“Still, there’s a guy. Right here.”
I didn’t see what Jack was so bothered by. “I really don’t think that’s a self-portrait,” I said.
“Yeah, but she kept a picture of him, Evan. You don’t keep a picture of a total stranger.”
“It was in her drawer. It’s not like she had it up.”
“But maybe she wanted to keep him a secret, okay? Maybe he’s a secret.”
No, I wanted to say. She was ours.
“There’s no way he goes to our school,” I said. “Even with two thousand kids, you’d remember that hair.”
The air was getting dark; night was blooming. I opened the rest of the drawers in the room, more gently this time, but couldn’t find anything else. No image. No word.
“We should go,” Jack said. “Clean up and go.”
Go go go go go go go go. Why is it such a short word? Shouldn’t it be the same length as STOP?
I held up Sparrow’s picture.
“People will remember him,” I said. “Someone will recognize him. He’s the key.”
10
I never kept a calendar.
I had no idea what I’d been doing on 11/11. Or 11/14.
Had I been with you? For at least part of it? Had you seen Jack? Were you off with people we didn’t know? Or people we did know?
I tried to remember other people. I tried to remember other people in your life. “My secret girlfriend,” you joked. But nothing was there. Nothing I could reach. Or was it “my secret boyfriend”?
I was starting to think I was making up memories, just to have answers.
Our brain does that sometimes.
Or at least mine does.
You were never able to trick yourself like that, were you?
10A
What had I given you that you could keep? Not photographs. Other things.
Words and words and words and words. Mostly in person, or on the computer.
I should have given you my own ink.
Why? So you would have had more to leave behind?
I hadn’t looked in your room for the roses, but I figured I would have seen them if they’d been there. Do you remember? It had been our arbitrary anniversary. Last year, near the end of the school year, so probably June.
“We don’t have an anniversary,” you’d said as we walked home from school. “We should have an anniversary.”
“How about today?” I said. “If we’re going to have an arbitrary anniversary, it might as well be today. We’ll be celebrating the anniversary of the day we came up with our arbitrary anniversary.”
You’d smiled. “I like that. I like that a lot.”
We gave each other two hours to plan. Then we’d go to Brookner Park to celebrate.
I’d never given anybody flowers before, but I’d always wanted to. So I went into town, to the florist, and I got roses. I didn’t want red ones, because it wasn’t like this was a romantic anniversary (“except in the poetry sense,” you would have added). So I went with a dark yellow—the color of the sun just before it turns orange. I had them wrapped, and signed a card and everything. After that, I went out and bought some of your favorite foods—peach salsa, lemon yogurt, almond cookies. Then, since I’d covered the anniversary, I stopped in a couple more stores for the arbitrary part. Salad tongs. A gobstopper. Birdseed. Somethings.
I was ten minutes early to the park and you were ten minutes late. This was about our usual ratio. You were rushed, flustered.
“I stopped at home and—oh my God—it was like I couldn’t get back out, because Mom was home early, and she was asking me about homework, and it’s like she thought I was still in seventh grade, so when I went to go back out, she was all like, ‘Where are you going?’ and I told her I was going out, and she was like, ‘I can see that,’ and I just didn’t know what to say, you know? I knew there was something to say, but I just didn’t know what it was. So instead of making it better, I left, and I’m sure when I get back, she’s going to be seething. I swear, that house keeps getting smaller and smaller. Soon it’s going to be an exquisite birdcage.”
You were quiet with other people. This wasn’t your usual talking. This was you with me.
I held the flowers out to you. Remember?
“Happy arbitrary anniversary,” I said.
Your eyes grew wide and you put your hand over your mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“I totally forgot our arbitrary anniversary, honey!”
For a second, I believed you. Then you laughed.
“Just kidding.”
You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small box, the kind that rings come in.
I handed you the flowers and you handed me the box.
I held my breath a little as I opened it. I remember that.
“I figured each of our arbitrary anniversaries can have a theme. So this will be our Cat’s Eye anniversary.”
Inside the box was a marble, a bigger-than-usual marble. Completely black glass.
Cat’s Eye.
I gave you everything I’d collected, but none of it seemed to add up to that single marble.
It was a good night. We talked, joked. Jack called a couple of times, but you didn’t answer. Nobody else called. I couldn’t remember anybody else ever calling, except your parents.
Nobody else.
When the time came for us to head home, I noticed that the roses were already wide open. They wouldn’t last much longer than the day.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “They were closed tighter in the shop.”
“That’s okay,” you told me. “I like them better when they’re dried up. I’ll keep them for years. Until our Get Rid of the Roses anniversary.”
