Boy

by Blake Nelson

  I nodded.

  “You did it right,” said Claude. “You got out at the right time.”

  “I just peaked earlier than you.”

  “My dad finally fired the coach,” said Claude. “We had to pay him all this extra money for breaking the contract. My dad was pissed. But whatever.”

  “Dads,” I said, shaking my head. “What’s their problem?”

  “They put their shit on you,” said Claude. “Whatever they couldn’t do, you gotta do.”

  “I guess so.”

  We lapsed into an easy silence. It was nice talking to Claude.

  “How’s Hanna?” I said.

  “She’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “I dunno . . . She gets bored. She always needs something new. New dramas.”

  “Sounds like Hanna,” I said.

  “It’s not a great mystery she’s like that. But what can I do?”

  “Chicks,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Exactly. Chicks.”

  “You guys will be all right,” I said.

  Claude nodded that this was probably true. He looked at his watch. “I gotta roll,” he said.

  “All right,” I said.

  “Good talking to ya,” he said.

  “Likewise,” I said back.

  21

  It was in October that I was out raking leaves with my mom and my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I answered anyway; it was Richie from Passport Photos.

  “Hey, kid,” he said.

  He’d never called me before. It was strange to hear his voice on the phone.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” he said.

  “Uh . . .”

  “I got a photography gig,” he said. “In Seattle.”

  “Yeah?”

  “From a magazine. Travel and Leisure. Ever heard of it?”

  “Sure,” I said, though I hadn’t really.

  “Paid gig. Gonna drive up there Saturday. You wanna go?”

  “Me . . . ?”

  “You can be my assistant. Ask your parents.”

  I put the phone to my chest and turned to my mother. “Can I go to Seattle this weekend?”

  “What for?”

  “The guy from the camera store has a gig up there.”

  “What sort of gig?”

  “Taking pictures,” I told my mother. “For a magazine.”

  “Ask your father.”

  I lifted the phone to my face again. “What sort of gig exactly?”

  “A pro gig. A travel piece. Some guy wrote an article and we’ll take the pictures. The Space Needle. Pike’s Market. All that. We’ll spend the night. I’ll pay you.”

  “Really? How much?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  I turned to my mom. “He said he’s going to pay me.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The guy from the camera store.”

  My mother frowned. “Ask your father.”

  • • •

  There was a big case going on at my dad’s law firm. He’d been coming home late and going straight to his upstairs office, where he worked even later.

  I knocked on his door. He told me to come in. He was eating microwaved lasagna from a plate. He had two computers going at once.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said.

  He stared up at me. He looked very tired. Very stressed out.

  I didn’t want to take up too much of his time. “I have to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “You know how I was trying out Russell’s camera?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’ve been hanging out at this camera store. And talking to the guy there. He has a paid job taking pictures of Seattle. For a travel magazine. And he wants me to go with him. And be his assistant.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Richie.”

  “What kind of person is he?”

  “His uncle owns the Passport Photos store downtown. He wants to be a photographer.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I’ll be his assistant. I’ll carry stuff.”

  “And why did he pick you?”

  “He likes my stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “My photographs.”

  My father frowned. The idea of me as a photographer was so ridiculous to him, he couldn’t talk about it. “Well, I don’t care. Ask your mother.”

  I didn’t ask her. I went into my own room and called Richie and told him I’d do it.

  • • •

  That was on a Wednesday. So I had a couple days before we went. At first I didn’t think about it much. I was like, okay, I’m going to Seattle on Saturday. I’d been to Seattle before. I’d played in tennis tournaments there. But then Thursday at school, it hit me what I was doing. I got more excited and a little bit scared. I had no idea what it was like, being on a real photography job.

  On Friday there was a big party at Krista Hoffman’s McMansion. Krista and Ashley had become the new party girls over the summer. Krista was a pretty visible person in general, for a sophomore. She was always running around, being adorable with her wavy blond hair. Her whole face squeezed together when she got excited, which was a lot.

  So then, since Claude and I were becoming friends again, he called me and we rode over together in his BMW. Hanna, who still ignored me for the most part, came up to me when we arrived and gave me a hug. So everything was basically cool with the three of us again. Which was a great relief.

  The party was awesome. Krista was running around in this white dress, with a red ski hat with a big puffball on top that everyone was swatting at. She was being the party girl, I guess. She literally bounced up and down when she talked.

  I was excited about going to Seattle the next day, so I was in a good mood. We started dancing, Hanna and Logan and some other people. Olivia showed up too, with Rachel Lehman, of all people, who I hadn’t talked to since she left for the San Juans halfway through the summer. She did her usual thing of looking super hot and then not talking. So you had no idea what she was thinking. I tried to act casual and just smile at her.

  Hanna and Claude left pretty early, so I wandered around and got a beer and went into the backyard. Bennett and some of his drug buddies were out there. They had started showing up at such places—the better parties—that year. They had taken over the big patio table, so I sat with them. They were smoking a joint and grinning like people do when they’re high.

