We had sleepovers because we didn't want to be alone. We'd sit in the same desk chair and play the Sims, taking turns building houses, going to work, cooking in the kitchen. When we got tired of watching our characters eat, we'd scrounge up all of the money we could. A few dollars from our pockets. Change from the couch and the bowl in the kitchen. If it wasn't enough, we'd have to suck it up and ask her dad for help.
He'd be sitting in his "room," a curtained-off corner of the living room. A cloud of smoke hung around his head; I was too young to know it was pot. We'd have to sit and talk to him for a few minutes before asking for money. We talked about music; he and I liked classic rock, and she liked anything that was on MTV.
After we paid for the pizza, slamming the door before the driver realized there was no tip in that pile of coins, we'd devour it while sitting cross-legged on her bed, watching a movie or MTV.
We kept the TV on all night for company, but she always fell asleep first. I stayed up, staring at the images flash across the screen. Bands I had never seen before, looking different than how I would have thought based on radio alone. Elements that looked like they were clipped from ancient textbooks, animated, kicking.
I had just gotten interested in photography, the way a still image could tell a story. But now I was entranced by how still images could move once again, tell a different story altogether. The way music could change everything.
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