Autofocus (15 page)

We let go and swing away, untwisting as we go, and I feel
both faint and shy from our embrace. This is all new, opening up to a guy. I don't know how to feel. I don't know how to do it.

“You're a good guy, you know,” I say, kicking his swing so it spins again.

“Oh god, that's the worst thing to hear,” he laughs. “Actually, I'm a pathetic guy. I keep hearing my story in my head and it sounds like such a sob story.”

“Hey, don't make fun of my friend's pathetic sob story.”

“Oh, so we're friends now?”

“Bennett. We shared a bedroom. I think we passed friends a long time go,” I say, and he smiles, and I can't help but blush at the thought that I made his face change like that.

We walk from the swing set back to the bikes, where they're locked up by a bus stop. There's a public board posted by a bench, full of Help Wanted, For Sale, and For One Night Only flyers. I browse them quickly, and just as I turn away, a bright orange poster catches my eye. It's right there, under a gig poster for a band called the New 52s—an art exhibit opening at Full Moon Café. The artist is named Jessica Cally.

Jessica Cally. I jerk toward Bennett and point it out to him.

“Isn't that . . .” he says, touching the sign.

“Yes!” I gasp. “Jessica Cally was in the picture with my mother.”

“Do you think it's the same person?”

I'm nearly jumping in excitement. “I don't know! Maybe?”

He grabs my shoulders and says, “We should go.”

“The opening was yesterday, though,” I say, noticing the date, and letting that information hit.

“I'm sure the show is still going on. We can call and ask when the artist will be there again.”

“True,” I say, not sure if it'll work, but eager enough to find out. “When I had my exhibit I was only there for the opening night, but mine was just a high school thing, and this is something bigger, right?”

“Right,” he says, removing his hands, and I toss the thoughts in my head. It can't hurt to look, right? I'm determined to try. If there's a chance I can see her, I'll take it, as small as it is.

I call the place and learn that, yes, Jessica Cally's exhibit is still up, and yes, she'll be there today around noon. My heart leaps with excitement, so I tell Bennett as soon as I hang up.

“She'll be there after twelve. We're gonna meet her!” I say giddily.

“We? I'm included this time?” he asks, but he doesn't look upset or insulted that I didn't let him stay last time.

“If you want,” I say, but I'm still not sure. It's important for me to go, I just don't know
how
I want to go.

“Tell you what. I have class at one. Campus is on the way to Full Moon, so let me show you around for a bit until
noon. Then you can decide. If you want company, I'll come along. If not, I'll just head off to class. Deal?”

“Aye aye, Holmes,” I say, and he smiles.

The campus is beautiful—all of the buildings are similar to the ones I saw just yesterday with Treena. Trees dot the sidewalks, and there are even a few small hills, which are nonexistent in Orlando. It
feels
like a college campus, which seems so foreign to me. And it's once again surreal thinking that seventeen years ago, my mother went here, too. She might have biked these streets, walked the paths.

“Okay, so here's one of my favorite buildings,” Bennett says, pulling up in front of another brick building, this one with a beautiful stained-glass entrance. Under panes of blue and yellow and green glass are the words “The half of knowledge is to know where to find knowledge.”

“That's kind of fitting, isn't it?” I ask.

“Especially for you.”

“So, does the act of finding where to find knowledge make us smarter?” I ask. “We don't know where to look for knowledge, but we're trying, and we're finding those places. Slowly.”

“I'd like to think so,” he agrees. I take out my camera and take a picture of the phrase, zooming in so it's the only thing in frame. I can feel Bennett watching me, even though I'm absorbed in the picture. Then I take a photo of some of the people walking, the students I might one day be.

“Come on, there's more to see.” Before he turns, I aim
my camera on Bennett and take a photo. He kicks off his bike and we pass the English building I visited that first day, and then we're going around a larger, more statuesque building with a fountain out front. He stops again, and I pause behind him.

“Okay, so this is the main auditorium on campus. A lot of big people come and speak here, like Elie Wiesel and B. B. King and Anthony Bourdain. But more importantly,” he says, turning toward the fountain, “this is the fountain.”