  Then Antoinette and Kai showed up. So now they were coming to the cool parties too. They looked suspicious of the whole thing and a little out of place. They walked into the backyard and sat on a bench against the wall and lit cigarettes. I watched Bennett watch Antoinette. The word was that Antoinette had broken his heart pretty badly. Judging from his facial expressions, that was an accurate description. I had never thought—or cared—about the two of them as a couple. But I thought about it now. She must have recognized that he wasn’t the total loser everyone thought he was. In some ways she had helped him evolve out of his loser-ness. But what did he see in her? The same thing I saw. Her confidence. And that quality she had where she seemed to be thinking all the time. She wasn’t just some pissed-off teenager. She had a plan. It was like she knew the future and was already preparing for it. She was going to learn the things she needed to learn. She was going to do the things she needed to do. And the rest of it: high school, social life, teachers, parents . . . it was just noise to her. It didn’t matter in the slightest.

  • • •

  Later that night I ended up smoking a joint with Logan and Olivia and Rachel Lehman, in Krista’s sister’s bedroom. Logan and Olivia were giggling and goofing around. Rachel and I smiled at each other a lot but didn’t really talk.

  Logan got up to piss. And when he didn’t come back, Olivia went to look for him. So then Rachel and I were sitting there together in the dim light, both of us stoned and sipping on our Amstel Lights.

  “How’s
school?” I asked her.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “That was fun playing tennis last summer.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  We sat there.

  “You look really high,” I said, grinning.

  “So do you.”

  “Your eyes are like little slits,” I said.

  “Your eyes are all shiny.”

  Now she was grinning too. And doing flirty things with her hair.

  “I wanted to hang out with you more last summer,” I said. “But you went on vacation for, like, five weeks!”

  “I did.”

  I laughed. “You broke my heart,” I said.

  “Did I?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” she said.

  We looked at each other for a moment. Then I leaned in to kiss her. With great smoothness and grace, she met my lips with hers. Wow. She was a great kisser. I mean, unbelievable. I scooted closer.

  We made out. The door opened at one point, but neither of us looked up. It closed again.

  Later, when we returned to the party, she ran off with Olivia. I didn’t see her again that night. But that was okay. We had seriously made out, which meant I could call her again.

  • • •

  The next morning my alarm went off at six a.m. I gathered up my stuff for Seattle and went downstairs and ate some cereal. I let the thought I made out with Rachel Lehman go through my mind once. Then I got back to business.

  I drove in the dark to the address Richie had given me. It was on the east side, in an odd neighborhood I had never been to before. The houses were older and small and they had old-style concrete driveways that were so narrow they could barely fit a modern car. This was Richie’s uncle’s house, it turned out. Richie lived in his spare room.

  I tapped lightly on the front door as I had been instructed. Richie came to the door and opened it and shushed me to stay quiet. There was a lot of crap on the floor. Lights, umbrellas, tripods, rolls of cable and cords, several different camera cases.

  I quietly grabbed some of it and followed him out the door. When he got outside and saw the RAV4, he stopped.

  “This yours?” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” I whispered back.

  “Let’s take your car.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “My parents.”

  “What about them?”

  “They didn’t give me permission to drive to Seattle.”

  “How are they going to know? C’mon. Open the door. Hurry up.”

  “But what if they find out?”

  “How will they find out?”

  So we took my car.

  • • •

  We were on the interstate when the sun came up. Richie drank coffee and rocked his head to the radio. He had his foot up on the dash. He wore black jeans and motorcycle boots.

  “This is a sweet ride,” he said to me.

  “It’s not mine. It’s my brother’s.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “He’s at college. Back East.”

  “Nice. I like the sound of that. College. Back East. That’s what I should have done. Instead of hanging around my uncle’s shop.”

  I drove. “Well, you got a good gig at least,” I said. “Travel and Leisure. How much do you get paid for this?”

  “Not enough,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “It’ll be good experience. You’re getting your foot in the door.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Good experience. Foot in the door.” He sipped his coffee. “You got a lot to learn, kid.”

  22

  In Seattle, Richie wanted to drive, so we traded places. From his shirt pocket, he pulled out a list of the places that were featured in the travel article. This list was titled: SHIT WE HAVE TO HAVE.

  The first on the list was a restaurant called Maud’s Kitchen. I punched the address into the GPS and it showed us where to go. We arrived at ten thirty, as brunch was beginning. A long line of people were standing outside. Richie pulled over in a NO STOPPING zone and hopped out. I watched from the car while he walked briskly toward the restaurant entrance and disappeared inside. I looked up at the NO STOPPING sign and checked around for cops or meter maids or tow trucks.

  A minute later he came hurrying back out. “This is perfect. Place is packed. Let’s go.” He opened the back door and grabbed some of the stuff. He motioned for me to grab the cords and two of the lights. He started back into the restaurant.

  “Richie!” I called to him. “We can’t park here.”

  He’d been too distracted to think about that. He looked up at the sign. “Pull it around. Park in the lot. And hurry!” He headed back into the restaurant.

