OVEREXPOSED
ADRIANNE JAMES
Booktrope Editions
Seattle, WA 2015
COPYRIGHT 2015 BRENDA GONET
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN: 978-1-5137-0090-8
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-5137-0111-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910861
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
SNEAK PEEK
CHAPTER 1
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MORE GREAT YOUNG ADULT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
As always, my books are dedicated to my family and friends. My two beautiful children that I know are seeing a good example of chasing a dream even when it seems out of reach, my husband who supports and loves me no matter what I choose to do, and my friends who encourage me along the way.
I love you all.
THE FIRST DAY back to school after a long break usually feels much longer than it really is. No one is quite ready for it. Christmas break was only two weeks long, and most of us stayed in Willowspring, but the halls were full of teenagers carrying on as if they hadn’t seen each other in ages.
“Earth to Vi?” Ashley Nichols said as she waved her perfectly manicured hand in my face. The alternating bright pink and purple nails were her signature look. “Where did you go?”
“Sorry, just watching these idiots. Did you hear that Samantha got a tattoo over break? Supposedly it’s on her ass so her parents don’t find out.” Ashley is my best friend. Has been since her family moved in next door to mine in the first grade. She is the Yin to my Yang, the milk to my cookies, the jelly to my peanut butter. We are polar opposites in many ways, but fit so perfectly together it was as if we were born to be each other’s best friend. Vivian Blake and Ashley Nichols, find one and the other is sure to be close by.
“And if it’s on her ass, how would you know?”
“David told me he saw it the other night after their date. I can’t believe she let him get that far, they have only been dating, like a month!” The look on Ashley’s face was one I had seen a hundred times before. She was not impressed with my knowledge of Willowspring High gossip. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop.”
The bell rang and Ashley and I walked down the old hallway, being bumped and pushed as everyone tried to get to class on time. It was the first day of the new semester, which meant all new teachers and classes. This semester was one that I had been looking forward to since I was a freshman. Junior year, second semester, the students get to pick their own elective classes. Two of them, to be exact. Ashley wanted the sculpture class, and I wanted photography. See, her and I both love art, but completely different types. I prefer to stay clean and tidy, while she loves to get messy.
We didn’t want to split up, so the two of us signed up for both classes. Ashley said she would learn how to appreciate photography if I tried to enjoy getting a little dirty for the sake of art and beauty. I tried telling her that photography lets me capture the beauty that is around us every day and that is art, and I appreciate it just fine while remaining clean, but she wouldn’t listen. I get dirty enough from the dust and soot that floats in the air almost anywhere in Willowspring thanks to the coal mines surrounding our little town.
“There he is!” Ashley whispered in an excited tone. When I looked down the hall, I saw him. Brock Leaton. Captain of the hockey team. Out where it’s cold and frozen, more than warm and sunny, hockey is the king of sports. Our hockey team was ranked in the top ten in their division. And let me tell you, every one of our players knew how special they were.
“Ashley, seriously? You have to let this go. He is an asshole. You are amazing. These two words, while they start with the same letter, are miles apart from each other.”
“I know. But he is so cute.” Ashley was the typical sixteen-year-old girl when it came to boys. She had only had one boyfriend before, but that did not stop her from ogling all the cute guys. Now me, on the other hand, I have never had a boyfriend. Never really wanted one. Sure, I can look and say how cute they are, but in my opinion, boys are too much trouble. I want to get out of this town as soon as high school is over. Boys lead to love and love leads to sex, and neither of those things will make it any easier to leave Willowspring. In fact, it would do the exact opposite. I have seen girls choose the college they go to based on a boyfriend. That will not be me. I will not let myself fall victim to love. Forget it. There is plenty of time for love and boys in college. I do watch television, after all. College is full of that stuff.
“Oh look, he is coming this way with the rest of the varsity team.” I sighed and leaned against a locker by the classroom door. It was best to stay out of the way.
“What’s with the purple hair, Freak?” The fact that Brock was talking to Ashley should have been great. It should have been exactly how she imagined it, all hearts and flowers and rainbows and shit. But of course, it wasn’t. He was Brock, after all, asshole extraordinaire. “Last semester’s zebra stripes weren’t out there enough? Or is it that purple looks better against the nose ring?” Then he laughed. And high-fived his buddy like a ten year old.
