Well, having just hit the halfway mark of this project, 180 days in, I now have a thousand pages of writing that’s been generated in collaboration with a group of incredibly talented and extremely generous visual artists. Originally, the way I conceived Saccades Project was to collaborate with young artists, many of whom are in their mid-teens, to use their very real imagery to help develop a visual world  and identity as part of the story of this fictional fifteen-year-old artist, Thea Denny. Structurally, the story will come full circle, beginning and ending at the same point in time—a 360-degree turn in 360 days, basically. And now I know for certain the book will absolutely be finished in 360 days from the day this project began, October 22, 2009.

Things just happened a little faster than expected, that’s all. Trust me, a thousand pages is a lot of material to handle. It’s a good problem—it’s a great problem to have, and I’m grateful for it. But now I need to make some adjustments to the original concept, slow things down, before continuing any further. After all, no project will succeed without making adjustments along the way, right?

So far, if you haven’t seen, heard and/or read any of the collaborations, please be sure to check out the work created in collaboration with Michael Bailey-Gates, Laurence Philomene, Keith Davis Young, Eliza Graumlich, Audrey Gatewood, Alex Simms, Lauren Smart, Tara Violet Niami, the eight photographers of Flickr Favorites Week, Ashlie Chavez, Bentley Wood and Aeschleah.

There will most definitely be more collaborations in the near future, but I’ve never wanted to impose deadlines on other artists. So when that work arrives, I will post notices of new collaborations on the project’s Facebook page, where, in the meantime, I will continue posting a Picture of the Day, chosen from the Saccades Project’s Flickr pool.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Saccades-Project/160947417585
http://www.flickr.com/groups/1246677@N21/

You can also check out all project playlists at the project’s Mixpod and YouTube channels. And there are some good ones, too!

http://www.youtube.com/user/SaccadesProject
http://www.mixpod.com/account-playlists.php

Much thanks, and we shall return.

(See Ashlie Chavez, Image 2)

Setting: Knox and Melody are driving Thea home in Knox’s minivan, early evening, early May, 2009.

I still forget sometimes. I mean, I keep forgetting that anyone knows, that anyone cares; I forget all about the reporters, waiting around our building. Seriously, I forget all the time, and then, for like a second, when I see them there, I still can’t believe it’s happening, you know. Like even when you’re staring at a crowd of people, even when there are all these people just waiting to take your picture, ask you questions, there’s always a part of you that just doesn’t get it. I mean, why would you get that? It makes no sense.

Anyhow. Knox and Mel were driving me home, and Mel and I were so pleased we had our pitch down, right. I mean, our pitch was tight, okay. Like Hollywood: here we come. And then, just before we turned into the parking lot, I saw them. There were reporters outside our building; a couple vans parked in the parking lot in front of our door. They’d been there for a few days now, and they stayed there all day, too, just waiting for me to come home. Can you believe it?

I mean, this is what it means to be famous, I guess. It means every time you remember, every time you see the crowd, it’s like a storm. But it’s not clouds, it’s not winds, it’s people and voices, and when you see them in front of you, like directly in front of you, all you want to do is turn around, go back to wherever it was you came from. That’s what celebrity is like, if you ask me: it’s like you keep trying to turn around, you keep feeling yourself ducking your head, trying to protect yourself, like they’re above you and behind you. Just all the time, your body feels it, but there’s nowhere you can go, really.

Soon as I saw them, soon as I remembered, I said, Stop. Knox saw them, too, almost the same moment. Let me out here, I said. It’s fine.

No, no—.

No, really, it’s fine, I said, and I didn’t say it, but he knew. I didn’t want him to drive any closer to our house because Mel was in the car. I didn’t want her to see this, all these people, the whole porn circus, just waiting for me to show up.

What’s going on? she said, and she couldn’t see them, but she knew something was going on.

I’m getting gout here, I said, as Knox pulled over, off the highway, but he didn’t turn in.

Here? Why here? she said, and I turned around. And I smiled, trying to let her know it was okay, even though it wasn’t.

