Shameless

by Nina Lemay

  His gaze slips over all of us, pausing on no one longer than others. When it brushes over me, I feel it on a physical level. I sit up; my spine is a piano wire.

  He nods at the scrunchie girl across from me. She twirls the dyed tip of her ponytail: I’m Audrey—pronounced the French way, Aud-RAY. I’m in the Fine Arts program, it’s my second year. I’ve always loved photography and grew up practicing with my dad’s old Kodak and blah blah blah.

  He listens, head slightly tilted, his storm-colored gaze on her. His eyes still look sad—maybe it’s just their shape. But it seems, to everyone and especially to her, that right now she’s the center of his attention, that he hears nobody but her. She bats her lashes.

  The intros move along, and with every new person who speaks up I feel my own voice disappearing, withdrawing into the recesses of my throat. My fingertips tingle like after a jump scare; good thing no one seems to be standing up for their intro, because my kneecaps have turned to something between cotton and jelly.

  I can’t peel my gaze away from him.

  Yet somehow I don’t even realize it’s my turn until someone clears their throat in the expectant silence. Blood rushes into my face and I wish I’d worn my pancake club-only foundation, even though I doubt even that would help. I feel my cheeks flare up in blotches to match my hair.

  And finally he turns to me. In spite of myself, my mind fills in all the details it missed in the half-darkness last night, all the missing pieces of the picture in my head: he used to have an eyebrow stud that left tiny twin marks above and below his eyebrow. There’s another dot of a bygone piercing below his lower lip, also closed, clearly old. He shaved clean since yesterday—probably this morning, in a rush, because a few bits of stubble still remain on his chin and by his jaw.

  “Well?” he prompts.

  His voice jolts me. I push my chair back with an awkward squeak and start to get up, but the weight of his gaze keeps me down. “I, uh—I don’t think I’m in the right class.”

  I hear a chuckle—from one of the vintage camera fiends, no doubt. My heart feels like a helium balloon, slamming into my sternum as if trying to get out.

  “I have seven people on my list, and we’re seven people. Are you sure?” he scans his list. Or pretends to. “Are you—“

  “Hannah,” I blurt out. My voice comes out too loud, and I cringe. “Yeah, I’m Hannah Shay. But I—I was supposed to—I must have—”

  I want to lie, to say I was going to drop the class, to come up with something that doesn’t make me sound like a complete moron. Well, genius, he’s already seen you naked, so looking like a moron is the least of your problems—

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “You can go if you want to,” he says. I open my eyes. Just like that, so easily, he’s letting me off. The door is just a few feet away and I can flee like the coward that I am, and hopefully never see him again.

  Except I probably will, because he teaches here. In the school that I go to. With the super-small art department the brochure optimistically described as “an intimate environment.”

  Baby, you have no idea.

  My head starts to spin and I draw in a much-needed breath.

  “That’s okay,” I say. My throat feels scratchy, like when I stay too long in the dressing room upstairs where the girls smoke even though they’re not supposed to. I don’t know why I don’t just run. Actually, I do. The simple truth of the matter is, he knows something extremely fucking compromising about me and I don’t want to piss him off.

  “My name is Hannah Shay, I’m from Minnesota,” I say.

  “Oh,” Audrey—pardon, Aud-RAY—pipes up. “Une Américaine. Nice.”

  I ignore her. Either way, I have no idea what to say to that. “I’m in the Fine Arts program, and this is my second year.” Yeah, and I also take off my clothes in front of a room full of strange men for a living. “I specialize in drawing and acrylics.” Also grinding and spinning around a pole. My lips feel numb. “To tell the truth, I’ve never even held a camera in my entire life.”

  “Oh no? Why is that?” a hint of a smile touches the corners of Emmanuel’s lips, but beyond that, nothing lets on that he knows more about me than he does about everyone else.

  “What?” I blurt.

  “Why haven’t you ever held a camera in your life? Not even a digicam? Not even your phone?”

