Never Enough (5 page)

I spent the lunch hour alone on the grass outside the back of the school, and after last class I left the building before the bell finished ringing, my book bag already packed for home.

I sulked quietly in my room for about an hour before a faint tap sounded from the bathroom that joined my room on one side and Claire’s on the other.

I swallowed. I hadn’t heard Claire downstairs and I’d assumed—hoped—she had after-school plans.

“Come in,” I murmured.

Claire pushed through the door with a mug in her hand. Her head tilted to the side in concern, and in a second I knew she’d seen the turquoise paper. And worse, she wasn’t mad. Not at all. She pitied me.

I chafed a finger back and forth over the edge of my thumbnail. I didn’t want Claire and her perfect world anywhere near me right now.

“I heard about what happened,” she said, in this caring voice that reminded me of when we were younger. It was nothing like her strong and confident school voice, the voice she’d used at the lunch table yesterday. I don’t know how she pulled off a dual personality like that.

She held the mug out toward me and I noticed a few magazines in her other hand. “That Shayleen really doesn’t know when to stop.”

After a long second, I took the mug from her, smelling the sweet chocolate steam, and placed it on my nightstand without taking a sip. “Thanks,” I said.

She sat beside me on my bed. Years ago, Claire laid on my
bed daily, flipping through fashion magazines, going through quizzes, or asking my opinion on things, even though it was obvious way back then that she had better taste.

Silence fell between us. I think we both knew we wouldn’t be able to bond over stupid magazines anymore. But sitting with her did make me feel a little bit better.

Claire put her hand on my knee. “It’ll be okay, Loey. It will.”

The moment was sweet, like we’d gone back in time together. She wasn’t this popular, perfect person. She was just my sister. My sister who would make things better with Shayleen if I asked her to. Heck, she’d probably even break up with Josh if that’s what would make me happy.

There’s something peaceful about knowing that someone cares more about you than anything else in the world.

Even if it is only for a moment.

I had never been so glad for a weekend.

I didn’t have to put up with stares—or glares, in Shayleen’s case—from anyone at school. With all my homework done early on Saturday, I stared at the camera sitting on my desk. Every time I came back to it, it seemed intimidating all over again.

I skimmed through the instructions to where I’d left off. There was a lot to learn—about aperture, shutter speed and lens care, how to adjust the focus on different distances, ideas for placing my subjects—and this was just the basics!

I tried a few test shots around the house. Claire held a hand out like a stop sign whenever I came near her, but Mom was happy to be my first real subject.

My mother stood halfway between Claire and me in all respects: five-three, with hips like mine, yet lean like Claire. She had dull coffee-colored hair with more wave than Claire’s silk tresses and still miles from my frizzy coils. She had the ability to say all the right things, but could cackle in the middle of a library.

Mom waltzed through the house, saying, “Here, Loann, get a shot of me by the banister.” She moved with a flourish, like she was sure she’d missed her calling as a supermodel. Too bad her oversized Saturday work shirt and mussed-up hair didn’t complete the image. By the glint in her eye, though, I think she knew we were both out of our element and just having fun. “See, this is the kind of natural, spur-of-the-moment thing that makes a great photo, Loann,” she said, opening the oven door. We both burst out in laughter.

When Mom got bored with parading around and showcasing the household appliances, I focused my energy on nature. I photographed the oak tree in our backyard: tall, covered in new leaves, looming over our house like a bushy guardian. It was the perfect perch for sparrows, blue jays, and other small birds, but unfortunately there were none around today for me to capture on film. Focusing on the tree at different angles became my second choice.

The more photos I took, the more I wanted to search out and capture something deeper—better—from the world
around me. I explored for hours in our backyard. When I found something—a blade of grass from inches away, or a spider building its web—my heart sped up and I fumbled my fingers over the intricate adjustments of my new camera to frame it.

Click.

I headed into the house for a drink and found Claire stretched out on the living room floor, flipping through a beauty magazine. I’m sure she went through about a hundred of them a day, with grad coming up. She was constantly trying to figure out the perfect hair or makeup or shoes, and with her intense focus she must not have heard me. Before she could say no, I pulled the camera to my eye to adjust the zoom.

Claire must have felt me there. She stared up at my camera, then gave me the strangest look. Her eyes pulled together and her jaw tensed. I tried to read her face, but her hair fell in front of it as she looked back at her magazine.

The moment was gone. I’d missed it. I lowered my camera in disappointment. It would have been a great shot. Skipping my drink, I pushed my way back out the front door and snapped pictures until I’d used all of my film.

I didn’t have to ask Mom to develop my first rolls, probably because she knew she was on them. She took them off my dresser when she picked up my laundry, and returned the photos later that day.

I sighed as I started to skim through them. The lack of vibrancy and spontaneity showed just an album’s worth of ordinary. My heart sank. I thought some of them might actually be good.

Then I came to a photo of the oak tree. I’d taken this one looking up the trunk. The sunlight shone between the leaves in trickles, and the shadows gave the tree an almost unearthly largeness. This was exactly what Mr. Dewdney had meant about getting the shadows right.

There was another photo with a luminous glow surrounding the tree. I’d probably missed it with the aperture, but it looked kind of cool, like a glimpse of heaven. I leaned the photos against the mirror of my dresser and flipped through the rest, thinking:
Not bad for my first time
.

I had completely forgotten about Shayleen and Deirdre until they walked down
the school hall toward me on Monday morning.

Before they saw me, I ducked my head and rounded the corner away from them. I didn’t start to relax until I saw Marcus with his back to me at his locker.

