by Anne Eliot
“Look. I’m also the happiest girl in this entire school to be sitting here with you like this. And…yes. I felt…something.” It’s not a complete lie. I did feel something. I felt happy, like I’ve felt all along around him. And I felt unafraid. And I felt ice cream dripping down my arm.
Isn’t that more than enough for a boy I’m just getting to know? I’m sure my hesitations are simply because I’m doing what people aren’t supposed to do when they kiss a new guy after they’ve kissed that first guy. Of course, one would hope the second guy kiss would be one of those blow-you-away kind of moments where it’s obviously no contest—but possibly that, too, is some fantasy I’ve bought into thanks to movies and TV shows.
This whole time I’ve been making comparisons to kisses and shoulder widths that don’t match up. In the back of my mind, I’m noting that Harrison’s arms are skinnier and lighter as they go around me. And his hair feels rougher, and his chin stubble’s really sharp, which is cool and manly and different and—what? What does it matter? It’s a different guy, and he’s cute, and he likes me and so…yeah. He’s different, just as I’m sure I’m completely different than the other twenty or so (or two hundred?) girls Harrison Shaw has kissed in his life.
Heck, these are all comparisons that I’m not even sure I’m able to remember correctly, because it’s been so long since the first time I kissed anyone anyhow.
Even if I am remembering them just right, and even if Cam Campbell was a way better kisser, Harrison’s kisses have been sweet and nice, and it’s not fair to Harrison or to me that I’d compare one guy next to the other guy, because what’s in my mind and what’s in my memory is so long gone.
It’s like me thinking back to the first time I went to Disneyland, or that one Christmas when Nash dressed up like Santa Claus and rang our doorbell when I was five. First times are simply always coated in extra sparkles and extra sighs. Even the five-year-old me knew things that feel as wonderful as Santa at the front door and places like Disneyland are simply temporary.
They’re like the photos we take. Just a snap of a moment, and then they become part of the long list of things you glance back at and remember.
I lean back, examining Harrison’s high cheekbones, the way his mop of hair flops over those soft, gingerbread-colored eyes that are now staring at me like I’m about to reach out and break his heart. He tightens his gentle hold around me, and I feel his long, lean muscles flex as he pulls me into another kiss. I’m guessing by the way his torso feels under my hands that he’s actually six-pack perfectly made hot under his shirt. The way his hands are going up my back, I almost wonder if he’s imagining my body, too. Even though I’ve accused him of being a player and because of curiosity, I just might let him, but he only deepens his kisses, and never once do his hands try to cross any sort of line.
He’s a gentleman, and he’s so…nice. He makes me happy and I’m not afraid of him.
*Decides: Why not?*
As he pulls back, I say, “Here’s the deal. Now that I know just how amazing you are at this kissing thing, let’s just be official.”
“Really?” He smiles.
“Yeah. I don’t think I’m into leaving the door open for any French visitors.”
“Flattery. From my girlfriend?” He kisses each of my cheeks. “Pretty sure there’s nothing better than that.”
Cam
I’ve been on the Western Ontario Arts campus for only two hours.
When dorm lady came to my dorm room and handed me my student ID, my food card, and a map of the campus, and told me the cafeteria would open in twenty minutes, I knew I had to at least get out of the dorms before I was accidently face to face with Ellen, Laura, or Patrick.
Once I found out the cafeteria was the only place students gathered for food during the summer, I knew I would be skipping breakfast today. Hell, maybe I’d also skip lunch.
Because, like I said, I’m just not ready for this day. I might not ever be ready, but it’s not like I’ve got a choice, so I need to suck it up and get ready.
I decide to locate the digital photography classroom. Maybe if I meet my professor, speak to him about just where Ellen, Patrick, and Laura were fitting into his classroom, I could then figure out where I needed to place myself away from all of them to create the minimum impact for all of us.
As I walk in the double doors, I can’t help but be impressed by the look of the classroom. Like the dorms, it appears to be all brand new. It’s very artistically modern and slick. Compared to Huron High School back home, well…damn…this place proves we sure aren’t in Brights Grove this summer.
I draw in a steadying breath, looking around at the computers lined up on each curved seating tier. Despite my fears, my doubts, and the damage control I need to work through today, I am suddenly soaring with excitement. If this is what a world-class art university looks and feels like, then…damn if this classroom doesn’t feel like I’m home!
If only my dorm room had felt the same.
After hugging my mom and assuring her I’d be absolutely okay without her here—to the point I’d begged her to drive away and to let me check into the dorm room all by myself before everyone woke up and started swarming the hallways—she finally understood and drove off. That actually was a bit of a mistake, because she was supposed to sign some waiver things at the dorm office. It made the dorm office/guard/manager/waiting person—whatever she was—unfairly pissed off at me. After I’d vowed to scan the documents she needed and get them back to her signed by my mom after classes and before the end of her business day, she’d calmed down and gave me a key to my room and the name of my roommate.
Harrison Shaw.
I unlocked the door just as the kid was trying to depart for a morning run. At first I was excited to see he was a runner, even thought he and I could maybe run together. But that thought didn’t last long. My entry really freaked him out.
