Authors: Valia Lind
"I'm planning on going to school for photography, seeing if there is a place for me in that world, and I was wondering if you would be willing to help me out." Talk about out in left field. I have no idea what this has to do with me, but I'm intrigued why he'd ask.
"I don't really know anything about photography."
"But you know fashion." Whatever mental rebuttal I was about to utter falls flat on my tongue. I forgot he already asked me about my work.
"Please Brooklynn, you've loved clothes since the day I met you. You were always daydreaming and drawing designs when you should've been working on math problems."
"You remember that?" I hate that my voice comes out a little breathless, as warmth spreads over my skin at his words. I know he remembers that day in the cafeteria as clearly as I do. But for some reason, standing here and now, I can't seem to hate him for what he did. Maybe it's because he's not the way I remember him. Maybe it's because my best friends seem to trust him. Maybe it's because my heart knows there's more to his story than I am aware of, and not just because Chance mentioned something. Grayson watches my reaction and I fear he can read these thoughts in my eyes. His gaze intensifies with something I can't place before he finally whispers, "I remember a lot of things."
Time seems to stop as I let those words sink into me. We don't say anything, neither one of us wanting to break the small comradeship of memories his words bring. Since he's been back, everything about him is nothing like what I remember. He's more like the boy I thought him to be when no one was watching. He confuses me. There are so many questions at the tip of my tongue, but a part of me knows right now is not the time and place.
"Still," I say. "I don't know how that would help you."
"I have to create a portfolio for college admissions and I've noticed the more rounded the subjects are the better the reception. I have still life, landscapes, variations of depth of field projects, but one thing I don't have is fashion."
"You want to photograph my work?" Panic. Red lights flashing. This is so not happening. I am not ready for anyone to see that. Especially him. I think my whole body is going into convulsions. This sounds a little too much like the last conversation we had, and that one didn't turn out well. I’m sure he can see the emotions racing over my face, so he gives me a moment to come to terms with his proposal. When he speaks again, it’s like he’s approaching a caged animal.
"Yes, I want to photograph your work. I know for fashion design you'll need a portfolio too, and I'm willing to share the pictures if you're willing to work with me."
"You're serious?" But what I really want to ask is if this is another joke.
"Yes."
We’re at a stand off. I have no idea what to think or feel. I never expected him to ask me something like this. I study his face, looking for some tell-tale sigh that this is a joke, that he’s preparing the greatest Brooklynn embarrassment since the beginning of our history together. Yet, I see none of that. I see a boy who is unsure of himself, unsure of his offer, who looks vulnerable and sincere.
I try to be rational about this. I do need a portfolio. So far, it's just my sketches but to make a good impression I'm actually going to have to sew some things and have them worn. On the other side is the fact that I’m not a child anymore. I’ve built up enough resistance battling daily with my family that even if this is a ruse, I can handle it. I’m a stronger person than I’ve ever been. My past has prepared me and now I need to utilize the lessons I’ve learned.
Grayson doesn't say anything, waiting for me to make a decision. Regardless of how Grayson makes me feel, this is what I need. I'm not that little kid anymore and I can handle myself. I can handle him and I can use him.
"Yes," I reply, finally turning around to give him an answer. "I'll do it."
The smile that blossoms on his lips makes my heart flutter with promises no one is making out loud.
Yet.
SIXTEEN
Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else.
- Margaret Mead
It's a week later when we finally meet for our project.
I've been pacing the length of Flowers in the Desert for the past hour, ever since Dakota came in. She told me she’d stop by to make sure I was actually here when Grayson showed up.
"Would you stop with the pacing?" Dakota breaks through my thoughts now, her fingers arranging the bracelets on the display. She really just needs to get a job here already. Her constant need to fix a display could come in handy.
"I'm not pacing."
"No, you're running a marathon in the middle of the shop. Calm yourself down."
"I'm calm."
"You're a horrible liar." I resist the urge to scream, knowing there is nothing I can say to stop where this conversation is going.
"What are you so nervous about? He's not going to eat you," And there it is. She's asking the questions I have no answer too. "Although the whole eating thing, it could be—"
"Please stop," I half shout turning back to her, surprising myself and her in the process. "Sorry, you're freaking me out with the eating talk."
"Honey, you're already freaked out. Could it have something to do with the fact that you'll be here, with Grayson, all alone and you like him?"
"I do not like him."
"Terrible liar." I groan, there is just no stopping her. I've been waiting for her to get to this point.
"Look, I have to work with him. I don't trust him, and I definitely do not like him."
"See, I believe two thirds of that sentence."
"Ugh."
"Brooklynn," Dakota begins getting off the barstool and walking over to place her hands on my shoulders. "He is not exactly a candidate for the nicest guy on the planet, but he's not the kid we used to know." I wretch away before she can continue.
"I'm so sick of people telling me that. You're my best friend, you're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side, but this is exactly why I think Grayson can be good for you. I know how things are at home, I understand the pressure your parents put on you. And Grayson, he gets that too. The whole pressure thing. Plus, he has a certain affect on you. He makes you stand up for yourself, he gets you out of your shell. It’s great!"
"Wait," I interrupt, turning to study her, "How do you know he 'gets' the whole pressure thing?"
"Well." She moves away, hiding behind the counter again. I follow.
"Dakota!"
"Fine, I talked to him."
"About?" When she doesn't continue, I feel like stomping my foot. "You didn't."
