How I Fly

by Anne Eliot

  I feel so light. So happy. So peaceful.

  Like I’m a flying bird and there’s nothing holding me back or stopping me, not even…myself. I’ve just flown through my camera lens, way up over the lake, high to circle the moon, and most importantly, it’s taken me back into what it feels like to be me.

  I’m so happy to recognize myself that I almost put down my camera and wrap my arms around my own stomach!

  Somewhere along the course of all these past months, while getting my legs repaired and becoming Harrison’s girlfriend, I’d lost myself. And even though we’re here at a photography workshop doing what we all love, along the way I wound up photographing what Harrison loved. He was always in my space, looking over my shoulder, making suggestions I’d never want to try—but try them I did, of course. Even when his suggestions messed up my shots more than doing anything that I would call good, I would humor him to the point of my personal exhaustion. Like, before heading off to the bonfire.

  He’d wanted to do photo editing all afternoon. A suggestion that was fine with me, because we need to have our assignments turned in by next Friday. I also love working ahead, so I agreed to bring my laptop down to his room to work. But then we wound up only working on his shots. I gave my suggestions on how he could enhance or crop them to be even stronger—which is always fun for me, and he really appreciated it—but we never got to the part where I could download my shots off his computer onto my laptop. The more I think about it, and now that I’ve had some distance, I wonder if Harrison said all that stuff about being a bad friend because he knew it—our time spent together—was actually all about him.

  Being here, in utter silence while taking photos with Cam, I get that I’m doing my thing, while Cam is doing his thing, only we’re doing it together without invading each other’s space. Harrison had this way where he took up all the space and all the attention, and yes, even all the energy in the room. I’m not worried about someone watching or waiting for me like I always was when Harrison was near, either, and nor does Cam make me feel like I’m constantly slowing him down. I feel like I’m his equal, his friend, and I’m newly exhilarated. Inspired.

  As I pull my Nikon strap over my neck so I can rest, I realize how much I’ve missed using my own camera. All week I’ve been stuck using Harrison’s heavier camera. His is a gorgeous piece of equipment, to be sure, but it’s one that never felt right to my hands. Mostly because after every shot I took, Harrison would grab it away from me, analyze the shot on the monitor, and then shove it back at me while bossing me to hurry up and take the next one so he could capture this or that just as soon as I was finished.

  I just took over one hundred, undisturbed, what I hope will be good shots of the light the bonfire was throwing on the shallow waters on the lake, and my hands aren’t tired. Then I captured some reflections of the rising moon, and then because of the awesome telephoto lens—which is as good as Harrison’s—I zoom in on the bonfire itself.

  I gasp with excitement as I freeze photo after photo of orange sparks, floating and shining as they trail up in to the night sky. I’m so zoomed in that I don’t see someone adding giant logs onto the fire. When that happens I’m so surprised I shout out, “Wow! Wow! Oh my—cool!” as my finger’s doing another rapid succession of shots. “Cam! There’s just explosion after explosion of embers and sparks flying huge and high! It’s making these awesome silhouettes of our WOA class, and I just took a shot of them looking like pagan moon dancers! Cam! You’ve got to come get some of these!”

  He joins me. I’m so engrossed in my own shots I only pause to look at him when he leaps off the edge of the pathway. I won’t follow, because I’ve vowed to be cautious. He’s stretched out flat on his stomach in front of me, taking shots of the scene while lying down, muttering things that I was saying, like, “Wow. Cool. Very cool.”

  Envious and curious, I bend down as far as I’m able to try to see what angle he’s capturing with his camera, but I almost topple on to my face. Distracted now, I decide to rest. Once I’m seated, I wind up staring not at the bonfire, but at Cam Campbell.

  I can’t help it. Staring at Cam Campbell used to be one of my favorite pastimes. He’s so…perfectly made.