I quickened my pace, but stopped when two guys decked out in their sports jerseys passed behind him. One of them gave Marcus a shove practically right into his locker.

“Fag,” the bigger one said, and then laughed to his friend. Next to lanky Marcus, the guys looked to be at least three times his breadth.

Marcus kept his hands braced on either side of his locker so he wouldn’t end up inside. The moment the jocks released
him, he straightened up but kept his head down and away from them. The two jocks chortled all the way down the hall. I looked both ways and it didn’t seem like anyone had noticed. No one except me.

“Hey,” I said tentatively, keeping my eyes on my lock as I dialed my combination.

“Hey, Curly.” His humor-infused tone surprised me, like the bullying hadn’t affected him at all. He grabbed a binder and flipped it open to check its contents. “Guess I’ll see you in the green room,” he said, reaching over and tugging lightly on a tendril of my hair before he shut his locker and walked away.

*   *   *

In drama, Shayleen and Deirdre sat in their usual seats, chattering like parakeets with the rest of the overanxious front-row students. They ignored me. I stood near the door and scanned the classroom, but I already knew where I planned to sit. Sure enough, there was an open spot beside Marcus at the back.

“Curly,” he said, when I sat down in the empty chair.

“Hi, Chris.”

“That’s Mr. Columbus to you.”

I laughed, probably too loudly, and Shayleen turned to glare at me. I focused on Marcus. “Truce. Marcus, all right? I’ll call you Marcus.”

“Okay, Curly.” He smirked and then even laughed a little. “Okay, Loann.”

Marcus was nice, and funny. I couldn’t figure out why he was such a loner.

“You want to get a coffee after school, Lo-Ann?” He pronounced my name like it was two very long and separate names.

“Coffee?” was all I could get out, and seemed to be my entire vocabulary at the moment. I said it again. “Coffee?”

“Yes, coffee. Ever heard of it?”

Was this a date?
No, he didn’t say “movies” or “dinner” or any normal date stuff. He just meant coffee.

“Um . . . okay.”

Just then, Mr. Benson interrupted our conversation. “As you know, I was planning to do
Hometown Heroes
for our year-end production.” Shayleen and Deirdre immediately started whispering. Deirdre had obviously picked her side against me. I tried not to be offended. I wouldn’t want to go up against loud and domineering Shayleen either, if it were me. But still, it made me sad.

“The play has a large cast,” Mr. Benson went on, “and so I’m asking all of my junior and senior drama students to audition.” He scanned the room slowly, as if to reiterate that he meant every single one of us. I sighed inwardly. It would have been one thing to audition with Shayleen and Deirdre. In years past, we’d spent afternoons running lines with one another, anxiously awaiting our turn on the stage. I’d gotten
a bit part one year, but usually I just helped backstage. As I glanced toward Shayleen, she turned to me with an obvious sneer. “Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough interest for a stagecraft class this year,” Mr. Benson rambled on, “and without much money in the budget . . .”

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Marcus’s arm go up. When Mr. Benson nodded in his direction, Marcus said, “Loann and I don’t mind working on the set. During drama block, I mean.”

Mr. Benson stared at Marcus for a few seconds, which gave me a chance to process this statement. Okay, he obviously didn’t want to audition either. But besides that, I wouldn’t mind not having to face Shayleen every day in class. Another thought hit me:
Was Marcus trying to find a way to be alone with me?
I swallowed a lump in my throat. Sure, I’d swooned over Josh for years, but with Marcus, I don’t know, it seemed realistic for there to be a mutual attraction. Possible.

Mr. Benson cleared his throat. “Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know about the
two
of you—”

My face warmed as I wondered if Mr. Benson could read my mind.

“Oh, come on, Mr. B.” Everyone stared at Marcus as he said this. “I can’t do it alone. You’d normally have a full crew, and we’ll get the job done, I promise.”

Mr. Benson looked back and forth between us. I nodded
in agreement for good measure. A guy across the room made a catcall in our direction, but Marcus and I ignored him, staring down the teacher.

Finally Mr. Benson sighed. “All right. See me after class.”

For the next forty minutes, Marcus and I snuck looks at each other, and by the way his fingers thrummed on the side of his chair, I knew he was excited about this. Which made my excitement bubble up too.

When Mr. Benson showed us backstage, my face fell. It was cluttered with what looked like decade-old debris. I didn’t know a thing about set construction, even if we did have the proper supplies, which clearly we did not. But my stomach still did a flip at the thought of hanging out alone in the dimly lit area with Marcus.
That
part still seemed exciting.

“Looks great,” Marcus said.

I had no idea what he was thinking, but I nodded anyway.

Mr. Benson looked us both over. “Now I can . . . trust you two alone together, right?”

My face instantly heated about four hundred degrees, but Marcus laughed, louder than I’d ever heard him. He gave a little push to my shoulder. “Of course, Mr. Benson,” he said. “Loann’s like my sister.”

I swallowed. Really, Marcus and I hardly knew each other, but was it such a ridiculous notion that we could be more
than friends? I tried to keep an even smile for Mr. Benson’s benefit, but I could feel my lip trembling.

“All right, then. You kids can come here for drama block, and keep me informed each week on your progress. You’ll find old props and costumes in the cupboards in the wings, as well as up on the platform.” He pointed to an overhead storage area stacked with boxes about halfway up to the lighting catwalk. “And I’ll print you both a copy of the script. You’ll be graded accordingly.”

After Mr. Benson left, I turned to Marcus, waiting for him to fill me in on his plan. Because he must have some kind of plan, right? I felt a little irked about the “sister” comment, and I crossed my arms. “So. Where do we start?” I demanded.