  • • •

  I didn’t know what lot he was talking about. We hadn’t seen any lot. Nor did I know what “around” meant. I shut the doors that Richie had left open and hopped into the driver’s seat. I pulled forward and took a right. That seemed like “around.” But in fact that was a pretty steep drop down a hill. And there wasn’t another right to take for three blocks. I passed a parking garage, but I didn’t see an entrance. I turned right again and found myself under the freeway, on a dead-end street. I started cursing. I turned around and headed right again, thinking I’d at least be heading back in the direction of Maud’s Kitchen. I went straight ahead for a while, assuming the restaurant would reappear on my right, but it didn’t. So I turned left and then left again and found myself going up a ramp. This turned into a freeway entrance, and a few seconds later I was merging into traffic. I was back on the interstate. I was on my way to Canada.

  Things were a little tense when I finally got back.

  “Where have you been?” Richie snarled at me under his breath as he simultaneously smiled at the manager of Maud’s. The manager was not thrilled to have his packed restaurant disrupted by a disorganized camera crew.

  “You said there was a parking lot,” I hissed back. “But there wasn’t one.”

  It all worked out in the end. We got some good stuff at Maud’s. Richie became obsessed with getting an aisle shot, so you could see several booths in a row, at an angle, with the best-looking diners most visible. Richie even made one booth rearrange itself to get a woman with big sunglasses on the end. We had to readjust the lights several times. It took a few minutes, but we got it.

  • • •

  Next up was Pike’s Market, where the fish guys threw the salmon back and forth. It was one of Seattle’s most famous tourist attractions.

  Richie surveyed the situation. He didn’t like it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he said. “Everyone’s already seen this a million times.”

  “Yeah, but it’s what they want,” I said. “Flying fish” was second on the list of SHIT WE HAVE TO HAVE.

  “Yeah, well, you take it, then,” he said, handing me his fancy Pentax.

  So I took a bunch of shots from different angles, until I was pretty sure we had something good.

  After that we walked through the market and took pictures of whatever else looked interesting. Richie did the shooting. I carried the gear. Richie was good at catching odd things: an old Chinese lady with her plastic bags, a stray cat eating fish guts off the floor. It was a lesson in population density. That many people crammed into a small space created a lot of photographic possibilities. Richie was all over it.

  • • •

  That night we checked into the Holiday Inn, which Travel and Leisure was paying for. I walked down the street to McDonald’s and got us two Big Mac meals. I felt pretty important standing in line, with my light meter still hanging from my neck. My first pro gig. I liked the feel of it.

  Back at the hotel we watched SportsCenter and ate our Big Macs. Richie promptly fell asleep in his clothes on top of his bed. I brushed my teeth and actually got under the blankets. I was pretty tired. And pretty excited. And not only that: I had made out with Rachel Lehman the night before. I was like a jet-set
ting journalist, traveling to distant cities, fighting my way through crowded markets, all the while knowing that my beautiful girlfriend was waiting for me at home.

  Not that Rachel was my girlfriend yet. But it was fun to think about.

  • • •

  The next day, after we had all the SHIT WE HAVE TO HAVE places crossed off, we drove down to the waterfront. Richie took shots of different things. The boats. The skyline. Wood chips floating in the water. He explained that you wanted to have a bunch of extra random stuff on a gig like this. It gave the photo editors options.

  That night we got back on the interstate and headed home. While Richie slept, I drove and daydreamed about Rachel Lehman. I thought about kissing her at the party. How soft her lips were. How shockingly cute she was. But then I remembered how she didn’t talk. And there was her strange disappearance last summer. And the fact that she didn’t want to hang out if I wasn’t friends with Hanna and Claude.

  Well, I was friends with Hanna and Claude again. So maybe she would like me now.

  23

  Back in Portland, I drove us to Richie’s, where we unloaded the gear. We were so tired we didn’t say a word to each other.

  It was two in the morning when I got to my own house. As I turned into our driveway, I saw a person standing out by our big spruce tree. He was on the opposite side of it from the house. I looked closer. It was my dad. He had his parka over his shoulders. He appeared to be talking on his phone.

  I eased the RAV4 into its usual parking spot. Since it was so late, I got my stuff and headed straight into the house. Whatever my dad was doing, I didn’t want to bother him. He was probably standing out there so he wouldn’t wake my mom while he talked over his big case.

  I took my bag upstairs and down the hall to my room. I left it there and then, without turning on any lights, crept back to the hallway that looked out toward the spruce tree. I peeked out one of the windows. Because the tree blocked the view, I couldn’t tell if my dad was still out there. And I couldn’t hear anything. I watched. I listened. He must have seen my car come in and gone back inside.

  What was he doing? Maybe he’d gone out there to piss. I did that sometimes late at night. If I had to piss and nobody was awake, I’d walk out into the yard. Just to be outside for a second, to look at the stars. But my dad wasn’t really a look at the stars kind of person.