All You Get Is Me (24 page)

The FOTO magazine contest winner is painstakingly chosen from thousands of entries both national and international, professional and amateur. Your work was found to be exceptional and you should be very proud. Please contact me if you have any questions.

Sincerely,

Meg Barton

Associate Editor, FOTO magazine

Brooklyn, New York

I stand there on the road dumbstruck. I’d completely forgotten about the contest. There was so much going on and I really didn’t think I had a chance of winning anyway. After I sent my entry off, I looked online at all the past winners and they were all hot-shot photographers with interesting names and interesting lives.

I read the included release form. There’s a space for me to write a short bio about myself. I remember that I lied about my age on the contest application. Will it matter to them? Should I come clean? I practice the conversation I’ll have when I call Meg Barton, the woman whose name is at the bottom of the letter:

Hi, this is Aurora Audley, the photography contest winner. You know how I said I was twenty-one on the entry form? Well, I’m actually only sixteen. In fact, I just turned sixteen YESTERDAY! So, how about it, can I still have that ten thousand dollars?

Oh, brother. I look at my watch. It’s twelve thirty; that’s three thirty in New York. Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any. I walk back up to the house and drop the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and go up to my room and shut the door. I call the number on the letterhead.

While the phone is ringing all the way in New York, I remember something else. Back when I called the subscription office, the woman on the phone told me that it was sent to me by someone in Key West, Florida. It was my mom who got me the subscription to the magazine. I wonder how she knew I was still taking pictures. Was a magazine subscription supposed to be some sort of parting gift for being such a good contestant in her little game where we pretended to be a family for twelve years?

“
FOTO
magazine,” says a woman in a crisp voice with a hint of a European accent. I picture her in a slim wool skirt and heavy black-framed glasses that make her look über-smart.

“Hi. May I speak to Meg Barton, please?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“It’s Aurora Audley. I’m the photo contest winner. I—”

She cuts me off. “I’ll put you through.”

“Meg Barton speaking.” She sounds all business too, but more New York, brusquer.

“Hi, um, this is Aurora Audley, the photo contest winner.”

“Ah, Miss Audley. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks. It’s about that. Um, you know on the entry form where you ask for the person’s age?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I might have exaggerated a little.”

“Really? By how much?”

“Well, I’m actually sixteen.”

“Wow, you are?”

“Yeah.” My heart starts to sink.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” My heart sinks further.

“How long have you been taking photos?”

“Since I was six.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say six?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, don’t worry about the contest. There’s no age requirement. You just need a parent to sign the release. You do have one of those, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“But, let me ask you this. How much work do you have like the photos you sent us?”

“Tons.”

“Really?” She seems to be considering this. “Listen, I’m about to go into an editorial meeting but why don’t you call me next week and we’ll talk about your work a bit. I may be able to help you get what you need.”

“What I need?” Did I miss the part of the conversation where I said I needed something?

“Yeah, like an agent, a scholarship, a gallery, stuff like that. I assume by the quality of your work that you’re not just dabbling here. You do want to be a photographer, don’t you?”

No, I want to work at McDonald’s.
“Yes, of course,” I answer quickly.

“Well, call me on Monday morning. I’ll talk to some people in the meantime and see what I come up with. Okay?”

“Sure, thanks!” I click the phone off.

TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS! TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!
I fly down the stairs and out the front door, where Rufus joins me, galloping at my heels. The chickens scatter, scolding us. I’m still grasping the letter from the magazine in my hand. I look around for my dad and I finally see him toward the back of the property, talking to Miguel, wearing a wide-brimmed straw sun hat.

“Dad!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. I keep running along the raised beds, through the apricot orchard, and past the fig trees.

“Dad!” He finally turns around and watches me racing toward him. He looks anxious at first; that kind of yelling usually means a farm accident, dismemberment, exploding plumbing, approaching tornado. When he sees my face he relaxes his into a smile.

“Dad!” I stop in front of him, gasping for breath. I hand him the letter. He reads it quickly.

“You won?”

