Exposure

by Askew, Kim

  “Whoops, wrong light,” I said, flipping the safelight off and turning the regular overhead light back on. Craig winced at the sudden brightness as he snooped through a paint can full of red grease pencils.

  “It’s cool that you can have something that you’re so into,” he said. I reached past him to grab the bottle of developing solution.

  “What do you mean? You have hockey.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But I’m talking about something more long term. I can’t play hockey forever.”

  “I thought your dad had it all mapped out for you.”

  “Yeah. Go to Yale, pass the bar exam, then onto corporate law. Kill me now.” He looked toward the floor, and pulled the drawstring at the bottom of his jacket back-and-forth, deep in thought. I replaced the cap on the unused bottle of developing solution — it could wait — and turned to give him my undivided attention.

  “You know, Craig, you may find this hard to believe, but you are in control of your own destiny. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Thanks for the self-help seminar, but it doesn’t quite work that way in the MacKenzie household.”

  “Yeah, well, God-willing, we’ll all make it through to adulthood — we’re in the homestretch, after all. You can make your own choices then, for better or worse.”

  That phrase made me think of Beth. Would those two actually get married some day or would he come to his senses first? I could picture her as a complete Bridezilla, barking orders to her bridesmaids as she marched down the aisle.

  Craig began flipping through a binder that housed strips of my archived negatives, each tucked in plastic sleeves.

  “I think your friends hate me,” he remarked.

  “What friends?” I said. “Oh, you mean Kaya and the girls?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t sweat it. They can be a little abrasive at times, but they’re totally cool.”

  “I still feel a little strange about the whole thing.”

  “Forget it, really. It’s fine.”

  “No, I mean strange as in creepy. It’s hard to describe, but when that tribal mask went up to my face, it felt intense … weird.”

  No, I thought to myself. Weird would describe the way your axis-of-evil girlfriend insists on wearing three-inch heels to school when there’s fifteen inches of snow on the ground.

  I purposely avoided bringing Beth’s name into any of my conversations with Craig. He rarely mentioned her, either. Call it a mutual understanding we had with each other. I suspected that he knew how much I reviled her. Maybe to some small degree, he reviled himself for dating her. In any case, discussing his succubus of a girlfriend wasn’t within either of our respective comfort zones. Tonight, for some reason, was an exception.

  “I showed Beth some of my still-life sketches the other day,” he said.

  “And …?”

  “Not exactly a rousing response from the cheering section.”

  “I don’t get the impression Beth has the makings of an art critic. Your pictures are incredible.”

  “It was kind of demoralizing, though. I hardly show anyone those drawings. I guess I just thought she’d be more supportive.”

  “Well,” I said, trying to be tactful, “I’m sure she brings other positive attributes to the table. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be dating her.”

  “I guess there’s a strength to her that I appreciate.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “She’s ambitious, and she’s sure of herself, and she knows where she’s going in life.”

  I realized that I didn’t share any of those particular attributes. I was insecure and unsure about so many things.

  “Holy hell, Beanpole, is that me?” he said, bending closer to the binder and pointing to a row of negatives. I looked closer.

  “I don’t know, let me see.” I removed the strip of negatives from its plastic slot and held it up to the light. I knew it was him without having to scrutinize the portrait subject’s dark skin and white, ghoulish eyes. “Yeah, that’s you. That was from the scrimmage game a few weeks ago.”

  “God, I look demonic.”

  “Everyone looks that way in a negative. But huh … that’s funny …”

  “What?”

  “The way you’ve got your hockey helmet flipped back in this picture, it kind of looks like you’re wearing a crown. You know, that’s probably what Cat meant when she’d said you’d be a ‘warrior king.’”

  His face registered concern. “Yeah, but what about that death part?”

  “Oh jeez, lighten up, Mac … it was only a papier-mâché mask!”

  “But, I mean, it seemed like those girls, those friends of yours, sort of bought into the predictions. Do you think they were just putting one over on us?”

