by Zoey Long
They all sit up in their seats expectantly, smiling in my direction. I chuckle again, silently. “Good morning, welcome!” I offer, clearing my throat.
I begin by getting out my materials and hoping I don’t trip. That’s how intently they’re all staring at me. I sit down at the round table and look at the entirety of my class. Most of the students have laptops and notebooks out. I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of Mad Men, the young women in front of me all in different colored sweater sets. One fern, one ruby, cerulean, yellow ochre. Of course, that’s not what they’re really dressed like. It’s just the first place my brain went.
“I’m Adam. Great to have you all. So this class is open level, tell me, who are some of your favorite photographers? How do you feel that photography differs from other, similar mediums, such as film?”
A few students are already copying down everything I say. A curly haired girl raises her hand.
“Yes, please,” I gesture to her.
“Annie Leibovitz, obviously. I loved the black and white work Herb Ritts did in the ‘80s and ‘90s. That’s mostly because I was obsessed with supermodels at the time, but still, the work he did with models and celebrities is captivating. Then again, Ansel Adams is the easy answer.”
“Good, good. Great examples of portrait photographers.” There are a few giggles. “Others?”
A girl in all black raises her hand, I call on her and she proceeds to waxes poetic about Cartier-Bresson and the tragedy of his switching to painting. A gorgeous redhead on the far side of me raises her long arm, a smirk on her face. There’s an air about her, a confidence in the way she holds her body. It’s playful, but not the slightest bit unsure of herself or the space she occupies..
“Brassai,” she says.
I raise my eyebrow. “And what do you like about his work?”
“He wasn’t afraid to photograph ordinary people. He didn’t travel to exotic places, he lived his life in Paris and took photographs of the people he saw around him on the streets.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” I agree with her.
“Also, you.”
A few students laugh to themselves at the boldness of her answer. I feel my skin flush.
“Well, I’m sure that is certainly the one and only time anyone will talk about my work and Brassai in the same sentence. That’s very flattering, thank you. But why do you say I’m one of your favorites, Miss….”
“Carrie.”
“Carrie,” I repeat back to her. She continues immediately.
“Because, like Brassai, you take the ordinary and make it into something extraordinary.” She flashes a big smile and I’m not sure if she’s messing with me or not.
“That’s... thank you. That’s a fantastic compliment, I really appreciate that.” I clear my throat. “Now, I assume you’ve all downloaded your syllabi, and you’ll see the equipment required. The chief goal of the course is for you to take your own photos. We could sit here all semester looking at the work of others, and we will look at a lot of other work, but the really interesting stuff, the meat...” Someone snorts, and I ignore it. “The meat of the course is when you get behind the camera yourselves.”
Carrie raises her hand again, still smiling. Her teeth are perfectly straight, perhaps the most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen in my life. Get it together, Adam. How old could this girl be?
“How did you get into taking pinup photos?” A girl next to Carrie who must be her friend elbows her in the ribs. She jerks.
“When I moved to New York, I was a struggling photographer just out of college and I met a woman who was a makeup artist and stylist. We came up with the idea to do pinup work together. Also, I’ve always loved the aesthetic.”
“Like Gil Elvgren?” she offers.
“Yes. He’s on the syllabus actually. If you see, on page four...”
“I know.”
Okay, Carrie has certainly done her homework. I change the subject before it becomes Carrie and Adam having a conversation in front of twenty people and not a classroom. After the class is dismissed, Carrie stays behind. Lord help me. I’m packing up my bag and pretending not to notice that she’s not making any effort to leave the room.
“What’s up, Carrie?” I ask her.
“Oh, I just wanted to say that my interest in photography predates this course, I usually shoot on a Nikon point and shoot, digital. I’m really interested in learning how to develop film.”
“We will definitely be doing that in this class.What do you like taking pictures of?”
“People. I love portraiture. That’s why I signed up for this. Well, part of why…” She trails off.
