by Anne Eliot
Right now he’s looking all broody and serious, staring at something on his phone while Jennie and Tanner have an ice-puddle-splash war that’s putting him in the line of fire.
Cam, as usual, doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to care and certainly doesn’t acknowledge them.
*Sighs.*
Every day, he’s like a king surrounded by his court. Very used to his people always hovering. Waiting devotedly to jump should Cam wave his hand, toss out a command or a bone, but he never does.
Kind, good, cliché kings are never bossy.
*Sighs again.*
A gust of wind makes the girls in shorts scream and huddle tighter. The cold pushes against my face like a gentle reminder that it’s time to stop daydreaming and turn away from Cam. But how can I stop now that I’ve started? I’m on a fan-girl high! He looks so great—in addition to the new haircut he’s sporting a new, preppy but casual, brown wool coat. It looks so soft and tailored that it must have been measured, then directly sewn onto his broad shoulders.
*Stares. Stares even more.*
*Notes for the record, how the brown coat matches and highlights exactly one of the many shades of brown in his hair.*
I ponder how he showed up in my digi-photo class this year. At first I was elated—hoping he and I could strike up a conversation about photography, and then fall in love and get married and all that. Or at the very least, if the fairy tale thing didn’t work out, I was thinking I could study him—how he moves—a little closer and from all angles and, hopefully figure out how his posture has him sitting and standing and walking like he’s floating all the time. Like maybe there’s a trick to his gracefulness someone like me could learn or emulate. Also—the photographer in me would kill to photograph him—his eyes mostly.
My heart races just thinking of how those shots would turn out. Would I finally be able to decide what exact color his eyes really might be?
*Tries to imagine me asking him: Excuse me, Cam? Do you mind turning around in your seat and letting me snap a few shots—six hundred or so—of your eyes, and at a really close range?*
Unfortunately, as much as I was excited for him to be in my class, my initial excitement is long gone. It has actually died. Worse, with Cam Campbell sitting in my favorite class, participating in my favorite subject, has almost killed my awesome crush on the guy forever! This is because I’m an art snob. And I’ve caught sight of a few of the zero-talent photographs he’s taken over the past weeks. They’re bad. So bad, I’ve had to pull the plug on me studying him or glancing at his shots during class at all!
Because…depressing!
I’ve seen goal posts, empty bleachers, chalk stripes in the grass, a few shots of the school’s low budget scoreboard, what looks like a study of the chain link fencing that surrounds our track and field, not to mention the actual football shots I tracked crossing his monitor last Friday.
I shudder, thinking of the hundreds of portrait-like close-ups I saw of a ball laid out all over the place in different positions—random places—like Cam thought he’d take his toy out on a photo shoot!
*Coughs. Barfs. Gags.*
I shudder again, trying to erase them from my mind because thinking of them has actually made my heart fill up with real buckets of regret and sadness. For me and probably for poor Miss Brown. If he thinks he’s going to get any kind of good grade with his single minded sports photos, he’s going to have one ugly wake-up call at the end of the quarter.
So those are the facts. Cam Campbell is lung-collapsing attractive on the outside with only footballs bobbling around his insides. It’s tragic, but it’s something I’ve got to come to terms with.
I still adore chocolate bunnies and they also are hollow and empty inside, right?
*For the sake of art, chocolate, and the butterflies in her stomach, Ellen Foster vows to carry on.*
I bite back a smile, and openly let my eyes wander along the straight line of his angled cheekbones while I make my way around to the far side of where he’s standing.
I know exactly what direction the sunlight will best light up the planes of that face. Like I do every morning, I’m also hoping for a side view of his eyes. Sometimes when he glances up I play my ‘name that color of gray’ game.
I track the sun peeking out of the clouds above, hoping to see Cam’s eyes lit up extra bright while I quickly activate the camera on my iPhone. The clouds shift more then—bam—the sun hits us all full force and I’m hit with momentary snow-bright-blindness.
*Waits for it…waits for it.*
When the light settles, I snap a photo in his direction and quickly lower my hand, but that’s when I catch that he’s not staring down at his phone anymore. Maybe he’d been looking up during that whole photo. Or…wait…maybe he looked up after I took that photo and now he’s just looking up—at me!
I swallow and my heart starts fluttering against my chest with a panic attack. Did I forget to turn off the camera’s sound? Did he hear that shutter sound and that’s why he is now not looking away? Okay. Okay. Whatever. I’m always taking photos, everyone knows this and sees it every day.
*Vows to be cool. Act cool. Stay cool!*
I fight against the heat flooding my cheeks and lock in a bored expression. This is so I can hold his gaze without looking guilty. But instead of him looking away or back at his cell phone like everyone does when I stare back at them, his eyes never waver off me!
