Look Again

23

JOEY

“Collaboration is stupid.” I am on a roll. Sitting on a chair in Ginger’s jungle of a living room, I carry on my rant about how unfair and ineffective my current situation is—the situation in which I am vying for a position in the Chamberlain council against Dexter the Deserter.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell Moreau that Dexter didn’t show up to the dance.

Because was that really such a big deal? I mean YES, obviously and in all capital letters it was definitely a big deal. But was it part of the assignment? Was it a critical element of pulling off a successful Harvest Ball? I assumed that chaperoning was a pretty major part of the job. But Dr. Moreau had not specified that we both must attend.

I’ve already hit on the high points of why collaboration is stupid: Dr. Moreau can only see the best and worst aspects of the work we have done, none of the individual steps. Nothing I contribute stands out in any way, because all my efforts mush together with Dexter’s efforts into a soup of Final Product. Dexter’s dumb habit of phoning Dr. Moreau’s assistant to check in every six-point-five seconds makes it look like he’s both overeager and doing most of the work.

Ginger is doodling in a notepad and occasionally nodding her agreement to my obviously rational arguments.

“Do you know how much easier my life would be if I didn’t have to do these projects with stupid handsome Dexter Kaplan?”

Ginger raises a finger while she continues to write with her left hand. “Hang on a minute. Stupid-comma-handsome? Or is Dexter Kaplan, like, stupid handsome?”

“Both,” I say, and finally laugh.

I toss my phone on Ginger’s coffee table. “Thank you for listening to me complain. And thank you for breaking me out of my funk.”

Ginger stretches her arms out in front of her. “I kind of dig your funk. I think all funk should be so dainty and adorable.”

I push myself out of a chair with an audible grunting sigh. “I am not dainty. I am not adorable. I am both gigantic and horrifying.”

Ginger laughs. “Yeah, you are,” she says.

I shake my finger in the general direction of Ginger’s nose. “Knock it off with the sarcasm, sister. I am a force to be reckoned with. Do not underestimate me.”

Ginger nods. “That’s it. Good job. Keep practicing. It will sink in.”

I told Ginger about the online manifesting course I’d spent way too much money on, but I feel like I’m growing taller every day. If not physically, at least emotionally. I can take up appropriate adult-sized space. I can own my place in a room. I’m sure of it.

It was Dexter’s stupid commentary that got me to finally buy the course. When he admitted that he has a script of self-talk, I knew that I needed something like that. But no script is going to make me feel differently, so I chose an online class full of exercises: physical, mental, spoken, psychological. I am ready to handle all the things the world tosses my way.

An hour later, I fiddle with the ring of keys until the right one lands in my hand. Its patina, crackled over with black spots, reminds me of those old mirrors left hanging in abandoned buildings: you can see shiny parts, but something dark is taking over. Kind of like my right eye.

Stop it,I tell myself, unlocking the door of the old chapel. Things are improving, and definitely not actively getting worse. Medications are working. Do not feel sorry for yourself.

I shrug off the feeling, reminding myself that Sundays are my designated days to wallow in self-pity and grief.

There is a lot of productive time between Sundays. And this week, my productive time has been filled to the top. Monday and Tuesday I took my classes outside to practice photographing autumn trees and birds in a conservancy unit. Ridley Gabrielson managed to capture dozens of shots of a squirrel—the little guy was practically posing for Ridley—before I realized the kid was feeding him Snickers.

“Probably not a great idea,” I told him, but he wasn’t concerned. He got his pictures, and they’d be great.

Maybe this teaching thing is harder than I thought it would be. The kid certainly didn’t learn any conservancy lessons.

But he did get great shots of the squirrel.

Baby steps.

Now I fumble with the disused lock on the old chapel until the tumblers click into place. As the door opens, I feel the exchange of air rush around me from both directions, as if the building is breathing in and out.

I step inside and look around again, this time without any Dexter Kaplan-shaped distractions. The walls, two levels high, are paneled in blond wood up to about twelve feet, then the windows rise to the ceiling. I’ve studied enough architecture to assume this was built without any real concern for a time period. The concerns seem more geared toward religious inclusion, if only through any lack of obvious iconography or religious tradition. No crosses, no stained glass, no archways or arks or scrolls. The walls topped with windows invite visitors to look up. An all-purpose worship action. I love the simplicity of the invitation.

Dappled sunlight filters through the trees outside and creates patterns on the walls. Treetops, both evergreen and show-offy autumn colors, sway past the windows in a gentle but constant breeze.

How can this building be vacant? It would make an excellent studio. I would love to ask Dr. Moreau if she’d let me use it for class. I walk the perimeter of the chapel, trailing my fingers along the smooth wood-paneled walls, noticing each angle of light and every warm surface.