Summer in the Invisible City (9 page)

I've heard this a million times but it always feels like something is missing.

“Over how?” I ask. “Like not in love anymore?”

“You could say that,” she says. “It's hard to explain.”

“Did you fight a lot?”

“Constantly,” she replies quickly. “And when we weren't arguing, we were just ignoring each other.”

“So you ended it. And you and me moved out of his place.” I know the story. “But what about before? You must have had some good times, or why were you even together?”

My mom pauses, and then when she speaks, her tone is firm. “What is this really about?”

Allan is here.

“I think I might like someone,” I say instead. “Like
like
him.”

Which is part of the truth. The whole truth is that it took me forever to stop liking someone who rejected me over and over again, and now I like someone who thinks I'm just a friend. The truth is that my heart might be cursed.

“Well, I guess you could say what I liked about Allan was that he was incredibly smart. Which is probably why you are so smart, too. I've always had a lot of respect for smart people,” she says. “So, that was a good thing about us.”

I stare at my mom's left hand, resting on top of the blanket, her fingers absently combing over a loose thread in the fabric. My mom's skin is as young looking as someone her age's skin can be. But still, it's starting to soften and wrinkle, like crushed silk.

—

Back in my room, I pull out the one photograph I have of my mom and Allan together. My mom's friend took it before she got pregnant with me. In it, Allan's hand is resting on my mom's back and she is staring up at him. She isn't smiling but she's looking at him like she adores him. I know she did. She loved him. Why can't she just say that? Why can't she
just admit that they had something good and that she made a mistake by giving up on him so quickly?

I wish I could travel back in time to the moment this photo was taken and see them together that day. What did they talk about? Did they laugh? If my mother hadn't had me, would they still have drifted apart?

The longer I stare at the picture, the more frustrated I become. No matter how hard I look at it, I can't figure out what I want to know.

The next day, I find Allan and Marla at a table in the back of the Japanese restaurant where we are meeting for lunch. They stand up to greet me.

“Sadie, you remember my partner, Marla, right?” Allan asks.

“
Hi, Sadie,
” Marla says, looking even more mousy and unremarkable than I remember. She gives me a small, brittle hug. She feels like a pebble.

Marla must be in her mid-thirties because I know she's about twenty years younger than Allan. But Marla isn't a cliché younger woman. She's more old-ladyish than my mom.

They sit down and hold each other's hands on top of the table.

“It's sushi and small plates,” Marla says.

“Okay, thanks,” I say.
I know how to read, Marla.

Allan studies the menu carefully and then looks up at her.

“I think I just want soup,” he announces.

“Fine,” she says.

Allan is dressed plain, same as yesterday, wearing a beige polo shirt and an odd, lightweight, neon green Windbreaker.
He has a strangely simple style. Nothing like the artists you see in movies with their black turtlenecks. Allan is dressed like a regular guy.

Marla has more of an intellectual look, with her makeup-free face, messy hair knotted on top of her head, and loose- fitting maroon blouse.

“Tell us about your summer, Sadie,” Marla says. “Are you going to camp?”

I laugh, and then stop myself at the look on her face. “Sorry. It'
s just, I
'm seventeen.”

“I went to camp until I was nineteen,”
Marla replies calmly.
“I was a counselor.”

“Well, I never went to camp, not even when I was little,” I say. Then I drag my gaze forcefully away from Marla's and look right at Allan. “I'm taking an advanced black-and-white photography class this summer.”

“At your school?” Marla says.

I don
't respond because I wasn't talking to her.

“How is IACA?” I ask Allan.

“Good,” he says, taking a sip of tea.

“Do you teach the same classes every year?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” he responds.

“Do you think IACA is a good school?” I ask. This would be the perfect time to tell Allan that I want to go to IACA for college, but I don't want to say it in front of Marla.

“Of course,” he says. “Right, Marla?”

Marla nods.

“What are you learning in your photography class?” Marla asks. “I've taught a few undergrad photography classes over
the years. Does your teacher talk about contemporary issues or is it more of a technical class?”

I wish it was Allan who asked, but I'm glad to have the chance to tell them about Benji.

“It's both,” I say. “Benji's really into making us print good quality pictures. The only thing he gets mad about is when people have bad darkroom techniques. But he also talks a lot about what stuff means.”