Because . . . I said, and I started to say something, but I didn’t even know what I was going to say. I’ll tell you later, okay? It’s nothing, but I just don’t want to get into it right now, okay? Please? I said, and she didn’t like it, I could tell, but she listened. I was so relieved, too, because I actually thought about lying to her. I came so close to making up some story about Raymond or I don’t know what.

And it’s like, I mean, of course I knew she’d be angry that I was trying to protect her the same way Knox was always trying to protect her. The way that didn’t let you live life, that treated you like a child, or worse, in her case, an invalid. But then again, in this case, in this situation, I’m sorry. That’s just how it had to be. She didn’t understand, and she couldn’t understand, but still. There are some things I didn’t want to share with her, like, oh, reporters, questions, flashes, and the Internet.

I grabbed my bag, and then I turned to the backseat and I took her hand, gave her a kiss on the palm. See you, I said, and she was a little pissed off, a little cold, yeah, but she let it go. Bye, I said, looking at Knox, and I could tell he felt lame. I know he wanted to take me to my door, to walk me through the crowd, offer some sort of protection or I don’t know what. But Mel had to come first, and we both knew it.

So I got out, on the side of the road, and I waved goodbye, waiting for them to leave before I took my phone out to call my mom. I didn’t know if she was home or not, but if she was, she’d come outside, wait for me. I mean, there was nothing she could do to make them go away, but at least it was something for me to focus on, when I walked to the building. And if they saw my mom there, sometimes people were better behaved. Sometimes not. I mean, some people would ask me anything at all, whether my mom was there or not. Like, Are there more tapes, Thea? How do you feel about being called a teenage porn star? Do you think your boyfriend’s dead? People would say that, ask me that, honestly.

All you can do is pretend. Like you have to pretend you don’t see them, and pretend you don’t hear them. And you do, of course, and they know it, but that’s the game.

Funny thing is that the whole way home, I was thinking about it, what Mel said. Like why not? Seriously, why couldn’t ‘we make a movie? Our idea was as good as anyone else’s. And think about it: a movie about a girl who travels back in time to escape her past, directed by two teenage directors, it could be a huge hit, right? I started laughing in the car, hearing Mel talk about what a killer soundtrack we’d have, and that’s when I saw the camera crews. I was just grateful that I saw them in time to get out, that Knox was long gone by the time they saw me coming.

Have you ever walked straight into a tornado? Seriously, that’s how it feels, walking into a crowd of reporters. And you know my mom told me something that the lawyers had pointed out. They said that sooner or later, they’d do and say what they wanted, people would say and write just whatever they wanted, whether I participated or not. The lawyers said, sooner or later, they could write a book without me. They could make a movie without me.

And people were actually interested, you know? In a movie, yes. The lawyers said there was a window of opportunity that was closing every day, and I was just like, Close it. My attitude, it’s like, I chose to deal with it by not thinking about it. I mean, it was like getting a certain amount of sleep every night, like if I didn’t have a certain number of hours in my day not to think about this, all these people, all this craziness, I knew I’d go crazy. I was going crazy, or crazier, but I was trying my best not to.

So I was almost to the parking lot, when they saw me, and right away, you can feel it, you know. Like all of a sudden, all the energy is focused on you, and it’s like a spotlight of energy. Believe me, you can’t know how it feels until it happens. Like all the times in your life you think how great it would be to be famous, and you think it’d be great because you think you can control it. And when it’s just you and your fantasy, of course you control it. But in real life, when it happens, it’s so out of control. It’s like . . . I don’t know if this will make sense, but it’s like drunk energy. Like this ball of energy gets completely wasted, and then anything could happen. Like it could run into you in its car, it could hit you, punch you, try to start a fight with you, just anything, because it’s out of control. It doesn’t even know what it’s doing, you know?

