Where You End (12 page)

twenty-two

r u awake?

YUP.

getting colder?

YUP.

where r u?

YOU?

on my way home. got a picture.

SUPER. IT'S LATE.

i know. i read the song of despair.

GOOD ONE.

how do you say that in spanish?

WHAT?

despair.

DESESPERANZA.

and hope?

ESPERANZA.

aha. despair = without hope.

YOU GOT IT.

not me. you?

NEVER.

twenty-three

My breath sputters in the morning chill. I'm waiting for my dad to bring the car around, because he takes pride in being a gentleman. My mom is still inside looking for the house keys. I am standing right where the pumpkin was yesterday, hoping she won't notice, trying to keep it cool. Mom bursts through the door with her wool coat unbuttoned. Dad honks and she sticks out her tongue.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey. Let's go,” she says. “We're all late.”

We hurry into the car, and, after a little back and forth, they decide it's best to drop me off first. We ride through Rock Creek, on the parkway, where the leaves are on fire and the joggers are already wearing hats. This is really my favorite time of year. I eat my re-heated bagel to make Mom happy. It's so chewy that my jaw keeps clicking. I can tell Dad's doing his best not to turn the radio on, that he wants to give us room to talk.

“It's so pretty,” my mom says. “We should all go for a hike this weekend.”

“Sure,” Dad says. “What do you think, bean?”

“A hike would be nice,” I say.

“Hey bean, you want me to pick you up today?” he says, taking his eyes off the road to look back at me in the mirror.

“No thanks, Dad. I can take the bus.”

“You sure? I could sneak out of work early for a day.”

“Don't worry, Dad. I'll take the bus.”

“With Adam?” he asks.

“No,” I say, “by myself.”

The rest of the ride, we sit in silence, and he turns around to pat my knee when it's time to go in.

“Go get 'em, bean. I'll see you tonight.”

Mom blows me a kiss.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell them, resolving to go buy another pumpkin and carve an identical face.

“My pleasure,” he says, and they wait until I'm out of sight to leave and finally turn on the morning news.

It's early, so I grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, which I haven't done since last year, pre-Elliot. “Hey Miriam!” says Stella. “Yo, Miriam,” barks Jason. Victor nods. Elle waves. Rachel walks backwards and reminds me of a Students For Sudan meeting she thinks I would “
dig.” The faces thrown aside by my relationship with Elliot are coming back like happy, unoffended ghosts. No one seems to mind that I went under water for a year. They moved on. Elliot's with Maggie now. For all intents and purposes, I'm back.

I have five minutes.

While I change my tampon, some girls walk into the bathroom blaring a techno song. Their voices sound vaguely familiar, but I can't tell with the song so loud.

“Oh my God, I love this one,” one of them squeaks.

“It's a remix of an old song by this jazz singer. It's AMAZING.”

I hide in the stall, hoping I can finish my business before we get to the amazing part. Oh man. It's Nina Simone. They went and remixed Nina Simone. It makes me incredibly sad, so sad I just sit there, waiting for it to end. Maybe they will play something decent next, something that doesn
't feel like your soul is getting whipped by a synthetic snare drum.

Halfway through, I give up and open the door. Maggie and two other girls are standing by the sink. Something in my chest collapses, like a butterfly chair. And all of my breath goes to that space, runs through it and gets sucked in before it can ever get to the other side. The girls look away immediately, but Maggie smiles a little, the thick pink soap in her hand.

We all wash our hands while the excruciating song wraps up. I let them walk out first, and give them a few minutes to get a head start. Elliot—the guy who brought me to see music I could hardly stand it was so good, the one who lugs a massive string instrument into this building every Wednesday. Elliot—the boy who lies on his car
pet and holds my hand through three albums in Icelan
dic. That Elliot has fallen in love with a girl who thinks nothing of murdering a beautiful song, a girl who isn't too snobby or proud to say hello to me, a girl who most definitely doesn't steal her mother's jack-o'-lantern. Elliot has fallen in love with a nice, lighthearted girl who will not drown him in a painful, metaphorical ocean.