  With his back to me, I openly take in the new, even wider width of his shoulders, now flexing as he holds himself up on his elbows to support his camera so it stays out of the sand. I admire how the bonfire in the distance is lighting up the tips of the small bit of hair growth that is part of his new, leaner, more severe look. He was always hot with the longer hair and the way his mom dressed him all preppy cute, but like this…in the beat-up cargo shorts, and the simple faded T-shirt with this very short military haircut that makes him look like…like…

  *Mind goes crazy. Pictures Cam climbing a fast-moving above-ground train and leaping off into dark bottomless pits to prove himself! Then pictures Cam in a maze…and running fast. Then Cam in a soldier’s uniform, defeating madmen dictators and exploding whole airplanes with a simple bow and arrow! Pictures Cam pulling out an obsidian stone dagger while inside a trendy nightclub to defeat demons and aliens hiding among us—and he saves a cat!*

  I swallow and almost laugh out loud, just when he pauses and looks back at me. He grins so wide that my heart catches, and I’m unable to stop the guilt-from-staring giggle that sneaks out.

  “What? Are you laughing at me?”

  “No. And yes. I’m just…thinking this scene…you on the sand like that…makes me miss reading. When this summer workshop is over, I’m going to bury myself in books.”

  *Reminds self: I only love boys in books. I love only boys in books from faraway worlds. Because loving real boys in this world always hurts.*

  “Books? What?” He flips over and jumps to his feet in one fluid move, not once needing to take his hands off his camera, and snaps a few shots of me, still smiling at him like I’m a fool.

  I explain, “With you doing that belly crawl, you just reminded me of every dystopian book and/or movie hero I’ve seen since we were in middle school. Of course, you’d have to trade that camera for some sort of weapon. Our hotel would need to be underground, or inside some ember-filled city, and of course you and I would need extra superpowers or the ability to read minds.”

  “Or, at the very least, we’d have some sort of save-all-mankind goals going on.”

  “Always the goals.” I grin.

  He nods. “I loved all of those books. City of Ember was best, though. Do you remember how we had to write that paper about it? I went crazy for that story. Best paper I’ve ever written.” He looks back at the giant sparking bonfire in the distance. “It’s kind of true—with this empty stretch of beach in front of us, we could be stuck on any and every movie set ever.”

  “Right?”

  He nods up at me. “Even you there, with the orange firelight reflecting across your face and the dark, star-backed trees behind you.” He walks toward me, snapping shots with every step, and talking like a movie trailer announcer: “In a world where there’s only fire, sand, and sky, how will these two survive with only fireflies to lead the way?”

  I laugh, happy that he gets me, happier that he’s playing along. “Exactly.”

  He sits next to me and points at my camera. “Do you mind? I saw something down at the fire that needs—I need a better look at something.” His gaze skates away from me.

  “Oh. Sure.” I pull my camera off my neck and hand it to him.

  He points the camera toward the people at the bonfire then starts adjusting the lens, then adjusting it more. “I knew I saw…”

  Then he utters some unintelligible curses.

  “What?” I ask.

  He pulls the camera away. “I don’t want to say. For so many reasons.” He hands the camera back to me. “But…” he adds, handing the camera back.

  “But maybe I should look for myself?”

  He shrugs.

  I shake my head and place the camera strap over my head. “I already know what you saw. Or…I t
hink I can guess.”

  “You do?” He blinks.

  “Harrison and I broke up just before the bonfire. With no regrets. No tears. No drama.”

  “What? Oh. I’m sorry.” There’s no elation in his voice. Only concern.

  “I’m sure he’s locked on to one of the exchange students by now?” I laugh, trailing my fingers into the sand near where I’m sitting.

  “Yes.” His voice is still extra calm, almost devoid of emotion, but he sits forward, as if trying to read my face in the darkness. I wonder—hope—wish—that maybe he’s as relieved as I am about the breakup, but I don’t have the courage to ask him.

  He adds, “I can’t believe you’re laughing about it.”

  “Why? I know Harrison well. Truthfully, he and I were never—it wasn’t like we were—” I force myself to tear my eyes off Cam’s face when I add, “We weren’t soul mates or anything.” I shrug, hating that my stupid voice wavered on that last line. I fill my voice with confidence again as I go on: “We all have huge projects to turn in soon. Because of the scholarship looming, we decided to back off and just be—stay—friends. He and I were going through all the things—that all of us—you know—all couples think about.”