It wasn’t so bad that night. I mean, I got inside without too much hassle. Mom sighed, closing the door, and she just looked at me. She felt so bad, and she felt so upset, because she couldn’t protect me from them. She couldn’t even protect herself. I mean, part of the reason she stayed home all day wasn’t just because she wasn’t working every day, it was because she didn’t want to face those people outside our front door.

And I bet, like I just had this feeling that she thought of my dad sometimes. I know she must wonder if it’d be different if they were together, if he’d be able to protect me, how he’d handle it, if they were still together. But they aren’t, and here we are. Gotta protect each other, right.

Hungry? I made chili, she said, and I could smell it.

Smells good, I said.

Good. Because I made enough for a week, she said, heading to the kitchen.

I felt bad for a second, because I knew the reason she made chili wasn’t because I liked chili, it was because it’s cheap, but anyhow. I looked at the clock on the VCR, and it was almost seven thirty. I didn’t realize how late it was, because it was the Mel’s mom, Heather, worked late. And it was so light out anymore. I can’t even believe that I forget sometimes that we only have another month of school until summer vacation.

But that was just another thing I tried not to think about too much, really. Because we had so many plans for summer. I was so excited for the daytrips we were going to take, Cam and me. So, yeah, I tried not to think about it, but I couldn’t that night. So instead, I just had to pretend, like imagining we were on those drives, heading to the beach somewhere. I could see his face in that second, turning to me, the wind blowing through is window. The light, his smile.

You’re not hungry? Mom said, because I hadn’t touched my food.

Just tired, I said, taking a bite.

Wanna watch something? she asked, and I nodded. Go on, I”ll be right in, she said, heading to the sink to wash the dishes.

I took my bowl, my glass, and I walked to the living room. I turned on the TV, and I sat down, wondering what was on. I started changing channels, surfing, and I saw something. There was an ad, a trailer, music. It doesn’t happen very often, but you know those moments when you actually see something cool on TV, and you’re like, Wait, what’s this cool thing on TV? What could this be?

It took me a minute, because I kept thinking, I know this, I’ve seen this . . . A girl with long dark hair, wearing an old funky leopard fur, walking down a cobblestone street, black and white. . . It was a trailer for a new movie. And then I knew what it was—I knew exactly what it was.

I just started yelling: Mom, Mom, come here, come see! Hurry!

She came into the room, and she looked worried. I just stood there, pointing at the television screen, but then it stopped. There was a second of credits, and then a different ad.

What’s wrong? she asked, kind of annoyed with me for scaring her.

Did you see that? Did you see that ad?

See what ad? she asked, drying her hands.

That ad, the ad, the trailer that was just on TV, did you see it? It’s our movie, I said, getting annoyed with her being annoyed with me.

What . . . what movie?

The movie . . . I said, and I almost told her, but I shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t tell her, you know? I mean, I never talked about Melody. She wouldn’t believe me, or maybe she would and it would be too much for her.

I mean, parents, you know. God, parents are so vain, so full of themselves, the way they think they’re always the ones doing the protecting. It goes both ways, believe me.

Still, I know what I saw. I saw an ad for a movie called Avril, but that’s our movie. It was an ad for our movie, Violaine, understand? Someone stole it from us. I don’t know how it’s even possible, but that’s the rule anymore, not the exception. All I could think was, Holy shit, wait until I tell Mel. She’ll never believe me, and she believes me, you know.

Avril means April, and that’s when we set, April, 1968. The rest of the night, watching tv, I was just like, This is crazy. I got goosebumps, and the hair on my arms stood straight up. Ohmygod. Ohmygod . . . they made our movie.

I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up past midnight, and then I went to bed, but there was no way. Finally, sometime around two, when I knew I wouldn’t wake my mom, I got up and went to the kitchen. I thought about having a drink, vodka, something, I don’t know, but I didn’t. I just sat at the table for a while, looking around. And then I got this urge, and I just had to lean back, to lie on my back, sitting on the chair.

Why is that? Why do we do that? All kids, right. Every kid loves the rush of blood. And then, one day, you stop. Or, I guess, more like one day you find a different rush. Somehow, I knew that had to do with the people outside my door. People who supplied the different rushes. They found me: I was the rush.