“I won!” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

He quickly tells Miguel in Spanish; he chuckles and nods at me.

“Roar. This is fantastic!”

“I know. It’s ten thousand dollars! I won ten thousand dollars! And guess what?”

“What?”

“She wants to see more of my work. She thinks she can help me get an agent and stuff like that.”

My dad’s face darkens a bit at this news. I know that he’s several steps ahead of me. He’s thinking about the day I have to leave this place. He’s already imagining the farm without me. He forces a smile.

“C’mere.” He opens his arms and hugs me hard, lifting my feet right off the ground.

“I’m so damn proud of you,” he says, meaning it.

“I gotta go call Forest,” I say, turning on my heel and running back the way I came.

“Hey, Roar!” he calls. “Use my cell phone. It’s charged.” He holds it up.

“It’s private,” I call to him, running backward for a few seconds. He shrugs and puts his phone back in his pocket. Something about that gesture makes me sad. Maybe I should have taken his phone just to make him feel like I need him.

Forest wants details: Which photo? Which issue will it be in? What will I say in the bio? Who did I talk to? Exactly what did she say? He’s the kind of guy who needs details to make things real. He’s so happy for me he could bust. I really wish he were standing next to me for all of this.

“What’ll you do with all that money?”

“I don’t know, probably use it for school; it’s not like I have a college fund.”

“There’s a lot of good photography schools in New York, you know.”

“I know.”

“We could be roommates.”

A warm rush flows through my body. I love it when he says things like that.

“We could.” I love that he’s so sure of us.

The next day is registration for eleventh grade. Registration is a deeply unpleasant experience. There’s always the endless lines to stand in for the issuing of lockers, textbooks, and class schedules, while being forced to listen to returning students describing their pointless summers. The smell in those hallways is something you won’t soon forget: rotting sneakers, floor wax, and wet paper towels. Storm is picking me up and we’re going to knock it out together and then go directly to the Department of Motor Vehicles so that I can take my driver’s test. I’ve practiced on the Mercedes, which is a stick shift, so taking the test in her mom’s car should be a breeze.

Storm honks the horn from the driveway at nine a.m. and I dash out of the house and hop in. She’s wearing a minidress in a Pucci print and my mom’s white go-go boots.

“So what’s this news that’s so important that you won’t tell me on the phone?” She slides her sunglasses to the top of her head and leans in to examine me closely. I think she even sniffs the air. “OH MY GOD! You’ve had sex!”

I blush and look away. “Is it that obvious?” Where, exactly, is she seeing it on me?

“To me it is.” She puts the car in gear. “Welcome, honey. It’s about time. Wow, it’s just so refreshing not to be driving around with a vestal virgin in the car. That was getting old. So how was it?”

“Um, great. That’s not the news, though.”

“It’s not?”

“Well, it’s news, all right, but it’s not THE news.” I tell her about the photography contest and she’s happy for me but I can see that the sex news figured a lot higher on her list of priorities. When I’m done telling her all the details she looks at me dead seriously and says:

“You leave me behind in this hellhole of a town and I swear I will never forgive you, Aurora Audley, do you hear me? NEVER!”

“Okay.” I change the subject. “Hey, it’s okay that I’m using your mom’s car, isn’t it? I mean you did ask her, right?”

“Sure I did. But she’s over at the church all day working the Jesus Bingo so she won’t even notice that it’s gone.”

So I’m off to get my driver’s license in a potentially stolen car.

“Do you have the insurance card? They need to see that.”

“Check the glove box.”

I flip it open. Inside there’s a pocket-sized black leather-bound Bible, a rosary, and a hymnal.

“Wow, it’s like the road to salvation in here.” Storm’s silver flask is sitting on top of the pile. “With a pit stop in hell.” I wave the empty flask in front of her.

“Thanks, I was looking all over for that thing.” She takes it and drops it into her white vinyl bag.

