Free These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar Page B

flakes and the clouds.
    When we were little, Kevin and I would go into the yard with Mom and play the cloud game, trying to figure out what each cloud looked like to us. Mom would always see something funny: a rabbit with a top hat, or a flower being nibbled by an elephant. Kevin was always practical. To him the clouds were shaped like a truck. Or a cigar. Or a mailbox.
    Sometimes I saw dragons, and castles, and elaborate scenes with moats and armies of knights. Sometimes all I saw were clouds. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the clouds that made the game fun.
    A plane flies overhead somewhere in the distance. If I try really hard, I can hear Sarah’s camera clicking away as she talks, to herself and to the things she’s taking photos of. She even talks to the sun. I wonder if she really expects it to move just so that she can get a good picture.
    I close my eyes and press on my eyelids, watching fireworks of color explode behind them.
    I’m off, lost in the sounds and colors until Sarah’s voice pulls me back as she climbs up to the top of the train.
    â€œI wish it wasn’t so bright out, but I think I got some good shots,” she says, sitting down next to me.
    I want her to keep talking, but she doesn’t. So I sit up and watch her watching the sky.
    It isn’t just that I think she’s pretty. It’s that she seems more confident and sure of herself than anyone else I know. I can’t even lie to myself about it anymore. I want her to like me, even though I’ve never cared what anyone thought about me before. Even though there’s no reason she should.
    â€œYou could do something with that darker cloud over there,” she suggests, pointing off in the distance. As she turns her head, a charm swings from a chain around her neck. Framed like a little painting is a bird with multicolored wings, wings that stretch out toward the side of her neck. It reminds me a little of the photo she put in my locker.
    â€œThanks,” I say. “For the picture.”
    She breaks into a wide smile. “Glad you liked it. It won an award at my old school.”
    I feel a weird surge of pride swell through me, followed by something cold and empty. The more I learn about her, the less I understand why she’d want anything to do with me.
    â€œDon’t miss the cloud,” she says.
    I follow her finger and try to get my head back into our assignment. It’s a good idea. People always used to try to get hints of their future by looking at the sky or following the weather.
    I nod. She takes the camera from around her neck and hands it to me, but I’m not sure what to do with it. Mom had a camera when we were kids. I’m not sure what happened to it. We don’t have many photos of anything since That Day, and the old ones are mostly packed away somewhere.
    Plus, the camera Mom had was a little thing you could put in your pocket. This is different. This is more like what real photographers use, with lenses that come off and flashes that clip on.
    â€œSo how does this work?” I ask her.
    She drapes the strap around my neck and moves behind me, up on her knees. I bring the camera up to my eye. When she leans over to show me how to adjust the lens, she rests her arms against my shoulders and my heart thumps double-time.
    â€œJust look through the viewfinder and then use that little ring in front to zoom in and out.”
    It all seems pretty easy, but I’m so distracted by the weight of her arms on my shoulders that my hands are shaking. I freeze, with the camera pointed straight ahead. I’m afraid that if I move, I’m going to knock us both off the train’s roof.
    â€œGordie, the cloud is up there,” she says, laughing. I try to stay focused on the assignment, but it’s hard. I could just watch the snowflakes for hours, but Sarah is distracting in a good way, too. I don’t mind it so much. It just means I have to work really