Cam
As I make it down the first tiers into what looks like a very cool classroom in which to hold a digital photography class, and still no one comes in the room. I decide to walk down and glance at the professor’s desk as well as the various cabinets with papers and printed photographs on them at the bottom level of this room. It’s possible Professor Perry has a syllabus lying around, or, from looking at the shots, I can gain some information on what it is I’ve missed.
The judge told me he’d spoken to the director of the program. Professor Perry has agreed that I might be able to turn in some of the work I’d done at the boarding school this past month to help catch me up on projects, which is really nice.
The first stack of papers I spy has a headline that says: WOA 4-YEAR SCHOLARSHIP, MANDATORY DATES. My heart flips at the sight of it, because this is precisely the scholarship my mom and the judge want me to go after. If I can land it, then, whatever crap-and-lockdown games my dad’s up to, I’ll be set and completely independent of that man’s whims and attorneys after high school is long over. I’ve agreed to go for it, but with one caveat: I don’t want my presence here to take away something that was predestined for Ellen Foster, not for me.
I read the paper over quickly and breathe a huge sigh of relief when I realize WOA is giving three full-ride scholarships, not one. Even better, the first required assignment is due next week. That gives me time and one spot, if I can pull it off. Ellen can easily take one of the other two. As if thinking about her and her photography has conjured her, my eyes are drawn to a stack of photographs that are fanned out on a cabinet. Even though they’re not shots of trees or nature, I know immediately this work belongs to Ellen.
I spread them out so I can admire them side by side. I pick up my favorite, a zoomed-in shot of a giant, painted-white bolt that’s attached to a brushed metal girder. I hold it under the light streaming in from the skylight above, and then realize she took the shot in this room. I locate exactly which bolt she photographed. I’m letting out a low whistle and pulling the shot closer to my eyes just as a the side door nearest to where I’m standing opens and in strides what has to be Professor Perry.
“Young man, we do not allow students into this room until class time—and considering you are not even one of my photography students, I suggest you hand all of that over to me and take your leave.”
A lifetime of facing my dad has prepared me to poker-face guys like this. I walk toward him and, before he can begin his second annoyed lecture tirade, I quickly say, “Professor Perry? Actually, I am one of your students. I’m Camden—Camden
Reece
is the name they gave you, even though I’m actually Camden Campbell. My mom—and Judge Chambers, as well as the program director—thought I should use my mom’s maiden name. And they said you’d be expecting me.”
The professor frowns, and his gaze softens, as if he knows my whole story. As if he knows too much of my story, which means every single professor in this place must have talked about my deal, and they’ve already held some sort of awkward pity party for me. His voice drops to a normal level. “Ah, yes. Mr. Reece. Are we at the beginning of week three already? How the times does fly.”
“Yes, sir.” I nod. “I apologize for my late arrival, but…” I pause, hoping by his too-knowing expression he’s not going to make me finish.
“No apologies, please. And no explanations needed. You’ve got a lot of work to do, son.”
I hand him Ellen’s shots and nod to the photograph on top. “I see I’ve already missed the first assignment. Still life?” I ask.
He seems pleased that I can tell what it is I’m supposed to do. “Yes. Do you have any recent work that could match what you’ve seen on these shots?” He waves at the stack.
I give a little wry laugh. “Well, sir, considering I can tell these shots are Ellen Foster’s work, I seriously doubt I could ever match the genius that girl pulls off with a camera, a lens, and her unfailing patience.”
My heart twists and then aches, like it’s been punched. Who knew saying her name out loud would hurt like it just did? I can hardly keep a straight face.
“Ah. Yes. You know Ellen…of course you do.” His eyes cloud over again. “And please know I understand full well your story and hers. But I’m not one to baby anyone, no matter what water they’ve got under the bridge. Ellen hasn’t expected any coddling; nor should you.”