Ashlie Chavez. Originally published March 16, 2010.

Playlist track 2 chosen by guest artist/DJ/collaborator Ashlie Chavez. Originally published March 16, 2010.

(See Lauren Smart, Image 4)

Setting: Thea opens her bedroom curtains, just before dark, early May, 2009. (Continued from Part 3/8.)

I told him this story once. I said, You want to know a secret?

Yes, let’s hear a secret, he said.

I said, When I was little girl, we used to to the beach two weeks every August. We went to Nanna’s family house, in Connecticut. And there was a stretch of beach that was ours, I guess. It was supposed to be private, I think,but anyhow.

When I was about eight or nine, here was this neighbor boy, who was about two years older than I was, and he used to have this massive crush on me and dedicate all these Michael Jackson songs to me on the town radio station. It was so corny, because he’d call me on my phone and say, Hurry, turn on QBRQ, or whatever the station was there, and then he’d hang up. He wouldn’t try to talk to me or anything, so stupid. So for two weeks, every year, he’d follow me everywhere–I mean, everywhere. I mean, eery time I left the house, he was waiting for me, across the street, right. So, naturally, I had a love-hate relationship.

You loved to hate him, Cam said, laughing at me. We were lying in my bed, and I had my chin on my chest, looking up, telling him the story. The whole time, he kept brushing the back of my head with one hand, listening.

I don’t know what it was, I said, but I just loved to hate that little boy, loved to torture the kid.

I think there’s a word for that, he said, and I hid my face in his chest, laughing, accidentally getting slobber on his skin. What was his name or didn’t you ask? he said, teasing me again.

Ewan. His name was Ewan, like the actor Ewan McGregor, except he was nothing like the actor Ewan McGregor, I said.

Ewan, the tortured lovesick neighbor boy.

Townie.

Ewan, the tortured lovesick townie neighbor boy, he said.

I was so mean, too. Like how I used to draw these lines the sand at the beach—literally, I’d stand somewhere and take a stick and draw these huge dividing lines, where he was not allowed to cross, I said, trying not to laugh. Because come on, it was funny, too. Mean, but very funny.

So did Ewan cross the line?

Of course, I said, looking up at him again. I loved him for it, too, I said.

So you didn’t throw rocks at him, then.

No, of course I did! He crossed the line, I said. He got what he deserved.

Glad to see how much you’ve grown up, he said. Like he was basically calling me a child, right.

So what’s the secret? he said, reaching both hands around, pulling my hair into a ponytail, behind me.

That was it—that was my secret. But unfortunately, it was only a secret to me, I said.

So tell me a different secret, and maybe I won’t know this one this time, he said, scrunching his chin a bit, looking down at me. and I knew exactly what to say. Exactly. But then the words felt like this huge cliff in front of me that I had to jump with faith, alone.

No way.

I chickened out. And then I realized I was standing there, in my room, staring out the window, facing the highway. Like the ugliest view in the world, and I’m reliving a moment. I was there again. If I ended up having Alzheimer’s, like my Nanna, I know I’m going to have the happiest but sappiest ever memories. I’ll be one of those women who remembers her first love, and somewhere inside her, she’s been living with him all that time. I just didn’t think that would start until I was an old lady—I didn’t expect it so soon, you know what I mean?

One other thing: I left a part out. About that night Cam came over to apologize and I wouldn’t speak to him, so he stood outside our front door for over an hour. It was like I was possessed, how mean I was, like just so angry with him sometimes, I didn’t know why, really. I think I was—no, I know why I was so hard on him, because I kept expecting it to end. It’s just that, the way things had been going in my life, for weeks and weeks, I’d think, Okay, well, this could end any day, and it probably will, so just don’t get too caught up in it. So I pushed him a lot, maybe. It took a long time to get over that fear, and then, I do, finally, and he’s gone. He disappears.