Ashley was unique. She didn’t fit in around this town and I loved her all the more for embracing it instead of trying to be someone she wasn’t. Her hair was always a different color, and spikey. Last semester she had black and white, and over the break she bleached it out, and dyed the tips purple. I loved the way it looked. And Brock had one thing right; I thought it went beautifully with her metallic purple nose ring.
“What, uh, I mean, excuse me.” Ashley looked like she was going to cry. She turned and hightailed it into the classroom, leaving me out in the hall with the jock and his boys. They all roared with laughter. I, on the other hand, was not laughing.
“Hey, Brock?” I stepped away from the lockers, smiling sweetly at him.
“Sorry, Vi, our moms may be friends, but you have no chance.” And again, the dumb boys laughed it up.
“Sorry to hurt those delicate feelings of yours, Brock, but I am not, and never have been, interested. But let me tell you, you ever mess with Ashley like th
at again, and I will tell your mom and the whole school about your Peeping Tom days.”
“Shut up. Don’t go spreading shit like that around.” Brock’s typically tan face flamed red and his eyes flared up, but not with anger, with worry. He and I both knew that what I said was true. Over summer break before high school started, I caught him looking through my window while I was changing. I was home alone and quickly covered up. He took off running and I ran out of the house, hopped on my beat-up old pink sparkly bike, and chased him down.
He was easy to find. He ran straight for the old mine, thinking I wouldn’t follow him for some reason. I guess most girls stay away from the mines. They are dirty and grimy and while I don’t like to get dirty, I had been in the mines before. My dad worked in the mines his whole life. I knew the old mines almost as well as the workers did. Not that I was supposed to be in there, but I found it was a great place to hide out and find out all kinds of secrets.
Brock was sitting in the mine, behind an old cart, crying. He begged me not to tell on him. He promised that he would never do it again. He swore that he didn’t see anything really. I punched him in the stomach and told him to stay away from me or else. Then I got back on my bike and went home. Brock has never even looked at me for more than a second if he didn’t have to. With our moms being friends, it makes for interesting weekend get-togethers.
“I am just reminding you of our little deal. You leave me alone, I leave your little secret kept safe in the vault. And Ashley? She is part of me. Keep that in mind.” Then I turned and walked into the classroom to find Ashley sitting in the front row like the wonderful art student that she was. The door closed behind me as I heard Brock’s friends laughing at him, and him yelling at them to shut the hell up. I smiled and slide into my seat.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Ashley’s eyes were red and I could tell she was trying hard not to cry. She may have looked tough with the purple hair and nose ring, but she is supersensitive.
“Of course, I did. There is nothing more important to me than you, and you know it. Plus, I can’t have you all sad and shit right when photo class is about to start. I need you happy and smiley so you can actually enjoy learning about photography and not complain the whole time.” I winked at her to try to get her mood up a bit. She laughed along, agreeing with me.
“Just remember how accepting I am being of learning this stuff. You better come to sculpture with the same attitude.” I rolled my eyes at her because we both knew that the moment my hands got all mucky I would complain. I can’t help it. I try to ignore the squishy feeling between my fingers, but I just can’t. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. The things I do for this girl.
“Absolutely.” I grinned at her and reached into my bag to get my things ready for class. I knew this class was for beginners, but as per school rules, I had to take it to get into the advanced class. I asked about testing into it, but they said no. The only positive was that Ash and I got to be in class together.
Once my notebook, pen, and highlighter were on my desk, I pulled out Jilly. Jilly was my camera. I loved that thing as if it was another person. I bought her with my own money. I save money like nobody’s business. I have only ever dipped into it the one time. But I knew that it was worth it. I knew I needed her -- yes, my camera is a her -- not only for my art but for my sanity in this little town. Jilly let me escape the world in a way no one else really did. I knew that my family wouldn’t be able to pay for my college and I knew that my grades were only spectacular in art classes --at least the ones I had taken so far, and not one of them required my hands to get all gross-- the rest of my grades were average at best.
“Do you think we need a camera today? Mom hasn’t been able to get me one yet. I thought we would have some time. Maybe even have specific requirements for whatever settings it has to have.” Ashley looked worried. Her family, much like eighty percent of Willowspring, was out of work. The mines the town were founded on were being “modernized” which meant less actual workers and more robots. Everyone was struggling, and Ashley’s family was no exception.
“If we do, you know you can use Jilly.” I instinctively picked up my camera and began playing with the buttons and fingering the camera strap I had made myself. If I had to let someone else use Jilly, at least it was Ashley. I trusted her as much as I trusted myself.