  I have no idea what comes over me. “You see, I kinda have a complicated relationship with the photographic arts.”

  “That’s all right. We’re here to remedy that.”

  A soft laugh courses through the class.

  “I kind of doubt it’s anything you can remedy,” I hear myself saying.

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  People are looking at me, I think with distant, numb horror. Paying more attention than they should, noticing me. Not in a good light.

  “Thank you, Hannah.” Finally, that gaze leaves me, re-centers on the classroom.

  “Okay, so I’m Emmanuel Arnau, and as you might have figured, I’ll be teaching this course.” The girls giggle. He moves to sit on the edge of the desk. “Also as you might have figured—most of you anyway”—he throws a glance at me—“this course focuses on the traditional approach to photography, and yep, that means film. I take it you have your cameras already, as per course requirements?”

  They start to fumble with the clasps of their camera bags.

  “Those who don’t…” he glances sideways at me for just a moment, “should get to it, because I hate to start off abruptly but you’re sort of going to have an assignment for next week. If funds are a problem, any old camera from a thrift store is good, as long as it works—it’s actually even more interesting to work with, for what we’re doing.” He opens an old-school leather case and takes out a clunky, black-and-chrome camera straight from the seventies, showing it to the class. Judging by the rush of jealous sighs, it’s one of the good ones. “This is an excellent model, but of course you won’t need anything of that caliber. The minimum requirements for a camera to use in this class are all in the syllabus, but—”

  He goes on about things like objective and lens, and other terms I can’t possibly hold in my brain.

  I have to drop this class. I repeat it over and over in my mind, as I start to fidget and claw at the seat under me. Right after he lets us out, I’ll go and drop it. Totally normal. Totally cool. Just, a scheduling conflict, or something.

  He goes over the syllabus—apparently there’s going to be an exhibit composed of our final assignments for the term—then goes over the other required materials, paper, weird chemicals. It feels like he goes on for an hour but when he lets us out it’s only twenty minutes past.

  It takes all my willpower not to bolt from the classroom the second he says see you next week. I wait, counting backwards from ten. People gather their stuff and head out; finally, I reach one, shoot to my feet, and dart for the exit.

  On numb legs, I walk to the elevator, not daring to look over my shoulder.

  So far, it doesn’t look like he has any intention to victimize me. Could it be a miracle and he’s actually a normal, mature human being who knows how to mind his own business?

  Yeah. Count on that.

  By the time the old elevator crawls to the first floor, a bit of the tension has gone out of my muscles and I’m starting to calm down. So when I hear the sound of my name, I jump.

  It’s him. He’s standing next to the elevator doors, leaning on the wall—like he’s been waiting. For me?

  My back breaks out in cold sweat under my Mackay hoodie.

  “Hey,” he says softly. “Hannah?”

  I swallow. He could have said Alicia. But didn’t. When he says my real name, with his slight French accent, he makes the H almost silent. ‘Annah.

  “Yeah.”

  I stare him down for a second or two, as if waiting for him to make his move, wishing he’d just get it over with.

  “I just wanted to know if you had a camera alre
ady or if you needed any help finding one.”

  I try to think of something to say, but my mind is blank.

  “Unless you’re going to drop the course,” he catches himself. Hell, he actually sounds embarrassed. Like he has anything to be embarrassed about.

  “Uh,” I manage to choke out. “I—I’m still considering, actually. My schedule—” I trail off. He knows all about my schedule, I remind myself acidly.

  “Understandable that you don’t want to commit yet. But if you want to give the assignment a try, maybe I could lend you a camera until you make up your mind.”

  “You… you don’t have to.”

  “It’s not a problem. I sort of collect them.”

  We stop; my gaze drops and I glimpse his hands, his left resting on the strap of his camera bag. My gaze travels across his knuckles. L-I-B-R-E.

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” I mutter, without looking up.

  “You look embarrassed,” he points out the obvious.

  “Well, excuse me but it’s a little weird, seeing you here,” I snap, lowering my voice to a hiss.