It’s just more stuff about him that I can only see now, you know? Seriously, sometimes when I hear Cam’s voice say, Three percent: we can only see three percent of reality with our naked eye. Honestly, I think that is pretty generous, really. I’m thinking closer, to, oh, say, like, one percent, maybe?

I’m stalling, I’m sorry. I know I’m going to sound like a complete freak now, but whatever. The part I’m leaving out is where he tapped on my window, having tried to call like four times and having texted me four times, he tapped on my window, and when I opened my curtains, and I saw him there, and he was so beautiful.

I felt it in my heart, I did, just thing, pfuht sound, but more like a blow. I so didn’t know what to do with myself, seeing him there, trying so hard to get through tome, knowing I didn’t know how to do any better than treat him like that—treat both of us like that. I was so touched he was there, but then, for whatever reason, I just had to push.

So I screamed at him for a while, told him to leave me alone, go away, and I closed my curtains. I put on my headphones, and I just . . . I fumed. But I knew he was still out there. Like he waited ten minutes, twenty minutes, and I was taking this sick pleasure out of it. Until, finally, my mom came home and knocked on my door, right away.

Come in, I said, turning to the door.

Thea, he said, nodding her head to the side.

Yes?

Cam’s outside.

Oh, I said, looking at the carpet.

Oh? You knew he was outside?

Yes, but I told him to go away, I said.

Well, he didn’t go away.

Well, I told him, I said, shrugging like what could I do?

Go out and speak to him, or I’m inviting him in, she said. And she wasn’t kidding, either. And at that pint, I was so angry at them both.

Thea, she said, I don’t care what he did, he’s been standing outside our front door for how long?

I don’t know, I said, even though I did, and she knew it, too. A while, I said.

Which is it going to be? she asked, and I huffed, heading to the front door.

I was glaring when I opened the door. I didn’t say anything, either, I just looked at him, sitting there, in front of our door. He’d been sitting there since he called, since I opened my curtain and saw him, there, standing right outside my window. He’d waited all that time to see me, and it’s like, it broke my heart, it really did. So why couldn’t I let it go?

I’m sorry, he said, getting on his feet, standing up. I had no right to post your pictures without asking you first. I just want you to know that I did it because I’m proud of you, and I think you have a gift, and I know it was a mistake, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. It won’t happen again, he said. He looked at me, waiting. For something, you know, anything, any recognition of what he’d just said, and I gave him nothing. I mean, nothing.

He nodded, biting his lower lip, and then he turned and walked away. I watched him walking down to his car. I should have said something. I knew there was no reason to be so harsh on him, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself, either. And it just made me feel that much more frustrated with the whole situation, you know. I mean, to see what I was doing, and to know what I was doing just wasn’t necessary, but not able to stop myself from doing it, either. That’s as far as I could go, and it was . . . it was what I deserved, not able to feel anything in my chest, not my heart or my lungs, watching him start his car and pull out.

The whole time—it was gray outside, too, like a cement wall. I remember the sky looked like I felt, and watching him drive off, I kept thinking, Call him, text him, do something, Thea. Tell him to turn around and talk to him: don’t do this. Don’t let him go like that after he waited outside for almost an hour, trying to speak to you, to apologize to your face . . . But I didn’t. I was the one who owed him an apology, and I knew it, and I didn’t do it. So sad.

Now that he’s gone, I see so many things about him that I don’t know. So who did I know, then? All I’m saying is, of that ninety-seven percent that you can’t see, I wonder sometimes how much of that is inside, like in your own head. You know what I mean?

No, really, who’s to say you even see ghosts? Like who says you see ghosts on the outside? What if you see ghosts on the inside, and that’s why no one else can see them but you? All I know is, Cam, he was an old soul. I think he had lots and lots of ghosts on the inside.