“Thanks. But maybe we don’t need a fancy one like you have.” Just then, the teacher walked to the front of the room. She was carrying a stack of mounted pictures. She started setting them up against the whiteboard. There were all different types of photography: landscapes, portraits, creative, journalism. Some I recognized right away as iconic images in photographic history, others I had no clue who they were by, but I wanted to learn everything I could about them.
“Look! That one is a portrait Annie Lebowitz took! I love her!” I was bouncing in my seat, ready to talk about these wonderful images. I was more excited to be in that seat than I had been for any other class ever.
“Who?” It was then that I realized my perfect best friend wasn’t so perfect. How could she not know who Annie Lebowitz is? She is only one of the greatest portrait photographers of all time.
“Oh Ashley, we really do need to get you more up to date on the artists of our time.” I shook my head and looked back to the front.
“Don’t give me that. I bet you think the only significance the names Michelangelo and Donatello have relates to the teenage mutant ninja turtles!” Unfortunately, she was right.
“Good point.” Then we both laughed. The class around us had finally settled, and the bell rang letting us know it was time to start.
“Welcome to Digital Photography. My name is Mr. Bennet and I will be teaching this semester. I need to take roll and then we will begin with a fun discussion. I want to learn how you see photography to better help you in your personal journeys to become better at your craft.”
After Mr. Bennet called out all twenty-two names, he put his book down, and turned his back on the class. He faced the photographs he brought in and studied them for a minute in silence. We all started to look around at each other wondering what he was doing.
“What is photography?” Mr. Bennet asked with his back still to us. “Is this photography?” He picked up an image that looked more like a painting and turned around to face us.
You could hear murmured “no’s” throughout the room. But I wasn’t so sure. I raised my hand and the teacher turned to me and nodded as if telling me to go ahead and speak up.
“Well, I guess that depends. Sure, it looks like a painting, but was it a photograph first? I mean, did the artist take a picture then paint over it in an editing program, or is it completely digitally painted?”
“Good question! This is actually hundreds of photos, put together in an editing program to create a new photograph, then edited further to take on the painterly affect. So, is it photography?”
“I think so. It’s just a more creative version of it. I mean, he took the photos, then arranged them, almost as a mother would collage together a bunch of baby pictures to show a larger picture of her child. This is just a really amazing collage of a lot of pictures to show a bigger picture of whatever was in the imagination of the artist.” I was really proud of myself for my answer. I had never thought of photography in that way before, but seeing how amazing this image was, I couldn’t deny that it was a form of photography.
“I disagree.” A small voice from the back said. I turned in my seat to see Macy Nellman speaking. She was a small girl who usually kept to herself. I had never heard her speak in class before, and we have had at least four classes together in the last three years.
“And why is that, Macy?” Mr. Bennet asked her as he put the image back in its place along the whiteboard.
“Well, maybe he did take each of the little images, but none of them alone are anything spectacular. I mean, it’s a leaf and a flower and a cloud. Each image itself doesn’t say anything. I am not saying it isn’t beaut
iful or art, but its not photography. I think photographs are his medium and an editing program his canvas, but a camera isn’t the important part. He could make this art by hiring someone else to take these simple images. That doesn’t make his work photography, it makes his work digital art.”
I hated to admit it, but I could see her point, too. Art is never black and white, and an artist like this one makes you think.
“What do you think, class? Is it Macy or Vi who have it right?”
The next half an hour went on to discuss the different types of photography and what is considered art and what isn’t.
“Just remember, there are two types of photographers, Takers and Makers. Those who capture the moment in front of the lens without interference are takers. Those who alter the scene in any way to suit their personal artistic vision are makers. Neither is wrong, and both can be art. That leads me to your first assignment.” He grabbed a stack of papers from his bag and started passing them out.
“You will each spend two weeks as takers. You will not interfere with your subjects at all. You will be there to simply capture the moment. Keep in mind, that even takers can alter reality. I want you each to take as many photos as you can, both trying to relate what is truly happening, and also in a way to maybe take a photo of one thing, but have it suggest another. Pain can be misinterpreted as pleasure taken from the right angle. A woman stumbling and tripping into a man can look completely romantic if the image is snapped at just the right moment. Remember to take before, during and after images if you can. It will make telling the story, and skewing reality, that much easier.”
The class began to buzz with excitement over the assignment, and Ashley raised her hand.
“Mr. Bennet? What kind of camera do we have to use?” The whole class quieted down, many in the same financial position as Ashley.
Overexposed Page 1
