Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  I’m just about through the door and home-free when she calls my name. I crack my neck and take a deep breath, my shoulders rising and falling, before twisting around. At the last second, I remember to smile. “Yeah?”

  She pours a cup of coffee, shaking the contents of a sugar packet into the drink, flicking the last remains from the wrapper with her thumb and forefinger before answering. “Are you still practicing that photography thing?”

  “Not anymore,” I say. “Well, I’m not practicing, anymore,” I amend. “If that’s what you’re asking.” I can already see where this is going. When I first took an interest in photography and started playing around with my DSLR, I put the word out that I was looking for models and offered complimentary sessions along with fully edited images to anyone who would let me shoot them. I got a few hits, mostly people just wanting simple point and shoot sessions with their families. The generic kind where they dressed up, stood stiffly, and smiled for the camera, their shines perfectly intact. As boring as those shoots were, I did them, if only to better learn the settings on my camera, experiment with light, depth of field, etc. But those sessions hardly allowed for any creativity. And, in my opinion, the chance to be creative is the whole point of doing photography in the first place. I prefer photos filled with motion and emotion—gritty images, the kind that tell the truth, that show a glimpse into the everyday lives of the people I shoot. My favorite sessions are the ones where I’m nothing but a fly on the wall, capturing intimate moments and making them last forever: mussed hair, belly laughs, tired smiles, private moments filled with quick touches and hugs and heads bent together in whispered conversation. I live to photograph people’s insides—the raw, vulnerable part of themselves they keep tucked away, beneath the shine. The sessions where my clients stand and say “cheese!” usually entail me standing just as stiffly as the people in front of my lens, nothing more than a glorified picture taker.

  I stopped promoting the free sessions about six months ago, now that I have both the experience and images to put together a proper portfolio. That doesn’t, however, stop people from asking about them. Expecting them.

  Sandy takes a sip of her coffee, smacks her flabby lips together, and frowns. Ripping open another sugar packet, she shakes her head. “Too bad,” she says, flicking the wrapper. “My niece is looking for someone to do their engagement photos. She’s gorgeous. And marrying a doctor who happens to be quite the looker, too. They’d make for some gorgeous pictures. Really bump your portfolio up a notch.” Her voice is sing-song, goading, an attempt to wear me down so I’ll offer the deal. She lifts her brows while taking another sip.

  I scrunch mine. The sad thing is, I’m tempted to offer to shoot them for free. I love photography and haven’t had a session in months. And I’d kill to photograph her niece—the brat really is gorgeous. My mind is already spinning with ideas, and the words, Well, sure. What the hell? I guess I can do another complimentary shoot! are on the tip of my tongue. But giving away my services for free—especially to people who can afford to pay—is something I swore I was done with. “I still do photography, Sandy.” I take a breath, relax my forehead, and stretch my smile. “I’d be happy to talk with your niece about the packages I offer and see what she’s interested in…”

  But Sandy cuts me off with a wave of her hand. Someone bumps against my shoulder, and I see that it’s Judy, the assistant for Laurel Bauer and another fan of reality TV (although not Disney). Sandy immediately snares her into a conversation about Dancing with the Stars, our discussion already forgotten.

  I grind my teeth and move down the hall, throwing a couple manufactured smiles to the co-workers I pass on my way. Mondays through Fridays, from eight to five, I’m merely a shell, a flesh and blood embodiment of… nothing.

  Classical music bleeds through Gus’s half-opened door, which I shoulder the rest of the way open since my hands are full of coffee. I don’t knock, because it’s eight o’clock on the dot, and he’s expecting me; this is our morning ritual. Gus doesn’t look up from his crossword when I enter, just turns the volume on his computer down when he hears the click of my heels on the hardwood floor. The music sinks to a soft sigh, the notes bouncing off the brick walls of his office and releasing the tension in my shoulders. I situate a mug next to his elbow before plopping down in the chair across from his desk. Leaning back, I cross my legs and take a sip of my own drink. “It’s freezing in here,” I complain.

