The Family Photo That Didn't Have Me In It novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Torn

Emery's roommates film her covered in oatmeal, Griffin tears up the only family portrait she's in, and on the northbound train a stranger holds up the post: 'You're the sister.'

I was still staring at my mother's name when the door of the quad banged open.

My three roommates came in together, giggling, still in their going-out clothes.

The tall one was carrying a mixing bowl from the floor kitchen.

"Oh my God," she said. "It's her."

I sat up on my sleeping bag.

She tipped the bowl over my head.

Cold oatmeal slid down my hair, into my collar, over my eyes.

"Oops," she said. "Thought you were the trash."

The other two had their phones up already.

One was filming. The other was taking pictures fast, the shutter sound turned all the way up.

"Smile for the forum," the short one said.

"Say sorry to your sister," said the third.

Oatmeal dripped off my chin onto my jeans.

It smelled like brown sugar, like the breakfasts Mom used to make when she still let me eat at the table.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist.

Then I stood up.

All three of them took a step back, which was funny, since I'm the size of a coat rack.

"Are you live, or is that saving?" I asked the one filming.

She blinked. "What?"

"Because if it's live, you just streamed yourselves assaulting a student in university housing."

The tall one laughed, but not very loud.

"It's oatmeal."

"It's battery," I said. "Look it up. Then post it. Tag me. Tag the RA too."

The filming phone went down an inch.

I could have screamed at them.

I could have cried until they felt sorry, which is what Amelie would have done.

I did neither, and my voice stayed so flat that it frightened me a little.

I picked up my duffel and started packing.

It didn't take long. I'd never really unpacked.

I rinsed my hair in the floor bathroom with hand soap, and the water ran gray, then clear.

Then I took the framed photo out of the side pocket of my duffel, the one thing I'd packed in a sweater.

The glass had cracked in a long diagonal when the bowl hit the bag.

Under the crack, we were all there.

Grandma on the porch steps in her yellow cardigan, with the twins on either side.

Me in the green dress she'd bought me. Amelie in pink. Dillon behind us, making a face.

Mom and Dad at the top of the steps, Dad still out of breath from running back from the timer.

It was the only family picture anybody ever took with me in it.

Grandma had stood in the yard and refused to sit until Dad set the timer and got in it too.

I slept on top of my sleeping bag with the frame under my arm.

At 6:05 a.m. I woke up, checked the screenshot once, and went to find a frame shop.

I wanted new glass before the train, and I wanted it to be mine.

I had five hours until the 11:40.

The shop on the avenue wasn't open, and I was standing at the door when I heard Amelie's laugh.

She came down the sidewalk in a white sundress with Griffin on one side and Dillon on the other, carrying her iced coffee.

Of course they'd checked my location. Mom made us all share it.

"There she is," Griffin said. "We've been looking for you."

"Why?"

"You haven't posted the apology."

"I'm not going to."

Amelie's eyes went to the frame in my hands.

Her face changed.

"Is that Grandma's picture?"

I didn't answer.

"You took that?" Her voice cracked. "Mom said it was lost. Grandma always loved you best. She's even holding your hand in it."

Grandma was holding both our hands.

I'd never pointed that out, and I wasn't going to start on a sidewalk.

"Give it here," Griffin said.

"It's mine."

"Amelie's upset. Give it here, Emery."

He said it kindly.

That was the worst part, how sure he was that this was kind.

He took it out of my hands.

I grabbed for it.

He turned his shoulder.

The cracked glass popped out of the frame and broke on the sidewalk.

He slid the photo out and held it up so Amelie could see.

"You want it?" he asked her gently.

Amelie sniffed and shook her head. "I don't want to look at it."

So he tore it.

Right down the middle, between Grandma and me.

Then crossways, then again, until it was a handful of paper confetti.

Amelie made a little sound.

Dillon took half a step forward with the iced coffee sweating in his hand.

Then he stopped, and he stood there.

Griffin walked three steps to the city trash bin on the corner and dropped the pieces in.

He dusted his fingers off.

"There," he said. "Now nobody has to fight about it. You'll thank me when you're calmer."

I looked at the bin.

Then at him.

Then at my brother, who looked at his shoes.

I didn't cry.

I picked my duffel up off the sidewalk, and the empty frame, because the frame was mine.

"Where do you think you're going?" Griffin said. "We're not done."

"I am."

I walked to the corner, and then the next corner, and then I was at the bus stop and the bus came.

My phone buzzed four times on the way to the station. Mom twice, Dad once, Dillon once.

Mom's text came through before I could stop it. Did you eat? Don't leave without eating.

I turned the phone off.

My seat was by the window. I put my duffel under my feet and the broken frame on my lap, with nothing in it.

The train jerked and rolled, and the city started sliding backward.

I watched the stadium go by, then the towers, then the first field.

For the first time in eighteen years, nobody needed me for anything.

Somebody heavy dropped into the seat across the aisle.

He was big. Big shoulders, big hands, dark hair that needed a cut, a flannel shirt with the sleeves shoved up.

He'd been looking at his phone.

Now he was looking at me.

He looked at my hair, which still had oatmeal stuck in it behind one ear.

Then at the phone again.

Then he turned it around and held it up across the aisle so I could see the screen.

Griffin's post. Amelie crying on the stage steps, with my face.

"You're the sister," he said.

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