Page 137 of Awry
Because I know the boy in the picture.Even in profile, he looks a little like DeVille.But only because DeVille looks like a younger version of him.
I stop at another image of me on the beach, but this time, a group of us are roasting marshmallows at a small campfire.I’m a couple of years older — eleven or twelve — and I’m leaning against the boy’s shoulder and laughing.Muta is twined around both of our ankles in the sand.A slightly older, darker-haired teen with broad shoulders is seated to my other side, grinning quietly and directly at the photographer.
I move to the next photo, then the next.The group is older in this shot.We’re in our midteens now and seemingly caught unaware by the photographer.I’m up to my ankles in a long run of the surf, wearing a short-sleeved wetsuit with my hair slick wet.My fingers are tangled with the teen, the golden-haired boy who is the same age as me.My left hand holds his right.We’re carrying bodyboards under our other arms.The top of his wetsuit is unzipped, hanging down around his waist and exposing his long, slim back.No tattoos.
The broad-shouldered teen — now even taller and wider — wears his wetsuit unzipped but folded down more deliberately.As if the freezing open ocean is too warm for him, for any of them, to wear their suits zipped up.He’s on my other side, only a couple of steps away, carrying a surfboard and gazing over at me.I’m looking ahead and slightly to the left, mostly in profile.
Another figure stands ahead of us, much deeper into the surf already.He has unruly dark hair, a wicked smirk of anticipation, and a surfboard poised to catch the next wave.
I don’t look at any other photos closely.Just enough to glance at the dates in the corners and to understand that they’re arranged in chronological order.There are wildlife shots and a picture of the main house, and a few others of my aunt and her chosen.
A couple of pictures away from the opposite side of the door to the hall, I find what I’m searching for even though I didn’t really know it — another group photo.A picture we definitely didn’t pose for.
Rendered in shades of gray, the sky is dark, speckled with stars.Firelight plays across all the skin on display.I’m wearing a modest bikini, and my hair is damp.The three males, ranging from my age — which I know without looking at the date noted at the corner of the photo is seventeen — to a few years older.
Though they’re more than thirteen years older now, I know each of the three in the photo with me.Without question.
I’m leaning back against the bare chest of the teen closest to me in age.He’s got his fingers tangled in my hair, hand resting at the back of my neck.But my legs are spread across the lap of the teen with the almost ridiculously broad shoulders, and it’s him I have my eyes narrowed on.Playfully, I think.As if he’s just said something funny and the others are laughing, but I’m pretending to be mad.
The third teen, possibly in his early twenties, is the one I’ve only seen in the background of the other photos I’ve paused to study.He’s set slightly to the side, not cuddled up with me like the other two.But I’ve stretched my foot out to him, resting it on his upper thigh, and he’s covered it with his hand.
I’m not feeling hollow now.
I’m feeling frozen in time and space.But also like if I take another breath, I’ll start trembling and won’t ever be able to stop.
I force myself to look away from the last photo, from the people I know now as adults.The three men who my memory tells me I first met only days ago.I look for their names, and to confirm the date, in the penciled note in the bottom right corner.
The caption simply reads ‘Zaya and her boys.2011.’
Zaya and her boys.
Zaya andherboys.
My gaze catches on the teen who I know to be Rought.The firelight plays on his chest just enough for me to see the outline of a tattoo over his heart.It’s the only one he has.
I glance at Rath in the middle of the shot.He has more tats, mostly on his forearms, but the one near the center of his chest looks similar to Rought’s heart tattoo.
I’m even more lightheaded as I try to focus on Reck.He has more tattoos across his arms and upper chest.But he’s partially in shadow, and I … I can’t be sure, but I think he has the anatomical floral heart tattoo as well.
I press my hand against my own chest, fingers splayed over the same spot above my heart.
Behind me, he steps into the room, long strides consuming the space between us until he pauses a few steps away, just outside my peripheral vision.
Zaya and her boys.
Zaya andherboys.
I recognize the girl, the young woman, in the picture as me.But I haven’t lived that life … that life filled with laughter and … love.
Emotion clogs my throat.
I don’t know what’s going on.
But I don’t feel hollow anymore.
I feel … too much … I’m too much.
Too much energy trapped … trapped in a mostly mortal body.
