I’d never seen Will without his camera; it was just as much a part of him as his head. We had known each other since the first day of freshman year and I had yet to see him put the thing down. Three years later, when we were juniors, Mom’s company dropped the bombshell; we were moving. It wasn’t big news though, as we were constantly on the move. Three years in one house was a record for us, and we were expecting it since the beginning. The day after I found out, I told Will that we were leaving. He didn’t say much, but then again, he never did. After all, “a picture’s worth a thousand words” always was his motto.
A week later, Mom and I were all packed up and ready to go. I took one last look at the house and slid into the passenger’s seat. Just as we were about to pull out, someone tapped on the glass and scared the living daylights out of Mom. I unrolled the window as fast as I could, and gradually, Will’s face slid into view. He pushed two packages wrapped in what looked like newsprint inside without bothering to wait for me to finish with the window, and without a word, turned on his heel and left me sitting there in a world of confusion.
I pulled off the paper off the first package in a search for answers, and found the blank pages of an empty photo album staring up at me. I sat it to the side and tore the wrappings off the second one and found another album. This one however had been filled with pictures, and as I thumbed through it, memories washed over me like a wave.
The first photo was of me, looking at several pictures I had taken for my first assignment in photography. I looked like I was about to throttle the Coke can I was attempting to photograph. That was the day we first met. “You do know that it tends to turn out better if you take your fingers off the flash, right?” I looked up at him, glaring “And it also helps if you get down on the same level as your subject” I pulled my eyes back to my project, cursing inwardly as I took his advice. “The name’s Will, if you were wondering.” I still don’t know what made me say it but, “Arista, my name.” Half an hour later, I learned how to work my camera, saw some truly brilliant pictures, and had wound up with the nickname “Ari”
As I turned the pages, other images jumped out at me; there was one of me sleeping through bio, one of us flying kites—or attempting to, and one of the many times we split Chinese takeout over geometry homework. I can’t believe he took a picture of the time I ended up in a dunk tank, or of the time he convinced me to go to homecoming. One jumped out at me, and I held back laughter as I examined the picture. It was if Mr. Michel, only we had gotten a hold of a picture of my sister’s prom dress and a little time on Photoshop…and, well, you get the picture. There was three years in that book, and somehow, nothing important was left out. Although, the picture of us holding hands didn’t necessarily need to make the cut, but I guess it’s a cool shot, considering it’s just our hands.
I reached the final page, but something scrawled in the bottom corner of the back cover caught my attention. “Ari, if you’re reading this, you’ve obviously finished the book. The other one is for the future. Will.” Just below that was an e-mail address, and, in the same untidy scribble, “a picture’s worth a thousand words… “