Christopher

We were told to make a class album. The usual: group photos, smiles, and "thank you teachers." But there was one nasty "but." The layout required a photo of Christopher. My personal, sworn, walking Christopher.

We hated each other quietly but fiercely. He'd pull out a chair, I'd hide his change of clothes. And then—the ultimate in mockery: I had to take his picture. The problem was, Christopher hated having his photo taken with a manic passion. At the sight of a camera, he'd turn into a gargoyle: hiding his face, covering it with his hands, or simply running away, cursing under his breath.

For two weeks, I stalked him like a guerrilla. In gym class, a greasy head. In the cafeteria, an elbow and someone's pizza. Christopher could smell a camera a mile away. He started wearing a hood even in the heat, and on Thursday he showed up wearing a surgical mask.

I was desperate. But chance helped. Graduation night, everyone in the chocolate fountain. Christopher stood against the wall, dusting off his jacket, and for the first time in a month, he relaxed. He took out a mirror (yes, he was quite the dandy) and adjusted his bangs. And then I realized: he's not afraid of cameras. He's afraid of me with a camera. (Your actions?)