“Those portrait photographers are amazing, aren’t they?” Simon scoots his chair closer to mine as we start packing up our things. “Not the fashion or controversial stuff…I mean, who really cares about a naked celebrity?…but, like, the photographers who take pictures of real people. Steve McCurry and Jimmy Nelson, they travel the world and really say something about their subjects. Kind of like Mr. Hawke, except in peace, you know? It’s like magic.”
Though I’m a little wary of his enthusiasm—I can’t tell if it’s genuine or if he has an ulterior motive—I nod in agreement. He hovers at my side as we leave the classroom.
“What kind of photography are you into?” he asks.
“All kinds, I guess.” I stop at my locker and twist the combination lock. “I just started photography last year in the beginner class, so I haven’t done much.”
“I figured you were more of a pen-and-ink kind of artist.” He leans against the locker beside mine, one thumb hitched into the strap of his backpack. “I’ve been into photography for a few years now. I did a lot with 4-H back at home, and I’ve been in a few youth competitions. Couple of first places, more second and thirds. Even more honorable mentions.”
“Really?” I glance at him as we continue down the corridor. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah, I’m hoping to get into something like that here, but with school starting and everything I haven’t had a chance.”
“Have you talked to Ms. Meadows?”
“Yeah, she’s getting me a bunch of info. I’m even thinking of majoring in photography in college.”
“You can do that?”
He laughs. “You can major in medicinal plant cultivation, including pot. Why would you be surprised by a photography major?”
I shrug. “I guess because Da…Mr. Hawke started his career right out of high school. He didn’t need a degree in photography. He learned by doing it.”
“Well, yeah, but that was, like, back in the Stone Age, right? Things have changed.”
“He’s not that old.” Somewhat stung, I veer toward the history classroom. “I’ll bet you can still learn a lot more being out in the field.”
“You have a point. Hey, do you—”
“Bell’s about to ring. Better hurry, or you’ll be late.” Turning away from him, I head into the class and plunk my books on my desk.
The morning passes with excruciating slowness. At lunch, I eat my sandwich quickly before going to the library. I use the school computer to search again for whatever information I can find about Darius Hawke and Krasnovar.
The results yield nothing I don’t already know—short news stories of his escape and return to the States, an announcement about his book deal. Aside from a prepared statement thanking people who were involved in attempting to gain his freedom, there are no interviews or profiles of Darius after his return.
I know this wasn’t due to lack of public interest. He was probably flooded with interview requests, all of which he rejected. Though he’d become famous for a number of reasons—his work, his persona, his experiences—he’d always turned the spotlight on other people. He must not have expected it to reflect back on him with such a scorching burn.
Still, I’m somewhat surprised by the sheer dearth of information. Even if Darius wasn’t a renowned photojournalist, the fact that he’s the son of Conrad Hawke, owner of a massive finance company, should have generated more press.
There’s a photo of Conrad at a press conference after Darius’s release, during which he made a statement saying how pleased he was that his son had returned home safely. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man with steel-gray hair and strong features. He might be handsome if it weren’t for the severity of his expression and his hard eyes. Strange for a man whose son was just released from almost two years in brutal captivity. You’d think his expression would reflect pure joy and relief.
Maybe my father had been right that I should “consider myself lucky” that I’ll never meet Conrad Hawke. He doesn’t look like a man I’d want to associate with.
The final bell rings, stopping my investigation. I grab my books from my locker and walk to the art room. Darius is already gone.
“Nell, come in.” Ms. Meadows waves at me from her desk. “Do you have work to finish?”
“Just my collage.” I leave my book bag on a table and get my in-progress, mixed-media collage from my storage box.
“I’m glad you stopped by because I ran into Mr. Baker earlier.” Ms. Meadows approaches with a file folder. “He said you haven’t made an appointment with him yet to discuss your college applications.”
“I don’t need one.” Hitching myself onto a stool at the counter, I take out paints and glue. “I’m only applying to Evergreen. That’s where my father teaches.”
“Oh.” She looks down at the folder. “You know, Evergreen doesn’t have the strongest art program. They lost much of their budget a couple of years ago, and several professors had to find jobs at other colleges.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to major in library sciences.”
“Well, that’s certainly a solid plan.” She opens the folder to reveal several university catalogs. “But you might want to consider applying to colleges that have good liberal arts programs as well. I compiled a few catalogs for you to look at. With your talent, you’d be a strong contender for scholarships, especially in drawing. Evergreen doesn’t offer any art scholarships.”
I glance at the catalogs she spreads on the counter. Brick buildings set in grassy, tree-studded landscapes. The grand, perforated archways of the Chicago Art Institute. Graduate students painting in large, well-lit studios.
“Thank you, but I’m not planning to major in art.”
“I understand.” She sets the catalogs in a pile. “Take these with you anyway, in case you want to look at them. Also, please make an appointment with Mr. Baker. Even if you’re only applying to Evergreen, he can give you good advice about the process.”
Though I nod, I don’t want to look through any other doors or start to second-guess “the plan.”
Ms. Meadows returns to her desk. Disliking the sense that I’ve somehow disappointed her, I turn to my collage.
A shiver races down my spine. Darius’s footsteps sound on the linoleum floor. I glance over my shoulder as he crosses to the two teacher desks. He and Ms. Meadows speak in low tones.
In contrast to his suit and tie, she looks almost casual in her peasant blouse and Indian-print skirt, her dangling silver earrings flashing in the light. She laughs at something he says, causing him to smile in the way that crinkles his eyes at the corners.
Turning away, I dab paint on the piece of barbed wire I’d found in the garden shed.
“Hello, Nell.” His voice reaches me before he does. “Do you need a ride home today?”
“No, thanks.” I edge to the side in the hopes that he won’t look at my work. “I’ll be here a while.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“There’s no need.” I glance uneasily toward Ms. Meadows. “I’m going to run a few errands after I finish here anyway, so I’ll walk. I thought you usually left right after the bell rang.”