You know that instant behind the wheel when you realize you’ve got no traction? That’s how I always felt when my marriage ended, my son Tommy became a teenager and abruptly ran out of time for me. I experienced two brainstorms in pretty quick succession. First, by the time I turned fifty, I had to get certified as a kindergarten teacher, not just an occasional substitute. My second brainstorm came from the way my class looked at me, how anchoring and generous, but more than this, how they looked at the world around them. I needed to get that particular light back into my eyes, so I started an October tradition that caught on in the higher grades as well: give the whole group disposable cameras on Friday, show them how to snap the button and turn the advance wheel, then set them loose over the weekend, see what they bring back on Monday.
But five-year-olds with cameras? Toss an infant into the deep end of a pool and they’ll hold their breath and paddle because they haven’t learned that they cannot.
Initially, my kids are timid with the bright yellow boxes, leaving them on their desks, until I pull out the album, now filled with highlights of seven years of shutterbugs. Each fall, I do get a sinking feeling when I look out at all the blank, put-upon faces. But as I flip through the pages they tend to come around, especially when I open to the section of pets. “Mrs. Dupree, Mrs. Dupree, we have a dog like that! Can I take pitchers of him?” I love when they pick up their cameras, then, and turn them over in their hands like bars of gold.
By and large, the parents are glad to underwrite the cost of cameras and developing, thanks to the positive reputation of the “First Fotos Corner” in our Fall Art Show, but other than this they’re not supposed to help. You can always tell when the parents get involved, the shots come back looking staged or the composition too square, sensible, boring. The Real Thing is never boring, because of all the zany angles and orientations. And they’re almost never blurry, either, because of automatic focus, or too dark, automatic flash. Also, the choices are more fun. In addition to your standard cats and dogs and dolls, there are many beds, favorite foods, unsuspecting siblings, own faces in mirrors, secret hiding places, extreme close-ups of insect companions (blurry), colorful October trees. I once got a garden slug on flagstone; a cloud in the shape of a J; a full cereal bowl, with spoon, set down in the middle of green moss; eight stitches on the back of a brother’s hand; chicken bones gathered into a t-pee on a table, with a blueberry living inside. From the less inspired photographers, hurrying to finish out their twenty-seven exposures on Monday morning, come shots of the cloakroom right here, classmates looking sleepy and annoyed, in the midst of removing their coats.
This year seemed run-of-the-mill, that is until I viewed Tanya Bellinger’s roll. It was last Tuesday afternoon, and there I sat at my usual round table in the food court at the mall, having just picked up the seventeen sets of prints I’d dropped off the day before. I tend to come here after school, to enjoy a milkshake and some fries, and prep for the following school day. It beats my empty house anyway, and how can I wait when the pictures are ready? There’s sure to be a keeper or two in most every kid’s roll, which never fail to give me traction on the icy road.
First, I saw Tanya’s playroom, complete with fluffy purple unicorns, suspended trapeze, a red-eyed rabbit in a cage, Barbie’s Dream House. Next, I shuffled through six shots of her older sister Frankie, who I’d had four years earlier, a regular hellion. I smile; it was good to see Frankie now all sober and nine, reclining on the couch with a chapter book, legs crossed almost elegantly in the sunlight.
And then, I came to an image like a tall spool standing upright and shining cobalt blue. It kind of resembled the bobbin in my grandmother’s loom, which held yarn and was made of polished wood, but because of the strange color I figured it must not represent anything except a flaw on the film itself, until a shadow in the background clued me in that this was a flash picture. I choked on a french fry for some seconds, hacking it up, getting surly looks from a nearby table of teenaged boys. The shadow, cast onto a wall, was in the shape of a girl’s blown-up profile, including wisps of hair. The next five shots held no shadows to aid me, only the same object from different angles, not always remaining vertical but always glowing blue in a field of darkness. In the last frame, the spool hung perfectly horizontal, and I could see that between its knob ends was wound some kind of thick rope or maybe cable.
