“Smelt-errific,” Foster quips back, scratching the side of his head and shuffling his warm-brown hair over his ear. “So great that I’ve moved on to pyroprocessing. I’m on fire.”
“I’ll get the fire extinguisher.” I fan myself. “The heat of your brain is spilling over into my space.”
He peers at me oddly over his shoulder and then concentrates on his textbook.
Over the past month of working together, Foster and I have fallen into a comfortable pattern at the library. We complete our jobs independently, have occasional conversations, and do our school assignments in between. As far as coworkers go, he’s fairly easy to work with. He gives sporadic comments about my attire or hairstyle, and I, in return, ask falsely interested questions about complex molecular structures. He usually laughs because my inquiries are completely fiction and totally miss the mark.
“After you finish your flame-induced studying, do you want to help me reorganize the periodical section?” I ask, pulling my hair up into a ponytail. “The group of freshmen that was here finally left, and magazines are all over the place.”
“Should I put on my superhero cape?” He’s mocking me. “Is it a complete catastrophe?”
“Worse. The hydros might be mating with the motherboards soon. If we don’t fix it, engineers around the world might go ballistic.”
“Now, that would be a travesty.” He shuts his book and places it underneath the desk. “Let’s get on it before there’s any dangerous crossbreeding.”
Leaving the front-desk area together, we begin the process of gathering the magazines strewed about the library—on the chairs, windowsills, tables, and even on the floor. Within fifteen minutes, the entire section of periodicals is neat, clean, and alphabetized.
Returning to our seats, I pull out my notes to study for an exam on American artists in the 1920s. It’s not my favorite time period at all. I prefer the Renaissance period.
Before settling my brain into study mode, I take out my phone to check for any texts or emails. There’s a voice mail from Wolfgang. He’s likely just confirming that I’ll pick him and Jasper up once I get off from work, so we can go down to the square and get the much-needed shots for my photography assignment.
I listen to the message.
“EJ, it’s Wolfgang. Listen, something came up. Call me as soon as you can.”
That’s where the voice mail ends. The tone of his voice was a little…tentative…urgent. Without any pause, I dial his number, and the phone rings twice before he answers.
“Hey, EJ,” Wolfgang says, somber. “I’m…”
“What’s going on?” I ask, slightly nervous.
“I’m a full-blown idiot.” He exhales heavily. “I’m in the emergency room.”
“Oh, crap. Holy shit! Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. My ego is a little bruised though. I cut my hand.”
“Is it bad?”
“Sort of. There was a lot of blood.”
“Shit. What happened?”
He groans. “Jasper and I went back to my place to have another drink, and I decided it would be a good time to slice a pineapple to bring out the flavor of the alcohol. Apparently, drinking and slicing don’t go hand in hand because I sliced mine instead of the pineapple.”
“Holy fuck!”
“Tell me about it. I’m a total moron, and now, I’m waiting to get stitches. Some date, huh?”
I shake my head. “It’s not your finest. That’s for sure.”
“It’s pretty pathetic.”
“At least you had a hottie by your side the whole time.”
“True. He is quite a looker. Anyhow, I’m so sorry, but I can’t do the shoot with you tonight. I haven’t even been triaged yet, and this place is packed. I swear, if one more kid pukes, I’m going to ask for a healthy dip into a vat of sanitizer. I could be here all night.”
I sigh. “It’s okay, Wolfie. Don’t worry about it. Get your hand fixed, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Sorry. Maybe we can do it after I get out of here? Not sure when that might be, but I hate letting you down.”
“No. Don’t worry about it. You take care, and don’t apologize. Accidents happen.”
“Thanks.”
Ending the call, I stare at the phone. What happened to Wolfgang is horrible, and life is totally going to suck for him in the coming week. As an artist, working with an injured hand is a huge disadvantage, and I hope he heals quickly.
Then, my reality settles in. Friday is less than forty-eight hours away. A huge project is due, and I have no backup plan to speak of. I was counting on Wolfgang.
Taking the risk of going downtown by myself is a possibility, but it would not be smart or safe. Wolfgang was kind of a one-shot deal. Chandra is busy, and it’s too late to really call anyone else. I’m sure most of my other friends are buried in their studio work at this time.
I could take on a new subject, which would basically be starting over and doing two weeks of work in twenty-four hours. I could always resign to turning in my existing shots. It is not my best work, and it doesn’t meet my full potential, but it would at least be something.
All these options suck huge dick.
I toss my phone onto the desk where it spins round and round. Pushing the chair away from the counter, I rest my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands.
“Is everything all right?” Foster asks hesitantly.
“Yeah,” I mumble into my palms. “No. Shit. Yes. No one is dead, so that’s a plus.”
“Okay…” He edges himself closer to me. “Did someone get hurt?”
I tilt my head to find us closer than I expected, discovering that the shade of his blue eyes are more cobalt than cerulean at this range.
I inch backward a bit. “My friend sliced his hand while trying to show off his pineapple ninja skills on a date.”