  To my fury and humiliation, he chuckles. “Seeing me here is weird?”

  I draw in a breath to say something, but I’m at a loss for words. You know what else is weird? Trying to engage in formal conversation with someone who knows what you look like under your clothes. When I decided I was going to take my bra off for strange men, I never signed up for this.

  “Look, it was just shit luck,” he says.

  “No kidding.”

  “I just—it’s my old friend, they made me go.”

  I cringe. “You already told me that. It’s cool.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  I look up into his face. Sunlight floods through the enormous glass panes in the ceiling, and finally I can see him in full detail, like he can see me. On equal ground. Almost. Except I’ve yet to see him naked.

  I curse myself out for even thinking it.

  He heaves a sigh. “Hey, if it really makes you uncomfortable, you can drop the course.”

  “I need the credits,” I say dryly. “And everything else is full.”

  “Look, I just don’t want to make it awkward for you for the rest of the term.”

  “Why?” I blurt.

  “Why what?” a worry-line draws itself between his eyebrows.

  “Why not? What do you care? I’m just some—”

  “I care,” he interrupts— thank God. What else was about to come flitting out of my big mouth? “Why? You seem nice.”

  “Nice,” I echo. Nice. Hell, I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted. When you dance naked a few inches from someone’s face, is nice how you want them to remember you?

  “Yeah. You obviously have a plan for yourself, and I don’t think I have the right to interfere.”

  My thoughts race, spurred on by a mix of indignation and embarrassment.

  “So don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone,” he adds.

  Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off, to tell him he can announce it through the speakers and I don’t give a damn. Part of me is furious at the idea of him being able to hold this over my head, to benevolently decide he’ll spare me. For now. My hands clench into fists. I want to storm away, but stay perfectly still.

  With a sigh, he shakes his head, and what he does next stuns me even more: he takes the camera bag off his shoulder and hands it to me—holds it out, waiting patiently for me to snap out of my stupor and take it.

  “Are you nuts?” I say in a loud whisper.

  “Take it,” he says. “Like I said, I have more at home. And if you’re going to learn to use a film camera, you might as well have a nice one to start with.”

  Still in disbelief, I reach out and take the bag. The appliqué logo reads Hasselblad. It’s heavy, a pleasant weight against my hip when I sling the bag over my shoulder.

  “Be careful with it,” he says. “I got it from my dad. Who actually got it from my granddad, so it kinda has sentimental value.”

  “I can’t take it.” I start to fumble with the strap of the bag.

  “Please do.” He stops me. I shudder a little when his hand lands on my forearm, even though there’s a layer of worn fleece separating my skin from his. The letters on his knuckles, CHOIX, are deep and dark, their edges sharp without a hint of the usual finger tattoo bleed. Either they’re new or he keeps them up with regular touchups.

  “Just take it. Give it back when you get one. Or when you decide if you’re staying.”

  “Okay,” I stammer. “I’ll have it back by next week, I promise.”

  “Use it well.”

  He turns and starts to walk away. All I can do is stand there and watch him. Only the weight of the camera at my side reminds me that I didn’t just imagine all this.

  Then, just as I’m about to leave, he stops and glances over his shoulder.

  “Oh, and Hannah? You should get that tattoo finished.”

  I choke on an exclamation, but he turns around and vanishes into the lunch crowd.

  And leaves me there, seething.

  I feel like I should take out a piece of paper, or create a neat new spreadsheet on my laptop.

  What would happen if anyone found out what I do?

  Neatly, in bullet points:

  • I get suspended

  • I get kicked out

  • I become the local whore and people write stuff on my locker and ask me to show them my tits in the hall.

  Well. None of that is completely unfamiliar to me. That’s the good news.

  I imagine people showing up at my work, those snooty scrunchie girls giggling behind their hands as they watch me dance naked. I imagine Emmanuel or the dean or some other old fuck blackmailing me into sucking his cock under the desk. I imagine someone “anonymously” tipping off my parents back home, my mom driving down here in hysterics. I start to hyperventilate and have to stop, and I’m still not halfway down the list.

