Autofocus Read online

  “Awesome. Well, I’ll let you get back to guy-from-your-hall.”

  “Ha ha,” she says. “Okay, well, I love my Maude and I’ll see you soon!”

  “Love my Tree,” I say. I smile and hang up, ready for whatever will happen next.

  That night I update my photo blog, Maude’s Menagerie, with a photo I took on the way home from school of a group of birds sitting on an electrical line. Ever since we started the blog last year, in Photo II class, I try to post daily, both to document my life and to challenge myself to take at least one photo a day. Some are with my DSLR camera, and others are simply phone snapshots, but they all tell a story, at least in my mind. I click the Archive link and pick a post from April, before Treena moved away. It’s a picture of the two of us standing in front of the ice-cream place we used to love before it closed. Treena is laughing as ice cream drips down her hand from the heat, and I’m holding the camera out, capturing the moment. We called this a Buddy Shot. Selfies are for one person, but Buddy Shots are for two. There are so many other photos like this, the two of us being, well, us. My blog is full of them.

  I wonder what pictures I’ll take in Tallahassee when I visit her. I close the window and open FSU’s, clicking on the map. Treena lives in Gilchrist Hall, an honors dorm at the center of campus. It overlooks a gazebo on one side, and a giant grassy knoll with a fountain on the other. Treena’s told me about it—it’s where she sometimes lays out and does her homework on nice days.

  I imagine Treena hanging out there now, lying on the grass with her books. Maybe having a picnic, or studying for class.

  I scroll through the map, passing the squares posing as buildings, and find a giant oval that signifies both the football stadium and the registrar’s office. I guess it’s somewhere within the stadium, amid the locker rooms and gyms. I scroll back to Gilchrist Hall and touch the screen, making a route with my finger of the path I’ll take. It’s a straight walk down a sidewalk, then a curve at a traffic circle. I’m sure it’s not hard to miss. My heart flutters with anticipation of what’s to come.

  I close my laptop, get out a notebook, and make a list of things I want to do while there.

  - Spend time with Treena.

  - See campus, decide if I want to go there.

  - See Tallahassee sights. Capitol?

  - Find out about my mother.

  - Find out about myself.

  I know my birth mother is not there, I know she won’t magically come back to life once I step foot into the city she once knew . . . but I just feel like I might find a piece of her, a part of her I didn’t know existed. And maybe, in doing that, I’ll find a piece of myself, too.

  FOUR

  The next few days pass, and I’m constantly thinking about the project. On Friday, in photography class, I fill Celine in about the details of my trip.

  “That’s so cool that your mom’s letting you go,” she says, spinning in her chair. We’re supposed to be editing photos for a quick in-class assignment, but instead are taking the time to gossip. Everyone else already left for lunch.

  “Yeah, I’m really excited. I’m staying with Treena and am going to check out the campus and stuff.”

  “And stuff,” she says, giving me an exaggerated wink.

  “Not that,” I say.

  She knowingly nods and says, “If you need make-out tips, let me know. I’ve got you covered.”

  “I’m not going to be making out with anyone,” I say, rolling my eyes at her. “It’s not really my priority.”

  “Uh-huh. I bet your friend has tons of parties lined up for you.”

  “You don’t know Treena; she’s not like that. She’s more of a night-at-the-library kind of girl. You know, for her sixteenth birthday, we went to see a Disney movie in the theater, and then got cake. That’s Treena.”

  “She sounds like a party and a half,” Celine says.

  “She is.” I defend her. Because to me, Treena always has been. Those are our nights. That’s what I’m looking forward to. Since she’s been gone, I haven’t had sleepovers, and our heart-to-hearts have been rare. So I’m excited for all of that, too. To us being us again.

  “So how do you plan on finding out stuff about your mom?” she asks, missing the defensiveness in my voice. “Are you going to find people who knew her?”

  “Mother,” I explain. “Mom for my real mom, mother for my birth mother. Um, but yeah, I’m going to try. I know she went to FSU, so it doesn’t hurt to look her up, right?”