I was relieved to find, out the other side of this series, an ordinary bedroom scene again, and even familiar faces, but I was startled, too, because here, wearing cute pajamas, giggling or striking dramatic poses with hats and costume jewelry, just as if nothing had happened, were four other members of my class, Samantha Hedges, Rabelle Griffiths, April Tiffani DiMartino, and Indira Conway, the beautiful adopted girl from India. Apparently, this was a sleep-over party at Tanya’s house, probably on the previous Saturday night. Come to think of it, Rabelle had been absent from school both yesterday and today, and the other four, present, had seemed kind of spooky and far-off, though I’d had no reason to link them in my mind, and certainly not to put poor Rabelle in with them, because they were making no show of hanging around together. In fact, they’d spread themselves out, even occupying opposite corners of the room during free-play. In retrospect, this separation did seem suspicious.
I gulped melted chocolate shake for courage, then quickly shuffled through the rest of the packets, locating Rabelle’s, Indira’s, April Tiffani’s, then Samantha’s. These I tore into, dismissing scores of irrelevant prints. Indira and Samantha had no party shots; they must have forgotten their cameras at home.
This left me with fourteen in which the spool appeared, and two featuring just the thick gray cable itself. In nine of these, the spool floated again, the flash reflecting blue off its surface so vividly that all the surroundings fell to black, in contrast. Had the girls switched off the room lights at this point? I began to think of the way Tommy used to enjoy hiding out from me in the dark, inside the house, long before he learned to hide in the whole world.
I decided that the spool’s color might be closer to midnight blue than to cobalt. Also, it continued to shift position, rotating through the stations of the compass, as though restless.
In the last five frames, however, my girls were captured as well, and directly, not as mere shadows. These images frightened me because of how pasty the flash made their skin appear, and how miniaturized they looked beside the object, which I hadn’t thought was so big. I put it at my own height or better, possibly more like my ex-husband’s (he’s popular with the ladies, who continue, through the centuries, to like height) and decided that probably this was Tanya’s mother’s idea of a progressive plaything, something industrial, as far from dainty as a person can get.
I spent such a long time poring over the last five prints, after buying another shake and more fries. They just didn’t compute. The bedroom lights are turned on again, so the spool’s glow is muted now, and ordinary objects are visible as well, wall posters, a bed, a bookshelf, a bureau. Here’s mousy little Samantha wearing as always her round glasses, like John Lennon’s, but giddy and done up in a lacy pink number with veils, dancing, hands all happy by her head, and meanwhile that spool is towering just behind her, seeming like it has nothing in the world to do with this creature except that there it is, and there she is.
Still, it was good to see Samantha playing again, in any context; her father died last year due to a very efficient cancer, and whenever I see her carefully adjusting her glasses, I think, two now, she and her mother.
The images of Indira were even more disturbing. She’s standing shirtless with her sweet belly sucked in, but her butterscotch skin comes out looking all-over bruised in the sour combination of white flash and overhead light. She poses stiffly, self-consciously before April Tiffani’s lens, and although she doesn’t appear to notice somehow, the braided metal of the cable, thick as her arm, has unwound from the spool and settled across her shoulders and, by the second picture, looped around her twiggy neck, making me want to jump in and rescue her.
Tanya herself sits perched on the spool in its floating horizontal position, swinging her legs, tilting her head and laughing in a broad-brimmed Texan hat. I thought, Hey, what a great sport that spool is being, then I caught myself thinking this and almost wanted to cry.
The final image shows Rabelle Griffiths alone in her simple pajama outfit, yellow camera in one hand, standing relaxed and stocky in the middle of the room, she among these girls having kept her baby fat. At first, I’d nearly skipped over this shot in my haste, the spool not being included directly, but when I squinted I could see the cable traveling level through space from border to border, and passing right through the subject herself. It enters and exits just beneath Rabelle’s rib cage, and one can also rule out some trick of perspective because the kelly green fabric of Rabelle’s pajama top is hiked up onto the metal on her left side, this being, I guessed, the exit-point. It was not so much the horrible fact itself that made me shove everything into my shoulder bag and race to the ladies’ room, kneel before the toilet bowl, but the look on the girl’s face, cheerful and unconcerned.