  Our office is located in the warehouse district of Cedar Hills and, while it’s been renovated to sport a modern interior, there’s not much in the way of insulation.

  Gus points to the red and black trapper hat he’s wearing, the fit snug over his salt and pepper hair, the ear straps brushing his shoulders. From the neck down, his tall frame is wrapped in a designer suit, the type that probably costs more than three months of my rent combined. A cheap Christmas tie bearing the crude face of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch and red fingerless gloves complete the look. The man is as eccentric as he is brilliant.

  “How was your weekend?” he asks, eyeing me over the rim of his mug.

  I lift a shoulder. “Eh. Boring. Spent Saturday grocery shopping and then ordered takeout the rest of the weekend because I didn’t feel like cooking. You?”

  Gus, who believes there’s more to life than just work, is adamant that mornings be eased into, starting with relaxed conversation and sufficient amounts of caffeine to get a good buzz going. He claims it sets the tone for the rest of the day, and after working for him these past three years I couldn’t agree more.

  “We played a gig down in Sioux City on Saturday, which rocked. Then I spent the better part of yesterday repainting the guest room which, needless to say, did not rock.” He looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “Shelia wanted a change. All White to Atruim White. And of course it had to be done before her sisters arrive tomorrow. She’s known all year that it’s our turn to host Christmas, and yet she waits until a few days before the holidays to decide she wants me to repaint. I swear the woman’s trying to kill me.” But he chuckles, his voice soft as he talks about his wife. He and Shelia married right out of high school and now, in their fifties, still act like the lovestruck teenagers they once were. Shelia’s actually the lead singer of Gus’s eighties cover band, Total Hypnosis. If there is such a thing as soulmates, Gus and Shelia are it.

  I take a drink, lick the sweetness from my lips. “Well, All White is vastly different from Atrium White,” I say, pulling from my design knowledge. “All white is considered a crisp true white while atrium has more of a soft, pinkish undertone.” I have an associate degree in visual arts and once upon a time had plans to follow it up with a bachelor’s in graphic design. Now, almost ten years later, I still haven’t gotten around to finishing my degree.

  I have a tendency to not finish things that I start. Like, I’ll wash every dish in the sink but leave one bowl or spoon or plate, convincing myself I don’t have time to wash it. My life is filled with countless unfinished projects—a half crocheted blanket, half read self-help books, Spanish lessons from a go-at-your-own-pace online class I paid sixty bucks for but never finished because I decided I wanted to study French instead. The only thing I do try and stick with is my volunteer work, though I’m hardly a saint. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve felt bogged down by this weird, cryptic sense of guilt, like I owe my fellow humans…something…just for being allowed to walk alongside them.

  I do, however, let myself down on a consistent basis.

  And my mother. But I stopped trying to please her a long time ago. In fact, I’ve learned to do just the opposite: a string of bad boyfriends, tattoos, pink hair. She hates that I’m still unmarried and without kids at thirty while the majority of her friends are grandparents twice over. But, then again, I doubt she’d be impressed with any of the spawn that stemmed from my loins.

  It all sounds terribly immature, I know. It’s like, grow up Betsy, will ya! But it’s not like I go out of my way to annoy her; she’s generally just
exasperated by my very being. Our tastes have always clashed, and while once upon a time I really did try to do everything I could to please her and make her happy, these past few years I’ve been rather lackadaisical in my attempts. And this way, the way I handle our relationship now, is entirely pain-free. It’s self-preservation, really. My chest doesn’t ache as much when I purposefully disappoint her like it does when I actually try to please her and she still finds me abhorrent.

  I finish my coffee and spend the allotted time with Gus, discussing everything from life on Mars to the new restaurant on Fifth Street that, according to him, I simply must try. When we’re through, he hands over an envelope—my Christmas bonus, which I’m hoping to sock away for a second camera—and reminds me to be out of the office by no later than one, because it’s the start of holiday break and no one in her right mind needs to be working when the courts are closed. Our office shuts down every year on December twenty-third and reopens the day after New Year’s. As much as law bores me, and as much as I hate pencil skirts and confining blazers and scratchy nylons that bite into my waist, getting a little over a week off for holiday break is almost better than sex.