I spy a little pink card poking out from under the Bible and pull it out. It’s an insurance card. I check the date. It’s current. “Okay, we’re in business.” I slide the card back in under the Bible and close the glove box.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Storm rifles through her bag. “Here’s your birthday gift.” She hands me a small jewelry box. I open it. A perfect pair of silver hoop earrings are nestled in the cotton.

“Wow. These are gorgeous. They’re not from the family jewel collection, are they?”

“Don’t insult me. They were purchased from a reputable jeweler named Tony.”

I put them on. Storm twists the rearview mirror toward me so I can see myself.

“Check it out. They’re fabulous.”

She’s right. They’re the most grown-up jewelry I’ve ever owned.

Along the main road before the school turnoff, a giant-sized Brody Burk head smiles down at us from a billboard. Underneath his photo it says “Brody Burk for Congress—Leadership You Can Count On.” He’s wearing the same black cowboy hat he was wearing that day he threatened me.

“Brody Burk is running again?” I ask Storm.

“Sure. He’s whipped up plenty of support in this county too. What, did you think he’d give up? No way, sister. Let me tell you something about small-town living. The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“Thanks for putting things in perspective for me.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As we sail past the billboard, I notice that someone has climbed up there and spray-painted the word “asshole” on the pocket of Brody’s fancy western shirt.

We pull into the school parking lot and Storm parks in a spot clearly marked “Faculty.” She has a way of parting the waters and somehow we get through the lines in record time. Storm stops at the mini-mart for a five-gallon cup of coffee to go with her “ciggie” and we drive the twenty miles to the DMV with Storm coming dangerously close to scalding her bare thighs with every sip of hot coffee. Meanwhile she fills me in on the tall dark waiter from the Field of Greens dinner.

“His girlfriend, Carla, kept calling him on his cell phone, asking when he’d be home.”

“And he kept answering it?”

“Yeah, I finally took it away from him and shut it off, but by then I’d lost interest so I sent him home to Carla. I think they’re perfect for each other. City boys are so complicated. Who needs ’em?” Storm suddenly realizes what she’s said. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

We arrive at the DMV with time to spare and I write the test and pass with only two mistakes. I took driver’s education online and I actually remember most of the information I considered as useless as algebra back then. My appointment for the driving test is at one p.m. and Storm settles into the waiting room with an old copy of
People
magazine. The test only takes about fifteen minutes. I screw up on the pulling away from the curb part and my parallel park is far from perfect but the examiner isn’t interested in spending any more time in Storm’s smoky car and she grants me a temporary license. The real one will come in the mail.

After a photo, fingerprints, and a lot of paperwork I emerge victorious from DMV prison, waving my license. Storm drops her magazine on the veneer coffee table.

“Awesome! Now all you need is a fake ID.”

She throws her bag over her shoulder and we exit the waiting room, leaving behind a vapor trail of Storm’s signature perfume and a lot of disapproving head shaking.

The ride home feels very Thelma and Louise. You never know how a rite of passage is going to make you feel until you emerge on the other side, and having a driver’s license makes me feel like hitting the open highway to search for the true meaning of life. We do this for roughly twenty miles but then Storm has to get the car back. When I arrive home the farm feels deserted. My dad’s doing deliveries and Miguel and Tomás are at work on the new garden at the back of the property.

My brand-new provisional permit says I can’t drive with anyone under twenty in the car at night, but by daylight, I’m free as a bird. I find the key to the Mercedes on the hook next to the back door and I walk out to the porch. My car is sitting there in front of the barn like an old, dependable workhorse, waiting to be called to duty. I walk over to it, open the door, and slide in behind the wheel. I turn the key in the ignition. The engine catches and the car comes to life. The odor of French fries fills the air. I find first gear and ease my foot off the clutch, pressing down on the gas simultaneously. The car rolls forward. Rufus watches wistfully from the front porch as I drive past it. The chickens scramble out of the way. The stereo starts up. Frank Sinatra sings “Fly Me to the Moon,” a souvenir from Forest. I laugh out loud as I roll down the window and let the cool breeze blow through my hair. I steer the car to the end of the driveway, look both ways, turn the wheel to the right, and head down the road toward the horizon.