“Do you prefer Marcus or Marc?” The assistant art teacher asks as she writes out the labels for my photography display. I honestly don’t care, but saying that might come off wrong, so I settle for a subtler “either is fine, thanks.” Honestly, I was excited for the art show, even though I really only take pictures for fun. The other students bustled around the gym, doing one thing or another, and I really just stood there with nothing to do. Trying to fit in and look busy, I fiddled with my display, rearranging the dozens of portraits of random people I had gathered over the last couple years.
Whenever I was carrying a camera and saw someone interesting I asked if I could take a picture for a project. Most people said no, but every now and then an exuberant person came along and let me take a picture. There were a wide variety of expressions, but the straight-faced ones were always my favorite. They conveyed the persons true self, unmasked by a frown or smile. After a couple years I had taken hundreds of pictures, and I combined the best ones into a collage of sorts. There were older balding men whose eyes were filled with stories and life. The many years of tales had left their wrinkled marks across their faces. There were a few young children, with no scars or wrinkles, just a sparkle in their eyes displaying happiness and curiosity. Those who had seen it loved it and I hoped it went over well for the actual show. We’ll see.

My main reason for being here, aside from the obvious desire to share my art (kidding), was to try and make some more connections here at Jefferson. My mom got a better job, or so she said, so I had to move to Springfield with her. By virtue of the move I needed to go through the process again, making friends from a blank slate one more time. I had gotten much better at this over the years, but that’s not to say I was good, it’s more a testament to how shy I was to start with. If there were ever a person unfit to move schools a lot and get used to new people and places, it’s me. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt comfortable in a group of people. It was probably in kindergarten or something, back when it didn’t matter how pudgy you were or whether or not you were good at sports, or school, or neither. Since then it seems like everything has become exponentially more complex, now all those things that weren’t even part of the equation are all that matters. Being new wasn’t all that bad when I was five; so far I’m not quite a fan at fifteen…

“How did you get so many people to agree to have their picture taken?” the voice shocked me back to reality, but it was a nice reality because as luck would have it, the one person I’d come to enjoy at Jefferson was actually here, and talking to me. “You know I have no idea, I thought it was crazy too at first. But the more people you ask, I guess, the more people agree. But believe me, it took a lot of asking.” A smile widens across her warm face; she looks even better here than she does in biology, and my mind skips ahead, wondering if we’d ever be good friends.
She was beautiful in an unconventional way, her dirty blonde curls flowing all the way down to her back, framing her slight face and fierce sapphire eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was an athlete, but she looked like she could be. Probably soccer or track. Ms. Donahugh breaks my thoughts again, not finding a balance between her art and drama modes she cuts through the din of the gym with a battle-like cry. She’s urging us to return to our stations as parents and onlookers admire or merely tolerate our so-called works of art. A quiet “see ya” is all I hear as Emma walks away, back to her motherland of watercolor and pastels. I blew it, I think to myself. Over thinking a conversation yet again, thoughts of what went wrong raced through my conscience: Was I forward enough? Should I have talked about her more? Does she like about my photos? Does she like me? Why did she even come over here?
I don’t seem to get a whole lot of opportunities with girls being the uncoordinated, glasses wearing freshman I am. I know the key for me is to find a girl that can overlook the awkward and I desperately hope that Emma can be that one. I thinking having her as a friend would really help me get to know more people, and maybe get out of that weird “new kid” trend. Whenever people get to know me we become close friends, but I must have a thick shell or something because this doesn’t happen a lot. Dang.

For the second time tonight my inner monologue has distracted me from discussing my projects with Springfield’s connoisseurs of high school art. An older woman, probably the grandma of another student, was looking at my display. She seemed intrigued but maybe she was just trying to observe my display through her teary, tired eyes. Her face was deep and intense, a woman who seemed to have lived through a lot. I wasn’t sure if she was sad or disappointed but the extent of her emotion seemed overboard. I think she was looking at the picture I took of the small oak tree outside my house, but I couldn’t really tell. Regardless of what she thought of it, it was my favorite piece. The tree had been growing ever since we moved here, and in a way I thought of it like myself. Every new bud it had grown is a like a friend I’ve made or some other little thing. It’s kind of dumb but in another way it really isn’t, because it shows that everything adds up and you need to start small. I suppose my chat with Emma wasn’t too bad, and that I could walk over there later, maybe.

As more people came and went I realized this whole explaining art thing wasn’t playing out, I had other things on my mind, as usual, so I thought I’d go grab a drink from the fountain. At this point I’d rather get in trouble for leaving than talk to the Betty White like lady that had been standing at my display for more than five minutes. I sneak out the back door of the gym, trying to avoid the laser stare of Ms. Donahugh’s scouring eyes as she watched her kingdom of art and hardwood floors. The gym door opened to my left to one of the expansive halls sprawling from Jefferson High’s main gym.
The school was called home by over 1,500 kids so it was absolutely massive, not to mention complex. Springfield is just outside of Ontario, so as the city grows, so does Springfield, or so it had been explained to me by the economics teacher. The fact that this school was really just a mash up of addition upon addition was really evident without all the kids in it. The ceiling tiles and linoleum floor differed slightly between each hall, a human trace of when it was built. Eventually, in the intersection between three unfamiliar halls I found a bubbler. I grabbed a quick drink from the fountain, the water warm from not being in use since the last bell five hours ago, but still satisfying. I stood up and began to think about my next step, when I heard a muffled noise, just before the water fountains motor began whirring at its sudden awakening. I thought I was just hearing things but there it was again, almost the sound of crying. I’m not good at much, and telling where noises come from is definitely on my list of things to work on, but I took a blind guess and started heading toward my left. It was a short hall with stairs at the end; I couldn’t see where they lead.
From a few yards down the hall I saw the top of those dirty blonde curls and knew it was Emma. I slowed my walk so I didn’t alarm her as I made my way closer. I had almost sat down on the stair next to her by the time she acknowledged me. The sniffles subsided and as she wiped the tears from her eyes I thought of them like they were one of her watercolors. The deep dark blue was being diluted and spread out across the tanned canvas of her face. She looked oddly serene. The obvious question had to be asked, so in a dampened less cheery voice that didn’t seem quite her own she said, “What are you doing over here?”
“I just came for a drink and honestly I got a bit lost” I was trying to lighten the mood, but really wasn’t even sure I should try. I continue though, and ponder out loud, “What’s up with you, you seemed so happy earlier? Were my pictures really that bad?” “No” she said, “they were good. One of those faces in your collage was my brother.” Really?” I said, “what a small world, why’s that a bad thing though?” “It’s not bad in itself, it just brings back bad memories. He died in a car crash a few months ago.”
The news hit me like a freight train. For a kid who’s awkward in every day situations this was a nightmare; or would’ve been usually. This time felt different though, there wasn’t a chance to fell uncomfortable in between hearing the news and being overcome by sadness and a little guilt for the death of a kid I’ve never even met. The solemnity of the situation washed over me and I sat down next her on the cold, concrete steps and almost inaudibly muttered, “I’m sorry.” It seemed too short, but there was nothing more to say. Whether I wanted it to or not, my collage had done the talking. I put my arm around her shoulder as my eyes began to well up, her pain cracking the shell that had grown around my emotions. I thought back to the older woman looking at my display, and realized why she didn’t want to leave. Her grandson was on the display, the tears in her eyes from the overwhelming sadness of a recent loss. I knew I wanted to have a connection with Emma, but it was a very different kind than this. Somehow I knew though, that the little oak tree had just gained a leaf, a leaf that would be around for a very long time.