Chapter 13
Seven hundred and sixty-two. That was the number of pictures I’d taken by Wednesday afternoon. You’d think there’d be at least one decent shot somewhere in the lot, but no. All garbage.
Tonight the boys had an appearance on some late-night show, so I decided to use the rest of the day to assess my work thus far.
After downloading the files onto my laptop, I started sifting through the images, hoping to separate out anything worth using for the blog.
I was meeting with Paul on Friday—he was going to review the pictures I’d taken and show me how to work the blog—and I wanted to present him with my best work.
But as I clicked through a never-ending series of terrible, if not atrocious, photos, my lungs started shrinking, one small breath at a time.
Who did I think I was, accepting a job that should be done by a professional photographer?
And what was Paul thinking in hiring someone with no experience?
This was the kind of stint Bianca Bridge should be doing, not some eighteen-year-old who didn’t even have a clue who she was.
Professionals like Bianca went to school for photography and traveled the world perfecting their skill.
All I’d done was graduate from high school.
Photography had become my comfort, my distraction, my crutch.
Sometimes it was even my hope. So when Paul offered me the job, I thought it might become my future as well, but clearly I was wrong.
Loving something didn’t make me good at it.
And if I wasn’t meant to be a photographer, than what was I supposed to be doing with my life?
Pushing my computer away from me, I buried my face in my hands to hide my stinging eyes.
In that second, I felt just as lost as when I’d found out Cara had cancer.
One moment I was standing safe on shore, my path clear in sight.
The next, my feet were swept out from under me, and that rip current of self-doubt was dragging me out into a dark, murky sea with no hope of rescue.
“Stella?” When I heard his voice, I forced myself to look up. Alec was standing over me, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, one hand half raised as if he thought I would bolt like a deer.
“Hey, Alec,” I said. “What’s up?”
He narrowed his eyes and looked me over, as if considering how upset I was and whether or not he was needed. Finally, he must have come to the conclusion that something was definitely wrong, and even though he wasn’t much of a talker, now wasn’t the time for his silent, brooding complex.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
I knew the “nothing, I’m fine” routine wasn’t going to work with Alec. He wasn’t the type of person to pretend to care by faking concern, only to take the first out that was offered. He might be quiet, but that was because he used his words thoughtfully and with deliberate purpose.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said, instead of responding to his. He nodded and placed his hands on the back of the chair in front of him. “Why’d you show my pictures to Paul?”
Cocking his head, Alec stared at me as if I’d asked him to explain the basics of breathing. “Because,” he said, his brows crinkled up, “they were worth showing.”
“But how can you know what’s worth showing?”
Alec shrugged. “I don’t know much about photography or what qualifies as good or bad. But I do know what I like, and I figured if I enjoyed your work, then why wouldn’t someone else?”
As he said this, I thought about how simple he made it seem. Like I’d made a whole big fuss in my head, and over what? A few photographs? Well, more than a few, but that’s wasn’t the point. Was I really stressing myself out over something that I shouldn’t worry about? Or was Alec off base?
“My turn to ask you something,” he said before I really had time to consider the answers to my questions.
He pointed at my computer. “Do you have any work you can show me from before we met?” Obviously I had stuff I could show him—there was an entire hard drive worth of pictures—but why did he want to see it?
“Please?” he added when I hesitated.
“Yeah, okay.” I thought for a minute, tapping the side of my chin as I tried to decide what to show him, and then suddenly I was hit with an oh-duh revelation.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, when it came to her disease, Cara was the most positive, hopeful person in the world. The doctors told her she had cancer, and she smiled, nodded her head, and told them that she would get better before her first prom.
One of the only times I saw Cara truly angry was when she first lost her hair during chemotherapy.
I remembered walking into her room and seeing her staring at herself in a compact.
She wasn’t crying, but one look at her red-rimmed eyes told me she’d been bawling all night.
Then she saw me standing in the door and smashed the mirror against the bedside table, raining silver shards onto the floor.
In that fleeting instant of raw, unbarred grief, I was inspired to start a new project.
My sister needed to understand that just because she was sick didn’t mean she wasn’t beautiful.
Her struggles with cancer and determination to get better only made her a stronger person.
And there is so much beauty in strength.
So I photographed everything that made Cara a tough person on the inside—the number of pills that she had to take each day, her collection of hospital wristbands, the needles and tubes that sprouted from her body every time she got sick—and the pictures I took turned into my first real portfolio.
It took a bit for me to find the file, but after pulling it up, I passed my laptop to Alec. He pulled out the chair and sat down next to me, and then took his time sifting through the different photos. When he finished, he gave a satisfied nod and handed my computer back without a word.
I waited to see if he was going to say anything, and when he didn’t, I asked, “So…why’d you want to see those?”
“Because I can tell you’re nervous,” he said, as if those few words were explanation enough.
I frowned at him, unsure of what he was saying, so he continued, “I don’t know if it’s because you’re worried about impressing Paul or our fans, but honestly, you could take a picture of us staring at a wall and everyone would love it.
The reason I wanted to see something else, something not related to the band, was to make sure I was right.
This stuff here,” he said, pointing at the screen, “confirms that. You’re good at this, Stella.
If you just trust yourself, this job is going to be a piece of cake. I promise.”
It was the longest speech I’d ever heard Alec give. And as for the cake part? I really hoped he was right.
***
He might not be the most social person in the world, but Alec was a sweetheart. After our conversation, he took me out to lunch to cheer me up. At first I feared it would be awkward because I didn’t know what to talk to him about, but one on one, he was surprisingly good at holding a conversation.
As soon as we finished, Alec had to meet the rest of the band to rehearse for their show tomorrow night, and to keep my thoughts from wandering back to my nerves, I decided to tag along.
When we arrived at the arena, security showed us into the main floor.
What was normally a basketball court had been converted into a huge theater, with a stage set up at the far end of the room.
The space looked strangely empty without anyone filling the thousands of seats.
“Everyone should be over by the stage,” Alec told me as we crossed the large room.
I spotted JJ first. He was already standing onstage, pacing back and forth, and twirling his drumsticks in both hands. Alec waved, and when JJ saw us, his eyes went big.
“Hey, Stella,” he called out. His voice was loud. Too loud. “I didn’t know you were coming to watch our rehearsal.”
“I didn’t have anything else to do so—” I stopped midsentence when I saw Oliver.
He was leaning against the side of the stage and some girl was pressed up against him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers buried in his wavy brown hair.
“Oh, Ollie,” the girl said and giggled.
I forced myself to look away. My mouth was hanging wide open, the shock on my face clearly displayed for Alec and JJ to see, but I didn’t even care because my brain was still trying to register what I’d just seen.
Oliver wasn’t kissing her, but they looked cozy enough to make me wonder if they already had.
It seemed the magazine article Cara had read about him was true—Oliver Perry was a player.
I knew I had no right to feel hurt, but there was a biting ache in my stomach, so I pushed my fist against it, trying to force the pain away.
Oliver was free to kiss whomever he wanted, especially considering that I’d told him I only wanted to be friends, but for some reason a tiny painful feeling of betrayal wrapped itself around my heart.
What I should have felt was relief—if I’d let things carry on between us, I could have ended up with a hurting heart—but all I wanted to do was kick myself for loving that adorable, yet clearly deceitful smile.
I bet it was his favorite weapon of choice.
One small upward tweak of the lips, and he could have any girl—even a sensible one that didn’t like his shitty music.
JJ clearly saw the look on my face because he chucked one of his drumsticks in Oliver’s direction. “Hey, idiot!” The stick missed his head by inches and ricocheted off the stage with a resounding clatter.