Everything in my body is a little off balance. My right arm is longer than my left, my hip is sharp against my jeans, my face is cold on one side and hot on the other. All the organs and limbs are answering to some random role call in no particular order.
I'm here
, the spleen says;
don't forget me
, the heel cries;
keep me safe
, the mind orders. I shush them as soon as they make themselves known, but there is no way out of this. This body is mine. I can't crawl out of it and leave it limp on the linoleum. I'm going to have to carry it down the hall, into the chair, behind the table, and all the way through everything I do from now on.

I. Am. Still. Here.

twenty-four

Comparative Literature, Modern European History, Free, Lunch, Theory of Knowledge, Calculus. I promised I would not skip class. During my free period, I take my laptop outside to the Cave. The Cave is the place people go when they want to be left alone. It's the campus blind spot. Every high school has one.

Adam and I came here to take secret portraits, our first experiment in guerrilla photography. I wanted to be a documentarian, like Dorothea. Adam wanted to find the Americans, like Robert Frank. He said this is where people hide, and the only thing people hide is the truth, and man did we love the truth. Back then I was always looking for people and their insides. I wanted to find their dreams and name their pain, like the portraits in yesterday's books. Now I wait until everyone's asleep and snap up the leftovers, like a vulture.

We called our subjects “pilgrims,” and justified our breach of ethics by telling ourselves we were documenting our times: anxious, hopeful, lonely. We came out here three of four times a week for almost a year. It's basically what we did with the second half of freshman year.

Some days we would get nothing, and other days we'd walk back with real treasures, too giddy or guilty to even boast. Hunter, the badass, reading
Harry Potter
and smoking Lucky Strikes. Justin cheating on Sammy with the smartest girl in our grade. Kalima rolling out a prayer mat on a bed of rotting leaves. Carla making small cuts above her ankle with a bright pink Bic blade.

Miriam, art vandal and pumpkin thief, I sit on our rock, open up my laptop, and start typing. I am officially a pilgrim.

Dear Mom and Dad,

First of all, I would like to say sorry for everything I've put you through. After all, you did push me on the swing, and you gave me my first camera, and you paid for me to go to a school where the counselor gives you tea and knows when you skipped one class. I know I've been a bit of a shmuck lately and here is why.

Try again.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Remember this summer when I came home early from Elliot's house? And I called you from the station and you asked me what happened and when I said nothing you just asked me what I needed? That was really great. I really appreciate that. I was so scared and it smelled pretty bad on the train and my bathing suit was still wet from the ocean and all I wanted to do was get home. You guys looked so tired when you picked me up. And then we got some Lebanese food and we ate and you asked me a million unrelated questions and I just told you we broke up and Mom asked why and Dad, you said, we don't have to know why, it doesn't matter why, and I was so jealous of you because you are a man.

Not quite.

Mom and Dad,

I'm trying to tell you the truth about everything because I literally don't think my body can take it anymore, but I don't know where to start. You know the Picasso sculpture at the Hirshhorn? Well, I knocked it down. That's why I was late to the bus. I don't think it broke. Anyway, this girl saw me do it and I went to meet her because I was lonely, I think, and scared and so so angry. It's nothing you guys did. Really. I was just feeling like you were looking for me all the time, and not finding me, like I was hiding in some closet and you wanted to yank me out. But I was there the whole time, Mom. I am still your Miriam. Do you see that?

Shit.

Dear Mom and Dad,

After the summer, Elliot came to say he was sorry. We slept together for the last time, and then he left me. I thought I was pregnant. Then I pushed the Picasso and met a girl who is in trouble, and I don't know how to help her, but I want to. I also stole your pumpkin for her little brother. I'm not pregnant.

God fucking damn it.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I pushed the sculpture, and I don't know what to do. I don't want everything to change, but either way it does. I think it already has. I miss you. I love you. Don't tell Adam.

I save all the letters in a folder I call TRY AGAIN and then drop that folder between old essays, internship cover letters, and term papers. I missed lunch, but I have a bag of pretzels in my bag, so I eat them on my way back to Theory of Knowledge, where we explore the “big questions” of philosophers who tend to die tragically. Socrates was sentenced and drank himself to death; Descartes caught a really bad cold; Spinoza inhaled glass dust; Foucault died of AIDS. I have to make it through the day. Let'
s see what the ancients can do for me.

twenty-five

I NEED YOU.

where r u?