“What else are you studying?” I ask, changing the subject slightly.
“I’m an actor. Theatre mostly.”
I nod. I should have known she was an actress. That’s where the confidence and poise comes from. She reaches over my arm and hands me a small flyer. Almost touching me, but not quite.
“It’s just a rehearsal, but if you’re interested in what I do, come by. I’d love to see you there.”
She winks at me before turning to walk away. Her jeans are so tight that they look painted on. Legs for days. High, round ass. I looked for a fraction of a second when she turned away from me, no more. Lana told me young girls would be throwing themselves at me in this job, I just didn’t expect this level of flirting somehow. It’s flattering. Dangerous, but flattering.
Stupidly, I find myself at Carrie’s dress rehearsal the following Monday night. I even wore a vest. How ridiculous.
“Hey, Clark!”
I run into Joe on the way to the theatre building. He has a cup of coffee from the student deli in one hand. For the amount they charge in tuition they could at least get some decent food in this place. I wouldn’t drink that stuff if someone held me at gunpoint. He tends to high five me nowadays. Our palms slap against each other in this silly declaration of manly friendship.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask him.
“Don’t remind me. I had a meeting with some of the other admins. That’s pretty much all you do in administration, by the way. Meetings. At least I still get to teach classes. Where you headed?
“Oh, theatre building. I’m catching a show. One of my students, Carrie Desmond. She’s...” I pause when he starts chuckling. “What?”
“I see you’ve meet Queen Carrie. Gets cast in the lead in all the school plays. Basically runs the theatre department. Talented, great kid. If you weren’t headed to a show right now, I’d ask you to get a beer with me. Let’s do that sometime.”
“Sure, great.” I say, but I’m aware that he’s holding something back.
“Have fun, Clark. Good to see you getting involved in campus life.”
I nod and turn away from him.
“Oh, and Clark?” he yells. I turn my head. “Keep your head out of your ass, okay? Please?” He shakes his head with a half-smile, sips his godawful coffee, and heads out of sight.
It’s raining by the time I reach the theatre building, drops of water hitting the pavement lightly like the top of a timpani drum. My black leather oxfords bead with water as I try not to slip on stray leaves. A few students are standing outside in skinny jeans and beanie hats, smoking cigarettes. I think I smell the cinnamon spiciness of a clove. Yep. Wow, that takes me back.
The lobby has slick black floors with charcoal grey rugs laid out due to the weather. There are three main performance halls but a sign indicates that Carrie’s rehearsal is taking place downstairs in a screening room. It just says, “Dress rehearsal downstairs.”
I head down the shiny black stairs alone and wonder for a moment if I’ve got the wrong time. I hear voices coming from behind the thick oak door to the screening room. I open it slowly, feeling like a trespassing student.
No, Adam, you’re a teacher. Get a grip. I’m still getting used to the privileges that come with that. It’s like when you first turn twenty-one and
you still get anxious when people ask you for ID, even though you know you’re allowed.
The room is far from empty, and a few heads turn in my direction at the door creaking open. I’m not late, the rehearsal hasn’t started yet. I sit in the first seat I can find, all the way in the back in a row by myself. I don’t want to draw too much attention. I get myself settled, set my coat next to me, and see that the room is filled mostly with other students, some faulty. Almost all the theater faculty, understandably. I think I’m the only one here from the photography department, small as it is.
The lights go up and there’s some applause. The set is a bedroom of some kind, the sound of rushing water indicates that someone is taking a shower offstage.
Carrie enters the bedroom in a v-neck satin chemise that hits her just above the knee. Her red hair is pinned to look like she has a bob of voluminous curls. She has a pearl necklace on. She yells to the person in the shower, in a convincing Southern accent.
