Free Autofocus by Lauren Gibaldi

person itrepresents. There’s not much on the walls; it all seems like her, but a cleaner, tighter version.
    I think of what she said, about starting over, and remember the last sleepover we had. It was a week before she left. We were having a movie night, and it was my turn to choose, so I went with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off . With a sigh she agreed to watch Ferris and friends skip school. By the end, we wondered what it would be like to have one crazy day where we did whatever we wanted and found ourselves in both adventures and misadventures. With only my purse and camera, I’d go to the airport and board the cheapest flight, just to see where it would take me. She, on the other hand, wanted to go to another school and pretend to be someone else, just to see what it would be like not being her for once.
    I guess, in a way, she’s doing her Ferris Bueller adventure now, only it’s lasting much longer than a day.
    After getting ready, I nervously get a map from Treena.
    â€œIt’s a straight shot to the stadium—just follow the sidewalk around the park, then pass the library, and keep walking until you see the biggest stadium you’ve ever seen.”
    â€œThat big?” I ask, putting the map in the shoulder bag I usually use at school. It also has my phone, notebook, pens, a bottle of water (extra from my trip up, courtesy of my mom), and my camera.
    â€œGigantic. I’ll be back from class by three, so I expect a full report then. And don’t forget we have dinner plans tonight.” She leans over to tie her Chuck Taylors.
    â€œAs if I have any other plans to get in the way,” I joke.
    She jumps up and gives me a hug. “Good luck. Let me know how it goes, okay?”
    â€œWill do,” I say into her hair. Then I turn around and take my first step out the door, and not just onto campus, but into my future.
    On campus, I find Treena’s directions extremely simple. The sidewalks are crowded with people going to class, flipping through books and texting as they walk. Some are engaged in conversation, but not everyone, so I don’t feel as alone. I pull out my camera and take a quick picture of a row of students walking forward, all looking down at their phones, and then, to contrast, a shot of a group of people walking and talking to each other. I’m thinking these might be good for my blog, to show that I’m starting my search. To show the campus, and though it surely doesn’t look the way it did back then, to show a place where my mother’s history is rooted.
    A girl yells out, “Mrs. Donnelly!” and a woman turns around. They laugh about something, and their ease with each other reminds me to check in with my mom. I text her quickly, sending her a picture of the campus, and she responds enthusiastically. I think she’s getting used to the idea of me going here for school.
    I walk a few more minutes, cutting through the park behind Treena’s dorm, which is pretty empty right now, aseveryone is rushing off to class. There’s the fountain, also empty, except for statues playing inside, and I take a picture of the fake college students doomed to spend eternity splashing in water.
    I cross a busy intersection, where car horns blast as we flock sheep-like across the street, and people start thinning out. The walk is slow and quiet and I’m having fun taking in the campus. It really is beautiful, with oak trees lining the way, and buildings over a hundred years old. I can’t help but wonder if my mother walked these streets, if she went into these buildings. That thought never fails to amaze me. In the distance, just as Treena said I’d see, an enormous stadium is perched atop a small incline.
    It takes a while to get there, but finally I’m standing in front of an intimidatingly large iron statue of a Native American atop a horse, holding a feathered spear. Below it is a round base taller than me that says