  He frowns. “What would that be?”

  “How having a relationship is too much pressure. How there’s not enough time with all of our goals and with university looming, there’s always how we should just chill out and not get too serious—yeah—all that. Because we all know it would suck to risk those friendships on falling in love. Why ruin what’s so good when stress and life just gets in the way? You and I both can at least admit how much all that kind of thing really hurt us. And it hurt us like hell, right?” I watch his expression as carefully as he’s been watching mine.

  He nods, and answers quietly, “It did. Hurt like hell.”

  “And so this is better—”

  “What is better?”

  “Being friends, of course. It’s dumb to be so young and wrapped up in all this false—seriousness that goes with being in a relationship, right?” I shrug, trying to play it all cool, when he doesn’t protest anything that I’ve said. His silence has torn me up inside. He doesn’t want me back…in any way. He agrees with me. He admitted it hurt like hell. Because my eyes are threatening to fill with tears, I try to look all busy by reaching around my head so I can pull my braid free of the weighted camera strap, but it gets stuck.

  At this point I’m now avoiding breathing and looking at Cam’s face, so I see his hands twitch because he’s watching me tug on the strap. I can tell he wants to help me out, but he knows me well enough to wait for me to ask. I turn my head to the side and tug my strap again just in case, but the metal clip that connects to the camera is now completely wound into my hair. “I—do you mind? Helping me?” I finally say, and risk a look back at his face as he moves closer to me. His hands are already on my hair, but I feel his fingers shaking as they brush gently against the back of my neck.

  “The thing is caught good.” His breath along the side of my cheek has sent shivers of longing down my spine. He whispers, “Hell, half your hair is tangled in it now. I’m going to have to unhook everything and try to pull it all out from under your hair so I can untangle all of this under some light, okay?”

  He pulls harder, and I feel everything constrict around my neck. I nod, wondering if the universe is trying to play a joke on me right now.

  “Can you turn your neck to the side and secure the camera?”

  “Sure.” It’s my turn to tremble as I turn my neck to the side.

  When he pulls at the necklace that’s around my neck, the beach glass clanks against it loudly. “You’re really caught up in this ratty thing. What is it?”

  I place both hands on my camera and hug it tightly against my chest so the necklace won’t pop out, and whisper, “A necklace. Don’t break it…please. It’s old. Twists up easily.”

  *Like my heart. Like my mind. Like the lies I just told you.*

  “I’ll try not to…hold on.”

  I suddenly panic that he’s going to see the necklace and remember the beach glass. Then I panic that he’ll see the beach glass and not remember at all what it is, which to me would be worse. So just as he’s pulling it up, I stop it from moving outside my neckline again.

  I feel it stretch into my skin, and then I hear it snapping. “Oh…”

  “Damn,” he says. “I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sure it can be fixed.”

  *Wonders: Can it be fixed? Is any of this allowed to be fixed?*

  While he’s unaware that I’m struggling to fight off more stupid tears, he pulls the strap free. My hair falls out of my braid and hides my face just as my necklace, his necklace—our necklace—drops to my waistline.

  I catch it in the palm of my hand before it falls out of my shirt, ball it up, and shove it in my pocket without meeting his gaze. I had no right to put that necklace back on in the first place. What was I thinking?

  He pulls out his iPhone and lights the space around us with the screen.

  “Ellen. What was it? Is it okay? I can fix anything. You know I can. Show me.”

  *Can’t fix this. Can’t.*

  “Oh. It’s fine. No harm done. I can re-knot it myself.” I flip my hair to the side, and suddenly we’re face to face—and I’m way too close to his lips. I push against his shoulders so I can stand, but instead I almost topple onto him. Before I fall, Cam quickly sets me on my feet. I’m suddenly missing my crutches more than ever. Again, what was I thinking?

  “Thanks,” I say, after he helps me balance then steps away.

  *Notes to self: Huge lessons learned. Promises to self: Never again. Never again.*

  “Anytime,” he says, giving me a funny look.

  “I’m going to go. I—I guess I’m tired. See you tomorrow?”

