At least the girl was feeling confident about her photography class. She loved working with the old-fashioned film, spending the hours toiling away in the darkroom. The only thing she didn’t like was the fact that Camden McQueen was in her class. She thought that after giving him the cold shoulder for a year, he would have given up trying to talk to her and be her friend. But he didn’t seem to know when to quit and the girl was constantly dodging him.
That day, the class had their end of semester assignments due. They all had to take photos based on their interpretation of the word justification. The girl, thinking that she was oh so deep and clever, had taken photos of one of the bums begging on Palm Valley’s main street. As the class was invited one by one to put their works up on the board and explain their choices, the girl realized she wasn’t the only one who thought she was clever. Four other kids had chosen not only a homeless person, but the exact same one. The dude sure did make a lot of extra money that day.
The girl went up and made a half-hearted attempt to explain her views, saying that the bum was justified in his actions because he was homeless and poor. He was allowed to beg for money because the circumstances made it acceptable. Society had shunned him and he was owed that much.
After a few light-hearted claps from her classmates and an approving nod from the teacher, the girl sat back down and watched the rest of the assignments go up. There was another homeless fellow, a picture of a tiny kid beating on a big bully, a Great Dane eating cat food.
Then it was Camden’s turn.
All heads turned as he walked up to the board. Now nearly sixteen, Camden was taller, almost six feet. He walked tall, too, with his shoulders back and his face forward. He looked people in the eye, daring them to look back. And look back they did. He still wore his trench coat, though it was a bigger model, and while the full makeup had run its course, he favored sparkly eyeliner. He was pale, as if he was in witness protection from the sun, and his pants were a shiny, tight leather that no teenage boy could wear without getting beaten up for. That day he had on a shirt of The Cramps and the girl smiled caustically at the cartoonish coffin, making a joke in her head that he probably slept in one.
Camden walked to the front of the class and looked at everyone.
“Good afternoon,” he said rather formally. “My name is Camden McQueen.”
A few people snickered, probably because of his unfortunate “Camden the Queen” nickname.
He continued as if he hadn’t heard them. “The assignment we were given proved to be a bit of a challenge for me. The minute I heard the word—justification—I immediately had a subject in mind. But capturing this subject in the state of the word? That was going to be tricky.”
Even though most people despised Camden, they were all leaning forward and listening attentively. Even the girl was pleasantly curious to see what he had in mind. That was until his eyes drifted to hers. And stayed there.
“I was fortunate, however,” he said deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face, “that an opportunity presented itself to me one afternoon. I had a spare block and was wandering the grounds with my camera.”
An immense feeling of dread washed over the girl like soot.
“And while I was wandering about, I noticed the girl’s gym class was in session. A soccer game.”
Her heart froze.
“Or, it should have been a soccer game. There seemed to be one little problem and a yelling match between the teacher and a student took place.”
Oh shit, the girl thought and her eyes started darting around the room to see if anyone had picked up on it. No one had—not yet. Camden had an audience.
“This girl,” he said slowly, finally breaking his gaze and looking around the room, “the student, was the subject of this project. And as she took to the sidelines and watched the soccer game take place, I started snapping her picture.”
The girl started to shrink in her seat, wondering if she could get under the desk without anyone noticing. Maybe, if she willed it enough, she could just disappear.
Camden walked up to the board and started pinning black and white 8x10s up on it. The girl was too afraid to look.
“Behold,” Camden announced like Marilyn Manson’s magician, “justification in the form of Ellie Watt.”
And there it was, in front of the entire class, black and white photos of the girl. They weren’t bad pictures, per se. In fact, Camden had possessed quite a talent for photography. Despite the paparazzi, telephoto elements to the shots, they were well developed and exposed. The girl looked beautiful with her blonde hair cascading down her back, her full lips and sensual eyes. But in that exotic face held more than just beauty. It held anger and it held pain. It held justification.
The teacher cleared his throat, unsure of how to deal with this, while the classroom erupted into excited whispers. Everyone was looking at the girl for her reaction. Everyone.
The girl could only sit there like a deer in the headlights, the red flames on her face the only sign that she was embarrassed beyond words.