  “What if people tell you some awful stuff about her? Or what if she was totally awesome?”

  I straighten up and look away, tapping my fingers absentmindedly on the computer. “I don’t know,” I say. What if I learn something not so great about her? Then what? I shake my head and dismiss the thought. I will deal with that if I need to.

  “Well, I think it’s cool that you’re doing this. My life seems so boring in comparison.”

  “Does not,” I say. “How’d it go with Starbucks guy?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “I’m playing it cool now,” she says, grinning. “He has my number, he knows what to do.” I’m taken again by how sure she is of herself. If only I could channel that sometimes.

  The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, which we apparently completely skipped while talking, and Celine rolls her eyes. “English. Yay,” she says, all deadpan, and I smile. As I get up, I see Ms. Webber by her desk.

  “Hey, go ahead,” I say to Celine, and she shrugs. “I have a question for Ms. Webber.”

  “See ya later,” she says, then leaves. I keep my computer on and walk to the front of the room.

  “Maude, how’s your project coming along?” Ms. Webber asks immediately.

  “I’m still not totally sure what I’m going to do, but I think I have an idea. Actually . . .” I stop to take a breath. “I’m going up to Tallahassee next week during break . . . to see where I was born.”

  “That’s terrific. Are you excited?”

  “Yes, definitely. And nervous. And, I don’t know . . .” I say.

  “You know, FSU has a terrific photography program,” she says with a wink, and I smile.

  “So I’ve heard. I kind of wanted to check it out.”

  “You absolutely should.”

  I nod and then confess. “Ms. Webber, I . . . I’m not really sure where to start my senior project. Like, I know I’m going up there, and I know I’m going to find out about some things—maybe—about my birth mother, and maybe I’ll find out more about my whole family. But . . . as for the project, I’m, well, where do I start?”

  She tilts her head and crosses her arms, leaning back against the whiteboard. “How do you feel about an extra assignment?”

  “I, um . . .”

  “Hear me out. Do you still post on the photo blog I had everyone make last year?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Okay, post every day there. Of anything within Tallahassee. Don’t even think about it—just take photos of the school, the people, the trees. Then post the photos you take during your trip, at least one a day. And I think, in not trying, you’ll find things will start to click.”

  “Okay,” I say, kind of excited about the assignment. It’s not hard, it’s something I typically do anyway, and maybe it’ll help. Maybe it’ll point me in the direction I need to go. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “Great,” she says, then sits down at her desk. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” I say excitedly, then go back to my computer for my bag. My photo is still up on the screen waiting to be finished, the one of the girl on the slide, where she’s on the cusp of pushing herself down. Will she go, or will she turn around and leave? Even if I didn’t see the ending, the look in her eyes gives it away.

  No matter what, she would have gone.

  FIVE

  “You have water, right? In case you get thirsty?” Mom asks. We’ve been up since early this morning, and I’ve just finished packing the car. I hold the three very full b
ottles of water up to her, and then place them in the car’s cup holders.

  “Do you have a map? What if you get lost?” my dad asks from the other side of the car.

  “Dad. I have my phone,” I say, holding up my iPhone. I put that on the passenger-side seat with my camera, in case I need it. Now it’s just a matter of my parents saying good-bye.

  “What if you don’t get reception? I don’t want you looking at your phone while you’re driving,” my mom says, arms crossed in front of her.

  “Mom, I love you, but you gotta calm down. I set my phone to GPS mode, so it’ll tell me when to turn. That way I don’t have to look at the screen. And if I lose reception, which I won’t, I printed out the directions just in case.” I lean into the car and pick up the pieces of paper arranged on my seat and wave them in front of her. “I’m prepared.”

  “No answering phone calls while driving,” Mom says. “And—”

  “And no picking up hitchhikers,” Dad adds.

  “Guys, really. I have a full tank of gas. I will drive slowly. No hitchhikers. No phone. No thirst. Anything else?” They look at each other, not sure what to say next. “I’ll be safe, I promise. I’ll call you as soon as I get to Treena’s. I’ve driven before, I’ve got this.”