“That’s certainly a unique tactic for impressing someone. Is he going to be all right?”
“Yeah. He just has a mild case of drunken klutz and needs to get stitches. Should be good as new.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He purses his lips. “Are you two really close?”
“Yeah. We have some classes together.”
“Are you going to be okay? Do you need to leave early? I can cover the rest of the shift.”
“Huh?” I ask, confused by the random offer.
“You seem pretty upset. If it’s too much to deal with, you can go, and I’ll close up for the night by myself.”
“What? No, I’m okay. He’ll be fine, and he has someone with him.” I shimmy my seat closer to the desk, placing my palms on the hardwood surface. “He was supposed to help me with a project tonight after work, and now, he can’t. I understand why, but...” I frustratingly kick the inside of the desk, causing a bellowing boom to echo through the entire room. “Shit,” I hiss. “Fuck.”
“That bad, huh?”
I groan, placing my face back into my palms, and mumble, “You have no idea. It’s thirty percent of our grade, and I have shit to present. I’ll never be able to recover. My GPA is going to tank, and I might as well say good-bye to grad school. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Was he going to be a nude model for you?” Foster asks, totally oblivious.
“No.” I half-laugh. “Is that what you think all artists do? Look at nudes all day?”
He shrugs. “That’s how they’re portrayed in movies. I figured they were into it for the real-life porn.”
I crack up. “You must think we’re all a bunch of horny bastards. If that were true, don’t you think that every guy in a fraternity would be an art major?”
“Maybe they secretly want to be.”
“You might have a point. If you must know, Wolfie—”
“Wolfie?” He raises his brows.
“My friend—his name is Wolfgang—was going to go downtown to the fountain on the square with me tonight, so I could take some night shots for my project. The day ones are ready to g
o, but I need different lighting.”
“In the nude?”
“No.” I giggle. “He was just going as a chaperone, so I could take some pictures of the fountain and not have to worry about watching my back. When you’re behind the camera, all you see is what’s through the lens. It’s a safety thing. I’m thinking about risking it and going alone.”
“Don’t do that.” He gives me the are-you-a-total-moron look. “That’s stupid. I’ll go with you, if you really need to go.”
“Stop it. You don’t have to do that. It’s late enough as it is, and you have a test in the morning.”
“So? It’s not like I have a curfew.” He places his book into his bag. “And you shouldn’t be down there alone at night. I’ll stand with you and watch your back while you take your pictures.”
“You would really do that?”
“Sure.” Foster pushes the bridge of his dark glasses higher. “Why not? Weren’t you sent here to—how did you put it? Babysit me? I can return the favor.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Most people usually just go with thank you.”
“Then, thank you.” I smile.
“You’re welcome.”
The crisp night breeze sweeps over my bare hands carrying my photography equipment as Foster and I tread across the stone square plaza toward the illuminated large fountain at its center. Hues of yellow, purple, pink, and gold light up the individual streams of water dancing around the sculpture, creating a lucid rainbow of curves in the air.
“I’ll set up over there,” I say, pointing to a well-lit space about twenty feet from the rim of the fountain.
The temperature lowers as we edge closer toward the moving water.
“I should be able to get a few shots here, and then I’ll likely have to change position.”
“Sounds good,” Foster says near my side, tucking his hands into his taupe canvas jacket. “What should I do?”
“Just be a good guard dog.”
“Do I need to bark?”
“Only if you want to.”
I set up the tripod, lengthening the legs to the appropriate height, extract the camera from my bag, and clip it onto the head of the stand, firmly securing it. Peeking through the lens, I frame the shot and adjust the angle of the camera to achieve a desirable composition.
Fingers crossed this goes well.
Sometimes, the process of getting the right shot is more trial and error along with a little bit of luck.
I shoot, capturing eight images in a row, and then readjust the angle of the lens upward. I take five more shots as the sound of water plunging into the small pool at the bottom of the fountain fills the quiet evening.
“What’s this all about?” Foster questions.
I change the aperture. “Are you asking a philosophical question about life?” I grin, teasing him. “The age-old question, what does it all mean?”
“No.” He chuckles. “I think Gandhi and a bunch of ancient Greek guys covered most of the what-does-it-all-mean stuff. It’s highly unlikely your views on that could possibly trump those.”
“How do you know?” I peek at him. “I could make a very strong argument. Don’t you think it’s kind of premature of you to disregard my views so quickly?”
“Depends. Do you think the meaning of life can be found through a camera lens?”
I shrug. “It’s possible. Don’t knock it until you try it.”
“Sounds like peer pressure to me. I’m not falling for that.”
I smile and look through the camera once again. “I’m totally lost, and I have no idea what you are even talking about. Your big brain went on some kind of tangent.”
Foster steps closer to my side, and his arm nudges my hip. “The meaning of life.”
“Deep, Fozzie. Cosmically existential.”
“Sure, Evelyn,” he says, drawling out my name.
