Autofocus (23 page)

“Did you go to the funeral?” I find myself asking shakily.

“Yeah, I went. You were already gone,” he says, nodding toward me again. “Heard you were adopted right away. Everyone went; we all saw her off.”

“So you really liked her?”

“Hell yeah, she was amazing,” he says quickly, smiling this time. “Not your average gal. She would have gone on to do something really great, I know it. You know,” he says, turning to me, “you do look a lot like her. You're more serious, but have her hair. And her, you know, look. It's kind of freaking me out.”

He brought up the similarity, so I have to ask. “I never knew who my father was. Do you have any . . .” I trail off, because I can't finish the question. It's too hard. Because what if it's him? And what if it isn't—then the man is still out there?

“Clue?” he finishes. “If you're thinking it's me, you're wrong.” I sigh, and I'm not sure if it's from joy or sorrow.

“Yeah, me and Claire were together, but she had a lot of guys. Like I said, she didn't stick to just one.” I'm not sure what to say to that. It makes me sad and frustrated all in one.

“So you have no idea who it might be?” I ask.

“No,” he says, then gets up and stalks around. “I know what you're thinking—you're judging me, and her. You're not your momma, but I knew her, I knew what she was like.” His aggression and candor startle me. “But I was there. I don't want you thinking I was just a guy she dated, who left her. I'm sure you heard all about me from Bee, that I left her for your mom. Yeah, that happened, but it was only 'cause I always liked Claire. I wasn't being a bad guy, I was just getting the girl I wanted. And yeah, we might not have been serious, but I was there.” He stops walking and turns to me. “I was there when she found out about you.”

I breathe in. “What did she say? What did you say?”

“She wasn't happy, of course. No offense.” I shrug because I'm used to that. “But I told her I was there for her, you know? Those other guys, they ran off when they found
out, left her alone. She was all alone, but with me.”

His need for telling me this startles me. It makes me appreciate him more, for what he did for her. For how they were. “What about her mom?” I ask.

“Honey, you don't know what that girl went through. Her mom wasn't around a lot, and her dad up and left before she was born. She was left a lot, and she was left again once she was pregnant with you. But she had me and Jessica and we were there for her.”

I shake my head at this thought. She was crazy, she acted out, she was
a person who wanted people, who wanted to feel loved. And she didn't have love, not really. Maybe from friends, but not from her mother. And that pains me, because I
do
have that with my mom. And Claire gave it to me. By giving me up, she gave me the life she didn't have.

“So, no, I don't know who your daddy is. But whoever he is, he's not worth it.”

“You sound like you were protective of her . . .” I muse, because it didn't come off that way at first. Not at all. It's interesting he changed.

“Yeah, we had each other's backs. She was a good person. Don't judge her by stupid things, like cheating with me. Know she was a good person. She loved. She loved with everything.”

“Thank you,” I say, knowing I got enough. She wasn't perfect, but neither am I. Neither is Chad or Treena or anyone. I'll never be like her, but she had someone, at least, who
was. And like with Bee, I feel the need to ask about her art. “I heard she was a painter.”

“She was an artist,” he says. “That shit was her life. She lived and breathed it. Always carrying around that sketchbook.”

I nod, comforted by the information. There's that.

I don't want to bring the memories back for him anymore, so I thank him again, and then turn to go. “Hey,” he calls when I'm a few feet away. “850-555-6548.”

“Huh?” I ask.

“It's her phone number,” Chad says. “Susan, her mom's.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“We didn't have cell phones back in high school; we had to memorize numbers.”

“And you still know hers?” I ask, doubtful.

“Some people you just don't forget,” he answers, and after a second I nod. That's quite enough.

After seeing my face, Bennett takes me back to the dorm. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't press me for details, and I appreciate that. Because I don't know what to say. We park in the lot behind the building, and when we get out of the car, Bennett takes my hand and leads me to the gazebo. I follow wordlessly.

“How're you feeling?” he asks as we sit down, and I lean my head on his shoulder.