  “But not this far alone,” Mom says, and I hug her.

  “I’ll be fine. You gotta let me grow up. I’ll be leaving for college next year anyway.”

  “Don’t remind us,” Dad says, coming close, too. I pull them both into a hug. “Be safe.”

  “Call us. We love you,” Mom adds.

  “Love you, too,” I say, trying to let go, but they won’t budge. “If you don’t let go, I’m telling your students that you watch The Real World, Mom.”

  “So? That’ll show I’m hip,” she says, loosening her grip and wiping a tear from her eye.

  “And that you use the word ‘hip.’”

  “I got it, I got it. Go.”

  “Okay,” I say, looking at them one last time. My heart, I realize, is racing as I step into the car, turn on the ignition, and press Play on my phone’s playlist. One more wave good-bye. Mom is teary-eyed. Dad is hugging her. The house is the same one I grew up in: one story, brown, white shutters, and a big citrus tree in the front yard that I used to try to climb. It’s bizarre, leaving all of this behind, if only for a few days, and knowing I’ll come back somehow changed.

  At least, I hope I will.

  I keep the windows open as I drive down the long interstate roads leading to Tallahassee. The delicious smell of curry wafts in the car, food Treena’s parents forced me to pick up for her before I left. The wind rushes in, muffling the music I carefully curated for the trip: fast songs to keep me awake, but melodic ones, too, to set the perfect road trip mood. But I don’t care about the lack of volume. It’s this, the road, the constant movement, that feels good. Watching the houses and buildings and cars pass by as I continue on to my destination. There are signs leading to places I’ve never been, and might never go. But they’re all out there, all options for me.

  As the drive continues, I let my mind wander again to my photography project—family. When I find puzzle pieces connecting my mother’s life, I wonder if I’ll find bits of my own, as well. I think of developing film—actual film in a darkroom, old school—it’s like one photo is done and ready and another is just starting to be exposed. It’s revealing itself inch by inch. I could belong in either of them, really, and only when the second is fully developed will I know.

  I’ve always felt a bit different from my parents—like they were on the same path and I was a few steps behind, always trying to catch up. They would say something and laugh, and it wasn’t as funny to me. I don’t look the same as them, either, with my frizzy near-black hair next to Mom’s brown and pin-straight and Dad’s blond—now graying—soft hair. And my nose looks more like our neighbor’s, Lucas Feinstein’s, with its bump at the top, unlike their ski-slope-perfect noses that I used to trace with my finger when I was younger.

  When I was ten I had to do a family tree for class. I did mine on my parents, of course, but while I was learning about grandparents’ birthdates and ethnicities that flourished on our family tree, they sat me down and said that though I wasn’t biologically part of it, I’m what made it complete. They said it just like that. Like the tree, with me at the base, always had a root reserved for me.

  What hurts the most is the fact that I’ll never know what my birth mother was like, or if I’m anything like her. I’ll never know my biological family tree, and if there was a root, somewhere, on it for me, too. But after time, and a lot of late-night talks with Treena, I realized it was easier that way. I was adopted out for a better life. Which is why I don’t really know where to begin with this family project. To leave my life behind and search for one that has nothing to do with my parents. Because I love them for all they’ve done for me, for who they are. They never treated me like an adopted daughter; I was theirs, as if I was always meant to be that way.

  I cross over the Suwannee River and remember the text Treena sent me just last night.

  Sing Suwannee River song from chorus when crossing river. It’s good luck!

  So I turn off my music, open my mouth, and belt out the lyrics I barely remember. Good luck is what I need.

  The exits become fewer and fewer until I see a big green sign welcoming students and families to the home of Florida State University. The home of football champions. I turn off the interstate, onto the exit ramp, and know it’s home to plenty of other things, too.

  A few minutes later, I pull into the dorm’s parking lot and see Treena standing in front of her building, waiting for me. She’s bouncing on her feet and waving madly. I laugh to myself and park my car, eager to get out.

