I can capture
a symbol of the whole city—
in one frame, at once.
With my mind-camera,
I see my history teacher
nodding in approval
at my hard work.
I see the IAA teachers
looking at my photographs,
confident
in my vision
a whole, complete
me.
I see my acceptance letter,
a future lined in photographs.
I smile into a future
portrait of myself.
BREATH IN
At home,
Dad asks if I want
Chinese food,
our favorite.
Holly says it’s too fattening,
gives Mom indigestion.
They’re both out,
so we go to The Cottage.
Before we leave,
Dad checks his wallet,
“Empty.”
Checks the petty cash drawer.
“Huh, looks light.”
His eyes turn to me.
I suck my breath in.
“Maybe Mom used some
to pick up the dry cleaning
the other day,” I say.
Dad looks
back down to the drawer.
He waves it off.
“We’ll use a card.”
I let my breath out.
FORTUNES
Over dinner,
Dad asks me
how the history project
is going.
I tell him today,
I focused less on people,
more on the
environment.
Every curve and turn
in Central Park
so intentional.
So unlike
the wilderness
it once was.
Dad nods his head vigorously
then we trade:
my moo shu
for his kung pao.
When we open
our fortune cookies,
he gets one that says:
All things are difficult before they are easy.
And mine:
Your ability to accomplish tasks will follow with success.
He grins, says my fortune has spoken,
this project will be
successful.
I try to smile back but
his prediction sinks in
slow
like the grease sliding
down my fork.
Dad has no idea what kind of success
I’m working toward.
But they’ll be so proud
when I get in,
they’ll have to let me go.
All things are difficult before they are easy.
REACHING
Walking back,
Dad asks
how Holly seems
to me lately.
My stomach tightens but
I say “fine”
as I photograph:
a streetlight shining
on two different-colored
leaves
swirling
circling
reaching for
each other.
They almost touch,
their veins almost meet.
Dad says he hopes
each of us
would talk to him
if something was wrong.
“I know,” I say.
Then
I take one more photo
of the space between
the leaves.
SECRET LANGUAGE
Next day, during English,
Ellery has on her
“I Speak German.
What’s Your Superpower?” T-shirt.
She passes me a note:
What’s up.
Are we cool?
The air between us still wobbly
since she made that comment about
Silas
since I lied about liking
Taryn.
I lie again
write back
Nothing. Yeah we’re good.
Pretend to read Julius Caesar.
She goes back to her work.
I turn pages but
it’s more confusing to me than Lear,
gibberish.
While the teacher isn’t looking
I text Silas instead,
tell him I have
a secret.
He says
I like secrets.
Send a blushing emoji back.
He asks if I want to hang
tonight:
Halloween.
I type yes.
And then whisper it
again
out loud,
to myself.
NO DISGUISE
After school,
Ellery says
she doesn’t want things
to be awkward
between us.
That if I’m happy,
she is too.
Relief flows over me.
We go get donuts.
She asks if I want
to join her & Taryn tonight
at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
She’s going as Magenta.
Taryn, Frank-N-Furter.
I tell her thanks but I can’t,
I’m hanging with Silas.
She nods,
asks if it’s getting serious.
Tell her no.
“Well, maybe.”
Tell her
sometimes I feel like
a different person
when I’m with him.
“And that’s a good thing?
That’s what you want?”
Confusion passes through her
green eyes.
“Sometimes, yeah,” I say.
We eat the rest of our donuts
in sticky silence.
MADE UP
Halloween night,
Holly knocks
on the half-open bathroom door
as I do my makeup.
She asks where I’m going.
If I want to go to some party with her.
I say thanks but I’m going out with Ellery.
Holly nods,
we line our eyes side by side.
Like when we would practice
in the mirror in middle school.
I’m in all black.
Silas and I are going
as photographers—
I should blend in
with the night.
Dad, in the same old Dumbledore costume,
says he’ll miss me passing out candy
with him.
But he’s also glad
I’m socializing more.
That he’ll be fine,
there’s a shipwreck special on
he’s been dying to see—
“Go, enjoy.”
I part ways with Holly,
vanish
into the night city air.
A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE
Silas & I meet
just outside Gramercy Park.
We walk the blocks
around it.
He points out his school,
the places he and his friends
hang out.
Then
we turn our cameras toward
pirates
superheroes
fairies.
A parade of little Ewok dogs.
Trade lens filters.
Drink “haunted chocolates.”
Hot chocolate with shots of espresso.
Silas tells me
Gramercy Park was just a swamp
before it became a park.
“Have you ever been inside?”
he asks.
“Once, when I was eight.
We got a key
through Dad’s work with
the historical society.”
(I don’t tell him the escort kept insisting
Holly & I weren’t really twins.
That Holly got upset.
How I stepped on his foot.
That Mom & Dad were horrified
but Dad was also proud
of how fiercely I loved
my sister.)
My sister.
Now off partying with her friends.
Dad at home watching shipwrecks.
Mom at work analyzing X-rays.
