Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac by Gabrielle Zevin

Author:Gabrielle Zevin [Zevin, Gabrielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Published: 2007-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

7

OF ALL THE STUPID THINGS TO BE FAILING, I WAS failing photography.

The last school day before Thanksgiving, Mr. Weir held me after class. I knew what he wanted to talk about. I still hadn’t turned in a project proposal, and the semester was more than half over. Most of the classes were structured very loosely, with Mr. Weir showing slides of work by famous photographers like Doisneau or Mapplethorpe and us discussing them. The rest of the time we’d critique each other’s work, though I hadn’t brought in anything to critique all semester. Whenever Mr. Weir asked about my project (about once a week or so), I’d just B.S. something or other. The nature of the class made it easy to get away with doing nothing.

Mr. Weir handed me a slip. “I’m sorry to have to do this right before the holiday, Naomi,” he said. “I’ve got to give this to anyone who is in danger of receiving a D or below. It requires a parent’s signature.”

“But, Mr. Weir, I thought our grade was based on the one big project.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m giving this to you now. You still have time to make it work.”

James was waiting for me outside of Weir’s class.

“Wondering if you need a ride?” he asked.

I had yearbook, of course.

“Do you have to?” James asked. “Everyone’s gone for the holiday already.”

Actually, there was tons of work to do in yearbook, not to mention that Will was pissed at me already. It had started just after my birthday.

“Did you get my mix?” he’d asked.

“Which one?”

“The one for your birthday.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t had time to listen to it yet.”

“Well, that’s rude,” he’d said finally. “I spent a lot of time on that.”

But what I had thought to myself at the time was: How much time could he have possibly spent? The kid gives me a mix like every freaking week.

Anyway, Will had been pretty icy to me since then, but I hadn’t had time to deal with him.

“So,” James was saying, “why don’t I just take you out for coffee before you go to yearbook? I’ll have you back by three-thirty, I swear.”

James was wearing this black wool peacoat, which he looked particularly tall and handsome in. Some girls like suits or tuxedos; I’m a sucker for a guy in a great coat. I knew I couldn’t refuse him. Plus, after my talk with Mr. Weir, I really needed to get out of school.

We drove into town. James had a cup of black coffee and I had a glass of orange juice, and then we took our drinks outside and walked down the main strip of town. Even though the day was gray and moist, it was nice to be outside instead of where I was supposed to be: cooped up in that yearbook office where every part of me felt dried and tired, my hands always covered with these oppressive little paper cuts.

“I don’t want to go back to yearbook,” I said.

“So don’t” was James’s reply.

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