Apparently Mr. Harrison Shaw wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me, nor was he expecting a roommate at all, because he’d decorated my side of the dorm room into his own personal swinger-type bachelor pad. My desk and my side table had been united and covered with a large beach towel to make it look as if it was a long table, on which he’d placed a portable dorm fridge, some glasses, a huge candle, a lighter, and various snacks. He’d turned what was supposed to be my bed into this paisley-covered hippie couch. Strange decorator pillows and all. And the kid had even taken over my closet.
I wasn’t really mad about it. In fact, he was the one that was all pissed off. He’d told me he thought he’d have a single for the entire summer, and even ordered me not to unpack because he was going to make the administration move me out. By then, that idea was just fine with me. I might have done my own snack corner in a dorm room because hell yes…snacks are important, …but the strange, look-what-my-mom-bought-me decorator touches really did freak me out.
I suppose I also freaked him out. I seem to do that a lot lately. My shaved head—a mandatory gift from the boys’ home dress code—which I’m planning to grow back out, as well as my size and the part where I’m super in shape thanks to all the running and yard work I did while locked up, seems to intimidate people.
I grew almost two inches during my stay at the boarding school. I think I top out around six foot four now. This bald-and-badass look has people thinking I’m way older than I am, too. But even better, on the four-day road trip to get here, I noticed my look makes people avoid me—like they think I’m dangerous or something. I love it, because when you aren’t planning to get close to anyone ever again, the ability to repel humans is a direct advantage.
I’ve also been wearing this faded green army coat that the head grounds maintenance guy gave me as a gift right off his back the day he found out I was leaving. The guy was one of my only friends. I’d hounded him all spring to reveal exactly where he’d bought his cool coat, but he wouldn’t give me the information because he was sure I’d convince someone to send me one and then we’d show up to work
in matching jackets.
It took him about two minutes to get yelled at by the lady who gave my key to the dorm room. She stomped in and informed him that I was, indeed, his new roommate. He tried make it better, but between apologizing to me for not being aware I was coming, and then tripping over all of his junk because he suddenly ditched his running shoes and put on this huge black metal boot that he said he only had to wear part time as a precaution because of an old injury that was no almost healed, I was not impressed with the guy at all. As for the boot, maybe his injury was healed. It sure didn’t seem he really needed to wear it at all. He was using the thing to kick all of his junk back to his side of the room.
While I dismantled his snack-candle area and turned it back into my furniture, he busied himself with ripping his junk out of my closet, and then he removed all of his shady bachelor-swinger stuff from my side of the room before taking off. As he left, he could hardly look at me. He was muttering something to the effect that he hated to miss the breakfast here—without inviting me to go along, of course. The dude didn’t even ask my name.
I had a feeling he wasn’t going to breakfast at all. I think he was going to whine-cry all over again to the lady who’d just checked me into the dorm about this invasion of his personal privacy. I hope he’s successful in getting me out of rooming with him. I’m reserving my judgment on this Harrison guy, but right now I’ve spelled out the letters—T-O-O-L—and they’re hanging at the back of my mind waiting to be made into a word. A word that is Harrison Shaw.
If he and his personality don’t make a complete 180 by this evening, I figure it will only be a matter of days before I’m saying it to his face.
Cam
As I make it down the first tiers into what looks like a very cool classroom in which to hold a digital photography class, and still no one comes in the room. I decide to walk down and glance at the professor’s desk as well as the various cabinets with papers and printed photographs on them at the bottom level of this room. It’s possible Professor Perry has a syllabus lying around, or, from looking at the shots, I can gain some information on what it is I’ve missed.
The judge told me he’d spoken to the director of the program. Professor Perry has agreed that I might be able to turn in some of the work I’d done at the boarding school this past month to help catch me up on projects, which is really nice.
The first stack of papers I spy has a headline that says: WOA 4-YEAR SCHOLARSHIP, MANDATORY DATES. My heart flips at the sight of it, because this is precisely the scholarship my mom and the judge want me to go after. If I can land it, then, whatever crap-and-lockdown games my dad’s up to, I’ll be set and completely independent of that man’s whims and attorneys after high school is long over. I’ve agreed to go for it, but with one caveat: I don’t want my presence here to take away something that was predestined for Ellen Foster, not for me.
I read the paper over quickly and breathe a huge sigh of relief when I realize WOA is giving three full-ride scholarships, not one. Even better, the first required assignment is due next week. That gives me time and one spot, if I can pull it off. Ellen can easily take one of the other two. As if thinking about her and her photography has conjured her, my eyes are drawn to a stack of photographs that are fanned out on a cabinet. Even though they’re not shots of trees or nature, I know immediately this work belongs to Ellen.
I spread them out so I can admire them side by side. I pick up my favorite, a zoomed-in shot of a giant, painted-white bolt that’s attached to a brushed metal girder. I hold it under the light streaming in from the skylight above, and then realize she took the shot in this room. I locate exactly which bolt she photographed. I’m letting out a low whistle and pulling the shot closer to my eyes just as a the side door nearest to where I’m standing opens and in strides what has to be Professor Perry.
