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I turn around, wide-eyed. “You took all of these photos?” I ask. He nods. I turn to look at them again; they’re even better now that I know they’re his.
“They’re beyond amazing,” I say, feeling like it’s too small a compliment. I hear Sean’s stocking feet shuffle once; I wiggle my toes in his too-large shoes.
“Come see the rest,” he says, grabbing my hand and literally pulling me away from his art.
We walk through another door into a massive open studio with umbrella lights and a tripod and several stations that look like mini rooms that forgot some of their walls. There’s a five-by-five section of dark hardwood floor with patterned frilly wallpaper on the wall; one with a white floor and a blue painted wall; and one with a brown wood floor and three solid canvas backdrops to choose from. There’s a changing room in one corner blocked off from the rest by thick fabric; in another corner there are baskets of props ranging from silly glasses to masks to toys to tutus.
Sean and I spend an hour messing around in the studio: him taking photos of me and using a little remote to take photos of us together, and me shooting mostly unfocused pictures of him. It’s so ridiculously fun that I lose track of time. When Harper appears in the doorway asking if I’d like to stay for dinner, I panic for a second before remembering Mom’s at work. Still, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.
“I should probably get home,” I say. Who knows if Bet needs to go somewhere; I’m eating into evening.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Harper says. “Maybe some other time.”
“Definitely,” I say, hoping it’s true. Harper is the definition of what a mom should be; what does that make my own?
“Well, it was really nice to meet you, Lizzie,” she says. “I hope you’ll come over again soon.”
“I will,” I promise. “Thanks for the cookies.”
Harper leaves, and Sean and I linger in the studio a little longer.
“Your mom’s so nice,” I say. “And sane.”
Sean wraps his arms around me and looks into my eyes. “I promised I wouldn’t touch this particular subject today, but if you really think your mom’s got issues, you should seriously tell someone,” he says. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be someone… official.” He pauses. “We could just tell… like maybe my mom?”
“Don’t,” I say quickly, stiffening. “I don’t want to… just don’t.” I take a deep breath. “Not yet, anyway.”
I still feel like I need answers before I can ask my mom any questions—and that the questions should come from our family and not the outside world.
“Do you really have to leave?” Sean asks. “ ’Cause I was thinking pizza sounded good.”
“Isn’t your mom making dinner?” I ask.
“She won’t mind,” he says, shrugging. “She was probably planning on ordering pizza anyway; I’ll bring her some back.”
“Let me call Betsey and make sure it’s okay that I’m still out,” I say. When Sean looks at me funny, I smile half heartedly. “This is her time, not mine.”
>“Let me see it,” I say, grabbing the phone. “I have to approve it.”
“You always look good in pictures,” he says.
“Not true.”
“No, really,” he says. “You do. Hey, want to go see the studio?”
“Yes!” I say enthusiastically.
At the shoe pile by the front door, Sean digs through a few strays until he finds what he’s looking for: hideous green foam shoes. I make a face.
“What? Dislike?” he asks with a little laugh.
“Why do you own those?” I ask, frowning. “You look… I mean… they’re the worst.”
“I know,” he says, laughing again. “They’re hot. I’m going to wear them to school on Monday.”
“No!” I say. “You’ll be banned!”
I shove my own feet into my flats even though I’m still wearing the oversized socks. The extra material bunches up at the sides and makes my feet look like I’m retaining massive amounts of water.
