How could she get it or get me when I sure as hell didn’t? I worried she thought I lied to Cayla because I was embarrassed to have her, a stranger, in the club, which, fine, was slightly true. I wasn’t embarrassed by her per se, more that I was unable to get other classmates or “friends” to participate and I had no other recourse but to invite a stranger to join, and voilà, Mercy was suddenly a friend of my cousin.

Eager to change the subject, I asked, “Can I see the pictures you took?”

“Yeah. Hold on.” She plucked her bag away from me and deposited it on her own lap. She rifled through it with both hands while presumably pinning her knees against the underside of the steering wheel to keep us on the road. She passed the stacked pictures across to me. “Be careful not to touch the exposed film. I’m picky about my photos.”

Not yet confident enough to try out a joke about how not-careful the photos had been left in her bag or how not-careful she was about hands on the steering wheel, I said, “Got it.”

The photo of me was on top. I was caught in mid-cringe next to the stairwell banister, sporting a goofy non-smile. The camera flash bleached my craggy, lunar-surface face. I ostracized the shot to the bottom of the stack, and I quickly fanned through the set. No one picture was remarkable in terms of composition (though I was far from an expert) other than the photo of Tom Jones lying in repose. The colors were soft, and the image blurred the farther the eye moved away from the subject, which was of course his body. This was the last photograph anyone would ever take of the man. How many other people would see this photo other than Mercy and me? How many of those people would know his name? This square document of finality in my hand swelled a sudden wave of sadness. A futile gesture born from the optimism and cynicism of youth, I committed his photo and name to memory.

I asked, “What’s with the pictures? Are they for a class or something?”

“I’m on the lookout for evidence.”

Was she joking? My joke/truth radar was nascent at best, but the reading I got was truth. I asked, “Evidence of what?”

“I can’t tell you yet.” Again, the needle pointed to truth. “If you must know, I’m looking for aliens and UFOs. They’re everywhere.”

Okay, that read as bullshit. Maybe. I said, “Fine, don’t tell me,” and I not-so-nonchalantly shuffled through the photos again while birdily twitching glances at her.

Mercy said, “You’re too easy. I take pictures because I like taking pictures, and I use them to make collages or mess around with double exposures and other artsy stuff.”

“I’m Art-sy.”

“I’m sure you are.”