“Numb,” I manage to get out. “Just . . . numb.” He rubs
my hand, and though I know he's doing it, I don't feel it. I don't want to be comforted, so I take my hand away and let my head fall into my hands. My thoughts are overwhelming and I want them to leave.

I hear Bennett rustle around and then feel him tap my shoulder. I look up and he's holding my camera.

“Go on,” he says. I stare at him, and then look down at my camera. I take it in my hands, feeling the weight shift. My fingers automatically go to the right place and I feel better. No, not better, more in control. I can't control the past, but I can manage this.

I force a smile, then get up and follow the path toward the green. I'm grateful that he already gets me, already knows that I need to be alone right now, losing myself in my photos.

I take a seat on the grass in the shade of a tree and hold the viewfinder up to my eye. This is how I like to see things, compact and contained in a small window. Here I can see the full picture, because the full picture is chosen and can be changed easily. There's no past, no future, just what's seen. I quickly snap, taking a picture of two girls laughing, of a squirrel reaching for a nut, of a Frisbee flying high in the air.

I turn around and see a woman holding hands with a little boy. The boy is trying to run ahead and kick a rock, and it reminds me of the little girl on the slide at the park near my house, before this whole journey started. Back then
I was ready to take the plunge, but now I wish someone had held me back like this mother. And I think back to my mom, my real mom, telling me I might be disappointed.

I sigh and lean on the tree. I didn't think it was a bad idea because, back then, I still had this pure, unadulterated image of Claire. That she was this person who knew what was best. Who made one small mistake and sought a way to make it better. I allowed myself to believe that.

But in truth, she wasn't the person I wanted her to be, and she never could be. I let my mind autofocus on an image I wanted, and didn't adjust the settings, didn't account for the light or the shutter. I never autofocus on photos, so why would I do that on my life?

Yes, she was a girl who slept around and stole and didn't care about anything. But she was also smart and charming and passionate about so many things. She stood up for what she believed in. She was a bad friend, but also a good friend. Part of me wants to dislike her for the things she did—especially to Bee, because it hits so close to home—but part of me knows that it was all part of her figuring herself out. It was part of her in-between time. It would be easy to hate her, but I don't. She might have been someone I wouldn't have liked, but she was just a teenager. She could never be like my mom, because she was never really a mom. And I have to be okay with that. I can't just focus in on the old image I had—I have to let it develop into this one, and be proud of the final look.

I wanted this all to
mean
something, but in the end, I think it just means I have to move on.

I stand up and walk back to the gazebo.

“You okay?” Bennett asks once he sees me.

“I will be,” I admit. “I think . . . I wanted this all to mean more. Like—I thought that if I came here and found out about her, I'd learn more about myself. About where I should go and what I should be. But all I learned is that I don't really want to be like her. Which is okay, you know; she wasn't much older than me. But it's unsettling not having an image anymore of someone I think I'm secretly like. Of someone I want to impress.”

“Well, if you think about it, she gave you up, and that must have been a hard thing to do. My mom's told me about it so many times, working with foster children. Claire was brave in giving you up, and you got the life you deserved because of that.”

“I know, you're right,” I muse.

“Do you think Chad was lying? That he is your father?” he asks. I've been thinking the same thing.

“I don't know. It's possible. He was with Claire for a while,” I say, and though I didn't necessarily like him much, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. He was there for her. He cared.

“You called her Claire,” he points out. “Your mother. At the start of this, you kept calling her your mother, but today she's Claire.”

“I know,” I say. At one point I took solace in the fact that I was part of something else, and that there was a story there. And though I still do, in a way, I think I realized the point to all of this. Yes, she was my birth mother, but she was never really my parent. My mom is—she's the one who raised me, and who I'm more like, in so many ways. Even when I don't want to admit it. “I think my parents are my real parents. I mean, not by blood, but by . . . everything else.”

