But the light of day always brings an unwelcome rationality. What do I think could happen? He’d never cross the line. He might never touch me again. He might never talk to me about anything personal or intimate. He might never be comfortable around me again.
That thought creates a tight, cold knot in my throat.
I can think of only one way to shift the focus away from our growing tension and to try and create some sort of balance between us. I need to show him I’m in control. That I’m not the docile, timid girl he thinks I am. I’m listening to him, changing. Growing up.
On Friday morning, I dress and go downstairs. My father is reading the paper at the table, and Darius is leaning back against the counter with his hand wrapped around a mug of coffee.
He was out running—his hair is messy from the wind and his soft T-shirt clings damply to his torso. I can almost feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Good morning.” Forcing a brisk note into my voice, I open my book bag and take out the entry form for the art competition. I hand it to my father. “I’ve decided to enter the Student Art Competition this year.”
“Good for you.” He peers over the tops of his glasses at the form. “A five-thousand-dollar scholarship is no small prize.”
I feel Darius watching me as I write the December date of the show on the wall calendar.
“What are you going to enter?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet. Probably some of my photography.”
Though I still hate the idea of people staring at my artwork and, worse, judging it, I intend to submit the most banal, impersonal images I can come up with. Maybe my photographs of the newel post or the rusty faucet. Certainly no Winsome Swift drawings or the photographs that create a surge of joy when I see them emerge in the developing fluid. I won’t give people anything that contains a glimpse of me.
“Will you be one of the judges?” My father glances at Darius, who shakes his head.
“The judges are local artists and photographers.” Darius sets his cup in the sink. “I’m glad you’re doing this, Nell. I’ll be ready to go in about half an hour.”
He leaves and goes upstairs. I get a cup of coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster.
“Darius says your photography is quite good,” my father remarks.
“He’s a great teacher.” I take a bowl out of the cupboard. “Everyone thinks so.”
“Teaching appears to agree with him too.” My father turns a page of the paper. “He seems to be enjoying it a great deal. That’s exactly what I was hoping would happen.”
Shame rustles in my chest as I pour a bowl of cereal. I’ve been so preoccupied with the intensity of my feelings for Darius that I’ve neglected to remember he’s here for a reason—and the reason isn’t me.
He’s here until next June to teach and to write his book. Maybe he also wants to heal and to make peace with his camera again. It would be terrible of me to get in the way of all that just because I’ve discovered he makes me hot. That’s another reason why I have to keep my blistering awareness of him to myself.
“Do you need me to be home tomorrow night?” I sit beside my father and spoon up a bite of cornflakes.
“I don’t think so.” He closes the paper. “Darius and I have been invited to a colleague’s house for dinner, so I assumed you’d want to watch a movie and order pizza.”
Of course. Because I’m ten, right?
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I glance at him. “Actually there’s a party I’d like to go to.”
My father lifts his eyebrows. “What kind of party?”
“A friend from school invited me. It’s at this boy Todd Welford’s house. I’ve known him since elementary school.”
The creases on my father’s forehead smooth out. “Todd Welford? I remember him. His father was on the school board, if I recall.”
“So can I go?”
“Yes. Take the Toyota.” He folds the paper and stands. “I’m glad to see you’re making friends. Just be sure you leave me the address and phone number, and be home by one.”
He leaves the kitchen, and I eat my breakfast in silence. Darius returns, fastening the worn leather strap of his wristwatch.
Did they let him keep his watch when he was in captivity? Or did he guess the time by the position of the sun?
Chewing on a piece of toast, I sling my book bag over my shoulder. He steps forward to hold the door open for me. He opens the passenger side door for me too, almost automatically, as if chivalry is a long-ingrained habit.
“What made you change your mind about the art competition?” He shifts the car into gear and starts toward the high school.
I shrug. “I can choose what I want to show people. Why should I be afraid of what they think?”
“You have no reason to be.”
“Exactly.”
Tension threads the air. We both know we’re not only talking about the art competition.
I fiddle with the strap of my book bag. “So how’s your book coming along?”
He hesitates. “I’ve got a rough couple of chapters down.”
For some reason, I expect him to say, “but…” Instead, he falls silent.
“That’s a good start,” I offer.
“Tougher than I thought it would be.” He frowns. His profile is strong and beautiful, etched against the side windowpane. “I guess I don’t want to relive the whole thing.”
“Have you ever done self-portrait photography?”
He glances at me, as if surprised by the apparent non sequitur. “No.”
“I was just thinking that writing a memoir is kind of like a form of self-portraiture. You get to depict yourself and your surroundings in a certain way.” I look out the window. My face is warm. “I was just reading the essay in the Patrick O’Hare book a few days ago. That’s why I was wondering.”
“That’s a great connection.” He brakes at a stop sign. “Are you interested in self-portraiture?”
My flush deepens. “No. It was an interesting essay, though.” To deflect any further questions about taking photos of myself, I say, “If you want more resources about memoir writing, let me know.”
“I will, thank you.”
“I’m working on typing up Dad’s conference paper this weekend, so I’ll be around. Except for Saturday night,” I add casually.
“What’s happening on Saturday night?” He navigates into the school parking lot.
“I’m going to a party.”
“Yeah?” He guides the car into a space and pulls up the brake. “With Simon?”
“I’m meeting him there.” Irritation flicks through me at his assumption that Simon is my date. He sounds pleased about it too, which also rankles. “Apparently a lot of kids are going.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Not really.
Parties are just one more thing for me to be scared of.
I get out of the car and hurry toward the school before he’s even retrieved his briefcase. I avoid looking in his direction during class, and thankfully Simon and I aren’t scheduled to use the darkroom today.
I’m in the school garden taking photos of withered flowers when Ms. Meadows approaches.