“I can't imagine teaching darkroom photography today,” Allan says. “It's so outdated.”

“Yeah, but that's part of what's cool about it,” I say. “It feels ancient.”

That makes Marla laugh, and, as if Marla's laughter gives Allan permission, he laughs, too.

“What are your assignments like?” Marla asks.

“They're different every week,” I tell them. “We did portraits last week. And I think we're gonna do landscapes next week. Usually, we have to shoot over the weekend and we print during the week.”

Marla's eyes glaze over but she forces a smile. “Great. Do you have any of your pictures with you?”

“Yeah,” I say. I put my backpack on my lap and riffle through all the junk in there to try to find my photos. I place a few things on the table, two unopened rolls of film, my cell phone, the I LOVE NY souvenir postcard I've kept in there for years.

Allan picks up the postcard. “What is this?”

“Oh, nothing, just a random cheesy postcard.” I blush. “I collect them.”

Finally, I find the manila folder where I keep all the pictures I've taken and place it on the table in front of Allan.

But Allan is still holding the postcard, staring at it.

“So, these are just test prints, but you can see what I'm up to,” I say, nudging the folder closer to him.

Allan ignores it. He says, “You have a landscape assignment coming up?”

I nod.

“You know what I would do if I were you?” He smirks. “I would just hand in this postcard.”

Marla claps her hands together and laughs.

“Yes! That would be brilliant,” Marla agrees.

“But, I didn't even take the picture,” I say softly. “
I don
't even know who did . . . it's just a postcard.”

“Don't worry about that. That's all part of the piece,” Allan says.

He hands the postcard back to me and sinks back into his chair.

“
I don
't know if my teacher would be okay with it if I just handed in a postcard,” I say.

“He'll love it. And if he doesn't, tell him artists are supposed to challenge ideas of authorship,” Allan says. “It helps prevent the constant commodification of ideas.”

“You think?” I ask.

Allan and Marla are glowing, awake with the energy of their creativity.

“I'm going to order a beer,” Allan announces, looking right at Marla.

“You think you should drink?” she asks. “I thought you weren't feeling well.”

“I'm fine. I think it'
s fine,
” he says. Then he turns to me. “Do you want a beer?”

“Um, okay?”

Marla crinkles her forehead disapprovingly. “She's seventeen.”

“She's mature. Right, Sadie?” he says, and he gives me an almost conspiratorial wink.

I've never had a drink while it was still light out, and when I step outside after lunch, I feel fizzy and woozy. Allan offers to walk me home. He tells Marla he'll see her later.

Allan and Marla kiss quickly. She's not as homely as I first thought. When she was talking about art, she lit up. I get why Allan likes her. I guess I like her, too. And liking her feels a lot better than hating her.

—

Walking down the street with Allan, I get that feeling I haven't had since I was little and he lived here for that summer. That intoxicating “just me and my dad” feeling.

“Everyone complains about New York being so different now, but I love it,” Allan muses as we walk past another fancy boutique. “Does Johanna like it?”

“Like what?” I ask.

“That New York has become this giant mall,” he says, like it's common knowledge.

“
I don
't know,” I say. “She works so hard.”

Allan nods. “She was always very serious about her work, if that's what you mean.”

“I think I'm like that, too,” I say. “I'm serious about my work.”

“You're in high school, it's different. Don't worry, you won't have to work so hard when you're older,” he says.

Which confuses me because that's not really what I meant.

After that, we barely talk. I glance up at Allan, strolling down the street with his hands tucked into his pockets. No one would stop and notice him. A stranger walking past would never guess that he has met celebrities and billionaires and journalists and that his artwork has been shown in museums that tourists wait in line to visit.

When we're a few blocks from our apartment, I stop. I can't risk us running into my mom, so I say, “This is fine. I'll just say good-bye here.”

“Is your mom home? I'd like to say hi,” he says.

“She's teaching until late,” I lie.

Allan nods, like he understands.

“Great seeing you, Sadie,” he says. “Will I see you at my opening on Saturday?”

“Of course.” I beam.

“Good,” he says, and he pats my upper arm once more before leaving.

“Phaedra wants to come to your dad's thing this weekend, too,” Izzy announces before class on Friday morning. “That's okay, right?”

