I walk the hallway toward my locker. First period has just ended. Some sort of English class that I have to suffer through to graduate. Mrs. Seif is the instructor. She kind of annoys me but my older sister really liked her so I feel like I must be missing something. But I’m glad the class is over as the rest of my day is filled with science and math. I’m not quite 15 years old and like most 15 year old boys I am hormonal. My boy is changing by the day and because my parents took me out of sex education I am having to bumble my way through understanding what is going on. Even as a 14 year old I had a backpacking bag from LL Bean. It was dark blue and held all that I could imagine to survive a day in the life of a high schooler. But this particular day I had something special.
School pictures are always the first day of school at my high school. We live in a beach town and it only makes sense that we capture ourselves and enshrine ourselves forever when we are golden and tan. Filled with the summer glow of relaxing days. Jumping from the pier. Bike rides. Ice Cream. And late night shenanigans that our friends forever swore to secrecy.
After your picture is taken you are handed a packet to fill out. The photograpgher wants to know how many pictures you want and what size. This decision is painstaking. I’m not the most popular kid at my school, nor am I the best looking. My legs are skinny. My arms are gangly. And according to my mother I have no chin. But confidence has never been a problem for me. I thank my parents for raising me to be a person who goes after what they want.
So this decision of how many pictures I want comes down to one simple fact. A picture of me is currency. It has trade value. I look at my options and their prices and think, “who’se picture do I want?” I begin to make a list. There are about 5 girls I know that I must have. Probably about 5 more that I think I could get but it would take the right situation to pull off the “trade.” And then there are those girls that are going to want my picture but I don’t want theirs. That totals about 7 more I figure. 17 total wallet size pictures. Plus a few extra just to be safe.
I go home and present my mom with my number. From my experience of years prior I know it is going to be hard to convince her to get the package with 20 wallet pictures. The photographer is well aware of the situation and has therefore added larger pictures at a disproportionate rate to each package just to increase the entire cost. My mom says, “what am I ever going to do with 4 8×11’s and 16 5×7’s?” I don’t actually have an answer for her, as I’m not concerned about that. All I care about is that I have at least 17 wallet size pictures.
I somehow convince my mom to get the larger package. She was in high school once and I have to believe that she remembers what it is like to be 14 and hormonal.
She slides a check into the envelope and the next day at school I drop it at the office into a large box that says “School Pictures.” Now. I must wait. It is unknown how long this wait must be, but I long for the day where in the morning announcement it says that school pictures are in.
I honestly could care less about my picture. I’m a guy. Who really cares about their own picture as a 14 year old guy? I know I certainly don’t.
The day finally comes. School pictures are in. They always come in a large white envelope with our name delicately written on the top. I slowly tear into my envelope and grab for one of the larger pictures. I slide it out, flip it over and have my first look at what my Freshman school picture looks like. I’m wearing glasses and have a new haircut. The last day prior to school starting I tore a page out of a J.Crew magazine and told my mom that I wanted to do away with my haircut from middle school, that I needed to have what was now called the “crew” cut. She obliged and took me to the barber. I’m also ridiculously tan and have a grin on my face. I’m pleased with my picture. This will work. I’m not afraid to trade this. It’s no Penny Hardaway rookie card but it will work for it’s purpose.
That night at home I gingerly cut up all the wallet size pictures. Making sure that each line is straight and that a nice equal border is around each picture. I stuff them into a ziplock and tuck the ziplock into the top compartment of my backpacking bag. Easy access in case I find myself beside one of the “must haves” in the hallway or library.
The next day I put together my plan. This is going to be tough this year. Some of the must haves in my grade got a lot more cool over summer and I apparently didn’t. I feel like I might get rejected this year. But you never know until you ask. One by one I approach them all, either in a group or by themselves. I trade. I collect. I assemble. I have room in my wallet picture binder for 12 pictures. Only one person said no. But she used the excuse that she didn’t like her picture this year so she isn’t giving them to anyone. I ask around. It’s true. I feel relieved. A bit saddened, but relieved.
All my pictures are gone and my list is checked off. I put the collected pictures in my wallet by priority. My favorite at the very front so that when I open my wallet I see her. My second favorite goes on the next page and so on. By the time I get to the back of my picture wallet I am thrilled with my collection. A perfect assemblage of all the girls I would like to date but probably never will. Mission accomplished.
As a 14 year old you don’t always need your wallet. You have no credit card. You have no drivers license. All you typically have is a few dollar bills, maybe some receipts and your pictures. So it is easy to forget it at home from time to time. Worse case you can’t buy fries or a little Debbie at lunch that day.
My sister is a senior at the same school and is school president this year. She’s popular. I’m on the fringes. I wait after school for her to stop talking with anyone and everyone and we then pile into her 1987 Ford Tempo and she drives me home. It’s better than taking the bus home each day for sure and on occasion it gives me some time to talk and flirt with girls after school and on the way home I get to catch up with my sister.
As I walk into the house this day I plop my backpack down and head into the kitchen to wash my hands. This was a necessity at my house and the very first thing you do when you enter. As I head toward the kitchen sink I see something on the counter to my left. It’s all my pictures. Some are wrinkled. Some are miscolored. Others are missing all together. “Mom, what happened to my wallet?” I scream as I verge on the edge of tears. She informs me that in a rush she forgot to check the back pocket of my jeans I wore the day prior and my entire wallet went through the wash. I’m angry. More angry than I ever recall being. I put my shoes on. Throw a jacket and hat back on and barge out the door. I furiously pace to the back of our property deep in the trees and near where I built a tree fort as a kid and I begin to cry.
I can’t get the pictures back that got ruined. There are no more pictures left. All are traded and even if pictures still exist I don’t want to be “that guy.” I don’t know what to do. My wallet will never be the same. All the planning. All the strategizing. Gone. Washed down the machine with a scoop of tide and hot water. How could my mom be so careless? Doesn’t she know what that wallet means to me?
I collect myself and head back into the house. Obviously moping. My mom has taken to blow drying the pictures that remain in an effort to salvage them sooner than later. I admire her gesture of kindness but am still angry. I take a closer look at the pictures that remain and am relieved that my #1 was still mostly ok. Only the left edge of her picture had been marred by the liquid. But my #2 is nearly completely destroyed. A access the damage to the rest of them and slowly begin to calm down. It’s not as bad as I first thought.
My mom continues to apologize and I eventually forgive her. She hugs me and says she’s sorry one more time. I collect all my pictures and head up to my room.
I learned something that day. I’m not sure what it is, but I remember this story as if it happened yesterday. So I must have learned something valuable. Maybe someday it will all make sense. Maybe not.