Picture My Voice

Chapter One // Marlowe

Chapter One // Marlowe   

The smell of freshly cut notebook paper, the sound of an unopened box of mechanical pencils jingling around in my new sleek navy blue backpack, and the tickle of clothes being worn for the first time brings my mood to new heights.
    Yes, with an untouched pair of Chuck Taylors and the sky cloudless and bright, I feel like the protagonist of one of those cliche coming of age stories you only watch once in theatres and never buy on DVD, but those are thoughts and details that I'd prefer not to acknowledge for the sake of my current position on cloud nine.
    Looking down at my watch, my better judgment screams at me to pick up my pace.  School starts in twelve minutes and never would I dare be late.  Yet, I itch to run back home and get my camera with the way the sun is hitting the curve of the leaves of the massive oak tree swaying in the breeze above where I stand.  Not very often do I have the urge to capture something in such a mundane place such as Jefferson Park.  Several yards away, a standard red and blue colored play set with complementary swings and see-saw wait patiently for a child to come and play.  Three or four benches are scattered among the great oaks and grass dominates the ground.  No one's milling about despite the beautiful day.  I curse my poor fortune.  Of course, today of all days, the first day of senior year, has to bring some of the best lighting known to the quaint little park in the center of town.
    Shrugging off my urge to collect my camera, I continue my path towards school.  From here, I can see the tip of the flag poll.  The spray paint that had vandalized the entire flagpole at the end of last year (minus the American flag; those boys weren't savages) is now gone.  Though the prank had been harmless, I hope that the more reckless boys in my class this year don't execute such a stunt as the previous seniors did.  The flawless shadows that descended upon their faces when they were caught are still fresh in my mind.  Oh, how I had wanted to try this new close-up shot technique I'd read about online a few weeks before.
    Several hundred steps later, that massive flagpole towers over me as I pass by it, heading through the A door.  The first bell rings after I place my books in this year's locker -- decorated with inappropriate doodles and initials within hearts (as expected) -- and the late bell rings mere seconds after I take my seat in AP U.S. Government.
    I don't even attempt a glance around the classroom; I already know that my best friend Chelsea is sick.
    When she'd told me Friday night of her condition and how she might not be attending the first day of school, I had rolled my eyes and scowled at the phone before chastising, "The school year hasn't even started yet and you want to ditch!  That's low.  Low even for you, Chea."
    Upon hearing my statement, she'd sworn up and down that it was legit and even put her stepmother on the phone.  It took more convincing than usual, but Mrs. Bil's sweet-as-honey voice and intelligent vocabulary (not to mention she's a pediatrician) eventually persuaded me.
Remember to pick up Chelsea's schedule and possible assignments I remind myself as Mr. Fronter begins his I-won't-be-taking-any-crap-this-year speech.
    Unlike in past years, instead of having a day or two were the teachers pull back and let us gain our rhythms, the teachers dive right into their lessons.  Most of my peers, myself included, have had these teachers before and know the drill.  The sensation is refreshing, though, like jumping into a pool in the midst of winter for the second time.  The chilling thrill is still there, but the effect has dulled.
    After AP U.S. Government is my favorite class of the semester: Photography.  Since Freshman year I've been awaiting the day when I can finally take it.  Not that I'll be learning much now.  In the last three years, I've learned heaps more than I'm sure will be taught in the curriculum, but who doesn't love a fun and easy A?
    The next two periods after Photography pass quickly.  In the lunch room, I spot the silhouettes of three familiar bodies and, after retrieving a caesar salad with my per-usual extra croutons, I join them at their table.
    The first words my three friends speak to me since the beginning of summer are perfect representations of their characters.
    "Marlowe, gosh, how I missed you!"
    "Let's see those pictures of dirt, chickadee."
    And, "You brought me a chocolate muffin since you missed my birthday, right?"
    I run to Mimi first, conveying my equal excitement at seeing her through a bear hug.  Her long black hair has grown almost to her waist in the three months since I've seen her and upon further inspection, that's about the only thing that has changed.  Her smiles still reach from ear to ear and her hair is somehow styled with a vibrant flower from her family's personal garden.
    Once I release her, I shoot a glare at Abe -- tanner than usual which I'm sure is due to an unhealthy amount of time at the beach -- and correct him, "For the last time, I didn't take pictures of dirt." I then reach into my purse and chuck Noah's birthday muffin at his forehead.
