Custody (23 page)

Camp Moxie, where Tessa spent five days a week, took place on the grounds and outbuildings of the Hawthorne School, a small nine-month private school for the select few gifted young adolescents whose parents could afford the tuition. During the summer months, the main buildings were closed, except for the administration building, where the Hawthorne secretaries and headmaster worked; the cafeteria, where the camp participants had lunch; and the gymnasium, where indoor activities were held if the weather made it impossible for them to swim, play tennis, or hike through the two hundred wooded acres of Hawthorne property.

Wednesday it rained all day, forcing the entire camp to stay in the barn where the counselors broke them up into groups of six or eight, working on various crafts. Tessa wanted to join the beadwork table—she’d promised her father she’d make him a bracelet. She’d begun it, choosing beads in earth colors so it would be masculine, and she enjoyed doing it so much—it was a private, soothing sort of job—that she thought she’d make her mother a bracelet, too. That
would be a good idea anyway, so her mother wouldn’t be jealous.

Beryl and Cynthia had chosen needlepoint, Shiobian was with the group learning to sketch and paint, and in the far corner of the barn, some of the guys, on mats, were working on elementary martial arts while others engaged in frenzied Ping-Pong games.

Tracy, clad in a batik blouse that came only to her midriff and tight bell-bottom jeans that hung from her hip bones, sauntered over to Tessa and, looping her arm through Tessa’s, whispered, “Come join the photography group.”

Tessa shook her head. “Photography bores me.”

“Chad’s in the group,” Tracy teased in a singsong voice.

A good reason, Tessa thought, to stay away from photography. If she were around Chad, she’d become a nervous geeky wreck, she’d drop the cameras, ruin the film, and make a general fool of herself. “I don’t like photography.”

“You are so retarded,” Tracy sighed. “Who cares if you like it or not? We’re the only group that gets to leave the barn.”

“Why would we want to leave the barn! It’s pouring out.”

“We’ll be taking nature shots. Raindrops on leaves, that sort of thing. It’ll be fun.” She yanked Tessa’s arm. “Besides, Youssif’s cute.”

“Youssif’s
old
,” Tessa said, but she allowed Tracy to pull her over to the photography group.

Four kids stood around a table, a girl named Ellen and three guys. One of the guys was Chad.

“Hey,” he said to Tessa. He smiled at her with a glittering mouth.

Since the last camp session he’d gotten braces. He looked really goofy now, and way younger than he was—vulnerable—and all at once Tessa’s heart expanded, as if a fresh new chamber had just opened up.

“Hey,” she replied.

Their counselor was a terrifyingly handsome eighteen-year-old named Youssif. His mother was Egyptian; his father, the CEO of some major corporation. Tracy had a major crush on him,
as if
she had a chance with someone in college.

“Okay, group, grab a camera,” Youssif said. “And a roll of film.”

“I’ve got a better camera than this,” Benjamin, a fourteen-year-old with a bad case of acne, sneered.

“The technology doesn’t matter if you don’t have a good eye,” Youssif told him. “This
summer we’re going to work on your eye. What do you see that others don’t? Can you make us look at something ordinary and see something mysterious? Play with your camera. Play with your mind. At the end of each week you’ll have photos to take home, and at the end of the summer we’ll have an exhibition your parents can attend. We’ll give out some awards.”

The campers crowded around the table where ten sleek black Nikons waited next to a pile of film. Youssif led them through the process of loading the film into the cameras and locating the zoom button, the lens cap, and the light meter.

“We know this already,” Ellen protested, but Youssif said, “Have a little patience, my friend. You need patience if you’re going to be a photographer. Patience for details.”

Mrs. Allison, the co-director of the camp, rushed over with a list. One of the counselors had left early with a stomach flu she prayed was not contagious. Another counselor had simply not shown up. Much of her gray hair had escaped from its bun and frizzled humidly around her anxious face.

“I just need to check off your names,” she told them breathlessly. “Must be sure everyone’s somewhere.”

“We’re going out for a nature walk,” Youssif told her.

“In the rain?” Behind her glasses, her eyes bugged out of her head.

“The light’s too monotonous inside,” Youssif told her. “The conditions will provide the students a chance to experiment with a variety of light and shadow.”

“Well, then, how nice.” Mrs. Allison pottered off, clearly overwhelmed.

Outside the rain drummed down steadily, monotonously, like static on a TV set, but the air smelled sweet. At first Tessa shivered, ducking her head, but Tracy held her arms up and twirled, catching the rain with her tongue. The rain was warm against her skin. Her heart opened in the expanse of fresh air.

Youssif led them past the tennis courts, past the storage sheds and the woods where the canopy of leaves provided cover. Near a small shallow stream a clearing opened like a bright private room. Youssif climbed up on a boulder and looked around.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve each got twenty-four shots. You’ve got light, shadow, movement”—he nodded toward the flowing water—“stillness, and all kinds of texture. I want
you to choose an area, do a study. Close-ups. Unusual angles. Play with the light. Get some shots that will confuse us. Surprise us. See things in a new way.”