Back home, I immediately phoned my son in Pittsburgh, not that I could tell him about the pictures. He moved down there to be near his father and to seek advancement in the hotel industry. I no longer bring up college. In fact, most of what I bring up makes him sigh and lose patience. As usual, I got his machine, his recorded voice sounding manful and tinny, though this time I didn’t ask him to kindly pick up, implying that I suspected him of screening me. I fought through my remaining nausea and left an up-beat message summarizing a recent street-corner conversation I’d had with one of his high school buddies, a boy who’s always open and glad to see me, to fill me in on his life. I’ll get updates like this from people or read an article in the local paper and find myself thinking, Tommy will be so happy to read this, or, I bet he’ll be surprised to find out what so-and-so did. That’s before I re-remember: Tommy doesn’t care, not hardly, not much. When I’ve sent him news clippings about interesting events or changes in our town, I never hear back, and if I ask him he says, “Oh, yeah, I got that. I didn’t read it yet. You know, I kind of feel like I’m under pressure when you send those.” Pressure? The car of my life slips on a sudden curve. As soon as he graduated high school, off he went like a shot. I always come up blank when I wonder why. And if I hit a weak moment and ask him straight out, he sighs and says, “I don’t know, Mom, it’s, I can’t think, it’s really not anything.” And for me the worst part is that I believe him.
Since I still had the phone in my hand, I dialed Tanya’s mother. Sarah Bellinger said she didn’t know what I was talking about. Furthermore, and even though I left out the worst of it, she seemed to find insult in my description of the spool. As a single mother, Sarah carries one of those chips on her shoulder in defense of her parenting skills. She did confirm, though, the party on Saturday night. “Look, the girls ate dinner and dessert, then watched a video, Kiki’s Delivery Service, took some pictures with those cameras you gave them, romped around and had a good time, then went to sleep, okay? They’ve been getting together for play dates since they were barely toddlers, years before you came along, Mrs. Dupree. And I expect they’ll be thick as thieves when you and I are no longer walking this earth.”
She hung up. I didn’t understand why she went so far. Did I seem to be trying to spoil the eternal quintet with a wild story? Even so, I knew she must be feathering some extra nest of her own. I opened a box of blueberry Pop Tarts, tore into that first silver packet, always so promising, slid a soft tart out, broke it in half, nibbled inward from each ragged, jammy edge, did the same with tart number two, then gave the snapshots another run-through, noticing new details this time. I saw, tacked to Tanya’s bedroom walls, certain ripped-out magazine pages advertising today’s hot kits and games: tea set; race track; chemistry set; talking globe; real microscope with ready-to-hatch sea monkey eggs; wedding-planner sticker book; Jessie the Girl Scientist safari net, binoculars, and African wildlife video. I saw, with the aid of a strong magnifying glass, one of those ‘Rector Sets, its girder pieces strewn under the bed, like the kind Tommy had when he was their age; he’d build himself motorized cranes and then, with the cranes, attempt construction projects. In a background corner, I saw a dollhouse, not an elaborate structure, three floors, maybe eight rooms in there, all told. I’d failed to mark it before because of an attractive scooter parked in front, its purple-tasseled handlebars leaning above the roof. Through the few facing windows, those that weren’t shut, I could begin to make out poignant domestic scenes starring finger-dolls composed of coiled twine, twine for limbs, twine for torsos, fancy loop for heads: a sit-down dinner where everyone’s right hand is raised, trying for a word edgewise; a mother laying her baby down in a crib, baby angry with knots; a sister and brother arm-wrestling at a table, foreheads nearly touching, muscles fraying.
I squinted through the thick lens to spy a tiny spool of thread on top of Tanya’s dresser. I found that unlike its enormous counterpart, this one was squat, lacking the knobby ends and narrow, extended midsection. I thought again of my grandmother’s bobbin, and how I used to believe, when I myself was five years old and would watch her at her loom, that she was weaving the world together, probably because this is what she told me. When I inherited the machine, with its great spoked wheel, its pedal, its warp and woof, I tried to convince Tommy of the same thing, but I didn’t have the patience to sit there long enough. A tapestry of hers still hangs in my bedroom, black and white, a mesmerizing pattern of squares within squares like a maze, preserved for decades now behind glass.
The images of my girls were no less upsetting here at home than at the food court, especially that of Rabelle, strung through like a pudgy game hen in a butcher’s display, but with no blood, and that face saying not to worry. I tried to concentrate on other things. My freezer held Klondike Bars. But I kept returning to the pictures. I admit I’d gotten sort of addicted to the upset, though, or to something associated with the upset.
Wednesday morning, when my class filed into the room, I tried to act nonchalant, and in part I succeeded, distracting myself for a few minutes with the shock of their smallness. You see, I’d only had these new kids for a few weeks and so I was still in that phase I go through each year, when the personalities are fresh, three-dimensional and sort of glamorous, so that when they leave my sight each afternoon I start to think of them as full-grown beings, roughly my own size. Plus, I spend so much time sitting eye-level with them. When I see them next, I get a jolt of mild disbelief at how teeny and fly-away they truly are, coming up to my waist.
