Chapter 3
The air outside was hot, reminiscent of a lingering summer heatwave. As I drew closer to my mom, the weight of anxiety made it difficult to catch my breath, fearing her disappointing gaze.
“Hey, Mom. What are you doing here?” I had no doubt the principal had already informed her of the situation.
“Get in the car,” she instructed. My eyes flicked to Emily, who looked concerned.
“Don't worry about me; I'll just take the bus home. But, what ended up happening with the principal?” she asked, momentarily forgetting the earlier drama.
“I'll fill you in tomorrow, I swear,” I replied.
“Okay, just take care of yourself.”
As Emily waved goodbye, I climbed into my mom’s Fiat. The silence that enveloped us was thick and awkward. I hadn't done anything wrong, so why was guilt gnawing at me?
“The principal called and told me what happened,” she finally said, breaking the silence.
I met her gaze but remained silent, another stretch of quiet passed between us.
“Your school is filled with strange kids. I just saw some kids smoking weed right outside the school,” she said, her voice rising in disbelief.
Once again, I found myself at a loss for words, torn between defending my peers or siding with my mother.
I wished my dad were here; he always knew the right thing to say.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” she asked, casting a quick glance my way.
My heart raced. Was she suggesting I was involved?
“No, what do you want me to say? Someone broke into the school, but I don't know who did it. I honestly have no idea,” I replied, even though I knew exactly who was responsible. It was a lie.
“I saw your name all over the classroom. I saw the pictures,” she exclaimed, her voice so loud that I instinctively leaned away.
“I know the principal showed me, but I told him I didn't know who wrote it. It's probably just a prank,” I retorted, trying to keep my tone steady.
“A prank? You call that a prank? What kind of sick person would do that?”
“Mom, it's just kids being kids. It's a school. They can be cruel. Just try not to take it to heart,” I urged.
“So, some twisted kids leave a threatening message for my daughter, and you expect me to stay calm?”
“You're overreacting. It's not as serious as you think.”
“If anything seems off—any little thing—promise me you'll tell me right away.” She looked at me intently, ensuring I understood. I nodded. “I love you so much. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you that would cause you pain or distress. I need you to know that.”
“I know, Mom. I really do.”
The rest of the drive was steeped in silence. As we neared home, she spoke up again.
“I need to stop by the studio to grab some photos. Would you mind coming along? We can head home together afterward.”
“Sure,” I replied. It had been about a year since I last visited her studio. When we arrived, she parked in front of the glass doors and entered first; I followed her inside. The space was mostly unchanged, with her small office on the right, two large monitors, and a spacious leather chair.
“Oh, look who decided to drop by!” Andrea exclaimed, my mom’s business partner, who had co-founded the studio over a decade ago. I used to spend a lot of time here, or with my dad at work, when I was a child.
“Hi,” I said, smiling as he approached and enveloped me in a warm hug. He was a charismatic man in his mid-forties, tall with a friendly smile.
“Wow, you've grown! It feels like just yesterday you were a little towheaded child running around. Now look at you—a full-grown woman,” he said, taking me in from head to toe. I felt my cheeks blush.
“Stop it, you're making her uncomfortable!” my mom called from her office, half-joking, but I could sense it fueled his teasing.
“Come on, let me show you something,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him.
The studio was compact, with lofty ceilings and simple white walls. Flash units and strobes were positioned and ready for action. A large white backdrop was extended to the floor.
I paused for a moment, glancing at the iPad displaying what I guessed was the recently completed photoshoot. The subject was a girl I recognized; she was around my age. She certainly knew how to pose, and her photos were stunning; her smile and her youth were now frozen forever in these photos.
“You know, you should come in one day. I could take some pictures of you just like these,” Andrea said, approaching from behind.
“Maybe I will,” I replied with a smile. I think I would actually love something like this.
With my mom being a photographer, I had the opportunity to take pictures whenever I wanted, yet somehow I hadn't done so in years.
I turned to follow Andrea, noticing several photos hanging in the studio's left corner, but one in particular caught my eye.
