Exposure (3 page)

“I hope you got my good side!” As if he even
had
a bad side? “Where are you running off to?”

“The darkroom.”

“It's past ten. Security will nab you sneaking in this late.”

“
Au contraire
… Mr. Richter, the chair of the art department, believes that ‘creativity cannot be confined to the hours between eight a.m. and three p.m.' He's made sure the art lab stays unlocked so that we can use it when inspiration strikes. You'd know this if you ever decided to suck it up and take an art class.”

“You know I can't do that. It's not on the old man's master plan for my ‘academic development.'”

“Does your dad think you're going to go insane and cut off your ear or something? It's just an art class.”

“It's complicated.”

I knew a few things about complicated. Like my friendship with Craig, for starters. Two years ago, I was one of the first people he had befriended when he moved to Anchorage from Illinois. He was, unquestionably, the cutest guy I had ever laid eyes on, and at the time, he was not yet clued into the high school hierarchy that pegged me a mere plebe. During the summer prior to the start of our sophomore year, we hung out almost every day, and the more I got to know him, the more I liked him. He was sweet, sensitive, and funny. We had everything in common, from our interest in art to our mutual obsession with Orson Welles films. I'd never really had a “best friend” — I was more the loner type. But getting to pal around with the new boy in town had opened my eyes to a whole world of possibilities, and I'd hoped, to something more than friendship.

I stopped in the shadow of our school's Gothic main tower, its crenellated roof line looming, castle-like, in the gloaming. Above the carved masonry of the entrance was a shield emblazoned with the words
Veritas Vincit
.

“Hang on a sec,” I said. “The light right here is fiendish. I love it.” I held my camera up and focused on the crest.

“Do you know what it means?”

“‘Truth conquers.'”

“So you're a Latin savant, too?”

“Hardly. They drilled it into us during the world's most boring orientation the start of freshman year. Count yourself lucky you missed it.”

Part of me always knew that first summer with Craig was too good to be true, and of course, I was right. Beth Morgan sunk her talons into him on the second day of school sophomore year, and there was no turning back. My dream scenario of being Craig's reason for living vanished overnight. I got demoted to the gawky “kid sis” while the marauding Miss Morgan was granted saliva-swapping privileges.

At first, I hated Craig for being blinded by the allure of the popular crowd. He was so much more interesting, so much smarter than they were! But we're all human, I suppose, and had Duncan Shaw deigned to show me any interest, I guess I would have followed as if he were the Pied Piper, too. It simply was never an option for me, but I couldn't exactly blame Craig for accepting his free passage into the cool clique.

“It's freezing out,” he sighed, shoving his hands deeper in his jacket pockets.

“Wuss,” I chided. “If you think this is bad, you'll never survive January.”

We continued our pilgrimage diagonally across our school's quad, which was usually more tundra than lawn during the school year. We hadn't yet had our first big snowfall of the season, but the cold ground still felt like cement under our feet as we crunched over frosty remnants of grass. Anchoring the center of the quad was an immense spruce tree long known to students and alums as “Old Burny,” allegedly because it was one of the few trees in the area to survive a devastating forest fire sometime back in the late 1800s. Wondering how far Craig intended on tagging along with me, I figured I ought to let him off the hook before things got too weird.

“Okay, well I'm going to go develop this film.”

“Can I come?” I was more than a little surprised by his request.

“It's kind of a laborious process. Besides, aren't you going to the Hurlyburly?”

“They can spare a half-hour without me.”

“Suit yourself.”

To Craig's credit, he had never dissed me completely once he embarked on his upward social trajectory. He usually managed to offer up the perfunctory high-five in the hallway between classes or a cool “What's up, Beanpole?” when I passed his table in the cafeteria. We both recognized that he'd be risking social suicide to venture anything chattier than that. But occasionally, when he wasn't under the watchful eye of his gorgeous girlfriend or their rarified circle of friends, he and I could cut the bullshit and confide in each other again. It was almost like getting my old Craig back. Friends on the sly, you might say. If it bordered on pathetic that I cherished these brief encounters, so be it. I would take what I could get.

We made our way in silence to the school annex that housed the art lab. I could see a sliver of light coming from behind the industrial metal double doors. Pushing one door open and entering the room, I let out a small gasp of fright.

THE ART ROOM WAS EMPTY save for the three masked figures crouched in the middle of the fluorescent-lit room. Each wore an oversized head of papier-mâché: one featured a bulbous nose, beady black eyes and bushy eyebrows made of fake fur; one looked like a demonic raven with a twelve-inch pointed red beak and streaming feathers of dark red raffia; the final mask had a gaping mouth, protruding cheeks, and large hypnotic eyes.

The ghastly creatures were convulsing, hysterical with laughter. I immediately recognized the demonic raven thanks to the long dark, perfectly straight hair that cascaded over her shoulders.

“Cat, what are you guys
doing?
”

“Oh hey, Skye,” Cat Ayuluk tried to collect herself as she cast off her mask. She was bright red from laughing and had to catch her breath. The streak of platinum blonde threaded through her dark hair shone like moonlight, reminding me of the song “Moon River” from
Breakfast at Tiffany
's. “We were just putting the finishing touches on our ‘Myth and Perception' projects for Mr. Richter's mixed media class. They're due on Monday. You like?”

“Yup'ik masks,” said Kaya Gilbert, who had just doffed her hell-mouth visage to reveal her heart-shaped face and razor-cut bob haircut.

“Those are pretty epic,” I said. “Plus, Richter's gonna have to give you an A or risk appearing to be intolerant of your Alaskan heritage.”