“I get that,” Bennett says, and I turn to him. “Claire might have had you, but your parents raised you into who you are. It doesn't matter who gave birth to you, it's who raised you. And who you decide to be.”

I lean back and think about it. Despite feeling done, I still feel like there's more. “Well. I think I'm okay for now.” I look at him, grateful for his company, and realize I don't want to sit here and mope. I want to make the most of this day that started out much more magical. “Come on, let's go do something else,” I say.

He smiles and says, “I've got an idea.”

In an effort to cheer me up, Bennett's promised more movie watching, which I'm pretty sure translates to making the most of an empty dorm room. “You know what's cool?” he asks as we walk down the hallway toward his room. I've walked up and down this hallway all week, but all of a sudden I'm nervous. As if the destination is completely different. I guess, in a way, it is.

“What's that?” I ask.

“The fact that my roommate's never around.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” I say, jabbing him in the waist.

“Kidding,” he says, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “I still promise to not get into your pants.” He puts one hand on his heart, and one in the air, as if he's taking an oath.

“Har har har,” I say, and he kisses me gently.

“Ahem.”

We break apart quickly, realizing that Trey is in front of us.

“Trey,” Bennett says, brushing his hair forward. I self-consciously pull down on my shirt, and avoid eye contact.

“Hey yourself,” he says, and I can hear an untold joke in his voice.

“Isn't this your Treena time?”

“Um, no . . . actually, Maude, you might want to go see her . . .” he says, and I look up at him.

“Why? What's going on?” I ask, worried.

“She's . . . angry.”

My eyes widen, but in truth I'm not that surprised. “Does this have to do with last night?” I ask.

“Um, sort of,” he says, looking down. “I, uh, didn't think we were exclusive, and she did.”

I squeeze my fists in anger. Of course he didn't realize it; of course he didn't commit to her. I didn't trust him from the start, and he's only proven himself to be unreliable since. I clench my teeth and turn to Bennett.

“I'm gonna go,” I say, not meeting Trey's eyes. Despite what's going on between Treena and me, I have to go. Some things are more powerful than fights.

“Yeah, okay, let me know if I can do anything,” Bennett says, squeezing my hand before I walk down the hall to the stairwell.

“Hey, Maude?” Trey asks. I turn around, bracing myself
for what he's going to say. “Make sure she's okay. I feel really bad. I just—I feel like a jerk.”

“You are one,” I say before turning to walk out. I could add so much more, and the words come to me with each step, and I hate myself for not thinking of them quickly enough. But they don't matter; he doesn't matter.

Before the door to the stairs shuts, I overhear one more thing.

“So that's what you've been doing all week, huh?” Trey asks.

“Shut up,” Bennett answers.

When I get to Treena's room, it's silent. Eerily silent. I walk toward her bed and see her, facedown, pillow over her head. It's worse than I thought.

“Tree?” I ask, sitting next to her. She shakes her head. At least, I think she shakes her head, as the pillow moves. I take it off her and put my hand on her back. She turns around and her eyes are red and puffy, her sheets drenched in tears.

“He. Broke. Up. With. Me.”

“I heard,” I say, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible.

“I. Hate. Him.”

“I do, too. You know I do,” I say, holding on to her hand. “What happened? Or do you not want to talk about it?”

“No, it's okay,” she says, wiping her eyes. “He was dating another girl. Actually, a few other girls. He thought he was able to do that.”

“I thought you knew he . . .” I start, but then realize it's not time to correct her.

“I thought he might, you know, whatever with other girls . . . but not actually date them,” she sniffs.

“What's the difference? They're both awful,” I say.

“I know, I know. I guess . . . I was okay with whatever because I didn't know about it. But when I realized he actually
liked
these other girls, and saw them as much as he saw me . . .”

“It was worse because he cared,” I say, shaking my head.

“Yeah. He said it was because we never ‘defined the relationship,'” she says, using air quotes. “But, hello, he comes here every day. I thought we were pretty defined.”

“I'd say so. It's ridiculous. I wonder if the other girls know. . . .”