“One of those no neck monsters hit me with a …”
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. She’s Maggie the Cat. Two hours of Carrie in underthings. It’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I love this play, and twenty minutes in, I understand why Joe, and probably everyone else here, calls her Queen Carrie. She’s mesmerizing. It’s not just her looks, although she’s gorgeous. Carrie really does command a stage with ease. Her accent is on point, and she’s hitting all the Maggie-isms dead on. The way she arches her back to assert herself, struts effortlessly across the stage in those heels, her mannerisms, you can’t help but be captivated by her. I’m delighted and inspired. I’m glad I’m alone in the back because there must be a goofy grin on my face. I wonder how much of what I’m seeing is Maggie and how much of it is Carrie, how she fixes her nude colored stockings, the singularity in how she applies her lipstick, fluffs those retro curls. I want to photograph her and find out, to click my shutter the moment she forgets I’m watching. I shake my head immediately, trying to literally shove this insane thought out of my head.
By the time we get to the big monologue, I know Carrie has sold more than just me. The kid who plays Brick is also good, but this is Carrie’s show. The theater is so quiet you can hear a pin drop.
Brick, y’know I’ve been so God damn disgustingly poor all my life! That’s the truth, Brick!
The spotlight is on her and she throws her shoulders back, receiving it. I find myself championing for her and in awe of her at the same time.
You can be young without money but you can’t be old without it. You’ve got to be old with money because to be old without it is just too awful, you’ve got to be one or the other, either young or with money, you can’t be old and without it. That’s the truth, Brick…
I laugh silently. Isn’t that the truth. It’s one of the reasons I cleaned myself up for a real job, anyway.
At the end of the performance, the screening room explodes with thunderous applause. I fly to my feet without thinking about it, showering her with as much applause as my buzzing hands can create. Carrie takes a big bow in the middle of her standing ovation, and I swear she smiles right at me. It’s oddly unnerving, and I slip out before the actors leave the stage.
The next day, my class goes well. The students all have their gear and I’ve given them an assignment.
“Just go out and take candid shots. Something that inspires you. Come prepared next week to tell me why.”
When I dismiss the class, Carrie lingers behind. I pretend to immerse myself in my work at the round table, which really just consists of reading over materials I hand-picked myself.
“Adam?” her voice sounds like velvet.
“Oh, Carrie. I wanted to tell you, I saw your performance last night. You were really incredible. Seriously.”
She smiles.
“No bullshit?” she asks. I shake my head. “I thought I saw you there.”
“Well, yep, I was,” I say, sounding like a complete and utter dork. “And such a great part. You would have impressed Elizabeth Taylor herself.”
She starts laughing. She throws her head back, her ivory skin looking almost translucent in this light, the peachy pink hue of her cheeks lighting up her face from within. I’m distracted just by looking at her laugh. Her eyes are closed, her mouth parted. Looking at Carrie feels like a breath of fresh air. I could stare at this girl all day long. She’s truly a beautiful woman.
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Why?” I ask, still trying to sound normal.
“Because last semester I played Cleopatra and people said I looked like Elizabeth Taylor then, too.”
“That’s quite a compliment for someone your age,” I say.
She furrows her brow, and not once does that impish little smirk leave her lips. She leans in so close to me that I can smell the minty freshness of her chewing gum on her breath. I don’t move a muscle.
“How old do you think I am?” she asks slowly.
I cough, which breaks the tension, but only for a moment.
“Eighteen? Nineteen? It’s a mixed level class, Carrie, how old can you be?”
“Try twenty.” Right. Back when that seemed old. Okay, she isn’t a teenager but still, she’s a child. She can’t even drink. “I’ll be twenty-one in a few months. I took a year off between high school and college. Anyway, I wanted to ask you, would you help me develop some of my pictures in the dark room?
“There was a lesson on that just recently…”
“I know, but I took some pictures recently and I don’t want to mess them up. They’re really important to me and I’m still confused about when to stop.”
“Stop?” I ask her.
“You know, developing. When to put it in the stop bath.”
“What did you take pictures of?”
“Isn’t it better if it’s a surprise?” she asks. “I know what I think I captured, but I’d rather just see what develops.”