    "This is a blueberry muffin.  I specifically told you chocolate over FaceTime!" Noah's mock frustration earns him a slap in the arm from Mimi.  His expression is all teasing, though, and he winks in my direction, totally ignoring his beating.
    Abe rounds the table once I set my tray down and before I can sit, he picks me up at the waist and spins me around.  I live for these playful gestures.  Abe, Chelsea, and I have been friends the longest and have been since our mother's met at a small park connected to our old elementary school.  We'd been spitting and puking on ourselves at the time and our mom's literally thought they were the only ones in town who had to deal with such difficult babies.  If current me had been at the exchange, I wouldn't have been surprised to find three young women crying with relief and frustration into one another's shoulders while three babies, barely a year old, sat alone side-by-side in their strollers.
    Once Abe sets me down, ruffles my hair, and takes his seat, I sit and begin to take out select photos from this summer.
    "These are gorgeous, Mar," Mimi exclaims.  "I'm so proud that you went to Canada all by yourself this summer!"
    I roll my eyes even though I'm grinning from her comment.  Instead of overly panicking about college this summer, I'd decided to take a solo trip to Canada in search of a photographer's dream.  With the incoming pressures of college and adulthood, I needed it more than any of my family and friends knew.  This trip had also been a dream of mine since I was eleven and found out that being a photographer was an actual occupation.  Not to mention the internship I was applying for with National Geographic.  Along with the prospects of taking pictures for the joy of it, I had been searching for the perfect portfolio for my submission.  Only the best of the best are allowed to work for National Geographic and I couldn't imagine just how much more difficult it was to become an intern.
    Yet, nothing I had taken in Canada had met my standards.  Yes, the pictures were great, but great doesn't cut it.  I need breathtaking, gorgeous, and heart-stopping.  Calling my shots 'great' is as good as insulting me.
    "Don't look now, Mar," Noah says teasingly, interrupting my thoughts. "The ex is making googly eyes at you again."
    I roll my eyes and quench the urge to throw my middle finger into the air.  A similar look of disgust appears on Mimi's face as she turns and glares at my ex-boyfriend.  While Noah's face relays a fake expression of amusement, Abe's look could kill.
    Freshman year Abe made the Junior Varsity football team instead of the Freshman team.  This is a huge feat for any freshman.  That year, only one other freshman made the team: Holden Mavricks.  The two boys were instant friends and Holden became a part of our tight-knit friend group.  Before long, Holden expressed his feelings for me and how they'd been growing since the first day of school.  At the time I'd thought he was sweet and attractive; I'd also been an idiotic fourteen-year-old.  We were together until the end of Sophomore year when he decided he was tired of me.  In those two years, Holden and Abe became the High School's most promising Quarterback and Receiver.  This came with unending popularity and girls pawing for them at every turn.  The difference between the two boys is that in their rise to "fame" Abe stayed true to his friends, while it all went to Holden's massive ego.
    I admit, I had really liked -- never loved -- Holden, but I saw it coming.  And I'd like to say I took it like a champ, but that would be a lie.  I was a mess.  Chelsea and Mimi barely left my side or room the week after it happened and Noah went into this constant stage of violent calm.  Abe, on the other hand, was constantly picking fights with Holden, eventually ruining their friendship and costing the school a hearty amount of wins.
    To this day, Abe still feels responsible.  He told me so during a fight we had when he got sent home for swinging at Holden during football practice one day.  At that time I'd been almost over it and had stopped feeling bad for myself, but Abe still raged.  When he'd see Holden in the halls, especially when draped over another girl, or even hear him talk, Abe's face would turn cherry red and he'd suddenly be a bull ready to charge.  I'd finally had enough of it and stormed to his house once he'd gotten home.
    "It's in the past Abraham! I can't let you keep doing this!"  I had screamed at him, hoping it would get past his pride and thick skull.
    "He hurt you, Marlowe!  You didn't' deserve that.  You'd never deserve that!  He's an idiot and a dick and I'm just paying him back."  We used each other's full names during that fight.  We rarely ever used each other's full names.
    "I. Don't. Care anymore! All I care about is you and Chelsea and Mimi and Noah."
