to take the ladder into my capable hands. "Go on inside."
My mom and Marissa go into the house while I wrestle the ladder into the garage, bruising both shins in the process. Right
after I hoist the ladder onto its pegs, I remember the angel sitting in the nest. Shit. I'll go back for it later.
By the time I get inside the house, Marissa and my mom are standing in the Hall of Shame. It's the hallway leading from the living room to the family room, where about a dozen photos hang from the walls. "Who took all of these?" asks Marissa.
"Mostly me," says my mom.
They're all color shots, framed with white matting in black frames. Marissa examines them. My mom stands next to her, adding comments like, "That was our trip to Japan four years ago. We're standing in front of the Big Buddha. That's really what it's called, isn't that great? There's Garrett in his Little League uniform. Look at him getting ready for the pitch. Doesn't he look kind of terrified and focused all at the same time? He was about seven in that one. There's Blake meeting Captain Hook at Disneyland. See how he's posing for the camera with his hand on his hip, just like Captain Hook? He loved Captain Hook."
Marissa doesn't make polite oohs and ahhs like most of the captives who are forced to look at the Hall of Shame. She studies each photo intently, as if they're images of some primitive tribal culture.
"Of course, there's the obligatory wedding photo," says my mom, waving her hand at the eight-by-ten of her and Dad. It's not one of those posed wedding shots, though. It's a casual shot of the two of them grinning at each other, pieces of wedding cake in their hands. They look as if they're about to paste each other with cake.
"I'd better get going." Marissa turns to me suddenly. "Thanks for letting me take pictures in your garden."
"Thank
you
for letting me take pictures of your eye," I say.
"Oh, Blake," says my mom. "Did you really?"
I realize that my mom has not even asked about Marissa's eye. She's got mad diplomatic skills! "She got an elbow in the eye," I explain.
"Oh, dear."
Marissa zips up her backpack. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, then turns to my mom. "Nice meeting you."
"You, too, Marissa. Do you need a ride home?"
"No thanks, I'll take the bus," says Marissa. "Blake, will you e-mail me those photos?"
"Yep."
"Great!" She heads for the door. "Bye."
My mom follows her. "How far away do you live? I'd be happy to drive you."
Thinking about Marissa's grandma's house reminds me: I keep forgetting to ask about her mom going to rehab. But I don't want to ask in front of my mom.
"It's okay, Mrs. Hewson," says Marissa. "I can read on the bus."
"Benita. Call me Benita, please."
"Benita. Thanks. Bye."
And Marissa is gone.
CHAPTER TEN
Aside from being a guitar player or an athlete, there's no better profession
than that of photographer for attracting women.
âSpike McLernon's Laws of Photography
Have I mentioned how much I love summer?
Okay, technically, September is not summer, it's back-to-school time. But we've been having a heat wave lately, so it feels like summer. Girls are wearing small clothes, and that is beautiful.
Summer is bare legs in shorts and painted toenails peeking out of sandals and
yesss
... shoulders. Shannon's shoulders are the only ones I'm allowed to touch, but there are so many others to admire. Ahh.
As long as I'm discreet.
"Think they're real?" asks Shannon.
"Wh-what?"
She puts her face about an inch from mine. "That girl by Coffee Jones. The one in the white top. Nice rack, huh?"
I feel my eyes wanting to roll wildly, like a spooked horse, because I know I'm trapped. "Uhâ"
Houston, we have a problem. Please advise.
"That girl you were looking at," she clarifies.
The Houston in my head reminds me that the best defense is an offense. "Oh,
that
girl!" I exclaim, smacking my forehead. "Yeah.
Nice.
" I waggle my eyebrows. "You want me to see if I can find out her name? Maybe we can get her
My mom and Marissa go into the house while I wrestle the ladder into the garage, bruising both shins in the process. Right
after I hoist the ladder onto its pegs, I remember the angel sitting in the nest. Shit. I'll go back for it later.
By the time I get inside the house, Marissa and my mom are standing in the Hall of Shame. It's the hallway leading from the living room to the family room, where about a dozen photos hang from the walls. "Who took all of these?" asks Marissa.
"Mostly me," says my mom.
They're all color shots, framed with white matting in black frames. Marissa examines them. My mom stands next to her, adding comments like, "That was our trip to Japan four years ago. We're standing in front of the Big Buddha. That's really what it's called, isn't that great? There's Garrett in his Little League uniform. Look at him getting ready for the pitch. Doesn't he look kind of terrified and focused all at the same time? He was about seven in that one. There's Blake meeting Captain Hook at Disneyland. See how he's posing for the camera with his hand on his hip, just like Captain Hook? He loved Captain Hook."
Marissa doesn't make polite oohs and ahhs like most of the captives who are forced to look at the Hall of Shame. She studies each photo intently, as if they're images of some primitive tribal culture.
"Of course, there's the obligatory wedding photo," says my mom, waving her hand at the eight-by-ten of her and Dad. It's not one of those posed wedding shots, though. It's a casual shot of the two of them grinning at each other, pieces of wedding cake in their hands. They look as if they're about to paste each other with cake.
"I'd better get going." Marissa turns to me suddenly. "Thanks for letting me take pictures in your garden."
"Thank
you
for letting me take pictures of your eye," I say.
"Oh, Blake," says my mom. "Did you really?"
I realize that my mom has not even asked about Marissa's eye. She's got mad diplomatic skills! "She got an elbow in the eye," I explain.
"Oh, dear."
Marissa zips up her backpack. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, then turns to my mom. "Nice meeting you."
"You, too, Marissa. Do you need a ride home?"
"No thanks, I'll take the bus," says Marissa. "Blake, will you e-mail me those photos?"
"Yep."
"Great!" She heads for the door. "Bye."
My mom follows her. "How far away do you live? I'd be happy to drive you."
Thinking about Marissa's grandma's house reminds me: I keep forgetting to ask about her mom going to rehab. But I don't want to ask in front of my mom.
"It's okay, Mrs. Hewson," says Marissa. "I can read on the bus."
"Benita. Call me Benita, please."
"Benita. Thanks. Bye."
And Marissa is gone.
CHAPTER TEN
Aside from being a guitar player or an athlete, there's no better profession
than that of photographer for attracting women.
âSpike McLernon's Laws of Photography
Have I mentioned how much I love summer?
Okay, technically, September is not summer, it's back-to-school time. But we've been having a heat wave lately, so it feels like summer. Girls are wearing small clothes, and that is beautiful.
Summer is bare legs in shorts and painted toenails peeking out of sandals and
yesss
... shoulders. Shannon's shoulders are the only ones I'm allowed to touch, but there are so many others to admire. Ahh.
As long as I'm discreet.
"Think they're real?" asks Shannon.
"Wh-what?"
She puts her face about an inch from mine. "That girl by Coffee Jones. The one in the white top. Nice rack, huh?"
I feel my eyes wanting to roll wildly, like a spooked horse, because I know I'm trapped. "Uhâ"
Houston, we have a problem. Please advise.
"That girl you were looking at," she clarifies.
The Houston in my head reminds me that the best defense is an offense. "Oh,
that
girl!" I exclaim, smacking my forehead. "Yeah.
Nice.
" I waggle my eyebrows. "You want me to see if I can find out her name? Maybe we can get her
Similar Books