  “AHHHH!” Treena yells as soon as she sees me, running through the parking lot to give me a hug. Her vanilla body spray hits me instantly and I smile. It’s the same kind she’s been wearing since we first bought it in seventh grade. It’s a scent that means I’m home.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Tree!” I say into her arms. We’re half hugging, half jumping up and down in excitement. It’s been only a few months—not even three—but it still feels like too long.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she says. “I’m so glad your parents let you make the trip here.”

  “I know!”

  “How many rules were you given?”

  “Probably the same ones your parents gave you—no boys, drugs, murder, et cetera.”

  “Ugh, why do they all have to be so strict,” she says sarcastically, and laughs.

  It’s so good to see her. She looks the same: same beautiful light brown skin, same dark eyes, same jeans, I’m pretty sure, only there’s still something slightly different. Her dark hair is shorter, to her shoulder blades, and she looks fuller. She was always so bone-thin; she now has cheeks and legs. She’s still wearing the purple and gold bangles she got on her family trip to India to visit her grandparents before leaving for college. She brought me back matching ones, only in blue and gold. They’re in my bag, which we grab from the trunk.

  “I live right there,” she says, pointing to a large redbrick building dotted with white-trimmed windows.

  We get my other stuff and my camera from the car, along with the cooler of food she excitedly takes. “I grumbled when my mom said she was forcing you to bring me food, but honestly, I totally miss her cooking,” she says.

  We take the sidewalk to the side door. Trees line the walk, and the cool breeze moves the branches. My fingers twitch to get my daily picture, but I hold out. There will be time later. She slides her FSU ID into a scanner and the door clicks open. “We’ll have to find a way to get you in and out when I’m at class,” she says over her shoulder as I follow her in. While the outside is grand and collegiate, the inside is exactly as I imagined—a long, off-white hallway with a lot of doors on both sides. “So, I’m on the fourth floor. At the end of this hall is the elevator. There are also stairs, bu
t people are usually making out on them.”

  “Really?” I ask, thinking about what Celine said.

  “Really. We have roommates, so I guess that’s where some people go for privacy.”

  “I guess,” I muse while she continues to narrate who lives in each room as we walk down the hall. While the doors are similar, they’re each different in their own way. Whiteboards are taped to them, with colorful swirls and notes. Names are pasted and decorated. Some Greek letters are posted on top, for fraternities or sororities. Some have nothing at all—and I assume those are the guys’ rooms. Though the doors are shut, music and laughter can be heard on and off. As we make it down the hall, I feel like I’m in a movie. It’s everything that I’ve seen on screen, only live. In person. This is Treena’s life now.

  “Are there guys and girls on all floors?”

  “Yeah. Here the girls are on one side of the hall,” she says, pointing to the right side, “and the guys are on the other.” She points to the left. “It’s like they thought if they separated us by a hallway, it would be safe. But, come on. We can walk the two steps from door to door.”

  “Oh,” I say. It surprises me how flippant she is about it. This is the same girl who was too shy to even talk to a guy up until eleventh grade, much to the delight of her parents. I wonder what they think of her living across the hall from guys. I wonder how often she walks the two steps.

  “Elevator!” she says triumphantly, and we get in. The walls inside are lined with flyers, advertising author talks, socials, clubs, and concerts. There’s one for a Fourth-Floor Social and I wonder if Treena went to it. “Oh my god, remember the time we were stuck in the elevator?”

  “At the mall! Because we were trying to avoid the creepy guy who worked at Macy’s, so we stupidly decided on the elevator over the escalator.”

  “And then he had to help get us out.”

  “And he was still creepy in the end.”

  “Right? Didn’t he comment on your top or something? Like, odd time to be complimenting,” she says, and the doors open to her hallway. “Okay, my hallway!” She grabs my wrist, pulls me out excitedly, and then we’re walking arm in arm down the way and it feels right. I lean on her shoulder. “It’s the best one. Our RA—resident assistant—is so cool, she kind of lets us get away with anything. Like, the guys were having chair races down the hall and she didn’t stop them.”