“That's the idea,” said Tess Littlefish with a laugh. “Don't make the natives restless, dammit!”

Craig hung back in the doorway, ready to bolt if need be. I grabbed his arm and ushered him into the room. On the rare occasions when I touched him, it invariably triggered butterflies. This time was no exception.

“I'm dropping off the film from tonight's game. Craig scored the winning goal.”

The girls stared at us blankly, completely disinterested in hearing more about the athletic prowess of my unhealthy obsession. I decided to try a different tack.

“You know, Craig here is a closeted Rembrandt, but I never could convince him to register for an art class.”

“Too busy ‘pucking' around?” Cat and Kaya gave Tess's pun a nod of appreciation.

The three girls had been thick as thieves since freshman year, their Eskimo ancestry functioning as the cement to their enviable bond. True purveyors of indie chic, they generally kept to themselves and steered clear of the high school milieu, but I had come to know them well, thanks to the AP classes we shared. I adored them, probably because, unlike yours truly, they didn't let the opinions of other people dictate their self-worth. They were edgy and cynical with an air of cerebral sophistication not often found in the average seventeen-year-old. Somehow, they seemed more enlightened than the rest of us, not counting their penchant for collapsing into laughter at their frequent inside jokes.

Craig didn't share any classes with Kaya, Cat, or Tess, which might explain his nervousness as he offered up some small talk. It was unusual to see him looking so like a fish out of water.

“Are these Eskimo masks? Or, uh, is it un-P.C. to say ‘Eskimo?' I'm not as clued-in as I should be. Not originally from here,” he stammered.

“You can call us anything, just so long as you
call
us — and, well, maybe let us drive the Zamboni,” Tess said in a tone of mock flirtation. Though she had a lean, androgynous frame and boyishly short black hair, Tess was anything but a tomboy. Cat raised her eyebrows suggestively as she glanced in my direction. Sensing my mortification, she quickly covered.

“Our ancestors were Yup'ik people,” she said. “One of their traditions was to carve masks like these for ritual dances. The masks were embodiments of a spiritual vision, and they were said to imbue the wearer with the spirit they represented. Here, try this one on for size.”

Cat extended her red raven mask up to Craig's face. He peered through the eye slits and rotated his head slowly from left to right as he glanced about. He now seemed menacing, not the guy I'd been quietly lusting over for the last two years.

“The red color signifies royalty and power,” Cat said. “The person wearing this mask is destined for a meteoric rise … a warrior king, perhaps.”

“But beware,” Kaya said, her hazel eyes glittering. “Red can also signify blood and death. Even the greatest of leaders are mere mortals.”

“Sounds like shaman bullshit to me,” Craig said with a laugh.

Cat yanked the mask away from his face. Her expression was a mixture of anger and hurt. I shot Craig a now-you-did-it glance and tried to diffuse the situation by reaching for Kaya's mask.

“Can I try? What's this one all about?”

“The wide eyes and the gaping mouth represent immortality,” said Kaya, with an authority that belied her five-foot-one stature. “Whoever dons this mask will live on through the ages, never to fade away. Their greatness will increase with every new generation.”

The mask felt perfectly molded to my face, and even a little constricting.

“That's too bad,” I replied, removing the elaborate headpiece. “I kind of
like
being the walking wallflower of East Anchorage High.”

“Oh, whatever, Miss-Legs-up-to-Your-Chin. You've got ‘supermodel' written all over you, whether the idiot guys in this school know it yet or not.” Kaya retrieved her mask from me and placed it on a metal shelving unit against the wall, alongside Tess's and Cat's.

“Who died and made
you
Anna Wintour?” I blushed. “Anyway, I think I'll stay behind the camera.”

“Okay, we're outta here,” said Kaya, grabbing her blue fleece parka. “Turn off the lights when you leave.”

“No problem.”

As the triumvirate headed out the door, it felt unsettling to be alone with Craig, especially following Kaya's random comment about me having model good looks. As if.

I headed toward the far end of the art lab to the darkroom (a.k.a. a glorified supply closet). About as anachronistic these days as rotary telephones and VCRs, I considered the darkroom my own private sanctuary. No one else ever used this space for its designated purpose, although I had twice walked in on Olympic-caliber tonsil hockey players going at it after school. I still shudder thinking about it. Those memories — experiences I had no firsthand knowledge of — made it all the more awkward to usher Craig into my inner lair.

He tossed his duffel bag in a corner of the tiny room and settled onto a wooden stool as I closed the door behind us.

“Never trust a woman who deals in hazardous material,” he teased, pointing to the brown jugs of developing chemicals lined up on the shelf. A few unfurled spools of already-processed film hung streamer-like from various clamps set up around the small room where I'd earlier hung them to dry. “You know, you don't have to be so horse-and-buggy about it. Ever hear of digital cameras?”

“Not my style — I'm old school. Digital is so … predictable. When I develop pictures in a darkroom, it's almost like painting with light. There's a sense of mystery as the image slowly materializes in front of your eyes. It's a fascinating blend of science and art that is hard to describe. Besides, I like to be in control of things when I can. Now stay where you are and don't touch anything.”

After scanning the table to make sure everything I needed was where it should be, I flipped off the overhead light and the room went pitch black.

“Why'd you do that?” Craig asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

“I'm transferring my film onto a developing reel,” I said, already focused on my work. After removing the film from my camera, I pried apart the ends of the film cassette, careful not to touch the exposed surfaces of the filmstrip. Carefully, I wound the strip around the developing reel, making sure it spooled properly around the roll.