After taking a few more shots, I change the camera lens to one more suited for close-ups, pick up the camera and stand, and walk closer to the fountain.
“By the way, I wasn’t trying to have a philosophical conversation about life with you,” Foster says.
I lock the tripod legs into place. “I’m aware. I was just teasing you.”
“You do that a lot,” he deadpans.
I’m fully aware of my constant sarcastic tone, but never has anyone called me out on it so blatantly.
Foster is doing me a huge favor by coming to this part of town in the middle of the night, and I should be a little more appreciative of his generosity and try not to be so flippant. As my mother would say, I was raised with manners, so there’s no reason not to use them. Even though I hate to admit it, there are occasions when she’s right, and this is one of them.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to blow you off.”
“You didn’t.” He smiles in a way that is authentic and somewhat…adorable. “But I am starting to wonder if you can hold a serious conversation.”
“I can, but it isn’t my usual means of communication.”
“Why?”
“A lifetime of rebellion.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” I bury my head behind the camera. “We can have a serious conversation if you want. What did you have in mind?”
Foster stands silent at my side as I snap a few photographs. When the frame is exhausted, I gather my equipment and meander to the opposite end of the platform with my faithful guard at my side—still quiet.
I drop my camera bag at the new location.
“Before,” Foster says, “I was asking about your project and all these images that you’re taking.”
“What about them?” I ask, quickly setting up.
“What’s your project about?”
“It’s a study of water.”
“Water,” he muses. “I guess that’s pretty obvious. Are you doing all the classical elements? Earth, wind, and fire, too? Not the band, of course.”
“No.” I laugh, ducking behind the camera. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s logical. They all go together, chemically speaking, balancing each other out, and humans are dependent on all of them to co exist with one another.”
“For humans and the earth maybe, but this isn’t a science project. It’s art. Plus, I’m not exploring that kind of story with this series.”
“There’s a story, too? These are pictures, right?”
“That’s usually what you take with a camera.”
“You’re teasing me again, Evelyn.”
“But it’s so easy, Fozzie,” I singsong. “Besides, you’re thinking too hard. You’re going to hurt that big brain of yours.”
“I doubt that,” he counters. “And it’s not that big.”
“Right.” I laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, Mr. I Hold Every Academic Chemistry Award Known to Man.”
“Somebody needs to. Why not me?”
He pauses, and I take another shot.
“Explain to me what you mean, so I don’t give myself a brain aneurysm.”
“Okay.” I rise from my bent position.
The soft glow from the fountain illuminates his windblown warm-brown hair. The excessive moisture in the air has caused the ends to curl across his brow, framing his midnight-blue eyes.
“Each image is supposed to tell a story, and I’m using water to convey mine.”
“Water?” he questions skeptically.
“Yes. Clear liquid often found in oceans, streams, lakes, and rivers. Sometimes falls from the sky in the form of rain.”
“Can also be a gas or solid.” He taps his forehead. “My gigantic brain has just informed me that it’s two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. I did pass basic chemistry. It’s kind of simple.”
“Chemically simple, of course,” I playfully mock. Then, I return to shooting my photography assignment. “Each shot should be more than just a picture. If done correctly, within each frame, a tiny tale will unfold. The composition should m
ake people question their purpose in life and the meaning of life and existence in general. Art is a way to convey what words cannot.
“It’s not simple, like you said. It’s not just two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. It’s more than water. It’s a story—a living and breathing substance beyond the reflective surface.” I snap an image and then return my focus to Foster, who is pondering over the fountain before us. “Sure, you joked about it before, but in some ways, I really am exploring the meaning of life through a lens.”
Foster grins. “Damn, Evelyn, that’s kind of deep.”
“Thanks, Fozzie.”
I pick up the tripod with the camera attached and maneuver around the base of the fountain to the other side, wanting to capture every angle. Lining up my shot, I play with the shutter speed, taking longer-exposed shots to create a sense of motion.
“So, why water?” Foster asks at my side, continuing our conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“There has to be a reason you chose it, right? According to you, it’s more than just molecules, and you think it tells a story—or at least, you want it to tell one.”
“I don’t know.” I feel a pang in my gut. I snap another shot and then peek over my shoulder at him. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for water. Ever since I was little, um…I’ve kind of been obsessed.”
“Fond childhood memories?”
“Hardly,” I huff. “Kind of the opposite.”
“Oh?”
“Growing up, my family and I used to spend a lot of time on the water, and I hated it. Every trip was torture.”
“I thought you said you loved the water.”
“I do. My mother, on the other hand, is…never mind.”
“Ah,” he says, like he’s had a eureka moment, “mommy issues.”
“Total understatement.” I laugh to myself, realizing how open I’m being about the subject. “It would have likely taken years of therapy to come up with that diagnosis, and you figured it out in less than three minutes.”
“I must be a genius.”
“I told you that you had a big brain,” I remark over my shoulder.
“You sure did.” He massages his temples. “And it’s getting bigger by the minute.”
More Than Water Page 4
