And we all end up where we started

God knows what possessed me, but having that science book in my hand propelled me to immediate action. So I hit her with it.

I don't say anything and he casually leans against my desk, picking up the novel that's sitting there. "It's bullshit," he tells me, flicking through it. "There's no such thing as Atticus Finch." I shrug. "It'd be nice if there was, though.

Tom’s aunt Georgie spoke to me first, and Tom found me through her. At the time, I didn’t actually think Tom was a big enough character to carry a story. If it had to be anyone from Saving Francesca, I thought, it would be Will Trombal or Tara. But the line in Francesca, ‘I want to be the first male in the Mackee family to reach 40 and still have a liver’ stuck with me, and in the end, Tom has been one of the biggest surprises. I’m glad I didn’t kick him out of my head.

I look at him. "It's odious," he says. "Detention?" I ask, confused. "Huh?" We have no idea what the other is talking about. "What's odious?" I ask. "O.D.S," he says, pointing to his discman and obviously referring to some dropkick band. Like I really care.

I miss the Stella girls telling me what I am. That I'm sweet and placid and accommodating and loyal and nonthreatening and good to have around. And Mia. I want her to say, "Frankie, you're silly, you're lazy, you're talented, you're passionate, you're restrained, you're blossoming, you're contrary." I want to be an adjective again. But I'm a noun. A nothing. A nobody. A no one.

Because photos are testimony that someone did live. A reminder of past we may have loved or hated. A piece of our lives.