  At least any sex that I’ve ever had.

  By eight-thirty I’m back at my desk, a square space in the middle of the suite which I share with the other legal assistants, Judy and a guy named Ralph, a hipster with tight pants rolled to his ankles and an apparent aversion to socks. I’m halfway through writing up the criminal complaints for the stack of tickets next to my computer when my phone buzzes with a text.

  Dropped the poop off at the vet. Results in a few hours. Waiting with bated breath.

  My lips turn up on their own accord as I read Adair’s message. Good to know, I type back. Then, since I’m pretty much the reason he’s in this mess, I add: Let me know if there’s anything I can do.

  His response is quick. Anything? It’s followed by a winky face.

  For Gabe, you nerd. FOR GABE.

  I stare at my phone for a minute, but Adair doesn’t reply. What I really wanted to say was, Yes, absolutely ANYTHING. Keep your bed warm, suck your cock, bend over your kitchen island and let you… Lord. Just thinking raunchy thoughts like these brings heat to my face and makes me blush. But I’ll never act on any of them because I’m a chicken shit and too scared to take a chance on anything. Anything that matters, anyway.

  Like a magnet, my thoughts drift to Clint—not to mention the other few short-term relationships I’ve had over the years—and a sad little sigh escapes me when I think about not only the lack of passion those relationships contained, but my total lack of enthusiasm surrounding them. I couldn’t have cared less when those relationships dissolved and the guys left, leaving boxers or toothbrushes or grungy flannels in their wake. They were merely around to keep the occasional spell of loneliness at bay, to binge Netflix with, maybe share a pizza or two. The dissolution was always mutual, like they could sense I wasn’t really invested. And, to be fair, I don’t think any of them were much invested in me. Except for Clint. Our relationship is the longest I’ve had, although sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it’s only because we live together.

  And… Speak of the devil. A text from Clint pops up while I’m still feeling slightly faint from the thought of taking Adair in my mouth, and my stomach summersaults with guilt. It takes a minute to shake the image and focus on the screen. I clear my throat, crack my neck, and think of Machu Picchu. And the Eifel Tower. New York City, London, Rome, Beijing. All the places I want to see but probably never will. There’s Portree, a town on Scotland’s Isle of Skye that Adair thinks I would just love… Crap. Adair.

  And… The forbidden image is back.

  My phone beeps again, and I force my eyes to focus. Press my lips together so my mouth isn’t hanging open like a drooling idiot.

  Babe. Bad news.

  I wait another whole minute for Clint’s thick fingers to type out said bad news. I barely wonder what it could be; in Clint’s world, bad news could be breaking a game controller or tearing a lace on his boots. Maybe he opened a beer can and there was a thumb in it, sorta like Phoebe Buffay in Friends, circa 1994.

  So when he finally responds, it takes a few seconds for the words to sink in.

  Your place = flooded.

  Fourth of July – 14 Years Old

  Fireworks bloomed across the sky—bright reds and golds and greens and blues against the backdrop of a zillion stars. They rose with a sizzle and burst with a sharp crack, the fiery streams dripping down toward the earth and reflecting in the upturned faces at Grandview Park.

  Josh and I sat side by side on the old concrete wall that separated the park’s sprawling lawn from the bench seats leading down to the grandstand below. A soft hill rose behind us, and Josh laid back, tucking one arm behind his head and nudging the side of my thigh with the other. I followed, my legs dangling over the wall, and gave it a few lazy kicks with my Tretorns while I watched the show.

  “Trippy, isn’t it?” he asked. His voice was reverent, the question muted against the loud booms.