“I don't know.” She shrugs.

“Do you know their names?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

“No reason. We could have found them. Told them.”

“Ha. He would have loved that,” she says, pushing herself up a little. She twists her hands and looks down. “About last night . . .”

The night comes back to me in full color. Her anger, the way she blamed me for everything. Her complete turnaround since I've been here, from excited to see me, to me being a nuisance. All over some guy. Who left her.

“I was . . . really drunk,” she starts, and I wait for more.
I'm not taking the bait. “And I said some awful things.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It wasn't your finest moment.”

“I'm different here,” she admits. “I don't know; I came here and it felt okay to be a new me. And I didn't realize it would be strange when you came. Like two worlds colliding.”

“I really like the back-home you,” I say.

“She was great and all, but . . . she wouldn't have gotten Trey.”

“Why is Trey so important?” I finally ask. “Yeah, he's cute, but what is it about him?”

“I don't know,” she says. “He just seems so important, like a huge step for me. And not just the boyfriend-ness. He is what all the girls want. And for some reason he wanted me. I got the most desirable guy. How insane is that?”

“Yeah, but he turned out to be awful.”

“I just liked where I was, beside him. And he
liked me
.”

“But you weren't
you
,” I protest.

“I know, but I didn't care. Part of me still doesn't,” she says, falling back on her bed. “I mean, despite everything, I'd probably take him back if he came back in here.”

“Tree.”

“I know, I know. You don't need to lecture me,” she says, and I shake my head. She's so much more than this. She's too devoted, and sometimes that's good, but sometimes . . . And I have no idea what to say or do to make her see things differently.

“Tree, you're gonna find plenty of guys who like you. You're beautiful and smart and fun and sweet. You don't need to change to be someone you're not.”

“But I have to change just a little,” she says. “It would be strange not to. I just want you to change with me. And not judge me for being different.”

“Tree, I don't judge you.”

“You did,” she says.

I pause, because maybe she's right. I had this preconceived notion of who she was, and when I realized she wasn't the same person, I freaked. “Maybe I did. A little.”

“I didn't like being judged by you.”

“I didn't like being left behind!” I say. “I still don't like it. I'm at school with people I don't care about.”

“And Celine,” she says, and I sense a hint of jealousy in her voice.

“Celine? Yeah, she's there, but she's not, like, you.”

“You just talk about her a lot . . . and she's really cool, and . . .”

“Tree. You have
college
. Celine does not live up to that.”

“I just don't want to lose my best friend.”

“I don't either!” I argue, and we realize, I think at the same time, that we're fighting for the same thing. We're suddenly on the same side instead of against each other. So we laugh.

“I'm really sorry about everything. Like, this whole week. And the past few nights.”

“You did yell at me in a public bathroom.”

“Oh my god,” she moans, covering her eyes with her hands. “And you were right, too. Like,
everything
you said was right. I was just too stupid to hear it.”

“You're not stupid.”

“Maude. I am. I know it.”

“I can't believe you got back with him after last night.”

“Yeah, you let me know that was a bad idea. Bennett, too.”

“Bennett?” I ask, my ears perking up.

“You don't remember? After you told me I was insane for getting back with him—which I was—I think Bennett almost punched him. He's not one to tolerate cheating.”

“That sounds about right.” I smile to myself.

“Wait, whatever happened with you guys last night? You looked like you wanted to kiss him one second, and kill him the next.”

“Oh, um, long story,” I say, waving her away. Not the time to get into this.

“No, tell me. I need something to distract me from . . . everything.”

I think about earlier, how after he kissed me she was the first person I wanted to tell. But now it feels so different, so new. She's not the same Treena I knew back at home, and I have to accept that. I have to grow and change with her, and we'll figure out the new versions as we go. “It's nothing. I also drank too much last night.”

“You
did
. I was impressed.”

“Well, you were doing it, so . . .”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down again.