“Sure, Carrie. I’ll help you.”
“Great! Now I can show you something else.”
I have no idea what she’s about to do, but I instinctively check the door to my office. I see that it’s closed. She opens her bag and drops a book of black and white pinup photography on my desk. It’s a book on Bettie Page.
“I have been completely obsessed with these photos lately. The woman you photograph a lot, especially in your earlier work, she reminds me of Bettie Page.”
I smile. “Lana, yes.”
Carrie looks up into my eyes. Hers are the clearest green, but there’s a maturity behind them, a depth. There’s magnetism between us, a crackling electricity that would make me kiss those pillow soft lips right now if I wasn’t her teacher.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Carrie asks. And just like that, she’s twenty again. I shake my head and break her gaze.
“No. We’re friends.”
“Sure,” she says. “All my friends are models, too. Actually, now that I think of it, some of them really are.” Carrie laughs again, flipping through the scantily clad pictures of Betty Page in quick succession.
I try not to think too hard about the number of ridiculously attractive women on this campus, Carrie included. I’m silently cursing Lana for putting me in this situation in the first place. If she could see me right now, she’d be laughing her ass off. She knew exactly what this campus would be like for a young guy like me.
“Lana and I are artistic partners. She does a lot of the styling for my shoots. Most of it, really. We’re artistic collaborators. It’s not romantic.”
Carrie nods, but I’ve lost her attention to the photographs. She’s fixed her attention on one photograph in particular. It’s a black and white image of Bettie Page sitting on the edge of a couch with her knees up. She’s wearing a bra and panty set, her legs are stockinged, with black patent leather high heels on her feet. Her thick jet black hair falls in waves over her shoulders and she’s combing it. Her comb is frozen mid-wave, and she’s gazing into
an old fashioned hand mirror.
“Mmm... I love this one,” she purrs.
Her slender hand is pressed into the top corner of the page. I’m aware of exactly how far it is from my own hand, which is not very far at all. Those small millimeters seem like miles, and yet I know she’s too close.
“Klaw?” I ask her. She checks the footnote and looks up at me with a big smile.
“Yes, Irving Klaw. Guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks, huh?”
“Right.” I burst out laughing and look at my watch. “Listen, Carrie, I really should get going”
“Oh, did you forget?” she asks, making no move whatsoever to leave the room. In fact, she gingerly flips another page, and this time, Page is totally nude. I feel my cock respond. I’m stiffening steadily now.
Forget that you’re insanely attractive and I really want to fuck you but I can’t because I’m not insane? No, I remember that.
“It’s almost one pm. Time for our conference, remember? That’s why I stuck around after class, silly. I’m not just here to bug you. Why, what did you think I was doing here?”
I have no idea. “Oh my goodness. You’re right. Absolutely. I usually have my lunch between class and conferences. This is our new time, yes. This whole system is still a bit new to me. Give me a few moments here and then I’ll meet you in my office.”
She smiles and packs up her book. I stand up, put on my suit jacket, and run to the men’s room to splash my face with cold water.
Earnsley requires that students and teachers meet weekly for something called conferences in addition to classes. You meet in a one-on-one setting for a half hour with every student, every week. Students are expected to engage in a semester-long, sometimes year-long individual project, separate from their classwork. Carrie rescheduled the first one due to rehearsal, so this is our first one-on-one meeting.
Sometimes I think it must be nice to be a woman. I could be wet as hell right now, just dripping, on the verge of orgasming in my pinstripe slacks and no one would ever know. I readjust myself, splash more water on my face, and head to the meeting.
I turn the brass doorknob enter my office to find Carrie in a full stretch, reaching up to one of the books on high shelf. Her fingers just barely graze the bottom of the spine of the title she’s interested in. She’s in a flowy little blue dress that’s hitching itself up her mid thighs as she stretches upward. The outline of her breasts rise and fall with breath. I clear my throat.