“Of course,” I say, opening the classroom door. It occurs to me as I do it that this is the first day the door has ever been closed. Benji always leaves it wide open.

Izzy sees before I do. She clasps her hand to her chest and mutters, “
OMG.
”

The photo lab has been transformed. All the chairs and desks are gone, and instead, there are ten four-by-five cameras on tripods, each tagged with a yellow Post-it with a name. I find the one that says my name and stare at it, hypnotized.

I'd seen a large-format camera once before, when one of the seniors returned it to the photo lab while I was working last year. But I'd never been this up close to one.

The camera is as big as a human head, and the long skinny tripod legs make it look like a spidery robot. I reach up and
touch the giant mechanical lens gently, as if I'm stroking a sleeping monster who might wake up.

“I didn't know we were gonna get to use these,”
I murmur.

“Me neither,” Izzy says.

“Don't get too excited,” Alexis says, in her usual know-it-all tone. “I'm sure Benji won't let us take them home.”

“Actually, you'll all be taking them home over the weekend.”

We turn and see that Benji is standing at the back of the room. Maybe he's been there the whole time but we were too distracted by the cameras to notice.

“These cameras aren'
t just valuable,
” he says. “They are part of the history of photography. They connect us to the past.”

Once everyone is in class, Benji explains how the camera works. The negative is four by five inches, the size of a postcard, so that you can capture more detail than with a regular 35mm camera. While he talks, I marvel at the camera. I love how black and silent it is, like a piece of a spaceship that has fallen right here into the classroom.

“You are going to use these cameras for your landscape project. You'll take ten pictures with it over the weekend,” Benji says.

“Is it even really gonna make a difference if the negative is four by five inches or 35mm?” Sean asks when Benji's done lecturing. “It's not like we are going to print enormous pictures. So, what's the point?”

Benji smiles cryptically. “You'll see. This camera captures
so much detail. Everything becomes so clear. Clearer than reality in a way. More real than real. It crystallizes the world.”

I touch the camera tenderly, wiping away a smudge of dust as Benji's words sink in.

—

I go home after class and the afternoon melts away as I move around the apartment taking pictures with the camera. I don't notice the minutes or hours sliding by. When my mom comes home at six, I'm setting up a still life in the living room. I stop long enough to show her the camera and try to explain what Benji told us. When I'm done, she doesn't say anything, just gives me a tight, long hug.

My mom reheats leftovers and I take a break from working just long enough to eat with her. Then, while she's doing dishes, I make her pose for me with her rubber gloves on so I can take a picture of her with the sink full of dishes behind her.

After dinner, we go up to the roof so that I can try and take a landscape.

I set up the camera for a long exposure, while my mom stretches her arms up to the sky and breathes in all that muggy summer air. The day has faded to dusk and the city lights glitter beneath the wide pale sky. If I can capture what I'm seeing, this will be the most beautiful photo ever.

To take a picture with the four by five, you have to cover yourself with a blanket to protect the film from light. So I throw the cover over myself and focus the camera, watching the image of the city appear on the screen, a tiny replica of the real world.

The craziest thing about the four by five is that when you look through the lens, the image appears upside down. I can't remember Benji's explanation for this. All I know is that right now the real world is blotted out entirely and I'm staring at an upside-down picture. And it feels right. Finally, the city lights can become the wild, messy stars they were always meant to be.

—

Later, I lie in bed and do the reading that Benji gave us as homework over the weekend.

My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. I close the magazine and reach for it.

Sam.
I sit bolt upright in bed.

“
Hello?
” I say, trying to sound not too excited.

“Hey, did I wake you?” he asks. I can hear noise in the background.

“No.”

“So, I'm at this diner with some people,” he says. “I think it's near where you said you live.”

“What diner?” I ask.

“Warszawa. On Avenue A,” he says.

I know Warszawa. A memory surfaces and I push it down.

“I know it,” I say. “It's close.”

“Want to come meet us?” he asks.

I wait a second before I answer so I don't sound too eager. “Sure. I'll see you soon.”

After we hang up, I slip into my shoes, careful to be quiet so I don't wake my mom. She's a deep sleeper anyway. Sneaking out won't be hard.