It’s the opposite with Tommy, who can set his chin on top of my head. Of course, I hate this. Of course, he refuses to do it if I ask.
Four of the five principals arrived sluggish and secretive, averting their eyes from me and from one another. (Again, Rabelle was absent.) I was glad that at least they seemed aware of the circumstances this time, whatever those circumstances were.
The class became excited when I hung up the poster boards on which I’d tacked their best prints and invited them to come up front. Some of each child’s work was represented, but nothing from the sleep-over. I watched April Tiffani’s pointy upturned face at the wall, her cleft chin, as she scanned the rows of shots, then she and Indira shared an instant’s glance before heaving deep breaths and turning away. Samantha and Tanya didn’t bother coming forward at all but stayed seated at their desks, looking like they might throw up.
I praised, among others, Brian Ellingwood’s shot of his mother painting a high-backed chair; Chris Skinner’s study of sleeping twin baby brothers; Armond Stiles’s action series, hamster in wheel; Missy Davis’s portrait of a creamy yellow cupcake; even Tanya’s of that sun-lit sister of hers, Frankie.
And then we conducted our regular school day. When I asked the four to stay after for a minute, they obeyed but barely, standing by the door with their coats on, fumbling with wool hats and mittens. The skin of Indira’s face was restored to its ordinary butterscotch hue, though her lips were pressed together and held off-center. No, I didn’t whip out the pictures or mention the spool; I thought the girls might literally break apart if I did. Instead, I asked gently about Rabelle.
“She caught a cold, Mrs. Dupree,”said Samantha, allowing herself a smile, adjusting the John Lennon glasses.
“Yeah,” said the others, nodding, edging sideways.
“Listen, girls, you’re not in trouble with me, okay? I’m just concerned about your welfare. We all know something very unusual happened last Saturday night at your party. I want you to do me one favor, will you?” Like held cats, they froze, their eyes rummaging for an escape, until I opened my drawer and took out four more cameras. “Please keep these in case anything like that ever happens again? Can you be Mrs. Dupree’s sharp little eyes?”
I couldn’t help it. After all, it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you can report to the authorities, especially if the adult in charge of the event has no interest in pursuing the matter.
They accepted my offer into their poorly mittened hands, most of the thumbs flapping flat and vacant, and then Tanya looked at up me rock steady and whispered, “Nothing happened, Mrs. Dupree.” The others nodded again, more wisely this time, then shook their heads to mean the same thing. “Nothing.”
“Anyway,” said Samantha, “that was a long time ago.”
“A long time ago, Samantha,” I said. “Oh, really?”
Before I could turn away, Tanya raised her camera to her eye and snapped my picture.
All of that was last week. Since then, no news except a fight with my ex-husband and a real conversation, at last, with my son.
I’m sitting at my usual round table in the food court, having picked up the new packets of film. After paying extra for rush developing, now I’m afraid to open them. I’ve purchased seven large orders of French fries and arranged them in a semi-circle before me; the comfort of the chocolate shake is joined, this time around, by a wonderful strawberry colleague.
The fight with Anthony, my ex, started when I asked him if he ever wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about Tommy, going over and over his past, present, and future, like a spin cycle running for hours. Of course he laughed at me and said this was exactly why our boy had ended up settling in Pittsburgh. “We’ll just see where he settles,” I said.
At the end of the school day, a few minutes ago, the girls marched up to me from the back of the classroom, where they had been pale and yawning together for hours. Looking very shifty but also kind of proud, they handed over their cameras, including Rabelle, who’d returned to school good as new on Thursday last. In half sentences, they let me know there’d been another slumber party, this time at Indira Conway’s house.
“And what happened?” I asked them.
“We don’t know, Mrs. Dupree,” April Tiffani stated flatly.
“Yeah,” Samantha agreed.
They sounded just like my son. “Doesn’t anybody know anything anymore?”
They shrugged in unison, because they didn’t know this either, and I could tell they were sincere. Rabelle said, “We were just out in the backyard.”
In her tight-lipped way, Indira added, “I got a play fort for my birthday. We had fun, that’s all.”