  “I think it’s pretty safe to say their so-called predictions were total B.S. But don’t quote me on that. Besides, I kind of like what they envisioned for my future.”

  I carefully placed the negative back in its binder and put the developing tank with the film from tonight’s game in a drawer for safekeeping. I’d come back to develop it on Monday morning. With Craig in here there was no way I could focus properly, anyway.

  Craig grabbed his jacket and I opened up the closet door. As we headed for the exit, I stifled a yawn, but Craig seemed amped up.

  “Want to come along to the Hurlyburly … help celebrate the win … grab a burger?”

  My heart literally performed a double-twisting back somersault in my chest. He was inviting me to hang out? In public?! Was this actually happening?

  “Really?” I half-swooned. “I don’t know … who’s gonna be there?”

  “All the guys: Duncan, Brett, Nick, Sean … plus Beth, Kristy, Tiffany … probably some other Ice Girls.”

  He may as well have asked a baby sea lion to attend a Great White convention. I switched off the lights to the art room and braced myself for the Arctic chill.

  “Hmmm. I’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to babysit my brother. I’d better just bag it.”

  “Maybe some other time, then.”

  I drove out of the school parking lot feeling a little bit trembly and numb, annoyed with myself in one respect and yet totally exhilarated. How is it that in one single night I managed to accept a total dork’s invitation to the prom and also decline an invitation from the guy I was madly in love with? Naturally, I could never hang out with that crowd at the Hurlyburly. I would be absolutely paralyzed! But still … Craig had invited me! Not exactly immortality, to use Kaya’s words — but a start.

  CHAPTER THREE

  How Now! What News?

  WE WEREN’T EXACTLY the Washington Post, but that didn’t stop Jillian from acting like every routine fire drill or addition to the cafeteria menu was a story of Watergate proportions. The girl was Lois Lane personified, ferreting out the most hard-hitting stories that could be mustered from an uneventful American high school like ours. She’d done investigative reports on the efficacy of Scantron machines at reading No. 2 pencils. She’d gotten an exclusive with the only celebrity alumnus (a no-name soap star) to ever attend East Anchorage High. She’d refused to reveal her source in a story about rampant graffiti in the second floor women’s restroom after the principal, Mr. Schaeffer, ordered her to identify the tagger.

  She could be nosy to a fault, incredibly crass, loud, and a little bit bossy, but to the staff members of the Polar Bear Post, Jillian was our fearless leader. As I sat at the computer mocking up the cover page for Wednesday’s issue, she hovered over my shoulder, her brown springy tresses dangling just inside my peripheral vision.

  “Your picture of Craig from the game Friday goes above the fold, Skye.” She turned to look at my unwanted paramour working on the other computer in the office. “Leonard, write to half a page, and pad it if you have to.”

  “You’re leading with sports again?” said reporter Megan Riordan. “But what about the debate team’s trouncing of St. Mary’s?”

  Jillian sighed. “Did anyone seve
r their jugular at the microphone, Megan? If it bleeds, it leads, but otherwise, we stick with the fan favorites. The New York Times doesn’t run a city council piece the morning after the Super Bowl. Did you interview Jenna yet about her run-in with the law over the weekend? That’s the story I want to see.”

  Jenna Powell, our crusader for environmental anything, had made the local TV news over the weekend when she attended a downtown protest against the oil companies wearing a piece of duct tape over her mouth and not a stitch of clothing aside from some strategically placed dollar bills. It was only twenty-eight degrees outside at the time so, naturally, her wardrobe caused quite a stir. All day at school, people had been going up to her asking if she could spare some change.

  “I’m keeping ‘abreast’ of the situation,” joked Megan, which garnered a droll ‘hardee-har-har’ from the rest of us. Jillian returned the focus to the issue at hand, literally.

  “Editorial page. Who’s got ideas?”

  “College acceptance angst?” Typical Megan, jonesing for another byline.

