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.

It’s rainy on Saturday. Mom makes hot chocolate in a thermos and packs a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup in a lunchbox. I told her I could do it myself, but she just said “Boys your age need a little extra motherly love.”

She puts them in a bag and hands it to me at the door, once I’ve got my shoes and umbrella.

“Your raincoat’s in here, and a jacket in case it gets windy,” she says. “And something from me, to make up.”

“Mom, I said it’s fine. Really.”

She hugs me. I’m pretty short but my mom’s even shorter. Her hair smells like cinnamon and coffee.

“You only turn sixteen once. You should’ve been able to celebrate.”

“I didn’t want to celebrate anyway. It’s fine.”

She pulls back and takes my shoulders with a sigh. Creases line her brow and the corners of her mouth. “Oh, Thea, hon—”

“It’s Theo, Mom.” My voice cracks coming out and I want to hit myself.

“Theo. I’m sorry.” She rubs my arms. “Just. . .take care of yourself, okay? Have fun.”

I know I won’t but I don’t want to make her sad. “I will.”

She gives my shoulders a squeeze before letting go. I open my umbrella going down the steps. It doesn’t have any patterns, just clear plastic. I like that kind ‘cause you can see the raindrops.

I love rainy days. I stop to take pictures of everything. My dad always says if you look close enough you might find Wonderland.

I haven’t found it yet, but I bet he has.

I’ve lost track of time when I stop at Annie’s for lunch. It’s nice here because there’s seats that stay dry even when it rains. Plus the ladies who work here are kind.

The cheese in my sandwich is still gooey, so I guess it hasn’t been that long. The wind is cold but that just makes lunch even better. Half of it’s gone before I know it.

“Theo?”

I sit up, turning toward the voice. It’s Fischer, a paper cup and bag in one hand, sketchbook tucked under his arm. There’s a pencil stuffed behind his ear with an eraser wedged next to it. Some of his fingers still have graphite dust on them.

He grins. His always unfold easy, as natural as breathing. I wish I could do that. Maybe if I smiled more I wouldn’t be so—well, me.

“Any good pictures today?” he asks, plopping into the booth across. The pencil and eraser fall and he scrambles to catch them.

“Oh. I dunno, they aren’t developed yet.”

“You use film?” He puts his things down and goes on, “That’s gotta be tough, not knowing if the picture’s good until it’s too late to take another.”

I shrug and keep eating. I could talk his ear off in response to that. It’s better if I just shut up.

But he waits, so I swallow and say, “They’d come out prettier if I had more filters.”

“Filters? Is that like those little doohickeys you screw on the end?” He makes a circle with his thumb and finger.

I wipe my hands and lift my camera. “Yeah. This one’s a polarizing filter.” I unscrew it and show him. “It’s nice when you’re taking photos outside ‘cause it cuts out haze and bright light.”

I catch myself before I start running my mouth, but it’s tough. Fischer seems so interested in everything that I keep having to remind myself he’s probably not really.

“Cool,” he says. Then blinks. “Ah, hey, I’ve gotta run. Sorry to drop in and dash. Maybe we can hang out tomorrow? I gotta help Sean from Mr. Thompson’s class with Spanish in the afternoon, but I’ll be home so you can drop by if you want. Anyway, catch ya later.”

And he’s gone again.

I sit there until my lunch goes cold.

I haven’t visited anyone’s house but my uncles’ since I was about six. And it’s not like teenagers sit and make crayon drawings while eating alphabet cookies and drinking watered-down grape juice.

What do boys my age do when they hang out anyway? That’s not something people teach you.

I pack up the remains of my food. When I put it back in the bag, I catch a glimpse of a round leather case.

I take it out and open it. Inside is a handful of smaller disc-shaped cases and a couple of rectangular cases, one thin and one long. I lift this one out carefully.

The cover falls back to reveal a wide-angle lens.

I’ve wanted one for ages. Down the road from our neighborhood is a beach and the sunsets are always breathtaking. But a normal lens can’t capture it right. The field of view is tiny, and the glare’s bad and the colors end up weak.

I take out the others and look in each of them. The second rectangular one has GND filters and a holder. The rest are mostly color filters, but there’s special effects filters too.

My chest tightens. I can’t even guess how much all this cost. Lenses can cost hundreds, and a single filter can be near a hundred dollars. This many couldn’t have been cheap.

I put everything back. The case has a shoulder strap so I put it on with my camera and start walking.

It’s done raining but it’s still overcast. The puddles have already started drying up. Passing cars leave trails of mist and petrichor. There’s no people and traffic is slow. It’s one of those times where it feels like you could drop a penny and it wouldn’t even clink.

The sidewalk ends and turns to coarse dirt. The clouds break up and I feel sun on my neck. A gull cries somewhere far away.

The path twists some and then straightens out. The dirt changes to sand that clumps on my shoes before falling off.

I look up. Azure waves undulating as far as my eyes can see. It’s not sunset but it’s close. Clusters of wispy clouds stretch the sky, turning bright colors.

I sit down to wait. I put the new lens on my camera, then the filter holder. I slide in the reverse GND filter and lift it up to check the difference.

This time, I can get that picture.

The sun creeps lower. Lower. Half-down now, and this is the sweet spot when the sky is red and orange and pink, like someone’s lit it on fire, the horizon one rosy slash through the world, and the sea crashes out to meet it in shimmers of cyan and sapphire and aquamarine.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and lift my camera. I take one picture, then two and three.

Then I put everything back and head home.