“I haven’t.”
“I know.” She smiled. “That’s why I like you so much.”
“Did something happen to you? Is that why . . .”
“No, nothing like that. My mom had me when she was eighteen. I don’t know, I guess in some ways I felt like I ruined her life.”
“That’s terrible that she made you feel that way.” I got up and walked toward her.
“She didn’t make feel that way. I just didn’t want that life. I always felt like my dad resented her. I don’t know, Matt, I guess I’ve been focused on school so I can stay on track. That’s why I don’t really date. I like what we have, though. There’s no pressure.”
“I get it.”
She might say these words, but I knew she was feeling the increasing tension between us as much as I was. Half the time, I was trying to hide a raging hard-on while she tried to avoid staring at my arms. Who were we kidding?
“Thanks for understanding,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” I bent and kissed her cheek. “You’re a good girl.” I felt her shiver, and then I whispered, “Maybe too good.”
She pushed me back and rolled her eyes. “Night, Matt.”
I watched her saunter down the hall and then I called out to her, “You’re smiling! I know you are, Gracie.”
Without turning around, she held up a peace sign.
7. You Were My Muse
Matt
In lab the next day, Professor Nelson scanned my proof sheet with a huge smile. “Matt, you have such a natural eye. Your composition is perfect and original, like nothing I’m seeing from your peers. I love the graininess and how much you’re willing to push the film. What speed is this and what did you shoot it at?”
“It’s four hundred. I pushed it to thirty-two hundred.”
“Nice. Lots of agitation when you developed the negative, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“This one is fantastic. Is this you?”
I had set up the timer and taken a picture of Grace standing in front of me as I sat on the floor. The only thing in the frame was her legs, just below the bottom of her wool sweater dress. My arms were wrapped around her calves. You can’t see it in the picture, but I’m kissing her knee.
“Have you thought about doing more color, more landscapes—documentary-style stuff?”
“Yeah, I actually shot a roll of color the other day but I haven’t developed it yet. I just really like this subject.” I pointed to Grace.
“She’s stunning.”
“She is.”
“You know, Matt, I’d hate to see your skills and talent go to waste.”
“I’m thinking about going into advertising photography.”
He nodded but seemed unconvinced. “Your photos have this story-telling quality that I don’t see often. We can talk about composition, framing, contrast, or even printing, but I think this is the true mark of an artist, when you can make a statement about humanity in a single two--dimensional image.”
I was a little embarrassed by the praise but I was relieved to finally hear what I knew myself: that I was good at it. “I’ll never stop taking photos. I just don’t know how it’ll translate into a career.”
“I have a friend who works for National Geographic. Every year he sponsors a student to shoot abroad with him. You have to apply, but I think you’d have a good chance. You’ve got the technique for it.”
I was taken aback by the suggestion but more so by how crystal clear my goals suddenly became in that moment. I thought National Geographic was a pipe dream. It’s one of those things you aspire to as a kid, like becoming a professional baseball player or the President of the United States. In my book, traveling the world and taking photos was the ultimate level of success, and I couldn’t believe this chance was falling into my lap, even if it was just an internship.
“I’m definitely interested.” I hadn’t known what I was going to do once I graduated, but now everything was coming into focus.
I made an extra print that day and slipped it under Grace’s door during my break. On my way back to class, I saw her crossing the street about a block away. I yelled to her but she didn’t hear me. By the time I walked a block up, I saw her quickly enter a medical building. I got impatient waiting at the light and dashed across the street when the traffic was clear. Once inside, I scoured each floor until I found her on the fifth, standing near a table with coffee and donuts. She was wearing a hospital gown, stirring cream into a little foam cup. When I marched up to her, she looked up at me, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Generally speaking, a person’s medical history is their own private business.” She held up a little dough ball, “Donut hole?”
“Don’t try to distract me. Are you sick, Grace?” I felt sick myself at the idea.
“No, I’m not sick. I signed up to do a medical study. You wanna do it, too?”
“You’re letting them use you as a guinea pig for free donuts and coffee?”