  “Uggh. Thick envelope? Thin envelope? It’s already cliché and it’s only October.”

  The very mention of the topic made my heart hurt a little. It would soon be time to start submitting college applications, and the entire process was both daunting and dreadful. I had my A wish list and my B wish list, and even my “resign yourself to a life of jobless obscurity” C wish list. Grade-wise, I had what it took, but paying for it all was going to require climbing a beanstalk and beseeching a sinister giant to front my tuition. My dad had reassured me that we’d find a way to make it work, but I knew behind his chipper façade that money was tight, and that, for a variety of reasons, I might still end up trading Ivy League for bush league: a local community college.

  Still wracking our brains for a column idea that would win Jillian’s approval, Lenny leaned precariously back on the legs of his desk chair, seemingly much better at courting a spinal cord injury than courting me.

  “What about ‘Do You Believe In Miracles?: East Anchorage’s Dream Team,’” he said.

  “Last time I checked our banner did not read Sports Illustrated.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, Megan, did you say something? I fell asleep there for a second reading your last article on the broken vending machine. Ground-breaking stuff.” Megan and Lenny’s distaste for one another occasionally flared up into these momentary spats. Sensing an opportunity to get Craig some more good press, I opted to choose sides.

  “I think Lenny’s got a good point. Nobody expected the Ravens to be contenders this season. Everyone’s been talking about it.”

  Lenny beamed at me, lovestruck, as if I’d just announced that I wanted to meet him under the bleachers after class. I’d be paying for this later, I was sure.

  “True,” conceded Jillian, pushing a chunk of hair behind her ear. “The guys at the Daily News are already predicting they could take all-city this year.”

  It was fairly typical at our weekly staff meetings for Jillian to invoke the sacred name of the Daily News, Anchorage’s city paper at which she’d been participating in a work-study program for the past six months. Her reverence and idolatry for the journalists was comical at times but, on occasion, her access to their reportage had helped us publish some noteworthy gems. Jillian liked to remind us that she was connected to the big boys.

  “And they’re doing it all without Duff Wallace on the team,” I added. “Craig really filled the void and surprised everyone.”

  “Okay, we’ll go with that angle then. Lenny, you know what to do.” Jillian’s eyes narrowed as if struck by another thought. “Speaking of Duff, I think there’s another story there. Apparently a marked interest in seeing the world was not what prompted him to sign up for a semester in Scotland. I have it on good authority that he needed to get the heck out of Dodge. Lawyers were involved. Keep your ears open on that one and see what surfaces. And don’t forget! Next week is Halloween! Skye, get as many costume shots as you can.”

  As I packed up my army green corduroy messenger bag and headed for the exit, I heard my wannabe lover’s voice echo behind me.

  “I can’t wait to see what you’ll be wearing, Skye. Maybe Jenna’ll lend you her protest ensemble for a costume?”

  He meant to be flirting, I suppose, but poor Lenny didn’t have the kind of face that made a comment like that permissible. Had Craig said it, I would have blushed and melted into a puddle before gushing about it in my journal. Coming from Lenny, it was ten kinds of wrong.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing

  OUR AP CALCULUS TEACHER, MRS. SHERIDAN, was in a state of rapture as she scribbled out the solution to a function on the blackboard. Crumbling bits of chalk ricocheted off the board in her frenzied pursuit of mathematics ecstasy. Jarringly, she was dressed up as Raggedy Ann, wearing candy-striped tights, bloomers, a floral dress and apron, and a red yarn wig.

  My classmates, too hopped-up on sugar to be paying any attention today, were focused on the clock, waiting for the trembling minute hand to click directly vertical. When it did, we immediately started loading up backpacks and raucously sliding our chairs back from our desks, unconcerned with the fact that Mrs. Sheridan hadn’t yet finished her problem. Knowing it was futile to continue, she yielded to the mass exodus of costumed figures with an exhausted smile on her faux-freckled face.

  “See you tomorrow, class. Don’t forget about the quiz we have this Friday.”