  Now, what would happen to him if it came out where he likes to spend his free time?

  A big fat nothing, that’s what. Boys will be boys. He’s a grown fucking man, it’s natural. Insert the usual million excuses. Or most likely he won’t even need one—no one will even bother to ask what he was doing in the club.

  And the funny part is, the girls will be the first to lynch me. They always are.

  I close my eyes and exhale, slowly. The fight or flight reflex has kicked in, and it’s painfully clear which one I’ll be doing.

  Drop the class. Withdraw from the program, from the school, just… disappear. Return his stupid camera and never come back, never set foot near the place again. Just go on with my life, what do I need this for anyway? It changes nothing. I have my own apartment, I take care of myself, my fucking bills are paid and I don’t eat Ramen noodles for all three meals—already more than most people in this school can say.

  And anyway, I won’t miss it. I’ve never taken a damn art class in my life and somehow I got by.

  I’m halfway to the admissions office on the first floor when I grind to a halt. I sink my hands into my hair and groan under my breath.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Am I really going to run away, just like that? Go from one heinous stripper cliché to an even bigger one? Get comfortable, get used to the money, drop out of school?

  All for some asshole who thinks he can lord it over me because he knows something I want to keep secret. He can go to a strip club every night of the week if he wants, no one bats an eyelash. And me, one of the faceless girls who dances for him, who grinds on his lap and shoves her tits in his face—I’m the one who gets to lose my life over it.

  Not happening.

  I let out a shaky laugh, and a couple of people stare. I still have another class today, Art History, but until then I have a good two and a half hours.

  I go outside, into the still-scalding September afternoon. I wander
around downtown Montreal with Emmanuel’s camera, snapping pictures of random things as I see them: the dazzling Gothic spires of St James United Church on Ste-Catherine, the arched windows and majestic outdoor stairwells on Crescent and Bishop, the turrets on the roofs, the looming mountain you can see from Sherbrooke. And other things: a homeless guy sleeping outside a currency exchange place, a cardboard sign in front of him in both English and French. A massage parlor named Les Caresses squeezed on the top floor of an ancient building above a Subway. A squirrel nibbling on a stale Timbit.

  I get used to the camera surprisingly quickly. It’s heavy, satisfying to hold, and has that leather-and-metal smell to it that old electronics have. The lens makes a pleasant whirring sound when I zoom in or out with the help of a tiny twisty-wheel, and the shutter gives that click I’ve only heard on an iPhone camera—so that’s how it is, for real.

  It’s a bit weird and frustrating not to be able to see the pictures, or delete the bad ones. I count the number of shots I have left, down from twenty-four. By the time I run out, I’m due back in class in fifteen minutes.

  I put the camera away and run the rest of the way back to the main building, the heavy camera-bag bouncing off my hip and hitting me in the butt. Somehow I don’t mind in the slightest.

  The art history class couldn’t be more different from the workshops. It’s in a huge auditorium filled with about eighty people. The teacher is the same one I had last semester for Art History Of the Middle Ages: I wanted to avoid him but nothing else was available. He’s an old, mean bastard who assigns paper after paper and loves to spring pop quizzes when you least expect. And he’s also a real pain about attendance. More than three absences, you lose one point. For each one.

  But right now I couldn’t care less. I daydream through the class, suffused with a weird energy unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe it’s the jolt of adrenaline. Maybe it’s my afternoon with Emmanuel’s camera. I’ve pretty much drifted off into my own world when I notice the girl next to me staring at the notebook on the desk in front of me, scowling.

  Flustered, I look down and realize I’ve been doodling all along: a girl, more like a wispy, shadowy silhouette, but clearly naked, hands over her breasts, hips swaying, head thrown back and leaning against a stripper pole. Long, twisty vines snake upward from the darkness between her thighs, up her belly, around her thighs, sprouting coiled branches and narrow, jagged-edged leaves.