And me,
with a boy none of them have ever met.
So much more disconnected now
than we were back then.
Or
I wonder:
have we always been this way and—
just as an image can look different
depending on your distance
zoom out,
zoom in—
it is
just the perspective that’s
shifted?
MELTING
We finish our drinks.
He throws out our cups.
The cold picks up.
Silas hangs on to the park’s gate,
dangles his half smile
down on me then—
slowly—
pulls me into him.
I wrap my hands around his neck.
I am about to tell him
my secret
when he kisses me.
My thoughts melt.
We are
just lips
tasting
chocolate
and
each other.
CHARGES
Finally,
we come up for air.
I ask him if he’s ever heard of IAA.
He says, of course,
best art high school in the city.
I tell him I’m applying,
that’s my secret,
and he’s the only one
who knows.
He says that’s great
but in a way that makes it sound
like he’s not sure.
Lets go of
my hand.
Then he says his parents
would never let him apply.
Couldn’t afford it.
Drags on his electronic cigarette,
pulls farther away.
Our bodies
no longer touch.
I ask him if he wants
to talk more about it.
He says there’s nothing to say.
Some people can afford things,
others can’t.
Pulls out his camera,
gets quiet,
so I do too.
Try to ignore
the changed
charged
air between us,
focus on images.
Make sure to shoot
not just people inside the fence
of the park
but also those
outside of it.
Until I turn around
and realize
Silas isn’t looking at any of them,
his camera’s
turned directly
on
me.
SLIDE AWAY
“Stop.
I don’t like
photos of myself.”
I cover my face.
“But you’re the most interesting subject out here,” he says,
walks over,
touches my cheek.
The wind starts to blow.
“Please? For me?”
I drop my hands
just below my chin.
“Now smile,
just a little.
Yes! Look up.
Just like that.”
I smile in spite of myself
as all the
noise
light
colors
slide away
until the moment’s
only ours to share.
TRANSFORMATIONS
At home,
Silas texts me a purple-tinted photo
of myself,
says he’s been using Lightroom—
I look good in every color.
Surprised to see that
I do look okay, from that angle.
In purple.
I tell him
tonight was awesome,
but now I have
to study for my geometry test.
I need at least a B-
to pull up my grade in math.
I try to memorize
the theorems and rules
but every shape
every angle
morphs into a heart.
INTERSECTIONS
During geometry
next day
the clock ticks loudly.
As much as I studied
how to calculate the angles
of
when I sit down
to take the test
they all look like
abandoned intersections.
My mind fills them
with freed carousel horses
blue-haired people
dancing.
SCATTERED
When I get home
I make a list of all my
Central Park photos.
Should I order them north to south?
Chronologically?
Caption them with a “past landscape versus present”?
How should I string together my history essay?
How can I show the history of something that no longer exists?
Honor Seneca Village as something that still matters?
Is still with us?
Say something significant?
I shuffle//
reshuffle//
until the words
and images
separate, float to the ceiling
and stick there.
I ask them to come back to me.
They don’t.
In the end,
I go to sleep.
Wake up
to a pile
a mess
on the floor.
Everything scattered.
SIGNIFICANCE
Next day
in history class,
Ms. Marshall says
she looks forward to seeing
the rough drafts
of our research projects
on Monday.
Says she wants an outline
the start of the essay
some “significant source material.”
I know my images are significant.
But—
the best way to order them
blend present with
past
for the project
or the portfolio—
I still can’t figure it
out.
Fiona taught us about
white balance—
the feature of a camera
that blends light:
natural with
indoor with
fluorescent with
electronic.
With my mind-camera,
I press the
white balance feature
in my brain,
try to make it
all come together.
PREVISUALIZATION
PHOTO CLASS #3, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD
12 DAYS UNTIL IAA APPLICATION DUE
2 DAYS UNTIL ROUGH DRAFT DUE
I tell my parents
I’m going to the library.
That I concentrate better there.
They believe me.
Ms. Marshall’s mandate rings loudly in my head
as I walk,
the Artist’s Statement looms over me.
What is your vision?
What truth are you trying to capture with your art?
Maybe Fiona can
help me find the answers.
In class
she gives a fancier name
to the mind-camera
concept:
previsualization.
She says sometimes
images come out
just the way
you pictured.
Other times they
are a total
SURPRISE.
Silas looks at me
lifts a finger
presses it down
on an invisible camera
mouths “click.”
My stomach flips.
SHOW MY EYES
Fiona gives us time in class
to print out photos,
then comes to each of us
individually
looks at what we’ve been working on
the past few weeks.
A mid-session critique.
I show her
children hand-clapping where the school used to be,
water bottles on the Great Lawn,
two leaves almost touching.
I explain how the park’s ghosts haunt me
how I want to give them a voice.
Fiona says she’s impressed,
young as I am,
to have such strong artistic vision.
I dare myself and
tell her about IAA.
Ask her if she’ll write a recommendation.
She says absolutely—
her words
are a switch
and
every color in the room
brightens.