April Tiffani pressed a finger into the cleft in her chin, smiling. “It was a long time ago, Mrs. Dupree.”
“That’s ridiculous, it was the day before yesterday.”
The girls peered at me tolerantly, as though I were shorter than they.
“I can’t help it,” Tommy told me last night, after finally hoisting up the phone and returning a call. “I don’t want to hurt your, uh, feelings, Mom, but I think I should stay here for Thanksgiving. It’s our big season for family reservations.”
Our? “That’s weird. Wouldn’t you think they’d want to stay at home?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
Then I asked him the question.
“Sometimes,” he answered, “I guess sometimes, yeah, I start feeling bad we’re not closer, but it’s like there’s this, I don’t know, this wall or something, you know?”
No, I didn’t know; I feel no wall on my side. “It’s natural, Tommy,” I told him. “Otherwise, how could a person ever move on? It’s like a natural wedge.” I tend to feed him the conventional wisdom, though it only encourages him.
“Right, oh completely!” he said, gaining sudden traction on his road.
“Do you find it at all...I don’t know...painful, Tommy?”
“Well, not exactly, Mom,” he laughed, as though I’d asked whether he found it an aardvark. “I mean, it’s kind of a numb feeling more. It’s like” (laughing again) “like you’ve given me a tranquilizer when you start talking about stuff. I can hardly concentrate. But I’m glad you understand. God, you’re being so cool about this.”
This strawberry shake is really, really delicious. I go and get another.
The first few shots are Indira’s handiwork and depict the arrival of her friends, and Mr. and Mrs. Conway greeting them at the door with cookies and juice, maybe trying too hard. A black poodle is jumping up, the girls looking somewhat overwhelmed, still in their coats and hats and mittens but biting into the cookies anyway. The Conways are an older couple, well, not as old as me. They were unable to have children of their own, and the local paper did a very dramatic spread on their journey to India four years ago, to meet their daughter at the orphanage and take possession of her. I didn’t save this article for Tommy. I’ve tried to be extra sweet to that girl, and I can tell she appreciates it, in her way.
Now we’re in the backyard just at dusk, and there’s the play fort all right, an impressive two-story wooden structure with slatted chambers, balcony, rope ladder, spiral staircase, realistic turrets on top. The girls attack it like an invading army. The automatic flash seems to pluck their faces out of thickening twilight and present them as emblems of wholesome greed. Tanya’s is wild at a curve halfway up the spiral, as though she’s accusing the photographer-hostess of failing to participate in her own party. April Tiffani’s, just below, takes a different tack, a sort of raw umbrage at the closing down of day. Rabelle is lowest, struggling up the rope ladder, and the back of her head seems to say, Great, I’m losing. Only Samantha’s face, midway up at the balcony, appears undecided, tipped, tempted to homesickness behind those twin-circle glasses.
In the next set of prints, snapped by Tanya (after I rush my own warped, unpleasant face to the bottom of the pile), I find that Indira does indeed participate now, but the fort’s participating too, having grown three new stories, some additional girth, and a second spiral staircase that makes the pair now resemble strands of DNA. Tanya has switched places with Indira, stationing at the base of the fort, viewing upward at a sharp angle. Speaking of girth, Rabelle continues to haul herself up the rope ladder (she’s had to shed her outerwear) while the rest already enjoy sanctuary in the upper chambers, arms waving out between slats; even Indira’s seem rubbery with thoughts of prison-break, although she’s placed herself behind these bars. Then I can tell the photographer has climbed aboard and turned outward, because she chronicles her quick ascent by the backyard’s sinking away.
I’ve worked through all three milk shakes now, vacuuming their dregs with my straw like a responsible elephant; the bags of fries tipped over a while back, their contents spilling across the table. “Geez, Mom, getting kind of porky there,” Tommy said as I served him Christmas dinner, sounding just like his father, though at least my son showed regret at my reaction. When Tommy’s around me, if he has a couple beers, he’ll occasionally relax and tell jokes, be himself, cough up some real-life details, but “himself” includes also a veil over the blue eyes when he glances in my direction, though I can see they are clear and healthy in themselves. I wish I could give him a camera, except that of course it would record hotel lobbies, the streets of Pittsburgh, his father’s collection of girlfriends; roll after roll would come up blank of me. When he’s thirty, will he change his tune? I’ve looked into this; some do, some don’t. My friend Cheryl says, “I’m lucky if Valerie’s even cordial to me, and she’ll be forty.”