"He asked."
"So you had to answer?" I stalk away from her, reaching for the closest rack and start rehanging clothes with a vengeance.
"Brooklynn."
"No, first Chance, now you. It's like a flipping conspiracy. Don't you guys remember how miserable I was in school? How horribly Grayson treated me? Yet, both of you, keep pushing us together like it's a game for you."
"Brooklynn," Dakota says again, coming to stand in front of me and blocking my path. "First of all, I didn’t discuss your family life with him. We just talked about the uncertainty of fashion design and he told me it’s the same with photography. It’s a very subjective business and he understands that. Second of all, I know how things were and I know you don't let people in easily. What happened in seventh grade? Well, I think it's something Grayson and you need to talk about. In depth. But I also know that you've been more alive since Grayson came back to town. You're not the same little kid anymore and neither is he. I wouldn't be a good best friend if I didn't push you outside your comfort zone."
I grumble under my breath and she does a little happy dance right then and there.
"I'm glad you agreed to work with Grayson because I think this is exactly what you need to get your work out there."
"My parents—"
"Aren't here. This is your world, this is what you love. It's about time you let someone besides me take a look at your creations, and because you're trusting Grayson with this, I think you feel more for him than you're willing to admit."
"When did you turn all philosophical on me?" I ask, not admitting anything one way or the other.
"When my best friend needed me." She blows a kiss in my directions as I sigh heavily.
A part of me knows she's right, but I have to keep that part filed away into the depths of my mind. If I let any kind of feelings cloud my judgment when it comes to Grayson I know I will end up getting hurt. Again. Even more than not trusting Grayson, I don't trust myself. But I don't get to say any of that because Grayson has arrived.
He walks into the shop, a little unsure of himself. I can almost see Dakota's satisfaction blossom on her face as she glances between us. Silently, I beg her not to say anything embarrassing.
"I'm out. You two behave." That's it. She's dead.
Grayson watches her leave before turning back to me.
"Ready to get to work?"
"Sure, just let me lock up." The store closes at eight and it's eight fifteen now. I move past Grayson, keeping my body a good arm length away from his as I head for the front door. After making sure the closed sign is on and the door is locked, I take a deep breath and head back over to Grayson. He’s standing by the counter, where my sketchbook and journal lay open for the world to see. I flip it closed.
"You know I'll have to see those in order to photograph them right?" he asks.
"Right, not yet though."
"You're the boss."
"I like the sound of that."
"I thought you might." I notice how tightly wound he seems. His shoulders are straight, his eyes won’t meet my own, and he keeps shuffling his feet like he can’t stand still. I may be evil but it’s making me all kinds of happy that he’s as nervous as I am.
"We can set up here or go in the back. My aunt is letting me use the storage room for my projects, but I thought we'd map our goals first, before we do anything specific."
"Sounds good to me. Lead the way."
I take him to the back of the small store, where I set up a table and sewing machine. There are fabric and clothes everywhere and with Grayson right behind me the space feels claustrophobic. I put as much distance as I can between us, hugging my books to my chest.
"I think we should start with formal wear. I have a few ideas for dresses, but I was also thinking of doing an everyday kind of a collection. I’ve sown quite a few pieces over the years, but if there’s something new we need to add, we can. I'm not sure what exactly you're looking for here, but if you have any specific subjects you want to see in the portfolio, let me know and I'll try to figure out if anything I've sketched fits. I also—"
"Brooklynn," he interrupts probably because I'm starting to sound like an idiot, rambling again. He moves closer to me, pulling out two chairs by the work table. I sit first and he follows suit. "Do you mind?" he asks pointing to the book that I'm still clutching in my hands. "I'd like to see."
I am shaking with terror.
Memories and emotions rush at me from every direction. I try to keep my breathing steady, but I know he sees the panic plainly on my face. My heart is beating loudly, so loudly that he can probably hear it in the sudden quietness of the store. I see the moment the realization that the last time he asked to see my book didn't go well registers in his eyes.
"I really, sincerely, would like to see your work," he almost whispers. The emotion in his voice is so powerful, it almost brings me to my knees. Whatever he may have said before, this is the moment that I truly realize he is not the same boy I knew.
Knowing that he needs to, I lay the book down on the table and open to the first page. My hands tremble at the prospect of someone, him, seeming my work. I hold my breath as he leans over the page to study the summer style shirt I've sketched. For some reason, some unfathomable reason, I want him to like it. More than anything, I want him to tell me that it's beautiful, or unique, or something he can see in a store or on a runway. His opinion matters, it really truly matters. With that realization, I close my eyes briefly, berating myself for letting him get to me like this. I guess I haven't been guarding my heart as closely as I thought. I’ve let myself be pulled in by the smiles and the charm.
"Brooklynn," his voice is but a whisper, "These are amazing."
My heart fills with emotions I cannot describe, stealing the very essence of my being, as his words take root in my soul. There’s no mockery, no lies, no undercurrents in that simple statement. His eyes shine with the truth of what he says and all I can think is,
I’m in trouble.
SEVENTEEN
I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.
- Douglas Adams
He likes my work.
I carry that thought with me throughout the week, fantasizing about it during classes, mulling over it as I go to sleep. Even sister drama hasn't kept my good mood down for long.
Paige called last night, informing me in her clipped tone that she wants to read over my college essays before I send them in.