I could hear his voice then, in my head. I could hear his voice doing some bit, pretending he was pitching the story of us to some studio execs: It’s a love story, it’s a ghost story, it’s got Daniel Craig and international cyber-espionage, it’s got geometry and teenage girls. And I have to say, I don’t think Cam had ever been as funny as he was since he’d been gone. All of a sudden, it’s like, you’re hilarious, I said, speaking to him out loud, but then realizing I was talking to myself again.

But that’s the thing, see. When you know somebody so well that you can hear their voice in your head and you talk to them, aren’t they part of you? I mean, yes, it’s crazy but I thought that was the craziest part of love: to give and takes parts of yourself, knowing you’ll never get them back, you know?

Lauren Smart. Originally posted February 22, 2010.

Playlist track 4 chosen by guest artist/DJ/collaborator Lauren Smart. Originally posted February 22, 2010.

(See Audrey Gatewood, Image 3)

Setting: Thea’s texting, standing just a few feet from the side of a narrow highway, a hundred yards away from Coffee Shop, late afternoon, May, 2009 (continued from Part 2/8).

When I was little, my dad used to tell me he fell in love with my mom at first sight. And of course I always thought that was just so romantic, you know. And then, one day, I don’t know why, what it was, I think I’d just become more aware about men and women, whatever, but I asked him. I said, Was that the first time, Dad? Did that ever happened to you before? And he leaned forward and said, Everyday. Three, four times a day, sometimes. But your mother was different, Thea, he said: she believed me. And then my mom laughed, and we all laughed. We were in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table, my dad and me, and it must have been a Saturday or Sunday, because Mom was making a big breakfast. She always made the best raspberry pancakes in the world, I swear. I’d wait for them all week long, too. Anyhow.

I think that was the first time it occurred to me that my dad might be interested in another woman besides my mom. I mean, I don’t know how old I was, but this was shocking. This really shook me up. Because he was already so fallible without getting anywhere near that issue, ohmygod, no. It’s like men always talk about their little girls growing up, how hard that is, whatever. Think of us: you think that’s easy? That your dad might, he might be just like a . . . guy. You wonder why we can’t stand being around you anymore: there you go.

Anyhow. The thing about my dad was that he’s so not funny, he was so unfunny, right, that he was completely hilarious. Because he thought he was so funny, he’d cracked himself up all the time. Like his joke would be such a bomb, it was almost embarrassing, or it was completely embarrassing sometimes, and then, three seconds later, you’d burst out laughing exactly because there wasn’t a molecule of humor in his joke, like not an atom of funniness, okay. Then you’d realize, Wow, he did it again. Really, like how can one man be so consistently and completely unfunny?

You know, I remember now that she looked him in the eye, when he said that that morning, about her believing him. He said my mom was different because she believed him, and she looked at him, and I couldn’t figure out the expression on her face, I said. My mom, she had this look in her eye that I’d never seen either, and then I realized something . . . I said, and I stopped talking for a second, not sure if I could explain it or not. I thought about that morning for the first time in ages, and I remembered it so clearly, and not needing her encouragement, not wanting to stop talking, I said: I realized I didn’t know anything about her life, really. I realized that just because she knew me, didn’t mean I knew anything about her at all. And then I looked at them, at both my parents, and thought,Who are you, people?

That’s what I told her, Larissa Wells. And then I looked up, realizing I’d been going on and on about my parents, and what was it I meant to say? I didn’t even remember what we were talking about before I went on that tear. Still, she’d been listening the whole time, like she was genuinely interested. Like she understood. And she believed me.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on and on like that, I said, and she smiled and nodded like she was glad I did.

I forgot how pretty she was for a second, and then I remembered again, when she smiled. She was wearing jeans, regular old Levis, but they fit. Not tight, but I wondered what style they were, because they fit her so well. She had a black turtleneck, and her hair pulled back. It was reddish, and I couldn’t tell how long it was, but it looked so cool with her big red plaid wool cut. I couldn’t really look without staring, but the way it was made, the way it was cut, I think it might have been Yohji Yamamoto? Or maybe not, but it looked like the sort of thing some woman would say, Oh, it’s Yohji Yamamoto, I’ve had it for years. And somehow, here, sitting across from me at Coffee Shop, she looked completely natural. Looking at her, I remember thinking, How do you do that?

