field. She remembered him distinctly now. She probably even had a letter or two from him stuffed away somewhere back home.
Unbelievable.
He had grown up very nicely, she couldn’t help noting. He was both wiry and muscular, her favorite type. His hair was darker and wavier, but his face was the same. She’d loved his face when she was a little kid.
She watched him with a pounding heart and a scrambling mind. His house was down close to the river. They’d spent hours and hours collecting rocks together, certain that every one was an ancient arrowhead and that they could sell it for big bucks to the Indian Mound Museum in downtown Florence.
Billy threw the ball in from the sidelines. She moved quickly out of his way. He looked at her and through her.
She wasn’t worried about him recognizing her. Back then she’d been skinny, yellow-haired, and full of joy. Now she was heavy, muddy-haired, and full of care. She might as well be a different person.
It was a relief, in a way. Sometimes it felt like a relief to be invisible.
Tibby sat on the outside of a group of kids in the film program. There was a lot of dark clothing and heavy footwear, and quite a few piercings glinting in the sunlight. They had invited her to sit with them while they all finished up their lunches before film seminar. Tibby knew that they had invited her largely because she had a ring in her nose. This bugged her almost as much as when people excluded her because she had a ring in her nose.
A girl named Katie complained about her roommate while Tibby chewed listlessly on pasta salad. It had as much taste as her sleeve. She chewed and nodded, nodded and chewed. It was a good thing she’d been born with her friends, Tibby realized, because she was terrible at making them.
A few minutes later she followed the group up the stairs of the arts building and into the classroom. She sat on the edge so there would be empty seats next to her. Partly she wanted to lessen her commitment to this particular group. Mostly she was waiting for Alex.
Her heart sped up when he arrived with Maura and sat down next to Tibby. Maura sat on his other side. Granted, they were the only two empty seats together left in the room.
The instructor, Mr. Russell, organized his papers. “All right, class.” He held up his hands. “As you know, this is your project seminar. This class is not about listening but about doing.”
Alex was taking notes in his binder. Tibby couldn’t resist glancing at them.
Class about doing.
Was he joking? He glanced at Tibby. Yes, he was joking.
“You’re each going to make a film this summer, and you’ll have nearly the entire term to do it. You’ll spend a lot of time out in the world and a little time in this class.”
Alex was now drawing a picture. It was Mr. Russell, only his head was very tiny and his hands were very large. It was a pretty good picture. Did Alex know Tibby was peeking at it? Did he mind?
“The assignment,” Mr. Russell went on, “is to make a biographical piece. Focus the film on somebody who’s played an important role in your life. You are welcome to use scripts and actors or to make a documentary. It’s up to you.”
Tibby had an idea of what she wanted to do. It just arrived in her head. It arrived in the image of Bailey. Her friend Bailey, last summer, sitting against the slatted blinds in Tibby’s bedroom window with the sunlight sliding through in the last month of her twelve-year-long life. It made Tibby’s eyes ache. She looked to her left.
Up to you,
Alex wrote in flowery calligraphy under the picture of Mr. Russell.
Tibby rubbed her eyes. No, she didn’t want to do that idea. She couldn’t do that idea. She didn’t permit herself to even give that idea a worded tag in her brain. She let it float back out the way it had come.
For the rest of the class she felt haunted by the feeling of the idea, even though the idea itself was gone. She forgot about Alex and his notes. Her
Unbelievable.
He had grown up very nicely, she couldn’t help noting. He was both wiry and muscular, her favorite type. His hair was darker and wavier, but his face was the same. She’d loved his face when she was a little kid.
She watched him with a pounding heart and a scrambling mind. His house was down close to the river. They’d spent hours and hours collecting rocks together, certain that every one was an ancient arrowhead and that they could sell it for big bucks to the Indian Mound Museum in downtown Florence.
Billy threw the ball in from the sidelines. She moved quickly out of his way. He looked at her and through her.
She wasn’t worried about him recognizing her. Back then she’d been skinny, yellow-haired, and full of joy. Now she was heavy, muddy-haired, and full of care. She might as well be a different person.
It was a relief, in a way. Sometimes it felt like a relief to be invisible.
Tibby sat on the outside of a group of kids in the film program. There was a lot of dark clothing and heavy footwear, and quite a few piercings glinting in the sunlight. They had invited her to sit with them while they all finished up their lunches before film seminar. Tibby knew that they had invited her largely because she had a ring in her nose. This bugged her almost as much as when people excluded her because she had a ring in her nose.
A girl named Katie complained about her roommate while Tibby chewed listlessly on pasta salad. It had as much taste as her sleeve. She chewed and nodded, nodded and chewed. It was a good thing she’d been born with her friends, Tibby realized, because she was terrible at making them.
A few minutes later she followed the group up the stairs of the arts building and into the classroom. She sat on the edge so there would be empty seats next to her. Partly she wanted to lessen her commitment to this particular group. Mostly she was waiting for Alex.
Her heart sped up when he arrived with Maura and sat down next to Tibby. Maura sat on his other side. Granted, they were the only two empty seats together left in the room.
The instructor, Mr. Russell, organized his papers. “All right, class.” He held up his hands. “As you know, this is your project seminar. This class is not about listening but about doing.”
Alex was taking notes in his binder. Tibby couldn’t resist glancing at them.
Class about doing.
Was he joking? He glanced at Tibby. Yes, he was joking.
“You’re each going to make a film this summer, and you’ll have nearly the entire term to do it. You’ll spend a lot of time out in the world and a little time in this class.”
Alex was now drawing a picture. It was Mr. Russell, only his head was very tiny and his hands were very large. It was a pretty good picture. Did Alex know Tibby was peeking at it? Did he mind?
“The assignment,” Mr. Russell went on, “is to make a biographical piece. Focus the film on somebody who’s played an important role in your life. You are welcome to use scripts and actors or to make a documentary. It’s up to you.”
Tibby had an idea of what she wanted to do. It just arrived in her head. It arrived in the image of Bailey. Her friend Bailey, last summer, sitting against the slatted blinds in Tibby’s bedroom window with the sunlight sliding through in the last month of her twelve-year-long life. It made Tibby’s eyes ache. She looked to her left.
Up to you,
Alex wrote in flowery calligraphy under the picture of Mr. Russell.
Tibby rubbed her eyes. No, she didn’t want to do that idea. She couldn’t do that idea. She didn’t permit herself to even give that idea a worded tag in her brain. She let it float back out the way it had come.
For the rest of the class she felt haunted by the feeling of the idea, even though the idea itself was gone. She forgot about Alex and his notes. Her
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