“No, sir. I’ll have some appropriate still-life shots uploaded to you by tonight. The place I came from, um…where I was staying…had a ton of fences. Barbed wire, electric wire, chain link, and even some razor wire in places. I used to walk the perimeter of these fences, and I got some cool shots of them as seasons changed…dew, snow, sunlight. I know it sounds strange, but I liked the way they turned out. Will that work?”
“Yes. Sounds rather interesting, even.” He’s frowning, not meeting my gaze now, because I’m sure the stories of where I’ve come from and how Ellen and I are connected are going through his head. “Lovely tree and ice work you did with your group from Brights Grove. From what’s been turned in by Patrick and Laura, it’s obvious Ellen must have pulled tons of the weight of that most excellent project.”
“She did, sir. It was her concept. I only arrived in time to help set up and execute the shots.”
He meets my gaze. “But your teacher, Mrs. Brown down in Brights Grove, was insistent you and Ellen are of a matched talent. She told me that many of those shots were yours and yours alone. She says you’ve got what it takes to do fine art photography. Is it not also your dream to be a photographer? I see you’ve taken one of the scholarship papers.”
“Well. Yes. I’d like to try for it. I would like to study photography during university. It seems I really need the money and”—I feel my neck going hot—”Mrs. Brown is such a cool, inspiring teacher. Some of those frozen trees were my shots, but they were directed by Ellen Foster. Miss Brown might have also told you that Laura London and Patrick Gable are new to photography, but they really have good natural instincts. They helped pull off the final results as well. None of us could have done what we did without each of us pulling weight. It was a true group project, sir.” When he appears to simply be watching me, I clear my throat and add, “It’s an honor to be here and allowed into this program along with them. I also don’t know a lot, so I wouldn’t presume to judge my own work or to think I’d be good enough to land a scholarship. I simply take the photos and hope to like what comes out, so thanks for the compliments, because that’s huge coming from a university professor.”
“Humble and loyal. Something I’ve noticed in Ellen’s conversations, as well about her work and her friends. I find Patrick Gable rather brooding and intimidating, but I’m happy to hear another good opinion of him. As for Laura London…” He laughs. “She might be dangerous to herself and to most of our valuable school properties the way she flits around like a one-winged butterfly.”
I laugh my first real laugh in months. “You noticed that about her, did you?”
“How could I not?” He laughs again. “I do like it when artists work for the sake of getting the right shot for themselves, versus trying to get shots they think I want to see. It seems your group, even when working individually, pulls that off very well.” He smiles. “I’ll look forward to looking over your fence shots this evening. The turn-in requirement was ten frames. Do you have ten?”
“Thank you, sir. Yes, I do.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
He frowns. “There is one thing that might upset you, though.”
“There is not much that upsets me these days. I think I can take it.”
“The first week, before I knew you would be attending, I assigned a new ‘fourth person’ to your group. Those groups are completely set. That means for working inside the lab and smaller assignments, you’ll have to work alone. Out of fairness, I can’t take him back out, and the way the editing lab time is set up, well—”
The door where the professor entered pops open, making a metallic scraping sound, when I turn toward it, I’m completely undone because it’s Ellen.
My eyes go first to her ink-black hair. It’s pulled up in a messy bun instead of her trademark braid. The bun creates all these extra curling wisps around that face—
oh, her face
. I feel my lungs constrict. It’s the face I’ve dreamed about for months, and it’s still achingly, hauntingly beautiful.
Unable to stop myself, I begin taking a mental check of every limb on her body.
Legs. Still there.
Arms. Still there.
One foot in a black metal cast. One foot in a small sneaker.
Two hands, gripping crutches just fine.
When she turns and glances up to see me here with Professor Perry, her deep black eyes seem bigger than I remember them. And they’re about to pull me in, choke me, kill me. Because they’re frozen wide, showing me every ounce of her shock, her simmering questions, and worse, because I
know
her—even though we might be strangers now—I
know
she’s looking at me with all kinds of hope. But it’s the kind of hope my own soul, my body, my taped together and half-dead heart can’t afford her to have.
