possible.
I tell myself again,
“I’m not wrong.”
“COME ON, GIRLS,”
Dad calls,
“Time to go to your mother’s.”
I curse silently,
Get up, and
Enter the hall.
“Can’t I stay here this weekend?”
Rose comes out of her bedroom with her overnight bag.
“Olivia,” Dad warns.
Rose trains her baby blues on me, and
I certainly can’t make her go alone.
“I need to pack,” I mutter, and
Return to my room.
With all this stuff going on
With Trevor,
I’d forgotten it was my mom’s weekend.
“I HATE IT THERE,”
I say to the window as Dad backs out of the driveway.
We’ve eaten dinner, and
He has to deliver us by eight o’clock.
It’s 7:45.
We’ll be late.
Mom won’t care.
I’ll be shocked if she’s even home.
“You’ll be fine,” Dad says,
“You don’t even have to come out of your room.”
I grunt in response,
Because I can’t argue.
After the first weekend at Mom’s,
I cried,
Howled,
Begged
Not to go back.
Dad said he’d do everything he could
To make every other weekend bearable.
That included buying a mini-fridge,
A microwave, and
Many and varied boxed,
Canned, and
Frozen foods.
Mom furnished the room with two twin beds,
Two desks,
A flat-screen TV,
A laptop, and
Anything else Rose asked for.
I don’t come out of my room for meals.
I don’t come out of my room for “family” activities.
Rose does.
She is better than me in so many ways.
But for those forty-eight hours
Every other weekend,
I only leave my room to use the bathroom,
And only after everyone else is asleep.
“O-LIV-IA!”
Mom sing-songs like we’re celebrities
Who only meet over lunch
To share the latest gossip.
“Hey, Mom,” I deadpan.
I brush past her outstretched arms,
Let my eyes skip past her perfectly painted face,
Her stylish hair,
The disapproval that shows in the corners of her mouth.
She doesn’t say anything,
Simply turns to Rose,
Her arms still begging for a hug,
Which Rose gives her happily.
I let them bubble over the activities of the past two weeks
While I beeline for the stairs.
I keep my head down, and
My iPod on loud,
So it’s a miracle—
Or a nightmare?—
That I hear,
“Hey, Wings,”
Coming from the doorway
Across from mine.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
I gasp,
Dropping my iPod
As I skid to a stop.
“I live here,” Trevor says, “Remember?”
“Not every other weekend,” I practically yell.
My heart pounds too hard, and
My voice borders on screech
y.
“Not this weekend!”
He shrugs.
“My mom is out of town on a business trip.”
“No.” I shake my head,
The word reverberating through my skull.
No no no no no no no.
My mother has lived with Trevor’s dad
For over a year.
I’ve been existing within the walls of my bedroom-away-from-home
For ninety-six hours a month,
Safely knowing that Trevor is at his mom’s.
Across town.
Not here.
He’s never been here on my weekends.
That was a stipulation of mine
When my parents and I discussed visitation.
He can’t be here.
“DAD, PLEASE,”
I whisper into my phone.
“I can’t stay here.”
Dad starts into something about
How I’ll be fine, and
That I don’t even need to leave my room.
I listen,
Near tears,
Shaking my head but
Not speaking.
“So tell me, Livvy,
What’s really going on?”
I’m desperate to tell him the real reason
Why I’m so freaked out, but
I stifle a sob instead.
Though it sounds raw and alien.
The word gets muffled by the clothes in the closet
Where I’m hiding,
Articles my mom purchased
For me back when she thought
She could buy my love
With designer jeans and sparkles.
That’s another funny thing about love.
It can’t be purchased,
Coerced,
Taken,
Imagined.
It has to be felt,
Earned,
Cultivated.
I wonder if Mom has fallen out of love
With me too.
“Honey?” Dad’s voice comes through the line,
Insanely curious,
Smudged with worry.
“It’s fine, Dad,” I muster,
“I’ll survive.”
I hang up,
Knowing I’ve disappointed him
By staying silent.
I just can’t find the words
To tell him
That it’s my fault
Mom left.
My doing that she met Darren Youngblood
In the first place.
My eyes who first saw them kissing
At the dock.
My silence that bought our family
Another year together.
My lies that ruined
My relationship with Trevor,
Dad’s marriage,
Rose’s chance at having a real mom,
Our family.
ARE YOU GOING TO STAY IN YOUR ROOM ALL WEEKEND?
Trevor texts
Around noon on Saturday.
I don’t respond to him, but
Call Harris to come get me.
“THIS IS NEW,”
Harris says as we drive away from
The Youngblood’s.
“I’ve gotten used to our
Every-other-weekend schedule.”