From up high, Tanya’s lens finds the Conways standing way down at the corner of their yard, reaching up like dolls outside their dollhouse, black poodle a frantic blur at their feet. Next, night swallows them whole, and the focus shifts toward the top of each frame, where the lights of town begin to shine. Pretty soon, these lights slide to the middle and then out through the bottom, leaving the eye to roam across broad lands still favored by sunlight, then the chop and sparkle of the mid-Atlantic.
But who can look at that? I’d rather return to that first print in Tanya’s roll: Old Mrs. Dupree inside her classroom, last Wednesday. You can tell I’m straining to swivel my head and shoulders away, but too-too slow. Black and white wall clock behind me reads 1:42. I shut my eyes, because my neck’s crepey and plump from too many milkshakes, my face so gray and haggard, looking rattled, plain outwitted by what Samantha has just finished saying about the sleep-over, insisting, against all logic, “Anyway, that was a long time ago.” I lift the picture to my forehead and she pipes again: Every moment gets to be a long time ago. There’s a whole world to build, Mrs. Dupree, there’s a whole world to build. We’re busy.
I toss it, spinning, all the way onto the grimy mall floor, where it lands face-up like a clean window into Hell.
April Tiffani’s packet distracts me; she pays no attention to surroundings far or near but sets her sights on the interior of the fort, where nooks and dormers proliferate, rooms frame up and then wall over handsomely, equipping themselves with sleek next-generation computers I do not recognize, except (in one case) a home entertainment center presenting, floor to ceiling, a film of fast life and edgy power, young characters aching for one another, the plot dizzying me, somehow, even in stills. A teenaged male character flings off his shirt and immediately, as if he’s joking, makes muscles for his girlfriend. But the muscles aren’t joking.
Toward the middle of the roll, these new spaces spawn corridors with side-halls, some dead-ending, some leading to further passages, tighter, twistier, lamp sconces mounted all along and glowing soft violet to make the maze more difficult, more fun. April Tiffani captures girls disappearing around corners; popping out of cabinets with bluebells in their teeth; relaxing in bubble baths with suds like crowns on their heads and sipping from globe wine glasses filled (presumably) with grape juice; trying on ladies’ dresses cut to size; and, down toward the end, dancing singly and doubly in indigo spotlights over a walnut parquet floor, profiles heated but mature as if painted by a cool master, then posing in bay windows one at a time with a mammoth moon tilted behind them, expectant.
Rabelle, having finally bested the rope ladder and landed on some solid floor at altitude, has decided to take many self-portraits from arm’s length to show how baby fat has given way to nimble fighting form, flashbulb chiseling her face, now famished like a sport falcon’s. In the last few exposures, she seems to have handed the camera to another, because here’s a middle-distance Rabelle without a shirt, not a sexual series (she’s five!) but a flexing demonstration of muscle tone, definition running through her torso in classic ridge lines like steel cable straight off the spool.
Tommy used to tug at my hair in his sleep, winding it in his fingers so we were stuck together even after he opened his hand.
Last, I open Samantha Hedges, who has located a portal not too low and not too lofty to show her home. I recognize Paul and Barbara Hedges through that octagonal window of theirs. Hey, I’ve been in that place. Anthony and I used to socialize with them, I’d almost forgotten. And I don’t remember Paul wearing John Lennon glasses, either, but he must’ve sometimes, because there he sits on the living room couch, adjusting them and trying not to laugh. And there’s Barbara standing nearby, in her bathrobe, using her hands to talk. Those evenings at the Hedges’ were before they’d even birthed their daughter, and of course before Anthony left me and moved on, and years before Paul lost his life. In print after print, their conversation goes on. I flip through like a deck of cards and make their mouths move; could I actually reconstruct their conversation? At one point, Samantha appears, blip, with no fanfare, and not newborn but her current age, sitting next to her dad on the couch, laughing openly at what her parents are saying. She’s in her pajamas and ready for bed, no glasses. I pinch up the last burnt tip of french fry and poke it hard into the skin of my palm, causing absolutely no pain. And then, the girl looks directly at the camera, nods her head, and mouths, Every moment gets to be a long time ago, including this one. Probably, in order to achieve such an intimate angle, she had first to wander the false paths and trickster stairwells inside the play fort, battling her way back down. She says, Including this one.
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