And I kept the Cat’s Eye. Until it disappeared.
Did you steal it one day when you were in my room? Or did I lose it? Either way, isn’t it my fault for not noticing?
Why was I thinking about this?
Oh, yes—the roses.
Something to keep.
Something gone.
11
Jack and I had an advantage over the photographer: We had four photographs she didn’t know we had. I was assuming it was a she because handwriting doesn’t lie.
But, of course, the advantage meant nothing if we didn’t know what to do with it.
11A
I took Sparrow’s photo to lunch. There was no way Jack could have asked his friends about it—it would be too out of character; there would be too many questions. So I was left showing it to my friends. They wouldn’t think there was anything out of the ordinary about me being out of the ordinary. I didn’t tell them where I’d gotten it—I just said I was wondering if any of them had seen this guy around. And as they responded, I couldn’t help thinking about you you you and how they knew you.
Matt was actually your first boyfriend—or “first ex-boyfriend,” as you would tease him. In fifth grade. Or maybe sixth. It lasted a few months, just so you could get something from him for Valentine’s Day. I think it was over on February 15th. He would tease you about it, even when you weren’t in the mood for teasing. He couldn’t tell the difference. said, “Dude, look at that hair! I’ve never seen anyone at this school try that out.”
Fiona had been friends with you—maybe even good friends—until you started spending all your time with Jack and, to a lesser extent, me. She was shaken after everything that happened, but not to the point that she felt the guilt as well as the shock. studied the picture for a while. Then she turned it over, read the caption, and handed it back to me. “Nothing,” she said. “Sorry.”
Katie thought you were a downer. She even said it to me once, shortly before: “I just can’t spend too much time with her. She’s a downer.” I give her points for being the one to admit it. But did she ever ask herself why? said, “He kind of looks like you. Not the hair, obviously. But there’s something about him that reminds me of you.”
Charlie was drunk one time and asked me why I wasn’t the one sleeping with you. That’s how he put it. told Katie she was out of her mind. But he didn’t recognize Sparrow, either.
Who else would know? When you were here, in this cafeteria, Please come back. Please. you’d usually sit with Jack and his friends. When he talked to you, you seemed to fit in, but when someone else was talking, or he would be distracted, you just looked lonely over there. At least to me. But whenever I would tell you that, you’d say, “I’m fine. I just slip out of it, you know?” And I’d say, “I’ll catch you,” and you would say, “It’s not the kind of slipping you can catch.”
“Where did you get that?” Fiona asked. She wasn’t staring at the photograph—her green eyes were focused on me, only me. “If it was your photo, you’d know who was in it.”
“I found it,” I said, knowing how lame this sounded. “In the hall. I figured whoever it was would want it back.”
“I still think it looks like you,” Katie said.
“Whatever,” Charlie said.
I felt foolish for trying. And part of me wanted to give in to the foolishness—to make copies of the photos and hang them around the halls like Wanted posters—asking Have you seen this man? Maybe offering a reward. As a way of solving this uncertainty mystery. Only, if I did that, the photographer would know. She would see it, and she would retreat. She’d cover her trail. You and I are walking in the snow. “Why are you walking backwards?” I ask. You point in the direction we came from. “So they’ll think that’s where I’m going.” You point to where we’re going. “And that’s where I’m from.”
I changed the conversation. I thought I’d gone unnoticed. But after school, Fiona tracked me down.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I shoved my books in my locker. Closed it.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You’ve been weird for a week now. Something’s going on.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumbled. Then I realized I was staring at the ground, not her. She’d never believe me if I didn’t look at her. So I did, and the expression on her face was part pity, part annoyance, part understanding.
“It’s like—” she said. Then stopped.
“What? What is it like?” I asked.
11B
That night, I broke about a hundred promises to myself and looked at your old online profile. I thought maybe there’d be some answers there. Or evidence.
It said your last log-in was the day in the clearing. You must’ve checked it before we went to school. Before the three of us left to hang out. Before.
Fiona’s expression didn’t change. “It’s like right before it happened with Ariel, Evan. I know I wasn’t there, but I was around it. I saw things. I remember how overwhelmed you were.”
“It’s not like that,” I argued.
It was painful to see you frozen like that, frozen in time. It wasn’t like you were smiling in your profile picture, or even happy—even though there were times you were happy anything something and there were times you were smiling kittens! playing poker!; you just weren’t the type to parade them. Instead it was a shot I had taken of you leaning against my bed, staring me down. I’d been so excited when you chose it for your profile pic. So honored. Ridiculous.