“Young man, we do not allow students into this room until class time—and considering you are not even one of my photography students, I suggest you hand all of that over to me and take your leave.”
A lifetime of facing my dad has prepared me to poker-face guys like this. I walk toward him and, before he can begin his second annoyed lecture tirade, I quickly say, “Professor Perry? Actually, I am one of your students. I’m Camden—Camden Reece is the name they gave you, even though I’m actually Camden Campbell. My mom—and Judge Chambers, as well as the program director—thought I should use my mom’s maiden name. And they said you’d be expecting me.”
The professor frowns, and his gaze softens, as if he knows my whole story. As if he knows too much of my story, which means every single professor in this place must have talked about my deal, and they’ve already held some sort of awkward pity party for me. His voice drops to a normal level. “Ah, yes. Mr. Reece. Are we at the beginning of week three already? How the times does fly.”
“Yes, sir.” I nod. “I apologize for my late arrival, but…” I pause, hoping by his too-knowing expression he’s not going to make me finish.
“No apologies, please. And no explanations needed. You’ve got a lot of work to do, son.”
I hand him Ellen’s shots and nod to the photograph on top. “I see I’ve already missed the first assignment. Still life?” I ask.
He seems pleased that I can tell what it is I’m supposed to do. “Yes. Do you have any recent work that could match what you’ve seen on these shots?” He waves at the stack.
I give a little wry laugh. “Well, sir, considering I can tell these shots are Ellen Foster’s work, I seriously doubt I could ever match the genius that girl pulls off with a camera, a lens, and her unfailing patience.”
My heart twists and then aches, like it’s been punched. Who knew saying her name out loud would hurt like it just did? I can hardly keep a straight face.
“Ah. Yes. You know Ellen…of course you do.” His eyes cloud over again. “And please know I understand full well your story and hers. But I’m not one to baby anyone, no matter what water they’ve got under the bridge. Ellen hasn’t expected any coddling; nor should you.”
“No, sir. I’ll have some appropriate still-life shots uploaded to you by tonight. The place I came from, um…where I was staying…had a ton of fences. Barbed wire, electric wire, chain link, and even some razor wire in places. I used to walk the perimeter of these fences, and I got some cool shots of them as seasons changed…dew, snow, sunlight. I know it sounds strange, but I liked the way they turned out. Will that work?”
“Yes. Sounds rather interesting, even.” He’s frowning, not meeting my gaze now, because I’m sure the stories of where I’ve come from and how Ellen and I are connected are going through his head. “Lovely tree and ice work you did with your group from Brights Grove. From what’s been turned in by Patrick and Laura, it’s obvious Ellen must have pulled tons of the weight of that most excellent project.”
“She did, sir. It was her concept. I only arrived in time to help set up and execute the shots.”
He meets my gaze. “But your teacher, Mrs. Brown down in Brights Grove, was insistent you and Ellen are of a matched talent. She told me that many of those shots were yours and yours alone. She says you’ve got what it takes to do fine art photography. Is it not also your dream to be a photographer? I see you’ve taken one of the scholarship papers.”
“Well. Yes. I’d like to try for it. I would like to study photography during university. It seems I really need the money and”—I feel my neck going hot—”Mrs. Brown is such a cool, inspiring teacher. Some of those frozen trees were my shots, but they were directed by Ellen Foster. Miss Brown might have also told you that Laura London and Patrick Gable are new to photography, but they really have good natural instincts. They helped pull off the final results as well. None of us could have done what we did without each of us pulling weight. It was a true group project, sir.” When he appears to simply be watching me, I clear my throat and add, “It’s an honor to be here and allowed into this program along with them. I also don’t know a lot, so I wouldn’t presume
to judge my own work or to think I’d be good enough to land a scholarship. I simply take the photos and hope to like what comes out, so thanks for the compliments, because that’s huge coming from a university professor.”
“Humble and loyal. Something I’ve noticed in Ellen’s conversations, as well about her work and her friends. I find Patrick Gable rather brooding and intimidating, but I’m happy to hear another good opinion of him. As for Laura London…” He laughs. “She might be dangerous to herself and to most of our valuable school properties the way she flits around like a one-winged butterfly.”
I laugh my first real laugh in months. “You noticed that about her, did you?”
“How could I not?” He laughs again. “I do like it when artists work for the sake of getting the right shot for themselves, versus trying to get shots they think I want to see. It seems your group, even when working individually, pulls that off very well.” He smiles. “I’ll look forward to looking over your fence shots this evening. The turn-in requirement was ten frames. Do you have ten?”
“Thank you, sir. Yes, I do.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
He frowns. “There is one thing that might upset you, though.”
“There is not much that upsets me these days. I think I can take it.”
“The first week, before I knew you would be attending, I assigned a new ‘fourth person’ to your group. Those groups are completely set. That means for working inside the lab and smaller assignments, you’ll have to work alone. Out of fairness, I can’t take him back out, and the way the editing lab time is set up, well—”