“Do you remember this?” he asked, pointing to a large 20×30 portrait hanging on the wall. I inhaled sharply, my heart momentarily frozen. It felt as though I had nearly pushed this from my mind. A whirlwind of feelings enveloped me completely.
It was a photo my mom had taken and edited. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized myself, around seven or eight years old. My mom had scouted kids for an
artistic series—portraits of 'dolls.' In her delicate editing, she made my skin porcelain-smooth and pale, accentuating my blue eyes in a way that made the image both beautiful and unsettling.
It felt as if I was staring into my soul.
It felt as if I could see right through my eyes, uncovering the true essence of who I was beneath the surface.
Staring into the depths of my pupils, I feared I might be swallowed by the darkness.
A surge of emotions stirred within me, causing my breath to quicken.
I was starting to remember. It was a bright, sunny day when my mom announced that she wanted to take some photos.
She placed me in the back seat of her car, and we headed to the studio.
I remember seeing Andrea outside, leaning against the wall and smoking.
Taking my hand, my mom led me inside. There were other children, quietly standing in their dresses and with flowing hair.
My mom dressed me in a gown that itched against my skin, but I kept my discomfort to myself.
Next, an unfamiliar woman came, gently loosening my long braid and brushing my light blond hair with a tender touch, her smile warm and reassuring.
One by one, my mom called each child to stand in front of a large, hand-painted dark canvas.
She spent about 10 to 15 minutes with each of them.
I was the last. When she finally called me, she took my hand gently and guided me into the center of that vast backdrop.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the bright light, slowly acclimating to the brightness.
She adjusted my position, tilting my head and smoothing my hair with meticulous care.
My heart raced as all eyes fell on me. I wanted to cry, but I stood frozen, knowing that remaining still would make it all end sooner.
The camera clicked for the first time, and I blinked, startled by the sudden flash.
I didn't want to let my mother down, so I fought hard against the urge to blink again.
All I could see was the blinding light and the shadows where my mom stood with the camera, her face hidden from view. I focused intently on the dark circle of the lens, waiting for this moment to be over.
I could still hear her saying, “I wish I could freeze this
moment in time. You are my little doll, sweet, innocent, and just perfect.” Those words echoed in my mind, and perhaps I had been trying to live up to them ever since.
“I'm ready; we can go now,” my mom said, approaching me. “That's my favorite one,” she added, admiring the portrait.
After bidding farewell to Andrea, we headed home, both feeling the weight of the day. It had been long and tiring, and I was utterly exhausted.
Those memories flooded my mind, prompting deep reflection.
I wondered if I was still the same little girl I once was?
How have I transformed over the years? Have I met my mother's hopes for me?
Did she take pride in the person I had become?
And what about my own happiness—was I truly content with who I was?
Or had I simply been playing a role, molding myself into what I thought others desired?
When we finally got home, all I could think about was retreating to my room and taking a much-needed shower.
It was around 3 PM, and the heat outside lingered.
Dad was still at work. I flopped down on my bed, face-down, and lay there without moving for about ten minutes.
Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from Marco:
“Hey, how was your day? Are you coming over?”
“It was okay. When?”
“Around 5 PM?”
“Sure! Love you.”
“Love U 2.”
I was exhausted, but a part of me longed for a comforting and strong hug.
I hopped in the shower, wishing I had a bathtub where I could soak away the heaviness of the day for hours.
Someday, when I lived on my own, I would make sure to have that luxury.
I skipped washing my hair, opting instead for a quick bun.
After changing into something comfortable, I searched for my mom to let her know I was heading to Marco’s.
“Mom, are you here?” I called out as I wandered through the kitchen. “Mom?” I tried again, but there was no response. Just then, I spotted her coming in from outside, engrossed in her phone. “Is everything alright?” I asked, a bit worried.
“Oh yes, just work. Are you going somewhere?” She looked up at me.
“Yes, I'm going to Marco’s, I'll be back for dinner.” I explained. She didn't say much, but I sensed that Marco was the only one she really trusted. I headed out.