    "That doesn't mean I don't care about that piece of filth and what he's done to you!"  His anger had turned to sorrow then.  I remember the select tears that had escaped from his eyes and slid down his face.  I remember the glistening path the tears had left and how vulnerable they made him look.  I hadn't realized how dark his eyes had been until that moment. "This is all my fault."
    I got down next to him on the floor where he had crouched and took his hand.
    "You're like my little sister, Mar.  I love you and hearing you cry incessantly in your room while Chelsea and Mimi tried to calm you down made me feel useless!  Less than useless! I felt like a menace.  It's was all my fault.  If I hadn't befriended him, he would never have had the power to hurt you or any of the others.  I swear, I--"
    "Stop." I'd cut him off.
    "None of this is your fault.  It's none of our faults; not even mine and I've come to accept that."
    I looked at him then.  I made him promise, promise that he'd never attack Holden physically again.  It took a whole other fight to convince him, but by the time his mother had come home and asked me if I was staying for dinner, he'd promised and was calmer than he had been in weeks.
    "What's he doing?" I ask Mimi, the only one looking sane.  Abe looks like he's about to blow a casket and Noah -- as usual -- hides his true emotions under a mask of amusement.
    "The usual: looking at you with false longing.  He's probably going to get up and ask you for his forgiveness, again.  It's the same routine at the beginning of each semester."  She starts mimicking Holden in an absolutely terrible version of his voice. "Oh Marlowe, I never meant any of the stuff I said to you back then.  And even if I did, I was young and stupid. Make me the happiest man in the world and be my girlfriend again?"
    As she finishes, I see Abe's muscles tense from across the table, as if he's about to stand.
    "Don't," I warn.  He relaxes, but his eyes never once stop watching Holden.  His gaze reminds me of the look a lion gives a gazel before it pounces: full of hunger and the promise of death.  I grin inwardly, only allowing myself to feel the slightest bit of satisfaction.
    "Where's Chelsea when you need her?  She'd love to tell that pig off." Mimi mutters.
    "I can't believe Chelsea didn't come to school today," Noah admits. "I should have thought of it first."
    "Shit!" I'm instantly standing and begin to collect my photographs and clean up the trash left from my lunch.
    "Is everything alright?" Mimi asks.  Concern floods her expression, her finely plucked eyebrows dipping inward and petite nose scrunching.
    Noah and Abe look to me questioningly and I reply, "I got Chelsea's schedule, but someone in my French class told me that in their psychology class they've already received an assignment.  I promised myself that I'd pick it up during lunch and totally forgot!" I finish putting my photos and additional possessions in my bag.  I'm in too much of a hurry to say goodbye before running towards the cafeteria's exit.
    Chelsea is in Mrs. Monroe's psychology class, which, of course, has to be on the third floor.  The clock on the wall across the hall tells me I have nine minutes until the bell signaling lunch is over rings.  The piece of machinery seems to smirk at me as I begin the trek up the school's back staircase as if it knows physical activity isn't my strong suit.  I'm barely to the second level when my breathing becomes haggard. Thank God I haven't already gotten my English textbooks from my locker -- notice the word 'textbooks' is plural.
    By the time I've reached the top and am racing towards the middle of the hall where room 312 sits, I'm panting like an overweight German Shepherd fresh from the park.  Sweat slides down my forehead and my natural body odor is beginning to slip past my Sweet & Sour Pomegranate perfume.  Not thinking to knock, I barge right into Mrs. Monroe's classroom.
    Right into a meeting.
    Or, at least, what I expect is a meeting.  Do three people count as a meeting?
    Mrs. Monroe sits behind her desk.  Her head, along with the two others in the room, whip to me.  Mrs. Monroe's expression suggests she's been confronted by a ghost and the other women, younger and standing beside a chair placed on the other side of Mrs. Monroe's desk, looks to me with a contemplative expression.  One eyebrow is raised higher than the other and it seems as if she's trying to decide whether to be surprised or disgusted by sudden presence.  The figure, the one in the single chair across from Mrs. Monroe, is a teenage boy.  He looks about my age and his whole demeanor is a mix between intelligence, uncomfortableness, anxiety, and now surprise.
    For a moment, as the three people study me like a pinned bug under a bright, impending microscope, I can't help but observe the boy.  His eyes never leave mine as I scan his whole being.  Modestly muscled limbs are decorated by a pair of dark blue jeans and a long-sleeved brown t-shirt.  His hair is a dark brown that teeters dangerously close to black.  His eyes are blue.  A blue overthrown by gray, making them more striking than without.  A pale shade of pink paints a pair of moderately plump lips.