“How is the fountain more important than Elie Wiesel?”

Bennett smiles. “The fountain is important because it's tradition for people to be thrown in here on their birthdays.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Seriously! It's not just birthdays—celebrations and stuff. It's a bizarre thing, but I thought you should see it.”

“Have you been thrown in?” I ask, picturing him popping up from the water, soaking wet.

“Yeah, my second week here. I was one of the first. The water was . . . cold.”

“I bet,” I agree.

“Okay, next stop!” he says, pressing down and pedaling on. We ride behind the auditorium, and Bennett points out both the music and psychology buildings as we pass by. “The music dorm is supposedly haunted,” he says, still biking, and pointing to a dorm across the street.

“I think I've had enough of haunted buildings for one
trip,” I say, keeping up behind him, though it's harder now. We can't bike side by side as we were earlier. Instead we're single file on a sidewalk, avoiding other bikers and walkers.

“You're planning on majoring in photography, right?” he asks as we stop outside the lab I went to just yesterday.

“I don't know,” I say. “I mean, I want to, totally, but . . .”

“But your parents think it's not a good idea to major in it,” he finishes.

“Not that, exactly. I just—they know it's something I'm super passionate about, and know I want to and are supportive of it, but I think they also assumed I'd major in something more . . .”

“Lucrative?”

“Professional,” I say. “I mean, they're both professional. I don't know, I haven't really talked to them about it much.”

“Really?” he asks, surprised.

“Yeah.”

“You seem pretty open with them. I mean, they're cool with you searching out your mother and all . . .” he says, scratching his head.

“Kind of. I mean, they weren't like throwing me out the door to do it. They were wary, my mom especially. She's open about everything, but she's still . . . worried. They
are
supportive, and I know they wouldn't mind if I majored in it. . . . I guess I just want to make them proud and all that.”

“So let me ask you—what do you like about photography?”

I think about it for a second, then say, “I just do. I always have. It's part of me.” I pause, then add, “It's the process. The focusing in on something so you can show the perfect image.”

“You like the end result.”

“No. I mean, yeah, but I like the process of getting there.” And I realize what I'm saying as I'm saying it. I like the process. I'm
enjoying
this process, this uncovering of information about my mother. The daily documentation on my blog. The discovering and analyzing of things as I go, even if I don't understand them at the time. This slow developing to create some sort of story. I'm enjoying figuring everything out . . . including myself.

He nods and says, “My parents were cool with computer animation because I liked it. I'm sure yours are like that, too. They want you to be happy, not do what they want.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I don't know,” he says, stepping back onto his bike. “Just a hunch.”

I look at him, then ask, “What do you think my mother would want?”

“You'd know better than me,” he says, and the truth is, I don't. Not really. But I know she was a free spirit—I know she did what she wanted. Maybe she would have pushed me toward photography, toward what I really wanted, even if it was a bad decision. Maybe, sometimes, bad decisions are actually okay.

“I feel like, I don't know, I'd want to make her proud, too. Even though I don't know her.”

“Not weird at all. I mean, you don't know much about your mother, but you do know she wasn't, like, a crazy person, right? Like, my mom's been through some serious cases with kids—fostering them out and all after terrible home lives. Yours wasn't like that, so it's normal to want to know what it would have been like. At least I think so.”

I nod my head. It
wasn't
like that, was it? I still don't know much about her, but my parents said she wasn't horrible when they met her. She wasn't crazy or mean or an alcoholic or anything like that. She was just a girl, not much older than me, who was scared. I want to know what happened. I want to know her, still.

“You know, she did start college, so she had to have wanted to do something . . . she took English, that I know. I didn't learn what her other classes were. . . .”

“Maybe we'll find out later today what she wanted to do,” he answers simply.

I jump on my bike and follow him, thinking of what he said. Which path am I supposed to take—the one my mom thinks is smart or the one my mother might have been more keen to take? Or maybe a bit of both? More importantly, which is more
me
?