That’s because I can also tell she’s hoping we
aren’t
strangers.
Professor Perry, unaware that Ellen and I have turned into dysfunctional humans because of the unsaid words and permanent regrets hanging between us, calls out cheerfully, “Ellen. Do come in. We were just talking about you and your group. I’m sure you don’t need an introduction to Camden Reece, here.”
“Reece?” she whispers, brow furrowing.
“Yes. I can see you’re as surprised as I am.” Professor Perry smiles. “He has no group for the lab work hours, and because I can’t pull Harrison Shaw off your group, I was entertaining the idea of asking your group to accommodate a fifth person.”
“Oh.” Ellen’s eyes haven’t met mine since she started crutching toward us. “I’d heard the rumor, but when Cam didn’t show up, Harrison offered to step in. And”—she swallows, finally risking a glance at me—”I thought I’d actually never…but of course…if he wants to work with us…yes.”
“
Harrison Shaw
is in that group?” I blurt out.
“Oh, do you know him already?” Professor Perry asks. “Yes. He’s here from a high school in northern Toronto. He was sort of a lone duck when he got here. Luckily he makes friends easily.”
“He’s also going to be my roommate,” I say clearly. “I think, for that reason alone and for personal reasons, would all of you mind if I chose to work alone? I—I’ve been through a lot and I’m not used to hanging in groups anymore.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I—understand.” He scribbles onto this clipboard holding what appears to be an attendance and grades sheet. “Camden Reece—group of
one
. Wonderful. Don’t worry, son, I heard you’d need some help reintegrating, and so I really want you comfortable.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Did you say—Harrison—that he’s your roommate?” Ellen’s face has gone completely pale. The original shreds of excitement and even the hope she showed me before has left her gaze.
Professor Perry and I step forward as she sways way too far to the right and tries to go up the one step that would get her onto Professor Perry’s teaching area. Her crutches slip out from under her arms and clatter to the ground. She quickly turns to balance herself on a long worktable. I hear her muttering, “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”
“Ellen, are you okay? You don’t look okay.” Professor Perry steps forward to hand her back the crutches.
“It’s my Cerebral Palsy. I’m having some sort of—” She glances up, looking even more pale, and possibly she’s panicked. “See…um…” she gasps out. “My left side—it’s not working how it should today. It happens sometimes, like…when I’m…tired, that’s all.”
My mind spins and fills in all the words Ellen’s left out: Her left side tanks when she’s stressed, or sad, or upset, or angry, or exhausted, or worried, or in pain! By showing up in here, I just handed her all of those things at once!
This is all my fault. My fault.
Ellen won’t raise her eyes again. By the way she’s tensed her mouth and how she’s glancing through her lashes toward the door, I can tell she wants to be through that door and not at all standing here anywhere near me.
I’ve surprised her. Of course I have. Worse, I think she doesn’t want me anywhere near her. Although it’s painful to realize it, I think it’s the only reaction that is fair. I’ve already decided that Ellen, staying as far away from me as possible, is the only way I’m going to be able to survive the next six weeks anyhow, so I can actually accept and support this reaction, no problem.
Ellen shakes her head as though she’s trying to clear it. “I’m sorry, Professor Perry. I think I’m also getting sick. Fever in addition to my CP. Because…I feel really…off right now.” She seems to shrink in on herself right in front of us, adding, “I should go. I
need
to go…shouldn’t stay…here. I’m sorry.”
“No. By all means, Ellen. Please don’t stay if you feel sick.” Professor Perry crosses to the edge of his desk. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Her eyes skate back up to mine with this wild look, and I get this sensation that she’s wondering if she’s having one of those really bad nightmares where you are at school and everything is wrong and you can’t wake up. She turns on her crutches to leave. After one heavy and laborious step where it appears she can hardly lift the metal boot—the boot that is on the leg that
I’m
thoroughly responsible for breaking—Professor Perry and I share a startled look.