The Originals

“Let me see it,” I say, grabbing the phone. “I have to approve it.”

“You always look good in pictures,” he says.

“Not true.”

“No, really,” he says. “You do. Hey, want to go see the studio?”

“Yes!” I say enthusiastically.

At the shoe pile by the front door, Sean digs through a few strays until he finds what he’s looking for: hideous green foam shoes. I make a face.

“What? Dislike?” he asks with a little laugh.

“Why do you own those?” I ask, frowning. “You look… I mean… they’re the worst.”

“I know,” he says, laughing again. “They’re hot. I’m going to wear them to school on Monday.”

“No!” I say. “You’ll be banned!”

I shove my own feet into my flats even though I’m still wearing the oversized socks. The extra material bunches up at the sides and makes my feet look like I’m retaining massive amounts of water.

“I guess we both look like fashion don’ts,” I say.

“Great, let’s go.” He takes my hand and leads me out of the house, carefully closing the door behind us so Dumptruck doesn’t get out.

“They’re for cooking,” Sean says as we walk down the steps.

“What’s for cooking?”

“My shoes. Cooking requires long periods of standing up. These are comfortable when I cook.” He leads me around the side of the house and to the back toward a detached garage.

“They’re still hideous,” I say, shaking my head, wondering whether I like him more for liking to cook or for having special shoes to do it.

“All the famous chefs wear them.” Sean opens the people door next to the double garage door and waves me through.

“Hideous,” I say with one last look at his feet. “I mean, seriously, why—”

Sean pulls me close and kisses me sweetly right there in the doorway. “Shh,” he says, lips still pressed against mine. His face pulls back an inch but his arms hold me tight. I feel him doing something with his feet, then he gets a little shorter like he just kicked off his shoes. Our bodies still stuck like Velcro, Sean pats my right leg. “Lift up your leg.” I do, and he worms his toes into the heel of my shoe so it pops off. Then somehow without looking, he kicks his shoe under me in the right direction. “Step in,” he says. He goes through the same process with the other foot, all while maintaining the hug hold. Finally, when I’m in shoes and he’s not, he pulls his face back another inch and raises his eyebrows at me.

“So?” he asks.

I roll my eyes dramatically, Ella-style.

“Fine,” I say. “They’re comfortable.”

Inside the garage, I immediately forget that I’m in a garage. Walls have been constructed to divide the space, and everything is finished and painted; it’s heated, warm, and inviting. We walk into the front reception area, where the floor has bright carpet tiles in every color and the walls are covered floor to ceiling with massive framed photos: students, babies, people getting married, landscapes, animals.

“Is that you?” I ask, pointing to a gigantic shot of a smiling, chubby baby in a basket.

“No,” Sean says, looking embarrassed.

“Liar,” I say, turning to inspect the photos on the wall by the door.

“Your mom’s insanely good,” I say, admiring a close-up of the wrinkles on an old man’s face. “Wow,” I murmur. “I love this.” I reach out but don’t touch a portrait of Dumptruck.

My eyes travel up the wall; I jump when I recognize my own face staring back at me. It’s a close-up and my dark eyes are huge; my hair is blown back like I’m a model. It’s beautiful and cringe-worthy at the same time.

“That’s my favorite one,” Sean says, walking up behind me.

“It’s really…” I say, my voice trailing off, not sure how to express how I feel. Instead, I say something else. “It’s nice of your mom to let you hang it in her studio.”

“Yeah,” Sean says. “That’s my wall.”

I turn around, wide-eyed. “You took all of these photos?” I ask. He nods. I turn to look at them again; they’re even better now that I know they’re his.

“They’re beyond amazing,” I say, feeling like it’s too small a compliment. I hear Sean’s stocking feet shuffle once; I wiggle my toes in his too-large shoes.

“Come see the rest,” he says, grabbing my hand and literally pulling me away from his art.

We walk through another door into a massive open studio with umbrella lights and a tripod and several stations that look like mini rooms that forgot some of their walls. There’s a five-by-five section of dark hardwood floor with patterned frilly wallpaper on the wall; one with a white floor and a blue painted wall; and one with a brown wood floor and three solid canvas backdrops to choose from. There’s a changing room in one corner blocked off from the rest by thick fabric; in another corner there are baskets of props ranging from silly glasses to masks to toys to tutus.

Sean and I spend an hour messing around in the studio: him taking photos of me and using a little remote to take photos of us together, and me shooting mostly unfocused pictures of him. It’s so ridiculously fun that I lose track of time. When Harper appears in the doorway asking if I’d like to stay for dinner, I panic for a second before remembering Mom’s at work. Still, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.

“I should probably get home,” I say. Who knows if Bet needs to go somewhere; I’m eating into evening.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Harper says. “Maybe some other time.”

“Definitely,” I say, hoping it’s true. Harper is the definition of what a mom should be; what does that make my own?

“Well, it was really nice to meet you, Lizzie,” she says. “I hope you’ll come over again soon.”

“I will,” I promise. “Thanks for the cookies.”

Harper leaves, and Sean and I linger in the studio a little longer.

“Your mom’s so nice,” I say. “And sane.”

Sean wraps his arms around me and looks into my eyes. “I promised I wouldn’t touch this particular subject today, but if you really think your mom’s got issues, you should seriously tell someone,” he says. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be someone… official.” He pauses. “We could just tell… like maybe my mom?”

“Don’t,” I say quickly, stiffening. “I don’t want to… just don’t.” I take a deep breath. “Not yet, anyway.”

I still feel like I need answers before I can ask my mom any questions—and that the questions should come from our family and not the outside world.

“Do you really have to leave?” Sean asks. “ ’Cause I was thinking pizza sounded good.”

“Isn’t your mom making dinner?” I ask.

“She won’t mind,” he says, shrugging. “She was probably planning on ordering pizza anyway; I’ll bring her some back.”

“Let me call Betsey and make sure it’s okay that I’m still out,” I say. When Sean looks at me funny, I smile half heartedly. “This is her time, not mine.”