He and Emory lead Vandy away, and fucking ouch.
I would have rather he beat the shit out of me.
8
Sugar
I learn a few things during the first week at Preston Prep, the least of which being my darkroom chemical and procedure training. Private school education is definitely superior to public. I’m already behind, which means working my ass off if I want to keep up with the rest of my class. I discover that, despite our differences, the kids are the same here as anywhere else—just more. More rewards. More opportunity. More privileges. More expensive drama. They drop brand names and exotic locations like they’re nothing, and I grow convinced half these people haven’t even met their parents since middle school ended.
If it weren’t for the photography club, I’d feel entirely adrift.
“Micha, this is stunning,” Mr. Lee says, exhibiting one of the member’s photos.
We’re in what I’m told is the newly renovated Hollis Bates Creative Arts building. We’re a mere group of seven, so the massive presentation room makes us seem like a particularly sparse bunch. We’d all moved our seats to a huddle at the front of the room, and it’s…
Well, it’s nice.
There’s a lot of space to stretch out without fear of being touched. The younger girl sitting next to me—Michaela—keeps offering me the open bag of M&Ms she’s been eating from, arm extended in the space between our seats. She gives me a sweet grin when I finally relent, popping a handful in my mouth. I reluctantly return it.
The photo Mr. Lee is examining up front belongs to her twin brother. It’s a bold, colorful shot of a dancer in motion, her hair swirling fluidly around her face.
“You really captured the movement here,” he’s telling Micha. “I enjoy the use of color.”
Micha himself is a study in bold color, from his bright green eye shadow to his neon purple shoes. He straightens in his chair, asking, “Is there going to be a Creative Corner feature this week?”
Michaela makes an exasperated noise, muttering, “Glory hound.”
“There will!” Mr. Lee pauses and turns to me, explaining for my benefit, “We have a little student exhibition space in the lobby of the arts wing. Every week we like to pick some creative works to display from various mediums—”
Michaela pipes in, “That is, when the illustrators and creative writing people aren’t hogging it all up.”
The general, bitter mutters of agreement are a tip-off that this must be an ongoing feud in the arts wing. Another thing I’ve learned about Preston kids is that they’re scarily competitive.
Mr. Lee adds, “This week we have three spots!” Everyone oohs and ahhs. Another thing I’ve learned. People here get excited over the most minor shit. At my old school, this kind of collective reaction would be reserved for the promise of an edible free lunch. “I’ll announce my picks at the end of the meeting,” he tells Micha. “Okay, who’s next. Ah, Sugar Voss! Let’s see what you’re made of, shall we?”
Fighting a grimace, I carefully pull the photo from my bag. It’d taken me five tries to properly develop it, still unfamiliar with the process. Mr. Lee clips it up and stands back, finger on his chin as he examines it.
It’s the mama cat—Abbadon—from that day I’d been feeding them. Her eyes are wide, gaze sharp, and it’s not that she isn’t a pretty cat, because she is. But I’d chosen it because she has these little scars around her cheek and a dirty nose. She looks like alley cat royalty. A creature who’s both won and lost. She’s looking out of frame at Hades, stealing her turkey, and I know it’s lame. Using a cat as a subject has to be like the Wonderwall of photography. But aside from possibly Georgia, I’m not comfortable enough with anyone here to just start snapping off photos of them. I don’t know the good places to catch a landscape. I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to go to that lake, yet.
“Well,” Me. Lee begins, and I prepare myself for a lukewarm compliment. “This is definitely nabbing a creative corner slot.”
“Really?” I blurt incredulously. He can’t be serious.
But he nods, gesturing to the photo. “The lighting is striking, the way it plays off the eyes, and the use of black and white was a good choice. You’ve captured something really emotive here. It conveys such a strong sense of longing.” He turns to me, eyebrow raised. “It’s very somber, Sugar.”
“I agree.” Micha leans forward to meet my eyes. “It’s really going to balance mine out up there in the creative corner.”
I’m too stunned and embarrassed to do much more than smile tightly back at him. Emotive, somber longing? For a moment, I miss my old school, where pictures of cats are pictures of cats, and no one ever looks beneath the surface.
After the meeting—Micha had scored a spot, as had his sister—the twins and I stand around the lobby of the building, waiting for our photos to be mounted. I don’t actually give a shit. In fact, after the whole emotive-somber thing, I’m beginning to think I’d prefer not being credited at all.
They’re bickering over whose photo is better and it’s giving me a headache. The back of my teeth start aching, that phantom jaw-twinge acting up, and I rap a knuckle against a placard to get their attention.
“I’m sure you’ll both do this Hollis Bates artist-person justice.”
Micha snaps his mouth closed to look at me. “Oh, Hollis Bates isn’t an artist. She’s just super gay.”
Michaela explains, “Her dad doesn’t know the difference.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “Bless his heart. But if he wants to donate a chunk of his fortune so we can have a nicer building, I’m not going to complain.”
It isn’t until Mr. Lee mounts the frames and I see their names that it hits me. “Adams?” I ask them. “Like the Adams scholarship?”
Neither looks surprised. As we exit the building, the sister offers, “Our parents set that up. They’re really into philanthropy. You got it, right?”
I shift uncomfortably. The thought of charity was a lot less mortifying when it was a faceless entity. “Uh, yeah.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Micha says, randomly high-fiving a passing freshman. “Like this is some twisted Miss Havisham situation where our parents realized our sad, underappreciated photography club needed members, so they decided to bring in a ringer.”
Me? A ringer? I give him a skeptical look.
He raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Yeah, you’re the ringer. Your portfolio was the shit, gorg.”
I want to respond that he’s delusional, but I see Sebastian walking toward us and clam up.
Sebastian has managed to keep his hands to himself these last few days. There haven’t been any more inappropriate incidents in Dr. Ross’s class or anywhere else.
That doesn’t mean I’m not keeping an eye on him. To the contrary. Sebastian Wilcox has triggered something inside of me—an intensely heightened awareness. I’m on constant alert, wondering and watching him all the time. I feel like if I let down my guard, for even a minute, he’ll strike.