Autofocus

To Leila.

To every version of yourself that you are now,

and every version you'll become—I love you now,

and I'll love you always.

FAMILY.

The word is big, bold, and blue on the whiteboard, underlined three times.

“Family,” Ms. Webber, my photography teacher, says aloud, rolling the marker between her palms. “What does it mean to you? Who is in your family? How would you define family?” She looks around the classroom. “For your next photography assignment, I want to see your version of family.”

I shift in my seat, the squeaking of the chair sounding as loud as a siren. I look around and see everyone nodding and starting to jot down notes. My paper is blank; I'm not sure what family means. Not really.

“When's it due?” Celine asks from the other side of the
room, pencil tapping on the table.

Ms. Webber answers, “December, so you have two months, but it's part of your final portfolio, so you'll be balancing daily classwork and other projects as well. This is your first long-term project, and I really want you to focus on it.” She turns around and I swear she looks right at me. “I want you to impress me with it.”

I breathe in deep and can't help but wonder if she knows how much this terrifies me.

“Okay, for the remainder of today's class, I want you to start planning your photos and how you'll present them—exhibit style, online, physical portfolio, et cetera. Go ahead and use the computers, or walk around for inspiration,” she says.

As soon as she's done, chairs scrape the floor as they're pushed out, conversations start, and I'm still here, in my seat, frozen. Because I have no idea what I'm supposed to do, what I'm supposed to focus on.

I sit for a few more minutes, then start to get self-conscious. I don't want to look like I'm lost, so I head over to the editing bay—what we call the row of computers where we edit our photos—and look for the latest picture I'm working on for another assignment. It's a photo of a bike, left alone on the side of the road. It looks like it's been there a while, chain rusted and weather worn, and becoming part of the ground. I can lose myself in this project now, then figure out the family assignment later. I pull up Photoshop and
get to work, changing the exposure and making the photo a little lighter, hoping to give it a more fantastical feel.

“So what do you think of the assignment?” Celine asks, sitting down next to me. Her slick dark hair is pulled into a low bun and I'm suddenly conscious of the frizz escaping my ponytail.

“I don't know yet,” I admit, looking back to my computer. I've been in-class friends with Celine for three years, since starting photography my freshman year, but only this year, after my best friend, Treena, left for college, have we become closer. She knows why the subject makes me uncomfortable—I told her all about it over pizza after we had an assignment about secrets. Not that my adoption is a secret; it's just not something I reveal every day to people.

“You're gonna do it on your parents, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, clicking the mouse absentmindedly. “I mean, they
are
my family.”

“I know, I know,” she says, swishing her hand. “I was just wondering if you ever thought about, you know, your
real
parents.”

Real parents. The words affect me more than they should.

Truth is, yes,
of course
I have. How could I not? I always wondered who the people were who gave me this frizzy hair, this bumpy nose. This penchant for biting my nails, and lactose intolerance. But I guess I never thought of them as family. Just, more as people who were part of my life long
ago that I don't know or remember.

But I don't say all that. Instead I say, “A little, I guess” and leave it be. Because how can I describe the numerous Google searches without sounding just a little bit crazy? Treena understood, but that's because I've never kept anything from her, and she went through it all with me. But I don't want to go back there. “What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “How are you going to fit in all seven hundred family members?” Unlike me, Celine has a
large
family of four siblings and numerous aunts and uncles and cousins.

“Ha,” she says, opening up her own photo to edit. I look over and see a picture of a dog, and though it sounds simple, the lighting is really great and the dog's eyes shine. “I think I'll just focus on my parents and brothers and sisters. They're family enough. Did I tell you, my little brother tried to eat my last portfolio project? Like, I found it . . . in his mouth.”

“Oh god. I can't imagine it tastes good.”

“Mmmmm, photo paper.” Celine chuckles and adjusts the lighting on her picture a little bit more. She's a better photographer and Photoshopper than me, by a lot. Sometimes I wish I had her talent. “Anyway, I'm going to Java Jump after school, want to join?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I turn back to my computer screen and work on my photo some more. I don't know if I'm making it any better or worse; I'm just changing it to keep myself busy.
So when the bell finally rings, I quickly pack up my bag and start to head out.

“Maude.” I look up and Ms. Webber is standing by her desk, smiling. “Can you come here for a second?” My heart thumps as I mentally retrace all of my assignments, wondering if I turned something in late. Celine gives me a devilish grin and gestures toward our teacher. She's used to being called up and reprimanded. Me . . . not so much.

When I get to her desk, she looks at the room, then back to me. I look around and see that most of the people have cleared out, except for a few still on the computers. We have a tendency to stay here during other classes. If she thinks we need it, Ms. Webber gives us an excused pass.

“I wanted to ask you if you've thought about the family assignment.”

“A bit.” I hate lying to her because she's nice and she's always here for us. She's younger than most of the other teachers, with bright red hair, brown glasses, and a stare that penetrates you until you confess all of your secrets.

She nods. “Look, I know this must be a harder assignment for you, but I also think it'll challenge you in ways other students won't understand. I think, because of that, it will make you a better photographer.”

“You think?” I ask, a bit skeptical.

“Definitely. I just want you to know that I'm here, in case you have any questions.”

“Thanks,” I say, awkwardly adjusting my books in my
hands. “I don't really know where to start.”