Full Moon Café is only a five-minute bike ride from campus. We get there in four because I'm anxious. When we get
inside, I'm surprised by how lively, how eclectic it is. There are mismatched, worn-looking couches and tables, crowded with newspapers and used books, making it resemble a messy person's living room more than a coffee shop or an art studio. Each wall is a different color—burnt red, teal, purple, and yellow—and they're all covered in framed artwork. Artwork that I assume is Jessica Cally's.

“Do you remember what her photo looked like?” Bennett asks as he follows me inside. I let him come with me this time. Knowing she'll definitely have something to say, and worried she'll react similarly to Bee, I want someone with me. We walk toward the walls to see the exhibit; I want to see her artwork before I see her. She makes collages, it seems—mixtures of paints and newspaper and pen drawings. They're interesting, though I have no idea what they mean. I like the splashes of color on threaded newsprint. I like the swirls drawn over them.

“Kind of. Red hair, that's all I remember. She's in her midthirties now, I guess. I can pull up the photo—”

“Her?” Bennett asks, cutting me off and nodding toward a woman with wavy red hair in the corner, standing before an easel. My heart flips because yes, that's her. That
has
to be her. I might not remember the photo, but I remember the curls.

This woman knew my mother.

“Definitely,” I whisper. “What should we do? Should we go ask if it's her?”

“Sure,” he says. “You go, this is your thing. I've got class anyway.”

“Really?” I ask, actually sort of sad to be losing him.

“Really.” He smiles. “You'll be fine, and we'll meet up later, cool?”

“Okay.” I nod eagerly, because while I definitely want to see him later, I also want to go in the direction of the woman with the wild red hair. I put one foot in front of the other and walk in her direction. I can do this, I remind myself. She's just a person, after all.

“Excuse me?” I ask the woman, and she turns around to face me. She's in a long, flowing light purple skirt, with a dark purple shawl wrapped around her waist. Her hair is falling around her shoulders, spilling down over her loose blue tank top to her elbows.

“Hi.” She smiles. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Jessica Cally?” I ask.

“I am!” she says, giddy. “Are you here for the exhibit? I can show you around if you'd like. Not like this place is big!” She laughs loud and deep and it makes me smile.

“I actually . . . I have a question for you,” I say, breathing slowly. My heart thrums with anticipation. “Back in high school, did you know someone named Claire Fullman?”

Her face goes from pleased to surprised in no more than half a second. Her eyes get wide and her mouth drops open. “I did,” she says slowly in a slight southern accent. “And who might you be?”

“I'm Maude,” I say slowly back. “Claire was my mother.”

“You're . . .” she starts. “You're Maude . . .” And then her eyes get even wider and it clicks. I click for her. “Oh my
god
,” she says loudly, bringing her hand to her heart. “Oh my god! I never thought—I mean, I never imagined—how did you find me?” And just like that, it all breaks and tears come to my eyes and I smile a crazy smile because
I found someone
. Someone who knew my mother, who seems to have liked her. My mother is not a villain in Jessica's story.

“Do you have time? To talk, that is?”

“For Claire's daughter, I've got all the time in the world,” she says, shaking her head. “I can't believe this. I cannot believe this. My heart is
pounding
!” she says, and I know the feeling. She points to a fuzzy red couch to her right. I sit down and she takes a chair with sky-blue cushions across from me.

“I don't know why I didn't recognize you! You are the spitting image of your mom. Identical. I should have known as soon as you walked in. But I never thought . . . It's been how many years? How could I have expected . . .” She trails off, then shakes her head. “Too long. That girl. Every day I miss that girl,” she says, sadness blanketing her voice.

“What was she like? I don't know,” I admit.

“She was everything. I'll tell you that,” she says wistfully. “But tell me about yourself. How'd you find me? Do you live in Tallahassee?”

“No, I live in Orlando,” I say, then fill her in on the important things. My adoption and my photography
project. My trip to FSU and then Osceola High and talking to Mr. Wayne. I tell her about the yearbook and the internet search and the flyer at the park. And she sits and listens attentively, shaking her head every now and then. I keep rambling because I'm afraid that if I don't, this will all just disappear.

“You talked with Mr. Wayne? Wow, you are
determined
. Just like your mother.”