Excerpts

In the darkroom, I make prints of my self-portraits and dip them in the fixing bath. I hang the photographs, all twenty-four, and wait for them to show themselves. One by one, they come to light, and one by one, I see I have failed again. Some look like Sears portraits. Others resemble glamour shots. All of them show a girl with nothing unique to say. Just more time wasted. I close my eyes, letting the world go away for a moment. I wonder what’s happened, why I can’t seem to take a worthwhile photo of myself. I used to not have to think, just lift my camera and snap the shutter, confident I would find whatever was worth seeing. Now I can’t even find myself.

When I get home, Mom and Anne are sitting on the couch watching a movie.

“There you are,” Mom says. She looks like she used to, her expression airy, the darkness hardly there. Anne is snuggled against her. A bowl of popcorn sits on the coffee table.

“What,” I say. “I told you I would take a cab home.”

Mom looks me up and down. I run my hand through my hair, hoping she can’t see what I’ve just done. My finger catches on a pine needle, so I keep my hand there to hide it.

“I thought you would come straight home,” she says. When I don’t say anything, she says, “I wanted you to watch the movie with us. Like a family, before your father comes to get you.”

I look at them sitting there. A big part of me would like that, to cuddle up with Mom on the couch, like the old days. But I smell like Ted and God knows what else, and there are pine needles in my hair.

“I have homework,” I say, and as soon as I say it, I see Mom’s face clamp down, like a briefcase closing.

“Fine,” she says, and she looks again at the TV. Anne glares at me.

“Forget my homework,” I say. “I’ll shower and come back.”

“The movie will be over,” Mom says. “And then your father will be here.” This time, she doesn’t even turn her head.

Upstairs, I take a brush to my hair and watch four pine needles fall to the ground. I gather them, fold them inside a tissue so Mom doesn’t see them, and throw them in the wastebasket. On second thought, I pull them back out, pick up my Polaroid and snap a picture. They are evidence that someone wants me, something I may need a reminder of in the future.