Remember Me (On Hold)

viii.

viii.

It's been weeks since junior year started, and Ms. Hart still hasn't looking at me. We spend first period in the dark, looking at projections of famous landscapes. Even though I wish I could hate everything she shows me, I get caught up in the photographs. We start with Ansel Adams, who is pretty overused by now, I mean, his stuff is all over inspirational posters and calendars, but the landscapes are still amazing. The entire front of the classroom goes from waterfalls to forests to mountains to ocean. Looking at them makes me feel small, in a good way.

We move on to Marilyn Bridges, Ms. Hart stands at her desk, stating the obvious.

"Here we have a cityscape. Notice that the sun is brightest on the focal point. The surrounding buildings are in shadow."

She goes through a few more, and then says, "Now let me show some examples of student work from past years."

She sits down and opens a new file on her computer. And I know that this is a stupid thing to wish for, but I hope that one of the photos she's about to show will be mine. I know she didn't like my picture of Oakland, but I took so many last year that I thought were pretty good. I took one of the Golden Gate Bridge from right below it, looking up. It was cool because it was of something that's been photographed a million times, but I'd never seen a picture taken form that angle. I picture the image big, covering the wall. In my head I hear Ms. Hart saying, Excellent work, Ara. I hear it so clearly, every syllable.

An image of cranes on an open field appears on the screen.

"See the nice use of line in this piece?"

Click. Sand and waves and Alcatraz in the distance. Click. A strange rock formation. Click. A hill with little flowers on it and clear blue sky.

I blink. I've never seen Harry's hill this big. The flowers looks so full. I can see individual blades of grass. I want to close my eyes and be transported there, to that place, to that day. I remember the ground, cold under my bare feet. Harry's blue beanie covering his curly hair from the cool breeze.

Ms. Hart clicks the hill away and there's another landscape, but I don't see it. Instead, I see Harry's eyes up close, so blue, the way they looked through the lens of my lens of my camera.

Click.

Harry's fingers covered in silver rings.

Click.

His careful, big handwriting.

"See how interesting the negative space is here?"

Click.

The two birds tattooed below his collar bones.

Click.

The pink-and-white scars on his stomach.

"Look at the contrast."

Click.

A deep cut on his arm, bleeding.

Click.

His eyes, vacant.

Click.

The word idiot carved into his hip.

Click.

"The trees in this image are not the focal point. Instead, the shadow is emphasized."

The lights flash on.

Harry disappears.

I need to scream, to smash something. I grip the side of my desk so hard that my hand feels like it's about to split open. Ms. Hart stands in front of the room in expensive-looking pin-striped pants and a crisp, button-down shirt. Her hair is smooth and prefect; her skin is perfect; her red glasses frame her eyes perfectly. She walks to the blackboard and starts to write something, but I interrupt her.