The campers splintered, wading through the tall grass, claiming their territory: a dead tree, a pile of rocks, the stream itself. Two guys went downstream to pee, cackling like idiots. Chad looked at Tessa, then wandered around by himself, pointing his camera at things.

Tessa squatted in front of a clump of ferns, their green heads bowed as if in prayer. Next to her, Tracy aimed her camera at the sky. Youssif walked by.

“I wish I had a cigarette,” Tracy sighed.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” Youssif said, and stepped across the stream to tell Chad something.

Tessa lay on her back, trying to get a shot of the underside of the ferns. The ground beneath her was moist but not wet, and smelled like herbal tea.

“Tessa!” Chad called.

She looked across the stream at him.

“Smile!” he ordered.

She smiled.

He clicked his camera several times. “Cool. Thanks.”

Tracy sat on a nearby boulder, idly clicking one shot right after the other. “See,” she whispered to Tessa. “I told you he likes you.”

“Tracy!” Chad called. “Smile!”

Tracy just stared. Chad clicked off a shot, then turned to focus on the boys wading in the stream.

“I guess he likes you, too,” Tessa said.

“Trace!” Chad yelled. “Get in the frame with Tessa.”

Tracy knelt next to Tessa who lay on her side facing the camera, head on elbow, ferns fanning around her head. Chad clicked a shot; then he waded across the stream.

“Let me get one of you and Tes,” Tracy said, rising.

Tessa started to sit up but Chad sank to his knees and began to tickle her stomach. She laughed helplessly. Tracy clicked shots until Tessa cried out, “Enough!”

Chad rose, grabbed Tessa’s hands and started to yank her up, but Tessa said, “Wait. I have an idea.” She framed a shot of Chad’s legs, just below the knee, next to a pair of young birches. Then she clicked a shot of Tracy’s shins. She’d do a study of legs, she decided, then see if everyone could identify themselves by just that section of legs. It might be fun—it might even
be difficult, especially when the legs were blended in next to trees.

Chad went off downstream to take photos of the other campers. Tracy hung around Youssif, asking questions. The rain stopped and watery shadows played across the rocks and stream. As Tessa looked around, she realized that twenty-four shots weren’t nearly enough—when you looked closely, there was so much in the world to see.

Anne’s day was packed with meetings. Late in the afternoon she sat at her desk, making notes, when she heard the front door open. Rising, she hurried out into the hall to greet her daughter.

Tessa stood just inside the front door, pulling her backpack off, her clothes disheveled and dirty, her hair hanging in sodden braids from which her hair escaped in wild strands, her sneakers absolutely black with mud.

“My God, Tessa! What have you been doing?”

“Lots of cool things, Mom. We took nature photographs in the rain—”

“What do they think they were doing? Letting you go out in the rain! You could catch pneumonia.”

“No, Mom, it was really cool.” Tessa laughed. “I mean it was really warm. The air was warm. The rain was warm. I mean it was cool taking photographs in the rain.”

Tessa headed down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of mud behind her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Anne demanded.

Tessa looked surprised. “To clean out my backpack.”

“I’ll take that,” Anne ordered, lifting the backpack away from her daughter with a delicate pinch of two fingers, as if it were a bomb. “Before you do anything in this house, you’re going to take a shower and clean yourself up.”

“Fine.” Tessa turned and plodded upstairs, her mouth grim.

Dropping the backpack on the floor, Anne followed her daughter up the stairs and through Tessa’s bedroom into her bathroom. Tessa was beginning to lift off her T-shirt. To Anne’s surprise, Tessa turned and glared at her.

“I don’t want you in here now.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Anne snapped, brushing past her daughter to turn on the shower faucets.

“I’m not taking a shower until you leave.”

Anne stared at her daughter, appalled. “How dare you speak to me that way!”

Tessa stood before her in her mud- and rain-stained clothes, her fists clenched at her side.

“Mom, I’m twelve years old.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re still not capable of taking a decent bath. You’re covered with filth and it’s my responsibility as a mother to be certain that you get yourself clean.”

“Mom, I know how to bathe. I know how to shampoo my hair. I know what you want me to do. I know how to make myself clean.”

It was the patient tone of barely disguised superiority that infuriated Anne.

“Oh, do you really think so? You want me to be satisfied with your standards of hygiene when you enter the house dripping
muck
?”

“Mom,” Tessa choked out, “I want you to leave me alone from now on
forever
when I bathe.”

Anne stared at her daughter.

“Otherwise, it’s just too weird!”

Anne raised her arm and brought it down with the stinging slap on Tessa’s face. “How dare you call me weird!”

Tears spilled down Tessa’s face. “I didn’t call you weird,” she whispered. “I meant the
situation
is weird.”

Anne stared at the red mark on her daughter’s cheek. It wasn’t the first time she had slapped Tessa, and like all the other times, Anne couldn’t believe she had done it. It was a horrible thing to do, Anne knew that, a horrible thing. A violent shaking raced over her body. She hugged herself with her arms.