  Truthfully, I’d never been much of a fan of fireworks. In my opinion, they were actually pretty boring; every year, the same colors, the same lights. I found it all rather dull. In fact, it had been years since my family braved the crowds at Grandview to watch the city’s firework extravaganza. When I was seven, my parents started celebrating the holiday by going out of town with a few of their friends—a long weekend in Omaha at a ritzy hotel filled with happy hour drinks, shopping, and five-star restaurants—leaving me to stay with my grandmother while they were gone. Eventually this mini-trip became a tradition, which meant the Fourth of July became my most dreaded holiday. This year, I’d begged to stay home alone. I was fourteen, and surely that was old enough to be on my own for a few days. I didn’t mind being alone during the day, and as long as I kept the television and most of the upstairs lights on in the house at night, I was certain I’d be just fine. But my pleas went ignored; my dad had nothing to say on the matter while my mother said enough for the both of them and more. It was an argument I drug out for weeks, pouting about the decision long after my mother put an end to the discussion with the threat that, if I carried on the way I was, she wouldn’t leave me alone in the house until I was twenty.

  But now? I was kinda sorta pretty much ecstatic that I didn’t get my way. The fireworks brightening the night were magical, brilliant, shimmering displays of perfection against the heavens. And I was anything but bored.

  I turned my head, the grass cool against my cheek, and studied the boy I was pretty sure I could love. Pinwheels of color reflected in his eyes, blazed across he planes of his face, so that without even looking at the sky, I could still see the show, know what hues were burning up the night.

  We’d spent twenty whole minutes this afternoon talking about books, which led to talk about the upcoming school year, which led to more talk about the fact that we were going to be in high school and holy-cow-we-finally-made-it! Josh made the JV baseball team earlier in spring, so he’d already had the chance to spend a good portion of the summer with the older kids, and his mannerisms reflected those of a high schooler. It left me in awe, the way he seemed so secure and comfortable in his skin. His confidence was something I envied; I’d never felt that way. Sure, I kept up a front. But beneath it was a Betsy who was full of doubts and fears, worries and insecurities. Never in a million years could I swing the sort of cool confidence that Josh exuded.

  The more time we spent together, the more I fell.

  I trusted him implicitly and without cause because, frankly, he was Josh Kramer. Even though we’d never spoken before today and the only things I knew about him I’d gleaned from superficial observations in school, I’d had enough interactions with him in my head over the years that being with him felt like being with an old friend. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t the most logical way to think. But isn’t that what we did to people we idolized? Placed them on pedestals, turning them into versions of the
mselves they may or may not even be? I was too young and inexperienced to realize that trust was something that needed to be earned and not just given away all willy-nilly.

  The Josh I’d concocted in my mind would drop everything to save a cat from a tree, selflessly help an old lady across the street while carrying her groceries, write poetry after finishing his homework, appreciate personality more than looks, and risk jeering from his peers to go out with someone like… me.

  I was ridiculous in my infatuation.

  He smiled when he caught me staring, the dimple in his left cheek popping. The dimple that, when he flashed it at others, had always made my heart beat just a little bit faster. Now, the fact that he was flashing it at me—that I was the reason for its appearance… Well, my poor heart could barely take it. It beat against my chest, fast and heavy, a thick throbbing that drummed in my ears, pulsed so loud it drowned out the sound of the fireworks.

  Josh nodded up at the sky. “You’re missing the show.” But he turned his attention back to me, twisting onto his side and propping his head up on his elbow, ignoring the very show he’d come to watch.

  I blushed and looked away. Eye contact was something I found difficult to do. Holding someone’s gaze was next to excruciating. I tried so hard to keep myself small, hidden. To go through life unnoticed. It was just too exhausting trying to be who everyone expected you to be. And the less I looked at people, and the fewer opportunities I gave them to look back, the less likely they’d be able to see that I was nothing like them at all.

  I’d always been fine with being an observer. Or so I thought. But lying there next to Josh, under those luminous fissures of light, the sky cracking open above us… I wasn’t just an observer anymore. I wasn’t simply outside, my palms pressed against the glass, cheek smooshed and watching others have all the fun. I was inside, surrounded, basking in a vibrant atmosphere bursting with color, emotion. With life. I was no longer living vicariously through a TV show or a movie or sneaking glimpses from a safe distance while tucked away behind the cover of a book.