“You'll figure it out,” she says with the conviction only a teacher who's seen it all can have. And, I don't know, I kind of believe her. “I also wanted to ask, have you started looking into colleges yet?”

“Not yet. I've looked at some pamphlets, but I haven't made any decisions. I think I might want to major in photography, but I don't know,” I admit, because I do, but is that the right step to take? It's such a huge decision.

“Well, that's up to you, but if you
do
decide on that, I can definitely recommend a few colleges.”

“It's not a bad major? Like, I could eventually get a job, or something?”

She nods. “I did, right?” She smiles. “You should do what makes you happy and what you have a talent for.”

I smile back and thank her, then leave the classroom and head out to lunch. The rest of the day glides by, and I barely notice; I'm too wrapped up in my thoughts. After the final bell, I walk home. I don't live far, a few blocks, and I hope the walk can help clear my mind. Of the project. Of the future. Two girls from my trigonometry class wave to me, and as I wave back, a burst of fall air blows leaves across my feet. And the breeze feels good. It feels like a breath of something new.

When I get home, I find a stack of college flyers in the mailbox. They've been coming in daily since junior year started.

Inside, I toss the mail on the kitchen counter and head
to my room. My laptop is already open, and I stare at it, thinking about photography class and my assignment and what Ms. Webber said. I walk over to my desk, wiggle my mouse, and Google “Claire Fullman.”

It's one of the two bigger things I know about my birth mother—her name. It was a semi-open adoption, and my parents met her once, so they've given me that much information, along with whatever else they remembered—she was short and had dark, wavy hair (like mine). They'd planned to send her updates as I grew up, but then she died when I was born due to some sort of complication.

That's the second thing I know about her.

Once again, my search comes up with absolutely nothing. A few Facebook pages, a wedding photographer, white pages information, all for people very much alive. She lived before everyone documented their lives online, as my mom tried to explain the first time I unsuccessfully looked for her, but it's still frustrating. How can someone leave no footprint at all? How can a person have no impact? I try adding “Tallahassee” to the query, which is where I was born, but again come up with nothing. I add “Florida State University” because I know she went there, but again, nothing. I shouldn't be upset—I've done this dozens of times—but I still sigh and shut my computer, wishing my past was tangible.

I look up and see the photo pinned to my corkboard, showing my parents and me at my tenth birthday party.
They took me and a few friends ice-skating. In the picture my face is flushed from the cold, and my knees are red from ice burn, but I'm so happy. I'm squeezing my mom, and she's laughing because I'm taller than her in the skates.

I could do that. I could just take pictures of us, the three of us, together. Because they are family—they're my family. They're who raised me and helped me become, well, me. And I love them, of course.

But part of me knows that just showing them isn't enough. That I can show so much more if I try. I just don't know how to try.

My fingers twitch and I know I need to take my mind off this, get away from it for now. I might as well join Celine at Java Jump. I grab my camera from my bag and throw the strap over my neck. I feel more complete with it, like it was begging for me to pick it up.

I grab my keys and head out, wanting to make the most of the changing weather. I take a left out of my street, cross over the train tracks, and head north toward the shopping center on the corner. Cars pass, birds fly overhead, and the sun begins to consider setting. I love this time of evening.

Shouts and laughter tell me that there are kids playing at the nearby park. I stop and see parents sitting on the benches talking, no doubt comparing stories and woes. They're having their own, real-life conversations as a world of activity takes place right in front of them. There, spies are murdering dragons, princesses are being rescued by superheroes,
and the evil villains are always captured no matter what. I lean against a post, just outside the sandy playground that holds a slide, swing set, monkey bars, and seesaw.

“Hi, Maude,” one of the mothers says to me, and I smile and wave in response. I've babysat her daughter before. In fact, I've babysat a lot of the kids here. It's both a curse and comfort of living in a small suburb—we've all lived here forever, so we all know one another.

A little girl with bright red pigtails—the woman's daughter—is sitting at the top of the slide, contemplating her descent. She has a finger in her mouth, and a hand clutching the railing. My fingers twitch again, so I point my camera up and slowly adjust the lens to focus in on her, blurring the trees and houses behind her. I get absorbed in her world, feeling her worries, her pains, as I capture the moment. Everything looks so much better through the viewfinder. Easier and clearer.

She takes the finger out of her mouth and grabs the other bar. No one is behind her. She has all the time in the world. I click, showing her slow resolve. Then, with a slight push, she slowly totters down the slide, slipping, slipping, slipping until she gets to the bottom with a laugh of excitement. I shoot everything, the determination in her face, the change from fear to joy, the cry of happiness at the end. I get it all. She throws her arms in the air and her mom materializes beside her, picking her up. She gives the girl a kiss on the cheek and then helps her back up the stairs in case she wants
to go again. And she does. Five more times. I'll give them the photos later—her mom loves when I capture her daughter having fun.

After a few minutes, I realize I've stopped taking pictures and am just watching. That was me at one time, scared and giddy, confused and determined. The slide was the biggest problem to me. And my mom was always there to kiss my cheek and tell me I did a great job, even when I didn't quite make it down.

I think back to my search and wonder—would it have been the same with my birth mother? Would she have taken me to the park and helped me face my fears? Would I have turned out the same, had my life been with her? Would I be me?

I twist my camera's lens, thinking. I know I don't want a different life, but that doesn't keep me from wondering.

I push off the post and head to Java Jump. Celine will be waiting, and though I know she won't have answers, she might, at least, have distractions.