“Sorry,” I say,
“Did you have something else going on?”
It suddenly occurs to me
That Harris could be cheating on me,
Every other weekend,
With another girl.
“Not really,” he says.
“Playing Halo, you know,
Busy stuff.”
I smile
Without showing my teeth,
Not sure what to even say.
Harris doesn’t ask,
Just drives.
He takes me to a movie,
Something that makes me squeeze his hand tight,
Because I won’t have to speak.
Harris seems to know exactly
When I need to talk, and
When I don’t.
After previews and popcorn,
After the hero is on the run,
I lift the armrest between us, and
Cuddle into Harris.
He squeezes my shoulder, and
Kisses the top of my head.
I turn my mouth to meet his, and
Try to drown out my fears by
Kissing my boyfriend.
“YOU’RE LATE,”
Are the first words I hear
Upon arriving back at the Youngblood’s house.
The voice belongs to my mother and
Comes from the shadows in the living room.
The lamp snaps to life and
Illuminates my mom.
She stands,
Wearing a pair of purple satin pajamas.
From a distance,
She looks perfect,
Polished.
Up close,
I see the imperfections:
The pilling of fabric along the seams,
The hair that refuses to be tamed, and
The crinkles around her eyes.
Strangers come into the house, and
Exclaim over its magnificence,
Its cleanliness,
Its grandeur.
Their eyes sweep over
The garbage disposal that doesn’t drain right, and
The scuffs along the baseboards, and
The dust on the too-high-to-reach light fixtures.
I see all of that, and
More.
From the outside,
My mom looks like she has a perfect life,
A perfect house.
From this close,
I see the truth:
She traded in a family
For money,
And she’s no happier than she was before.
Something different didn’t help, and
I wonder when she’ll leave
The Youngbloods
In search of what she’s looking for,
But still can’t find.
“WELL?”
She places one hand on her narrow hip, and
Skates her eyes down the length of my body.
“You cannot simply leave this house
Without telling anyone where you’re going, and
When you’ll be back.”
“I told someone where I was going, and
When I’d be back.
It just wasn’t you.”
“Olivia!”
She throws her hands into the air.
“Texting your father does not count.
It’s my weekend.”
Something unfolds inside my body,
A monster,
An animal, and
Claws through my stomach and
Up my throat.
“When you left us a year ago,
You gave up the privilege of knowing
Anything about me.”
Anger blazes in Mom’s expression, and
I can tell she’s fighting her own monster.
“I just want to know you’re safe.”
“I was fine.
I am fine.”
“Where were you?
Who were you with?”
I squint at her,
Hoping to see her more clearly.
I can’t.
She is so far removed from me,
It’s as if a continent separates us.
“Olivia.”
Her voice carries only warning,
Not compassion,
Not worry,
Not concern.
“I was with Harris!” I yell,
Not caring that it’s two o’clock in the morning.
This house is huge, and
The people here probably sleep
With those machines that simulate the sound of the ocean.
“We drove around a little,
We
nt to a movie, and
Then had hot sex in the back of his car!”
My chest heaves,
The monster inside is desperate to come out and
Scratch my mother’s vocal chords from her throat.
“Is that what you wanted to know, Mom?”
She stumbles back a step,
One hand clutching her heart.
“You didn’t.
Tell me you’re lying.”
“Why do you care?” I ask.
I take my raging emotions, and
Tighten them back into the box
I’ve so carefully used for the past year.
“At least I’m not married to someone else but
Sleeping with him.”
I don’t wait for her response, because
I think I may have just stepped over an invisible line, and
I’m scared at how satisfied I feel.
“IS THAT REALLY TRUE?”
Trevor’s voice pierces the darkness
Outside the bedroom I share with Rose.
Upstairs, quiet reigns.
Rose left our door open, but
I didn’t wake her with my tantrum.
“You sleeping with Harris.
Is that really true?”
His silhouette dances with
The moonlight spilling through his room.
The monster flees, but
I keep my feelings from showing on my face.
“I mean, you’ve been dating him for
Eight months, but…”
Trevor lets his words die in the night, and
I have nothing to add.
I’m trying to figure out why Trevor
Knows how long I’ve been dating Harris.
I barely know that.
“Please,” Trevor begs, and
I hear the compassion,
Concern, and
Worry
In his voice.
Everything I wanted to hear in Mom’s.
“I have to know if you’re sleeping with him.”
“No, I’m not.”
The truth leaks from me, and
I’m not sure why.
Truth is a dangerous thing.
It can free a person, and
When spoken plainly
Can build trust.
When hidden, the truth
Can destroy relationships,