  “Can I walk you?” He lights up the pathway at our feet, and his smile is achingly beautiful and sweet. Those silver-gray eyes of his are half lit by the moon, and half by the light from his phone. I could swear they’re shining in a way I’ve never seen before, but it could be that’s because I’ve never looked at him through gallons of unshed tears in the dark before.

  Ellen Foster the Camden Campbell addict returns with such full force I almost gasp out loud—because this addict just forgot everything I ever learned in rehab. I’m staring and wishing I could snap one or two shots of his face like this. Damn his beautiful, kind, and perfectly photogenic face. Why is he so beautiful?

  When I don’t answer his question, he quirks one brow and says, “I could…give you a piggyback ride back to the hotel?”

  His question removes every ounce of air I had left in my body. The memories of me and him and how we used to be so happy crash into my chest like I’m getting hit with fists. I shake my head, working to come up with words not sobs. “I. Don’t think…” I motion to the hotel behind us. “It’s so close I want to walk,” I lie. “But—thank you.”

  He nods, and his eyes lose some of their light. “Right.” He’s shaking his head now. “I’m sorry if that question was out of line. Old habits—they die slow for me.”

  “For me, too.” I turn and walk away as quickly as possible. That’s because my hand only wanted to rest against his face while I imagined kissing away his worried frown.

  But I can’t. Of course I can’t.

  Because he and I just made it to this wonderful night where he and I can finally hang out together—as friends. I don’t want to lose that or him ever again. I’ll take what he wants. I’ll take what I can get, because I waited so long for this, and I can’t take being disconnected from him ever again just because I miss kissing him.

  As I’m walking back, my right hand begins to ache. I’ve been holding the lump of beach glass and twine so tightly that my fingers are throbbing. When I get back to my room and lay the necklace down to survey the damage, I realize one of the glass pieces—the smaller, purplish-blue one—along with my favorite leaf charm are no longer connected t
o the necklace.

  I tie up what’s left, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I put it back around my neck before I go to sleep, vowing to take it off for good when I wake up.

  Cam

  We’re all stuffed like sardines in the overheated photography classroom. It’s Friday. Showcase day. The day Professor Perry features our work for all to see. At the end of this special day there will be announcements as to who has been chosen as finalists for the WOA senior scholarship offering.

  This means we’re all excited, hopeful, nervous—everything. It also means it’s not only students crowded in here. The room is packed with a whole bunch of administrator-type people. There are also two bused-in groups of middle school kids who are doing a summer arts day camp somewhere else in the city. Apparently they get to also cast votes on our work. Professor Perry told us that their opinion, though interesting to the group, does not carry any sort of weight, but they like to keep the kids involved.

  All of the WOA students, including me, are sitting in a semicircle up front on the lowest level. The worktables have been moved out to allow for the guests to have the comfortable seats. I’m stuffed between Ellen and Laura, who’ve been locked in some sort of whispering fest that includes Ellen’s mom and Laura’s Aunt Judith over text.

  Unfortunately, the fancy overhead projector and giant high-tech screen that is supposed to flash our amazing submitted work for the world to see isn’t working. At all. Based on the rising temperature and humidity in here, I suspect it’s overheated because the air conditioning is also not working. My guess is it’s some sort of bigger electrical problem that will be resolved as soon as someone flips the breakers in the basement.

  Hopefully I’m right and we won’t be stuck here like this for too long. I shoot a glance at Harrison, who’s sitting on the far side of Ellen. His arms are crossed over his knees, and he’s acting like he’s ignoring her, but from where I sit, I catch Harrison’s eyes traveling over her. I suddenly get that he’s staring at her leg. It’s the leg that used to be in the black boot. Because it’s the last week of our program, Nash gave her permission to have the boot off for the remainder, but he’s ordered her to keep the crutches as a safety precaution. Maybe it’s first time Harrison’s been able to have a close-up view of her uncovered leg, because he’s checking out the scars on her ankle—and he’s hardly able to hide the rude disgust in his expression. If Ellen looks up right now—if she sees his face—it’s going to kill her.