So…I stare back, equally unblinking, because I’m not looking away first. No. Way. I’ve never been this close to him and at this close range…holy-mother-of-beauty…
*Quickly starts the Name The Eye Color Game: Lake fog in headlights! Back lit campfire smoke! Moonlight behind thin moving clouds! Oh, that’s the one! Moonlight. Clouds…*
*Passes OUT from holding her breath.*
I breathe in as calmly as I can without gasping for air and he pulls his backpack straighter on his shoulder like I’ve suddenly made him nervous! Then he gives me this tentative looking smile—an act that somehow makes his eyes go one shade brighter!
*Catalogues the little, very cute smile-crinkles that just appeared around the edges of his eyes. Wonders what a whole smile would do to that face. Dies.*
Butterflies choke the back of my throat. It’s all I can do to keep my face passive while I completely question my levels of what’s real and what’s not right now. This is because I lack consistent oxygen to my brain from trying not to gasp this whole time, and because I’m getting this odd sensation that he’s going to cross through the crowd and walk over to me. As in, right now.
I shake my head slightly as if to discourage any movement on his part, and then wonder if I’m hallucinating? Maybe my morning breakfast was accidently a drug-laced batch of oatmeal that will later be exposed on the news this afternoon once I’m hospitalized from all this.
I decide I have to end this—somehow—and now. Can I make him believe somehow that I did not just take a random, impulsive stalker photograph of him?
Absolutely.
I hold up my iPhone and skate my gaze to a spot just behind and above his head, then shoot a ton of shots while making a face that looks like I’m concentrating, and that he’s actually in my way! It works, because suddenly his expression flickers with doubt. His smile drops as quickly as it came and he turns to look at the tree behind him, too.
Before he can turn back, I flip my braid over my shoulder and spin around on my good leg fast, because I’m about to turn all shades of red. To calm my exploding heart and to make it look like I’m busy and not at all noticing what he’s doing, I text the girls-huddling photo to Patrick and add: What do you think?
Patrick: Nice shot. Those girls are ridiculous in flip-flops. Swear you’re okay? Swear it again. Getting on my bus now. Good luck.
Me: Double swear. All good.
“I’m so-so-so-so-cold,” Bella-Jane shouts out again, distracting all of us with more drama. “I swear, you guys, I feel like I’m about to get major pneumonia here! We should all sue or something.”
“I-I-you could—you should y-y-yes.” Tanner always stutters when talking to her because—who knows why—he’s been in love with Bella-Jane since high school started. He takes off his jacket and holds it out, before trying again, “Y-y-you can use my jacket. If it helps.”
Suddenly it’s hard to hate him like I want to, because his eyes go rabbit-soft with longing as he smiles at Bella-Jane. Even on Tanner Gold’s annoying face, love is so adorable.
Bella-Jane rolls her eyes. It’s obvious love will never change her, but she wants that jacket more than she enjoys tormenting Tanner with her evil powers over him. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t crush him and instead says only, “Aww, thanks, Tanner.” She skips over to him, taking the jacket. Paige and Jennie giggle even more loudly now.
Someone shouts out, “There it is! See? Just in sight at the end of the lane.”
Tanner adds, “Finally, but it’s still a long way off.”
My heart grows heavy again with dread as I also spot the bus in the distance. I pray all the way to heaven and back that I won’t get stuck sitting next to Tanner or Bella-Jane. At the very least, the universe owes me that small kindness. My iPhone dings against my hand again and again. I ignore Patrick, just as I’m trying to ignore how our bus looks over bright against the white snow like a shiny, horrible black and yellow wasp.
I work to rally every shred of courage plus all hidden bits of muscle strength I can find by flexing my calf and twisting my ankle all over again. All calf spasms have faded to a dull ache so there’s no reason to worry. None. None at all.
I’ve already been to hell and back more times than I can count. One more little, harmless bus ride is easy compared to hell.
Turning away from everyone again, I activate the camera on my iPhone. I already know taking some last shots while the others load up can settle my nerves.
It always does.
cam
Everyone quiets, watching the bus creep all stop-and-start along Lakeshore Drive like it’s a movie being played over a bad internet connection. I imagine the white knuckles on our lame driver gripping the steering wheel are just like the ones I’ve been trying to unclench ever since Ellen Foster and I made eye contact a few minutes back.
Significant eye contact.
At least, I think it was significant eye contact. Even though she didn’t smile back, I did manage to get a small smile out at her. And this, for me, is a start.
Damn…do I hope.
Focus. Focus. Stick to the plan. You never know what can happen. Just try. Try…
I dart another glance at Ellen. She’s stepped away from all of us to photograph more things. She always does this—then gets on the bus last—because I think she doesn’t like standing in line. She’s so absorbed taking shots of the snowy sidewalks you would think she doesn’t even care that the bus is finally almost here. Why would she? Riding the bus has to suck compared to what she’s probably seeing in her photographs.
I can’t wait to ask to see her shots when she and I are sitting side by side. I hope she’s got her iPhone still in her hand and that can be an easy…sort of…ice breaker.
A little too forcefully, I push toward the front of the line, surprising everyone around me. But whatever. I’m a desperate man.
Man with a plan…man with a plan…man with one awesome plan…
I figure the best way to sit by her is to grab the first seat nearest the driver to reserve it, discourage anyone else from sitting there, and then move over just when Ellen Foster boards.
