The Downside of Being Charlie by Jenny Torres Sanchez Page B

eyes flicker with a sudden understanding.
    â€œOh. You mean the video camera? Yeah, don’t worry about it, Sport.” He looks at me funny, and stops for a minute like he’s going to say something.
    â€œAll right, well, talk to you soon,” he says and shuts the door behind him.
    I drink the rest of my orange juice in silence, thinking about how I’m sitting in this kitchen alone. I think about how my mom is God knows where. How my dad
is heading to God knows where. And I’m stuck here—all by myself.

    School sucks all day. I can’t think of anything except Dad and the mystery woman he was talking to. The teachers drone on, and more than once I have to ask someone what we’re doing. By the time photography comes around I’m tired of thinking and put my head on the table waiting for class to start.
    Right now I want to stop time; stop the harsh squeak of someone’s sneakers as they hurry in, the scrape of chairs being pulled out and pushed back in, the layers of voices and conversations that fill the room. When I was younger, I used to watch some reruns of a TV show about a girl who could stop time just by touching the tips of her index fingers together. I keep my head pressed on the cold table, close my eyes, and slowly bring my fingers together.
    The bell rings.
    Mr. Killinger’s voice fills the room, slowly snuffing out the swell of conversation until only he is speaking.
    â€œAll right, people. You have exactly four weeks to finish your collections,” he says, “then, that first week in December, we will have judging here at school. The panel of judges will include my mentor, Dr. Hoyt, your principal, and other Rennington College and Kennedy High faculty. They will choose the winning collection that, in turn, will be displayed the following week at Rennington’s annual fine arts show.” He smiles. “It’s a
big deal guys. Pretty cool stuff.”
    I think of how I haven’t worked on this yet, and probably should. Why the hell haven’t I when taking pictures is the only thing I’m good at? But thinking of all that starts crowding my head. And I wish I could will myself to think of nothing, but when you try to think of nothing, you end up thinking of everything, especially of how shitty your Dad is.
    â€œSo, that translates to . . . you better be working on it! Seriously, I want some good stuff. Remember, you want enough time to compose your artist’s statement explaining your photographs. You should include what the photos represent and how they fit together as a collection. Some of you are probably already at that stage, or at least have an idea of what to write.” I mean he was married. Is married. Even if Mom is never around. . . .
    People around me open their books, start working on artist’s statements, and talk to each other about their collections. Some have even brought in their pictures and begin showing them to others. I open my notebook and stare at a blank page. Despite his sending me to fat camp, I had always thought of Dad as the good guy and Mom as the bad guy. But maybe I had it wrong all this time. Maybe Dad was bad and Mom was good, but then, why would she abandon us like she always does? My head hurts. I can’t think about this anymore but I can’t stop. Then suddenly Mr. Killinger comes up behind me.
    â€œHaving trouble?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders. “Need help?” I don’t answer him.
    â€œHave you started thinking about your collection yet?” he continues.

    No, I haven’t thought about it because my dad is having an affair, and my mom can’t stand to be around me. It won’t be long before Charlotte sees how screwed up I am, and she’ll eventually disappear too. And there’s no escaping any of this....
    I shrug again and focus on the blank page in front of me because I can’t look him in the eye. He stays silent for a minute, but he’s still