Hold Still Part 26

"Like the East Coast?"

"Like Oregon or Montana."

"Do you want snow or ocean?"

"There's a glacier in Montana. I heard that all the glaciers in America are melting. They'll be gone before we're old."

"So snow?"

"I don't know," I said. "I heard the Oregon coast is amazing."

"So ocean?"

"I don't know. I guess I can't decide."

"What will you major in?"

I said, "I have no idea."

She said, "You like English, right?"

"Yeah," I said, "but I just like to read for fun."

She said, "Well, you like art."

I said, "Yes. I like art."

"So art, then."

"Okay."

"Maybe you'll have a gallery show."

"Or just go to a lot of galleries."

"You'll be brilliant," Ingrid said. "Maybe you'll be a professor or something, and all your students will have crushes on you."

I smiled. I turned over to face her.

I said, "What about you?"

She shrugged. "You know. I'll photograph, travel."

"But what about college?"

I looked at her as I waited for her to answer. If there was any doubt in her face, I didn't see it.

Finally, she said, "I'll go wherever you go."

I smacked the bio book in her lap. "If we even get into into college." When she laughed, I laughed, too, and I hardly listened to her, never thought: college." When she laughed, I laughed, too, and I hardly listened to her, never thought: This is the last time I'll hear her laughing. This is the last time I'll hear her laughing.

"We'll get in," she said. "It's gonna be great. You're gonna be great."

And at some point, when she got up to leave, I must have looked away, and she must have slid her journal under my bed, and I must have thought some random thought, not knowing what was coming.

7.

I sit at the demolition site for a long time. The caution-tape man leaves, and so do all the other men, carrying away pieces of the giant machine, remnants of the theater, until all that's left is daylight and dust, and a level, empty street.

It isn't the happy ending that Ingrid and I had dreamed up, but it's all a part of what I'm working through. The way life changes. The way people and things disappear. Then appear, unexpectedly, and hold you close.

I stand up and unzip my backpack. I pull out the tripod and arrange my shot: a newly barren street. In the distance, the undeveloped hills of Los Cerros. Dust from what used to be shimmers as it settles to the ground. I adjust my focus until it is on a spot several feet from where I'm standing.

I set the timer, and step out in front of the camera.

I face the lens, walk backward until I reach the spot I focused on-close enough that I will fill most of the frame, far enough that my whole body will be in the photograph. The timer ticks faster and faster, getting ready to take the picture, and I stand straight, breathe deep, and exhale as the ticking stops. I hold completely still. I can almost feel it-the shutter opens, the film gains density, absorbs light, and there I am.

This is what I look like: an almost seventeen-year-old, caught standing, arms at my sides, feet flat on gravel, in the middle of an empty street. Straight auburn hair that hasn't been cut for a year, now splitting at the ends where it grazes my back. A dozen small freckles on the bridge of my nose, left over from childhood. Sharp elbows and knees, strong arms from pounding and lifting. White bra straps showing through a white tank top, dirty jeans from spending a day in the dust. Small mouth, without lip gloss, without a smile. Brown eyes open wide and unguarded, alert in spite of a series of sleepless nights. An expression that's hard to pin down-part longing, part sorrow, part hope.

acknowledgments.

I am deeply fortunate to know too many wonderful people to mention by name on these pages. To all of you: my deepest grat.i.tude for making my life so full of warmth and love.

To my mother, Deborah Hovey-LaCour, and my father, Jacques LaCour (who is neither a pirate nor a mathematician): my list of thank you's could go on forever. I'll be brief, and say this: thank you for always believing in me. To my little brother, Jules LaCour: thank you for being such an excellent person, and for making me laugh so hard and so often. To my grandparents, Joseph and Elizabeth LaCour: thank you for your unwavering love, and for teaching me the theory of relativity.

To Sherry and Hal Stroble: thank you for your love and generosity. I am so lucky, for so many reasons, to be your daughter-in-law.

To my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel: thank you for bringing out the best in this novel, and, in the process, teaching me so much about writing. To everyone at Dutton: thank you for caring so much about this book. To my lovely agent, Sara Crowe: you make it so easy.

To Jessica Jacobs, one of this book's very first readers: thank you for being so confident that my scattered, fragmented scenes would someday become a novel, and for your sound advice and encouragement through every stage of this process. To Vanessa Micale, Rachel Murawski, Evan Pricco, and Eli Harris: thank you for your insights, your support, and your friendship. To Eric Levy: I don't know how I would have written a query letter without you. To Charlotte Ribar and Sophie Smyer: reading your comments delighted and helped me more than you could imagine. To Mandy Harris: thank you for getting my ma.n.u.script ready to send out into the world. To Mia Nolting: thank you for pouring so much artistic energy into this book, even before you were hired to do it. To my best friend, Amanda Krampf: thank you for being my high school partner in crime. I'm so glad we met at that bus stop.

To my teachers from elementary school through graduate school: you worked so hard, and you were wonderful. I am especially thankful to George Hegarty, Dr. Ruth Saxton, and Yiyun Li. To Kathryn Reiss: thank you for teaching me about children's literature, and for your valuable feedback and encouragement on this book. And to Isabel: thank you for my first fan letter.

Finally, to Kristyn Stroble: thank you for reading every word of every draft, and for crying at all the right parts. Most of all, thank you for making me so happy. Without you, this would not have been possible.