They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

You can tell someone’s life story in a thousand words. But you can show it with a thousand pictures, like doorways back through time. You can see how they smiled and laughed. Watch as the lines of life etch over their skin. A picture can introduce you to a person better than a million words.

I love pictures.

I got my first camera from my dad. The first photo I ever took was of him in the living room with my mom. It’s up on my wall in a frame he made special.

I wasn’t good at first. But I had plenty of time to practice. Most kids don’t want to hang out with someone who barely talks about anything but photography.

If a picture’s worth a thousand words, then people would rather sell than buy.

I won my first contest when I was eleven. It wasn’t anything big, just a feature in the local paper. Only old people asked me if I was ‘that photographer from the paper’. It was nice, but it didn’t really feel like an accomplishment. I still walked home alone after school.

I’m more alone now than ever.

The bell rings for the end of the day. Miss Angela—we’re supposed to call her Miss Wright but she likes Miss Angela better—hands out homework. She squeezes my hand when I take mine, her eyes empathetic.

Miss Angela’s eyes are beautiful. A lot of people don’t like brown eyes, but I think they’re great. Brown is the color of earth, the color of bark, the color of smooth river rocks. I like Miss Angela’s eyes because they’re easy to understand.

I mumble a farewell—”Have a nice weekend.” That’s what adults always say to each other.

Miss Angela smiles and I try to smile back. Then I leave and go to my locker. I stack my books in neatly. Side by side, from first period to last. Maybe it’s dumb but it gives me a little satisfaction to see them organized.

I take out my camera after everything’s back where it belongs, lift the strap over my shoulder, and then shut my locker. I make sure to lock it tight.

I leave the building. September’s almost over and all the trees are turning red. I stop on the steps to take a picture. My dad will like to see it when it develops.

While I adjust the lens, a pair of kids from my class walks by. Their voices brush my ears, faint as the autumn breeze.

“That girl is so strange.”

“Yeah, and she’s so cold. I heard. . .”

I take the photo.

“Hey, Theo!”

Footsteps approach. I lower my camera, turning to see who’s called me. I don’t exactly have a lot of friends and the people who do talk to me don’t call me Theo often.

It’s another classmate. His name is Dean Fischer, but people just call him Fischer. He’s a lot taller than me and his skin is a nice warm shade of sun-soaked. He has blue eyes and his hair is a super-messy length of curly, inky locks.

We sat together at lunch once. He asked about my camera and I rambled. Since then he hasn’t hung around much.

“Hey, Fischer.”

“Heading home?” He stops beside me. He’s got his backpack slung over his shoulder. It’s black with pins all over.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll walk with you.” He grins. “We live on the same street.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen you out on your porch making collages and stuff.”

“Oh.”

This is the part where most people excuse themselves or stop talking. But Fischer doesn’t.

“You got a new camera, huh? That looks like a fancy lens. I bet it takes awesome pics.”

“What? Oh. . .Yeah, it’s new. Kind of.” It was my dad’s so it’s not brand-new. “It’s good, but it’s not professional-grade or anything. And I only have a couple lenses.”

“That’s fine. You can always get more, right? For birthdays and stuff.”

“I guess so.”

He smiles again. There’s a deep dimple in his left cheek, but the one in his right is smaller. The hand holding his bag is covered in doodles.

“You’re an artist?”

“You’re psychic. Yeah, I’m into art. Mostly comics. But I’m not great or anything. No Picasso here.”

I don’t know how to answer that, but Fischer fills the silence.

“So, hey, you got any plans this weekend?”

I look down. The tips of my shoes are scuffed. Cracks web the sidewalk and a patch of yellow flowers grows from one.

“Sort of. I wanna walk around and take some pictures.”

“Cool.”

“What are you doing this weekend?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably get a milkshake at Annie’s and draw for a while. Or read. I dunno.”

Things get quiet for a while. We’re almost on our street when Fischer says, “I like your haircut.”

I look up, half-sure he’s kidding. But his eyes skip away from mine and his face is pink.

“I mean, it fits you. Your barber did a good job.”

I just blink for a second. I’ve never gotten compliments from people my age. “Oh. . .Um, thank you.” One of my hands reaches to the shorn strands. “I’m kinda still getting used to it. My mom thinks it’s good too but I think it makes me look like I’m twelve or something.”

He grins again. “No, it’s really good. Brings out your jaw.”

The hand drops to my neck. Now I’m blushing, looking away to hide it.

“Well, I gotta split here,” Fischer says, and I turn back to him. He waves. “Who knows, maybe I’ll see you around? See you on Monday, anyway.”

I wave back, and he jogs up the path to his house. It’s the same as all the houses in our neighborhood but painted teal with ocean-themed decorations everywhere and a bunch of overgrown flowerbeds. A big fluffy dog trots down to greet Fischer, and he drops his bag to pet it.

I take a picture of this for my dad too.