    Even though I'm the one who has just stormed in on their meeting, clearly about this kid's first day at this school, my left eyebrow shoots up in surprise.  Not very often does Marndale High School receive new students.
    "Marlowe, how funny," Mrs. Monroe starts, just now recognizing me. "We were just talking about you."
    My eyes finally escape the clutches of the boy's and I flick them to my former teacher. "You were one of my best students last year, not to mention kind, and I thought you'd be perfect for this... assignment." She explains.  Out of the corner of my eyes, I see the other women cringe at the word "assignment".
    The boy, who looks to be around my age, doesn't react to anything that is said.  The anxiety that had radiated off of him a moment before is overpowered by his observant manner.  It's unsettling.  We're locked in eye contact again and his eyes still never waver.  It feels as if his eyes are roaming, though, stripping me bare.  The look isn't perverted, thankfully.  Like I said; it's observant.  Maybe he's a transfer from an all-boys school and is surprised to see a girl?
    "Marlowe, meet Ryan Hart and Ms. Cynthia Marshall.  Ryan..." Mrs. Monroe pauses and the woman, Cynthia, starts making a variety of hand gestures.  Ryan looks to her as Mrs. Monroe finishes. "Ryan, this is Marlowe Lawson."
    It takes me a minute to put the pieces together.  Mrs. Monroe gives me a smile that pleads for me to understand and be nice.  Cynthia is still giving me that look of wariness and Ryan continues to look at me, the only difference in his expression is that the right corner of his mouth as lifted.  It's the most boyish grin I've ever seen.  After a few more moments silence, he blushes a deep shade of red.
    Then, click: Ryan is def.
    "Oh, um," I stutter.  Feeling utterly embarrassed and idiotic, all I can think to do is step towards the desk and cover my stupidity the best I can.  To the best of my ability, I sign Hi, my name is Mar.
    Dumbfounded, Mrs. Monroe, Cynthia, and Ryan openly stare at me.
    "Uh," I start, realizing I should explain. "When I was, like, in elementary school I was obsessed with sign language.  I know the alphabet and a few phrases, so... yah."
    As soon as I finish, Cynthia wakes from her stupor and quickly signs what I guess must be what I just said.
    Ryan doesn't even glance her way, though.  He stares -- a full, toothy smile, adorning his face -- at me.  His only movement is the shift of his gaze from my face to my lips.
He must be an amazing lip reader I assume.
    Mrs. Monroe is the next to become unfazed.
    "That's perfect!  You were one of the board's top picks and now they'll have to pick you." She exclaims.
    "I'm sorry, Mrs. Monroe, I'm still very confused.  What am I doing?"
    She stands and takes the few steps to where I stand.  Grasping my left shoulder as if she's explained it a million different ways and I still don't understand, she says, "Ryan's family has requested a student to help him settle into school and classes."
    "Ryan hasn't been to a standard public school since he was six and is very unfamiliar with how regular high school works," Cynthia unapologetically interrupts Mrs. Monroe.  Her tone of voice comes of undermining and I decide that I'm not fond of the woman.
    "So," Mrs. Monroe continues, clearly trying to hide her annoyance. "We were hoping you'd show Ryan around, maybe even help him if he finds his classes more difficult than expected.  The school board knows how smart and helpful you are, Marlowe.  We're sure you'd be perfect."
    Of course I was going to say yes, but from the way Ryan had been holding himself when I'd stomped in -- yes, nervous, but with determination and intelligence -- I doubted he'd need as much assistance as these two women were implying.  I felt bad, insulted even, for the kid.
    Now, Ryan's eyes are squeezed tight and his head is propped up by one hand.  He's clearly embarrassed and unhappy to be talked about as if he wasn't there.  To lift some of the tension, I try to say as happily, yet calmly, as possible, "I'd love to help.  But, of course, you still have to talk with the school board."
    Mrs. Monroe and Cynthia Marshall are quick to agree and begin talking between themselves about the details, Cynthia not signing for Ryan's benefit.
    The bell signaling the start of fifth-period rings and, once I get Chelsea's assignment and Cynthia's card, I exit the room.  Ryan doesn't try to make eye contact once, let alone open his eyes, before I leave.