I replay my strategy backward and forward, looking for any possible variations or loop holes where she might slip away from me, but I think I’m solid. If all goes right, thanks to the crowd behind me, and the fact that I’m first in line, she’ll have no other seat choices except mine.
My eyes feel like they’re going as wild as my thoughts because I’m trying to track the bus, then back to Ellen’s location and keep an eye on everyone around me all at the same time. Panic-laced quicksand chokes the back of my throat and I move to avoid Bella-Jane who’s carelessly bumping into everyone while trying to squeeze into Tanner’s jacket along with Jennie and Paige.
She’s made some comment way too close to the back of my head that ended with, “Right, Cam? Right?”
I reluctantly glance back because of her comment, stopping myself from looking into her eyes by pondering the freakish way she’s over-coated her eyelashes into thick black spikes. She’s blinking like she’s waiting for some kind of answer.
So, I fake it, force a nod and add in, “Yep,” then add, “Maybe.” Because you never want to accidently commit to anything when you aren’t listening.
Then I realize my fatal mistake. If I board first and in front of Bella-Jane, this girl is going to think we just had a conversation and try to sit next to me. Quickly, I add, “You three ladies should go first. You really do look like you need to get warm.”
This seems to satisfy all of them. Bella-Jane calls me a real gentleman in this creepy voice and pulls a hair flip that almost takes my eye out as she and her friends push ahead of me.
Hopefully, they will make the usual beeline for the back of the bus where we all usually sit. Until today, that is.
I pull in a long quiet breath and square my shoulders, glancing one last time at Ellen who’s still crouched over a small puddle.
Until I became Ellen Foster’s new bus-buddy and started sitting up front. From this day forward…
Oh…I hope…do I hope this all works.
Trying to keep my face straight, I wonder if anyone else can tell my heart has relocated to somewhere behind my eyeballs.
The bus screeches to a halt and its flashing ‘STOP’ sign flips out.
The driver waits for a passing car to move to a safe distance and then finally opens the passenger door. I head up the first two steps, squeezing in behind Bella-Jane, Jennie, Paige and Tanner when suddenly they all pause on the bus steps and gasp.
As does the driver. All around me, people are muttering things like: “What the heck is that? Who is that?”
And I’m watching it all too, thinking: No way! No. Way.
ellen
While everyone loads up, I’ve crouched to get a quick, last shot of a leaf that’s landed on the sidewalk directly into a footprint. As far as leaves go, it’s simply breathtaking. Oak. A favorite fall leaf. Half green laced with shocking tinges of bright reds and yellows that will change all our trees, then have them mostly bare in only a matter of days. As I study it, little droplets of water form onto its waxy surface, highlighting its color intensity even more.
I lean in, framing it better against the snow, and snap more shots as quickly as I can, already thinking of Instagram tags like: #OtherWorld #snow #leaves #iloveFALL #extraOrdinary #instaLeaf #instaAwesome.
I decide to pocket the leaf to examine it on the bus and risk placing all of my weight on my good leg so I can reach for it. That’s when I’m hit square in my side by an I-don’t-know-what!
I wince, catching a glimmer of some rainbow, paisley-skirted-tornado person who’s got arms waving wildly in the air somewhere near me in what possibly was an awkward attempt to catch me from falling…but…nope.
The stuff that used to be in my bag is raining down around me while my brain is cruel enough to register that everyone (on the bus and off) has turned to witness this, just as I enter one of those too-fast but completely slow-motion moments. All sound disappears until it feels like I’m watching from outside my own body, like how people describe near death experiences. Only, I’m not dead which right now, seems utterly and completely unfair!
*Ellen Foster
’s body heads into a beautiful arc. Her braid floats to the right, body to the left, bag twirling in mid-air, and iPhone launches into space.*
The water-dammed ice puddle zooms in closer and closer. Until…smack. Sensation returns, along with crushing pain and a sound made up mostly of ringing in my ears. I hear and feel myself trying to pull air back into my collapsed lungs, but I’m only able to choke little gasps. And of course—hello CP—I’m so freaked out right now I’m hardly moving despite huge efforts.
The whirling dervish reaches my side. Because my eyes are the only thing working, I take in that this creature is actually a girl I’ve never seen before. A girl dressed like some sort of hippie/hipster wanna-be, but with more random body glitter than seems possible. It’s all over her face and her wild blonde curls, and now, it’s all over me.
I can feel her too-long skirt brushing against the top of my head as she’s circling me, but I’m so far gone I can’t even turn away from it! She’s muttering something like, “What-to-do,” but I’m not sure, because she’s got a really strange accent.
Is that British English?
Not Australian…that’s for sure…
“Oh. Poor wee-tiny lassie. Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done?”
Irish. She’s Irish? Take hope. There are no Irish people in the entire township! Maybe I’m okay. Maybe this is a dream. A really bad dream. But not so-so bad, because yeah—the whole school is watching me—but at least I’m not naked?