DO YOU HAVE THE PICTURE?

yes.

CAN YOU MEET ME IN GEORGETOWN?

r u ok?

JUST COME.

can u meet me at school?

FINE. GIVE ME TWENTY MINUTES.

twenty-six

First thing I see is my green sweater walking fast up the hill. I walk out to meet her, so we can start getting farther away from whoever might be watching. Eva looks terrible. She looks like she's slept about two hours in the last two days. Her skin is more ash than brown, and her hair is greasy and pasted to the top of her head.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I'm fine,” she says, smiling a little. “Hey, I'm sorry about what I said on the phone the other day. About going to the museum and telling on you. I was really worked up.
”

“I get it,” I say. “It's been a rough couple of days for me too.”

“Is the guy bothering you again?”

I smirk. “No. Actually, the guy is pretty much lost, I think.”

“Oh. Well, sometimes that's better,” she says, her hands in her pocket.

“Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, I have the picture. You want to sit somewhere?”

“No, that's okay. Can I just see it?”

“All right, but you have to promise not to get pissed. It's not in the daylight, but it's proof that he's there, like you asked.”

“I promise,” she says, and puts her hand on her heart. It's shaking.

I hand Bogart over and show her the picture of the pumpkin, bracing for the worst.

It takes her a while to figure it out, then she smiles a really tender smile, a small upward crack in the tired plaster her face has become, and I think that maybe lying and stealing are not so bad, if it can make someone so tired smile.

She gives me the camera back and doesn't say a word. Instead, she just sits down, right there on someone
's sloping lawn. I stay standing. The silence is really scaring me.

“We've never done that,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“We never carved a pumpkin together,” she says.

Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.

“I'm glad they did that with him. He must have loved it.
”

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

She doesn't answer.

“Do you have a place to sleep?” I ask.

She laughs. “Is it because I look like shit?”

“Well … ”

“I really do,” she says. “You want to see something?”

She untangles her hair from the rubber band and runs her hands through it. It stands out like a greasy lion's mane.

“It's bad, huh?” She smiles again.

“It's pretty bad,” I say.

She smells her armpits. “I smell too, right?”

I shrug.

“No, seriously, smell me.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on. Come and smell me and tell me I don't smell like a fucking pigeon.”

And that does it. I start laughing like I haven't laughed in years, tears-in-my-eyes, peeing-in-my-pants laughing. Every time I look up, she's holding up her greasy hair and motioning for me to come closer, and it makes me laugh even harder, until I can barely breathe.

When it's over, I feel completely empty.

Eva straightens up and braids her dirty hair.

“Let me see the altar photo,” she says.

“Now you want to see the altar?” I joke.

“Don't make me beg,” she says.

I scroll to the picture, and Eva sighs and squints and sighs again.

“How did you know I didn't erase it?”

“Magic,” she says.

“Of course. I do love that picture,” I say.

She pulls the gold fish out from underneath her sweater and holds on to it.

“Hey, Eva, seriously, do you have a place to sleep?”

She turns to face me.
“Don't worry about me. I'll make you a deal. If you get me one more picture, I'll wash my hair.”

“I'm serious,” I say.

“So am I. Dead serious.”

“I really think … ”

“What?” she says—sharp, loud.

“I really think you should go back home,” I say.

“I told you I can't right now,” she says.

“I know you said your mom was sick, but don't you think it's better if you go through it together?”

“My mom doesn't need me anymore,” she says.

“Maybe not, but Pablo does,” I say.

She says something in Spanish.

“I don't understand,” I say.

“No,” she says, “you don't. Here. Here's a key to the house. I'm sending you there. Do whatever you need. Tell them. Don't tell them. Just get me a picture of Pablo. Meet me at the zoo tomorrow, at four, in front of the cheetahs, and I swear to God I'll leave you alone.”

She puts the key in my bag and walks away. I swear to my God, leaving is the last thing I want her to do.