I feel very comfortable with you, too, she said. And if you want to work together, I’d like that very much, Thea, she said. And she didn’t—she didn’t ask me anything about Cam, or about the videos, or the FBI, none of it. She just looked at my sketchbook and asked how long my parents had been married, and then, somehow, I don’t know. We got to talking, and I started telling her about my parents and the divorce and everything, like how we ended up here, my mom and I.

But talking with her was different than with Cam or Melody. I don’t know why, really, but the way I talk to her is just different than the way I am with anyone else. And it kind of felt good, like I could be someone else. The way I am, the way I’ve always been, that doesn’t have to be me, you know? Not that I was trying ot be someone else, I just was someone else with her, how I presented myself. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or bad thing, I’m just saying it felt good to be able to talk to someone who wasn’t at all involved in anything that had been going on. I felt like I could breathe when I talked to her.

Of course the first person I wanted to talk to was Mel. Soon as I left Coffee Shop, I wanted to head straight over to Mel’s and tell her all about it, the whole conversation with Larissa, everything. But honestly, that was one of those many times that I did wish Melody were normal, or at least functioning, physically.

I mean, it’s terrible to think that, I know, but on the rare occasion that I’d actually well up and feel something and need to talk to someone for fear I’d lose my mind if I didn’t get it out, I couldn’t call her or text her. And then I stopped walking, right on the road, fifty yards in front of Coffee Shop. Because I realized I could text Knox, right. I mean, what I wanted to tell Mel, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t hear about, and I wanted him to tell her, so she’d know I was thinking about her, at least.

So I wrote him and asked if he could pass on a message for me, and he wrote back, What’s that? Which I took to mean yes, he would pass on a message. So I wrote back and told him that I’d met with the writer woman and she was totally cool and I had a lot to think about, wished we could just hang out. Knox wrote back and said, You want to come over for an hour? On my way, I said, and then I called my mom and asked her if she could pick me up at Mel’s, and then she asked who Melody was.

I forgot I hadn’t really told her anything about Melody. I hadn’t told her anything about her or us, my best friend. I disliked her mom so much probably because I knew Heather wouldn’t believe me, of course, but my own mom wouldn’t believe me, either, I don’t know. She’d think I was crazy. And she might be right, I wasn’t so sure anymore, myself.

Detective Knox’s daughter, I said, the one in the wheelchair? I read to her sometimes, remember? It means a lot to her, you know, to have some company, someone her age, I said. And it makes me feel good, too, I said, wincing, knowing how terrible that would sound if Melody’d heard me. I mean, that would hurt her feelings so badly, to make her out as this pathetic gimp, like I was this kindhearted girl, reading to the vegetative girl . . . I covered my face with my hand.

Standing there, on the side of the road, I just hid my face. But it was the only way. Like me having to sneak around Melody’s mom, Heather. Still, it sounded awful, I know. I’d have to tell her at some point, too. I couldn’t say something like that and not talk to my best friend, make sure she understood why I’d ever talk about her like that.

Oh, yes, right, right, Mom said.

I forgot I told her I’d stop by, so I just don’t, you know. I don’t want to flake on her, I said.

No, I’ll just go to the store, first, instead of heading home, pick you up after. How’s that?

Thanks, Mom.

Course. So did you meet the writer? she said, sounding confused, but trying very hard to stay positive.

Yes, she’s excellent, I said. I really, really like her, but I’ll tell you all about it on the way home, okay?

All right, she said, and for once, her voice sounded pleased with me. Seriously, and I’m not blaming her, but she hadn’t really had any reason to sound pleased with me in a long time. It was nice. I didn’t trust it, but it was really nice.

Audrey Gatewood. Originally posted February 13, 2010.

Playlist track 3 chosen by guest artist/DJ/collaborator Audrey Gatewood. Originally posted February 13, 2010.