You Look Different in Real Life

say something to cover.
    “How could you? You should see this footage. I’m not in a single second of it.”
    “You should have asked one of us to shoot for a while.”
    “Even if you had,” I say, “what would you have shot? Me walking down the street. Me watching everyone else. Me watching, not doing.”
    “You did something for Rory at the right moment. And you went after Felix at his right moment. I don’t know if I would have done that.”
    That word, moment , hits me on the jaw. I can even feel the sting of it as I say, “I guess I’m sad that I haven’t had a moment.”
    Now Nate sits up, his body shifting against mine, and I expect him to put his arm around me but he doesn’t. Instead, he knocks his left sneaker twice against my rightone. Like, Hello? Anyone in there?
    “I think you have a moment,” says Nate, “in every second of footage you shot. You weren’t just watching. You were telling the story. You were telling our story. And I think that’s your story.”
    We look at each other now and I see he’s rather proud of this theory. Maybe before, I would have seen it as arrogance. Now I understand, instinctively, that it’s just pure delight at making some sense of the world. Joy in the possibility of helping me.
    This could be the kind of moment I’ve been seeking. One that belongs to me, or even better, to us. For the first time in my life, I think, there is no distance between me and another person. We are connected in ways too scary to understand. How can I stay here? How can I make happen what I will admit, now, I want to happen? Neither of us glances away or even moves.
    Suddenly, the shouts of a child break the silence, and Nate turns to see a little boy bolting across the playground toward the swings. A weary-looking dad lags behind him, coffee cup in hand. We watch them for a few seconds, a chance to recover from this thing we just shared.
    “Come on,” says Nate finally, scrambling up and nudging my shin with his foot. “I hope you were serious about the bagels.”

TWENTY-FOUR
    I bet you forgot you have this,” says Felix, clutching the iPod and reaching to turn up the volume on the car stereo. He’s riding shotgun next to Nate, who’s behind the wheel.
    Now here comes classic David Bowie through the speakers. Those first powerful electronic chords, instantly tapping your inner pipeline, not wasting time with any slow buildup. Nate laughs and just says, “Shit, yeah.” Felix beams at him and turns to look out the window, nodding to the music. I’m about to ask whether this song is called “We Can Be Heroes” or just “Heroes,” because I’ve never looked it up, but I don’t want to interrupt this silentconversation between them.
    I peek through the camera’s viewfinder—I’m back to using this rather than the LCD display, there’s something much more immediate about it—and frame a shot of the East River on our right, sunlight bouncing off the water, a bridge in the middle distance. The song provides the perfect soundtrack, the car traveling at the exact speed of its rhythm, and I keep recording even though the second battery’s starting to run low. Rory sits next to me, and Keira’s on the other side of Rory. We’ll be home in ninety minutes.
    After Nate and I left the playground, after we came back to the apartment with bagels, after we all ate and washed up and called our parents to let them know we were still alive and well and on the way home, we sat on the steps of the building while Keira said good-bye to Mrs. Jones.
    “You don’t want to stay for a little while?” Nate asked her. Keira shook her head, lacing her fingers a little awkwardly through her mom’s hand. “There’s time now,” she said. Mrs. Jones did not take her eyes off Keira once in a three-minute period, and I know this because I was filming it.
    All morning, Rory kept glancing at me when she thought I couldn’t see her. I’m not sure what to do about that.
    Keira has fallen asleep and Nate and Felix are quiet in the front seat. I’ve set the camera down so I can just stareout the window, too tired to think about anything except the scenery. When the song changes to something much slower, Rory taps me on the leg.
    “Hey,” I say.
    “Can you turn on the camera?” she asks.
    I take off the lens cap and slip my hand back in the strap, press record, and look at her expectantly.
    “Last night you said you were sorry about blowing me off. About our