Page 78 of All These Beautiful Strangers
“We made a pretty good team last time,” I said.
“Sure,” Harper said. “Sounds good.”
When the meeting was over, I stuffed my notebook into my bag and then made my way over to Finn, who was still putting his things away.
“The byline,” I said quietly so that no one else would hear. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Finn shrugged. “Your free-association idea was good. I used it. And I just didn’t feel right not giving you any credit.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Finn looked at me.
“You don’t have to share this byline with me,” he said.
“I want to,” I said. “It’s called recompense. You know, making amends when you mess up. Unless . . . unless you don’t like the story and you want to work on something else?”
“No,” Finn said. “I like it. I think it could be really good. Besides, who doesn’t like a good ghost story?”
The next afternoon, after Introduction to Photography, I lingered as everyone filtered out of the classroom. Mr. Andrews was always the last one out because he had to shut down his PowerPoint and put away his equipment. As I slowly tucked my laptop into my shoulder bag, I glanced at the clock that hung above the door. It read 4:15. Leo had promised he would be in position outside in the courtyard by 4:25, ready with his iPhone to catch my steamy embrace with Mr. Andrews through the classroom window.
“Do you mind taking a look at some of the stills I shot last weekend?” I asked, standing at one of the tall lab tables, the stills in front of me on the tabletop. I made sure to keep my back to the window. I didn’t want my face to be distinguishable in any of Leo’s shots.
“Sure,” Mr. Andrews said, coming over to stand next to me. He leaned over to study them. His arm brushed mine and I didn’t move it. I just stood there, pressing my arm to his.
In that moment, I felt powerful. Was this how guys felt when they were going after a girl? Like they were the hunter, and the girl was the prey?
“I tried to incorporate the rule of threes you were telling us about in framing,” I said. I took a step closer to him, and when he stood up all the way, he was between me and the lab table, facing the window.
“I can see that,” he said. “You did a nice job.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking up at him through my eyelashes. “I learned from the best.”
I lifted myself onto my toes and kissed him, reaching my arms around his neck. He didn’t move.
“Charlie—” Mr. Andrews said when I drew back; he removed my arms from around his neck. “I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea here. I’m your teacher.”
“I know,” I said. I leaned into him, fingered the top button of his shirt, and gave him one of those crooked, flirtatious smiles I had seen Drew give Crosby a hundred times. “And I feel like you have a lot to teach me.”
When I looked into his eyes, I expected to see that look that Cedric Roth had always given me last summer when I was squeezed into the seam of the couch in the study and he was on top of me. That eyes-half-closed, mouth-half-open, I-want-you look. But it wasn’t there. Instead, Mr. Andrews looked disappointed.
“Don’t do that, Charlie,” Mr. Andrews said. “Don’t sell yourself so short. You’re a whole lot more than—than this.”
Slowly, he separated himself from me. And as I turned to glance at the window, where the eye of Leo’s iPhone camera gaped at me through the glass, I didn’t feel powerful anymore. Instead, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Shame.
In the dining hall that evening, I sat at a table with just the girls and pushed my food around my plate. After that afternoon’s events, I’d lost my appetite. I couldn’t figure out how a little harmless flirting had somehow turned into something that made me feel like the lowest of the low. Suddenly, I realized that both Stevie and Yael were looking at me expectantly.
“What?” I asked.
“Told you she wasn’t listening,” Stevie said.
“You know, just because your male counterparts aren’t present doesn’t mean the two of you can check out of the conversation,” Yael chided.
I glanced across the table at Drew, who also seemed to be doing a lot of food rearranging on her plate without much fork-to-mouth movement.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired.”