  Grabbing my cane and bowler hat, I funneled up the row of desks heading for the door but was stopped in my tracks.

  “Skye. Question.”

  I looked down at Beth, who was still seated at her desk and checking herself out in a powder compact. What was it about Halloween that gave every girl license to dress as slutty as possible? She was wearing a red bustier, shiny vinyl hot pants, and fishnet stockings. Two glittery horns protruded from her headband. You’d think she was lobbying for Playmate of the Year. Beth snapped her compact shut in a businesslike fashion and deigned to make eye contact with me.

  “Did you read the next chapters for lit class?”

  I’ll admit that it was one of the facts about Beth that irked me the most: aside from being beautiful, popular, and the undeserving girlfriend of the only guy I’d ever cared about, she actually, I hated to confess, had a brain in her head. Shocking, I know, but we shared a lot of the same advanced-level classes.

  “Yeah, I read it over the weekend.”

  “Perfection. I was over at Craig’s for a lot of the weekend, and so, as you can imagine, I just didn’t have time to skim it. I was hoping you could give me the basic gist on our way to class. You know, in case Phyllis calls on me?” Beth had the insouciance to call our teachers by their first names.

  “Well, I mean, it’s The Sound and the Fury — William Faulkner is tough to condense into talking points. It’s pretty enigmatic.”

  “Never mind then,” she said, looking annoyed. “I guess I’ll just fake it.”

  It was something she was highly proficient in. Her whole high school career had been about faking it. Her popularity was built on an elaborate ruse to make people forget where she came from and force them to only focus on where she was going.

  Certainly her looks and her attitude all screamed upper crust, but I knew better. She and I had gone to grade school together. We’d been in the same Girl Scout troop and the Brownies before that.

  I’d seen the beat-up, hubcapless, seventies-era Chevy pick-up truck that her dad drove to the docks every day. He worked as a longshoreman when he wasn’t out to sea for weeks at a time during crab season. Beth’s mother had died when she was eleven, so now it was just her and her dad. It must have been lonely for her, in a lot of respects, but she never let on that there were any chinks in her armor. She was evidently a master at stretching a dollar, always coming to school looking polished and fashionable. I suspected she borrowed threads from more well-to-do friends like Kristy, and I’d even heard that
she got a small stipend of spending money from her dad’s brother, who owned a chain of movie theaters in Anchorage.

  No one would have judged Beth for any of this. Seventy percent of the kids in school were from blue-collar stock, including yours truly. But she insisted on pretending that she was no different than any of the “black gold” crew: the kids whose fathers did big business for the oil companies. Craig’s father was one of these men, having been transferred here to spearhead exploratory research while the Feds debated whether or not to allow drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.

  Speaking of wildlife, Beth’s furrowed brow and glowering eyes combined with her thick application of liquid eyeliner currently made her resemble a bird of prey.

  “You know, Craig always tells me that you’re a sweet girl, which is why I thought I could ask you for help, but I see that I was wrong. Or maybe he was.”

  I so did not want to be having this discussion. I could tell that there was going to be no way to extricate myself painlessly from the conversation. Behind her on a bulletin board was a too-precious motivational poster of a kitten hanging from a tree limb. I took its message, “Hang in there,” to heart.

  “Well, Craig has been known to have bad judgment about certain things, that’s true,” I disingenuously replied. Beth’s blonde head reared back ever so slightly, as if she weren’t sure whether to take this as a personal affront or not.

  “It’s fine to have a crush on him, Skye — most girls do,” she sighed. “But if you’re harboring any Disney-style delusions about being his hideous, taffeta-clad prom date come spring, you can purge yourself of those grand fantasies right now.”

  First Lenny, now Beth. What was it with everyone and prom? “He and I will naturally be Prom King and Queen,” she said, glaring up at me. “So you’ll just have to content yourself with being his fawning fool, which is pretty much what you look like whenever you’re mooning over him from a distance.”