“I'm here for you, I am, and I want you to feel better, but I just . . .” I stop, planning my words. “I've been really pissed at you all week,” I say, and she cringes. “I was so excited to come up here and hang out with you, and you just blew me off every night. I mean, I couldn't even sleep here. . . .”

“I know, you're right.”

“And yeah, Bennett's great, but I had to stay with a guy I barely knew. And it really . . . it really hurt me.” I finally let it out, feeling everything wash out of me. Everything I've wanted to tell her, everything I've felt. She needs to hear this before we move on. Before I do. I don't want to regret not talking, like Bee does.

“I know. I know. I'm so sorry,” she says. “I didn't realize how hard it would be, combining my two lives. Like, have them see what I was like back home. But, I don't know, I shouldn't be embarrassed of that girl, you know? I'm still her. I like her.”

“I know you are. I like her, too.”

“And,” she keeps going, unloading it all, “I shouldn't have had to choose between you and him; I should have been able to hang out with you both. Or, just say no to him for a bit and see you. I was just so scared that he'd leave me if I went a day without him. Which is stupid, I know, but it was how I felt. I was an idiot. And I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry.”

She stops, and there are tears in her eyes, and I want to hug her.

A knock at the door interrupts us.

“I'll go get it,” I say, standing up, “in case it's Trey.”

“If it's Trey, make him come in.”

“Not yet,” I say, shaking my head.

I open the door and it's Bennett. I smile, step out into the hall, and shut the door behind me.

“How is she?” he asks.

“She'll be okay. It's just . . . not a good time.”

“Yeah. Trey is kind of an ass.”

“Yep,” I admit. “Speaking of, did you almost punch him last night?”

“Oh, ha, um,” he says, reddening. “Not really. I mean, I've never hit anyone, if that's what you're asking. I was just really pissed about the cheating.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest and smiling at him.

“Unless you like guys who fight, in which case I totally Rocky-ed
him.”

“Did you scream ‘Adrian!' after?”

“Obviously,” he says. “No, but I might have pushed him, but that was it. Why? Did Treena say something?”

“The same thing, really. I'm just surprised you left it out of your assessment of the night.”

“Would it have made me more attractive? More like Han Solo?” he asks, taking my hands.

“Something like that.” I shake my head.

“I just,” he says, looking down at his feet, and then back up to me, “I don't want you to think I'm like that—like him. I wouldn't—”

“Hey.” I cut him off, putting my hand on his shoulder. “It's okay. You're nothing like Trey,” I say, knowing how true it really is.

“Okay, good.” He smiles. “And I'm glad she's okay. I feel bad.”

“You don't have to. Anyway, I should probably get back in there. We're . . . talking.”

“Oh, okay, good. Wait, does that mean I don't get you as a roommate again tonight? Because that's terrible timing.”

I laugh. “I think I'm going to stay here. But I'll stop by.”

“Okay,” he says, kissing me gently. I go back inside and she's sitting on her bed now, looking miserable. Her hands and hair are covering her face.

“That was Bennett,” I say. “Checking in.”

“Why's he checking in?” she asks, looking up at me. And I see the pain in her eyes, the realization that everything she's decided has been wrong.

Because, much like I did with Claire, I was autofocusing on Treena, too. I was assuming she'd be the same person that I remembered, but of course she isn't. She changed, just like I will when I move away. And I can't hate her for experimenting as someone else for a while to figure out who she really is. Just like I did last night. It's our time to try, right?

I need to open my aperture to let some light in, see her for who she is now, and who she will become. I know she'll be
okay, just as I know I will be, too.

So I sit on the bed with her and answer her question from earlier.

“I like Bennett. And he likes me, too,” I say, and she perks up. “He helped me through a lot this week, with my mother, and . . . other things.” She looks down, knowing “other things” means her. “He's a really good guy.”

“So, are you, like, dating?” she asks curiously.

“I think we're figuring things out. We only somewhat know each other.”

“So, wait, hold on,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Did you guys, like, kiss?”