Curveball : The Year I Lost My Grip (9780545393119) (12 page)

By the time Monday rolled around, my head and stomach had mostly settled back into feeling like parts of my body. My legs were extraordinarily tight and sore, but other than that, I was ready to get back to school. I was even eager to get to photography class to see Angelika.

I walked in and found a quote written on the board:

 

W
E PHOTOGRAPHERS DEAL IN THINGS WHICH ARE CONTINUALLY VANISHING
,
AND WHEN THEY HAVE VANISHED THERE IS NO CONTRIVANCE ON EARTH WHICH CAN MAKE THEM COME BACK AGAIN
. W
E CANNOT DEVELOP AND PRINT A MEMORY
. ~HCB

 

I sat down, and Ange came in right behind me. Ange? Ugh. Now I was calling her that. Anyway, I
wasn't sure if she would still be mad from my weekend escapades, but she smiled and said, “Feeling better today?” I smiled back and nodded. “Did you go running with Adam?” I nodded, but thought,
How does she know that?
I wasn't sure it was a good idea to have Angelika getting all palsy-walsy with AJ.

Mr. Marsh strode in and said, “Hey, guys, happy Monday! Now, we got lots ta do today. I wanna check out yer candids, or at least the ones ya got so far.”

Several people walked up to the board and pinned up their photos. Mr. Marsh walked down the line of prints, saying, “Crap, crap, ka-rapppp! ka-rappp! crap, decent, decent, crap, ka-rappp!”

Danny, the senior dude, muttered, “Tell us how you
really
feel, Mr. Marsh.”

“Danny, did you take these three photos in the middle?” Mr. Marsh tapped on a trio of close-up shots of a bunch of cheerleaders hanging all over each other in front of some lockers.

Danny nodded. “Yeah, I did. So? They're all in focus, right? And even though the light in the senior hallway is horrible, the exposure looks good, too.
Doesn't it? Plus, look at the composition. See how the girls' faces make a pyramid? I thought that had great visual irony. 'Cause they're cheerleaders, right? And it's a pyramid. So …”

“So,” Mr. Marsh said, icily, “you ignored the stated assignment completely. These aren't candid shots. They're the most posed pictures I've ever seen!”

“Yeah, but —”

“Danny, in twenty-five years, is this how these girls will want to remember their time at this school?”

“Sure. Why not? They were
loving
the camera.
They
were the ones who were getting all excited about posing. Plus, in twenty-five years, they'll probably be, like, all sagged out and old, right? So they'll go to their yearbook, and they'll show their daughters these shots. And they'll say, ‘See? I was a complete
babe
when I was your age!'”

“I see. And is this how their fellow students will want to remember them?”

“Uh, I know this is how
I'll
want to remember them.”

“San,” Mr. Marsh said, “what was it you said the other day about the goal of candid photography?”

San had been in his usual near-comatose state of relaxation, leaning all the way back in his chair with his feet perched on his desk. He suddenly sat up straight so that the front legs of his chair slammed to the floor with a sharp
Spanggg!
“Truth, Mr. Marsh.” He put his feet back up, rearranged his hands behind his head, and within three seconds, he was totally still again.

“Truth!” Mr. Marsh said. “These shots might be in focus, Danny. They might have textbook-perfect exposure. They might be well-composed. But they're not the truth. They're, like, the
High School Musical
version of the truth. And I am not tryin' ta produce the Walt Disney High School yearbook.”

Erika, who probably felt like she should stand up for her fellow senior, chimed in: “So what are you telling us? Are you saying we're not supposed to make people look
good
in their own yearbook?”

“Of course ya want 'em ta look good, Erika. But Henri Cartier-Bresson would tell you it isn't yer job ta
make
'em look good. It's yer job ta
catch
'em lookin' good! That way, they have the moment forever. In fact, ya know what? That's yer new assignment, guys: Find somebody — anybody — and catch 'em lookin' good.”

 

After school that day, Angelika and I were hanging out on the steps. Her mom was going to pick her up a little late, so I decided to keep her company. She was kind of pumped up with Mr. Marsh's new idea: Catch 'Em Lookin' Good! “Pete, this is perfect! Your grampa used to take pictures of all your games, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because this year, obviously, he won't be shooting the baseball games.”

“And that's perfect how?”

“Well, somebody has to shoot those games so Adam has pictures to send to his dad. In fact, that's going to be my project. I'll make a portfolio of Adam in action.”

“Why AJ? Why not me?”

“You know why it won't be you.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked away from me and said, “Pete, I
know
.”

Have you ever gotten that sudden heart-lurching feeling, like your heart just stopped and it's not going to beat again? That's what happened to me at that instant. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you're not going to be playing baseball, OK? My dad is an X-ray technician. I told him about your osteochondritis dissecans thing, and he asked around.”

“Uh, well, I —”

“Don't lie to me, Peter. I forgave the drinking thing — once — but I don't do lying.”

I didn't say anything for what felt like minutes. When neither of us could take another instant of silence, she said, “It's true, right? You can't play baseball anymore?”

I nodded. She said, “I'm so sorry, Pete. And I'm not mad at you for not telling me. But why haven't you fessed up to AJ?”

“I've tried to tell him. Like ten times. He doesn't listen. I say, ‘I don't think I'm going out for the team,' and he just goes, ‘Yes, you are, dude!'”

“But you haven't just told him the facts, straight out. I know you haven't. He talked to me about it the other night when you were, um, sleeping.”

“This isn't about AJ. It's about me.”

“So your best friend doesn't deserve to know what's going on?”

