He gives me a chin-thrust, then turns and runs down the hall toward his next class just as the two-minute warning bell rings. “I’ll hit you up later about tomorrow,” he calls.
Just as I think I’m in the clear, Coach rounds the corner. A smile spreads across his face. “Blackwell, just the person I was hoping I’d run into.” He falls in next to me on my way to class.
Great.
“How are you doing?” I can tell he’s being sincere, but he’s just so uncomfortable that it sounds forced.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” I say.
“That’s good. Maybe I’ll see you at the game this Friday? I know the team would love it if you came.”
“I’d love to, Coach. But unfortunately, I’m scheduled to work this Friday.” My face hurts from the effort of trying to pretend to give a shit.
“That’s too bad. Maybe the next one, then.” His walking slows even though he’s trying so hard to hide his disappointment.
“Yeah, sure. Next game.”
? ? ?
I get to the studio three minutes late that night expecting some kind of lecture from Jordyn about punctuality, but it appears I’ve beaten her.
Henry pokes his head out from behind the red curtain. “Oh good. You can help me test this new lens.” He disappears back behind the curtain. “Today’d be nice.”
I follow.
“Sit.” He points at a box in the center of the black backdrop.
I eye the box.
He grunts as he looks at my clothes. “Not ideal, but I guess I don’t have a choice.”
I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to cover my threadbare T-shirt and glance toward the front, hoping Jordyn will hurry up and get here already. He can experiment on her.
“Jordyn’s off today. Just you an’ me.” Henry grins. “Now, get over there and uncross your damn arms.”
The flash goes off a few times and I wince. Then I take my seat and smile awkwardly.
“The hell kinda face is that? Just smile like a normal person. Boy, I feel bad for the poor sucker who took your senior photos. It probably took him several hundred shots before he got a decent one, am I right?”
I look at the ground, then back toward the front. Henry doesn’t need to know I’ll be one of those poor, pathetic seniors whose photo in the yearbook will be the same generic picture everyone has taken at registration. As if I could afford a few hundred bucks for some photographs. And what would I do with them even if I could? The only person who’d want one is dead.
He steps out from behind the camera and sighs. I know from the sound that he gets it.
“Tell you what. I’m getting a new lighting kit this weekend and I’ll need to test it out. If you bring a couple of ‘outfits,’ we’ll see if we can’t figure something out.”
I stare at the ground a little longer. Until I hear him shuffle back behind the camera. “Well, you don’t have to be so damn emotional about it. Just try not to smile like a serial killer.”
I laugh. Jordyn has no idea how lucky she is.
SEVEN
“I got another job,” I explain to Marcus, yet again, as I search for any sign of our server. I’d really like something to keep my hands busy, plus I’m thirsty.
“Yeah?” Marcus slides his cardboard coaster in circles. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“I’m working for this photographer down off Santa Fe.”
“Can I get you two gentlemen a soda?” A perky little redhead sidles up to our table. “Or an appetizer?”
“I’ll take a phone number,” Marcus says, all white teeth, turning on his charm.
“Just water for me,” I say.
The server flashes me a thank-you smile.
“And a Coke along with that number,” Marcus calls after her.
The server doesn’t stop. Marcus scratches the back of his neck, ducking his head.
“Ah, man,” Marcus says, cracking his back, changing the subject. “This season’s brutal. You don’t even know. Everything’s gone to shit since you quit.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating. But thanks for the guilt trip anyway.” I eye the door. If this is where this conversation is headed, I’ll be leaving before I get my water.
“It’s just . . . football was, like, your life, man. How can you just throw it—”
“I’m not. I . . .” I take a breath and try to relax my hand. It’s curled into a fist under the table. My memory flashes to pink water, pale skin, blood. “I told you. I have to work.”
“Tyler, you—”
“Ready to order?” The server. Thankfully. She sets our drinks in front of us.
“Yeah, I’ll have the chicken quesadilla,” I say. If I order, I won’t be as tempted to storm out.
“For dinner?” Marcus scoffs. “You gotta eat more than an appetizer.”
I could kill him for saying this in front of someone. He doesn’t realize I’m already stretching my limited funds by ordering that. I give him a look like Let it go.