I’m packing up to move, one of the last boxes, when I glance down and see the strip of film from the 1996 Carnival. Same town, two different girls. I’m one of them. The other was my friend Abbie; I still remember going to her house after school, the sound of her mother’s voice, and the eggrolls she would always have ready to eat. She doesn’t remember me at all now, I’m sure. I know what’s on that strip of film; it’s haunted me for years. I’ve tried not to think about it. It was the last night I saw her … one of the last nights of my teens.

“Mom, come on!” My son calls, and I force myself to look at the strip before I seal up the box. This isn’t one I’ll be wanting to unpack anytime soon.

The first picture shows us smiling, teeth large and wide, eyes closed.

The second photo, our tongues are out and our eyes are twisted.

The third photo shows my lips to Abbie’s ear and her smile dropping.

The fourth photo is Abbie turned towards me, mouth wide open, eyes scowled in anger. My eyes are closed.

The fifth and final photo is empty; neither of us are in the booth any more.

I sigh, thinking of my teenage years. I turn the memories off and go find my son.