I felt a flash of anger. “It's not AJ's problem, is it?”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“AJ's not the one who screwed up, is he? AJ's not the one who knew he was wrecking his arm, but didn't freaking tell anyone for a whole season. AJ's the one who can throw eighty miles an hour all day without even sweating, so AJ never had to worry about trying to throw harder and harder until his elbow exploded. And now AJ's going to be the stud pitcher as a freshman. So I don't see how it's AJ's freaking problem that he'll be getting his picture taken by my girlfriend while I'm sitting in the stands alone eating a stupid hot dog!”

Oopsie. That might have come out a tad more forcefully than I'd meant it to. Angelika didn't seem pleased. “Well, maybe it won't be that way,” she said.

“What do you mean? I just admitted I'm not going to be playing, OK?”

“No, that's not what I mean. Maybe your
girlfriend
won't be taking pictures of AJ. Because if you don't trust people with your secrets, and if you get this jealous all the time, maybe I won't
be
your girlfriend!”

Ouch. “Wait, I wasn't trying to yell at you, OK? It's just — this year has been really horrendous for me.”

She raised an eyebrow. I barreled on. “I had this whole fantasy. AJ and I were going to be the big star pitchers of the school. And instead he's going to be the star, and I'm crippled. Meanwhile, my grandfather is losing his freaking mind, and my parents don't believe it. Plus, he's telling me to lie to cover up for him.”

Angelika looked like I had just slapped her or something. “Ooh, you're right, Pete. This
has
been a terrible year for you. I'm sorry your life sucks so
much! Gee, if only you had
met somebody special
this year, or something …”

I had put my foot in my mouth again. Great. If I kept this up, pretty soon I'd be the only guy I knew with a case of Athlete's Tooth. Just then, with the perfect timing that I enjoy in so many aspects of my existence, Angelika's mom pulled up. “Uh …” I said.

“Bye, Pete.”

“Wait!” I shouted. Angelika's mom looked nervously at me, at her daughter's red face, and then back at me. “Can't we talk?”

“Gotta go,” Angelika said. “Why don't you tell AJ the truth?
Then
we can talk.”

 

Sitting alone on the front steps of school is embarrassing enough when you haven't just been left in the dust by a girl. But this was mortifying. So of course everyone I knew was staying late that day and happened to walk by while I was deciding what to do next. It was a veritable flood: AJ, surrounded by a group of his basketball friends. Danny from photography. My homeroom teacher. My biology lab
partner, Matt. Then, finally, when it seemed like the entire building had to be empty, San Lee.

Everybody else accepted my weak little half-wave maneuver and kept walking, but San actually sat down next to me. It was kind of weird. He and I had never really spoken — in fact, as far as I knew, he rarely spoke much at all. Yet, here we were: a very tense freshman and a junior who looked like he might fall asleep any second. “Hey,” San said, stretching his legs out in front of him so he was leaning back on his elbows. “What's going on?”

“Nothing.”

He raised one eyebrow. It's amazing how many people do that to me. “Really?” he said. “Because you look pretty bummed.”

“I'm fine. Really.”

There went that eyebrow again.

“Look, thanks for asking. But I don't want to talk about it.”

“Did you have a fight with Angelika?”

I forced myself to laugh. “Angelika? Angelika who? Oh, you mean that girl in photography?”

The brow shot up even higher.
Watch out, San
, I thought.
If somebody hits you on the back right now, you could be stuck that way for life.
At least that was what my mom had always told me whenever I started crossing my eyes at dinner to make Samantha laugh.

“Yeah, that girl in photography. The one who's been your partner all year. Come on, like you don't know you're the pet freshman couple of the class?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I had a fight with Angelika. What do you care, anyway? And why are you even around this late?”

“I'm around this late because my girlfriend is inside practicing for the talent show. And I care because — well, what the heck? I'm sitting here anyway. I might as well be trying to help somebody.”

“Uh, thanks. I guess. But there's nothing anybody can do to solve the problem right now. You have any advice for how to stop feeling like I just got chewed up and spit out?”

He closed his eyes and thought about that one for a while. Then, all of a sudden, a shadow fell on us. I looked up, and a girl was standing there, holding a banged-up guitar case and smiling down at San. She
was pretty, in a frizzy-headed semi-hippie-ish kind of way. She kicked his foot, and he said, “Hey, Emily.” Then he stood up and they kissed for so long I was embarrassed to be sitting there.

When the epic lip-lock finally broke, Emily said, “What's up, San?”

He gestured down at me. “My freshman companion here has a problem. He wants to know what to do when you feel totally bummed about a problem you can't solve.”

“Hi, freshman companion — uh, what's your name?”

“Pete,” I said.

“Hi, Pete. You know, San and I have both been in this situation, and do you know what we did?”

I just looked at her blankly. How was I supposed to know what they had done? I barely even knew him, and all I knew about her was that she had big hair, and kissed with great fervor.

“We both did the exact same thing, and it totally worked.”

“Oh, yeah? What was it?”

“We found somebody who needed help, and then we helped them. It sounds corny, but once you start helping people, your own stuff just kind of … well … falls into place. Come on, San.”

He bent his knees and kind of crouched down so his eyes were just above the level of mine. “You going to be all right?”

“I, uh, I guess so. I think I'll be going now, before anybody else stops by to give me unsolicited couples therapy.” He stood and started to walk away, hand in hand with Emily.

I felt bad as soon as the words had come out of my mouth. This was the second time in an hour I had snapped at somebody who tried to give me advice. “Wait,” I said. They both turned. “Thanks,” I said. “But who am I supposed to help?”

“Who needs it the most?” San asked. Then he and Emily strolled across the front walkway of the school, and got into the last car in the student parking lot.