I’ll Give You the Sun(11)
Author: Jandy Nelson

I feel a smile maneuvering its way around my face that I resist as per the tenets of the boycott. He’s charming, not that I notice that either. Charming is bad luck. I also don’t notice that his sinful self seems smart, nor how tall he is, nor the way his tangly brown hair falls over one eye, nor the black leather motorcycle jacket, perfectly worn in and ridiculously cool. He’s carrying a beat-up messenger bag on one shoulder that’s full of books—college books? Maybe, definitely a senior if still in high school. And he has a camera around his neck that is now pointing at me.

“No,” I shriek loud enough to blow the roof as I duck behind the pew in front of me. I must look like a cold wet ferret. I don’t want this guy having a picture of me looking like a cold wet ferret. And vanity aside:

Every picture taken of you reduces your spirit and shortens your life

“Hmm, yes,” he whispers. “You’re one of those, afraid the camera will steal your soul or some such.” I eye him. Is he versed in some such? “In any case, please keep your voice down. We are in church, after all.” He grins in his chaotic way, then turns the camera up at the wooden ceiling, clicks. There’s something else I’m not noticing: He seems familiar to me somehow, like we’ve met before, but I’ve no idea where or when.

I slip off my hat and start combing my fingers through the stubborn mat of neglected hair . . . like I’m not a girl with boy blinders! What am I thinking? I remind myself he’s decaying like every other living thing. I remind myself I’m a bible-thumping Broken Me-Blob with hypochondriachal tendencies whose only friend is possibly a figment of her imagination. Sorry, Grandma. I remind myself he’s probably worse luck than all the world’s black cats and broken mirrors combined. I remind myself some girls deserve to be alone.

Before I can get my skullcap back on, he says in a regular speaking voice, quite a deep, velvety one, not that I notice, “Change your mind? Please do. I’m going to have to insist on it.” He’s aiming the camera at me again.

I shake my head to indicate I am in no way changing my mind. I put my hat back on, pull it down low, practically over my eyes, but then I bring my index finger to my lips in a shhh, which might appear to be flirting to the casual viewer, but luckily there are no casual viewers present. I can’t seem to help it. And it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.

“Right, forgot where we were for a minute,” he says, smiling and bringing his voice down to a whisper again. He regards me for a long, unnerving moment. It’s like being held in a spotlight. Actually, I’m not sure it’s legal to be looked at like this. My chest starts humming. “Too bad about the photo,” he says. “Hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look like an angel sitting there.” He presses his lips together as if considering this. “But in disguise, like you just fell down and then borrowed some bloke’s clothes.”

What do I say to that? Especially now that the humming in my chest has turned into jackhammering.

“In any case, can’t blame you for wanting out of the angelic order.” He’s grinning again and I’m spinning. “Probably quite a bit more interesting to be among us screwed-up mortals, like I said before.” He sure has the gift of gab. I used to too, once, though you’d never know it. He must think my jaw’s wired shut.

Oh boy. He’s looking at me again in that way of his, like he’s trying to see beneath the skin.

“Let me,” he says, his hand circling the lens. It’s more command than question. “Just one.” There’s something in his voice, in his gaze, in his whole being, something hungry and insistent, and it’s untethering me.

I’m nodding. I can’t believe it, but I’m nodding. To hell with my vanity, my spirit, my old age. “Okay,” I say, my voice hoarse and strange. “Just one.” It’s possible he’s put me in a trance. It happens. There are people who are mesmerists. It’s in the bible.

He lands in a squat behind a pew in the front row, spins the lens a few times while looking through the camera. “Oh God,” he says. “Yes. Perfect. Fucking perfect.”

I know he’s taking a hundred pictures, but I don’t care anymore. A hot series of shivers is running through me as he continues clicking and saying: Yes, thank you, this is totally bloody it, perfect, yes, yes, sodding hell, God, look at you. It’s like we’re kissing, way more than kissing. I can’t imagine what my face must look like.

“You’re her,” he says finally, putting the cover over the lens. “I’m sure of it.”

“Who?” I ask.

But he doesn’t answer, just walks down the aisle toward me, a lazy, lanky walk that makes me think of summer. He’s completely unwound now, went from high gear to no gear the moment he covered the lens. As he approaches, I see that he has one green eye and one brown eye, like he’s two people in one, two very intense people in one.

“Well,” he says when he’s by my side. He pauses there as if he’s going to say something more, like, I’m hoping what he meant by “You’re her,” but instead he just adds, “I’ll leave you to it,” and points up at Clark Gable.

Looking at him from such close range, it strikes me now with certainty that it’s not the first time I’ve laid eyes on this totally unbelievable guy.

Okay, I effing noticed.

I think he’s going to shake my hand or touch my shoulder or something, but he just continues down the aisle. I turn around and watch him stroll along like he should have a piece of hay in his mouth. He picks up a tripod I didn’t notice when I came in and swings it over his shoulder. As he goes out the door, he doesn’t turn around, but raises his free hand in the air and waves slightly like he knows I’m watching him.

Which I am.

• • •

I leave the church a few minutes later feeling warmer, drier, and like I narrowly escaped something. Grandma Sweetwine’s nowhere in sight.

I press down the street looking for the address of the sculpture studio.

To be clear, when you’re me, guys like him are kryptonite, not that I’ve ever met a guy like him before, one who makes you feel like you’re being kissed, no, ravished, from across a room. He didn’t seem to notice I was roped off either. Well, I am and must remain that way. I can’t let my guard down. My mother was right after all. I don’t want to be that girl. I can’t be.