A Scatter of Light: List 1

Other sculptures were installed on stands scattered across the floor. Most were abstract in form, but some resembled female bodies or animal-like shapes: arms and tails extended, or elongated heads that seemed to look at you, even without eyes.

It was mostly women, mostly casually dressed in jeans and tees or tank tops, sneakers or boots, along with a smattering of all-black ensembles.

I realized I had put myself on a path toward directly lying about who I was, rather than simply skirting the truth with careful omissions.

I flushed as my grandmother gave me a funny look.

Afterward, when I was waiting in the church vestibule for my parents, I saw Sarah Franco, the artist from the garage show.

When my eyes adjusted, I looked out and down, and far below me the Rocky Mountains looked the way they do on topographical maps: wrinkled blue and brown, unreal.

It smelled like Northern California: brown grass and sunshine and something else, some kind of tree or plant that grew here, and I remembered Grandpa taking me out on his precarious rooftop deck on late-summer nights to look at the stars.

It was built on the side of a hill, so you had to climb up a meandering, mossy brick path to access it.

Joan’s mouth quirked into an impish grin.

“It could’ve been worse. At least it’s just my top,” I said flippantly.
“I don’t know how you can joke about this,” my mom said.

We dealt with drafty windows and old doors that either stuck or didn’t quite close.

A lot of people came, spreading out over the backyard and going in and out of the basement, although “basement” was a misnomer. It was an entire floor dedicated to entertainment that opened directly onto a lower patio.

They all knew that my dad was a professor and a sort-of famous author, and that my mom was an opera singer, even though she was never around to impress them. That had some cachet, especially with Haley’s mom, but my artsy, educated parents could not make up for the fact that I didn’t have the money to buy Birkin bags or take spontaneous weekend trips to Paris.

There was something in the tone of her voice that made me apprehensive. “Just tell me,” I said. “Did something happen?”

“It was pretty derivative, but the photos were interesting. That’s probably when I first became interested in photography.”

He was about my dad’s age or maybe a little older, wearing a blue shirt and a wide paisley tie.

The window was dark, and as I reached out to turn the handle I felt an uncanny moment of premonition, as if I were about to open a box of wonders.

“If you’ve never taken an introduction to astronomy class,” Grandpa said, “some of the phenomena in our universe may seem mysterious and inexplicable, but soon you’ll learn the answers to some of your most basic questions. Why do rainbows look the way they do? Why does the sunrise or sunset turn the sky red? The answers to these questions are actually easily understandable, and I hope they will serve as an appetizer—as an inspiration to you—to seek out even more knowledge.”

It just needed a little sprucing up. I found some cleaning supplies in the basement and swept the floor and wiped all the dusty surfaces, even polishing the chrome on the sink.

While I waited for Steph and the others to arrive, I worried about my outfit, scrutinizing my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Here,” I said, picking up the bulging bag and gingerly stuffing it through the gap between the two front seats.

“The Supreme Court overturned Proposition Eight,” Mel said. “Gay marriage is legal in California now.”

“Marriage is a tool of the patriarchy and gays getting married just buys into the system.”

As I took the large white mug, Lisa shot me a surreptitious look.

I wondered if she had stage fright.
My mother never seemed to be afflicted by it.

She relished performing live, and she always seemed to be in control of her performance; every last gesture was choreographed. Some critics called her too calculating, a little false.

Lisa whistled, and there was a smattering of applause from the audience.

She began to pluck out a wistful melody, and then, without further introduction, she leaned into the microphone and started to sing.

I picked it up and took another sip, but it was cold by now, and the bittersweet dregs were gritty on my tongue.

After the open mic ended, Lisa was exultant.

“I’m not worried,” Lisa said, sounding testy.

I saw Lisa stiffen slightly—almost as if she wanted to pull away—but then she relented, and Mel and I followed the two of them away from the café.

There was a moment of silence between us, and it felt unexpectedly intimate.

She handed her phone to Steph, and I could hear the tinny sound of dance music and cheering.

The colors were faded, but the perspective was dramatic—as if the photographer had been hovering above the earth and looking out on a sea of roiling mist.