1. Willa
CHAPTER ONE
WILLA
Present Day
“ D on’t be scared, Mo…” I send a reassuring smile to my photography intern right before I turn off the lights. “Crank that ISO up.” Apprehension scrunches her bronzed features as the Framed Orchid logo on the wall bathes the studio in a lavender glow.
“But the grains, Willa…” Monique’s dark, curly pigtails dangle when her head falls back with a groan. “ The grainnns .”
I snort at her zombie impression as my arms settle across my chest tightly.
It’s already September. Her internship started weeks ago.
I’m not letting her put this natural lighting assignment off again, and she knows it.
If I didn’t have to drive to San Diego in the morning, we’d stay as late as she needs.
She slides a pleading glance to my junior photographer. “Cara?—”
“Nope.” Cara laughs, juggling her gaze between us before tossing a sleek platinum blond ponytail over her shoulder.
“Don’t drag me into this…” The light from the large studio window catches her golden-brown skin just right, and I resist snatching my ca mera from my desk to capture it. We’re running out of time as it is.
Cara repositions the overstuffed dragon—Mo’s photo subject—on a stool, tapping its head back into position each time it droops forward. “Emily, can you toss me the double-sided tape?”
“Yep!” Drawers open and close at the front desk while Emily mumbles, “Tape…tape…taaape…?” Figures . My receptionist/assistant does her job well when it matters, but she’s also the ambassador of space case town.
“Next to the phone, Emily,” I call over my shoulder, then turn back to Mo. “Look at me. The grains can’t hurt you. Just take a few test shots and see which you like better. You can’t edi?—”
“ Edit a photo you never take .” Their resounding droning makes me wince, and it’s quickly followed by murmured apologies.
“It’s fine.” I wave it off, breathing deeply until the ringing in my ears fades. “I’m just saying, you can’t master the skill if you don’t actually take the picture.”
“ Ughhhh . I know. But it feels wrong.” She gestures to the window. “It’s too bright outside. Professor Reinert’s judgy voice is in my head…” Clearing her throat, she mimics his pretentiously deep tone. “Only an amateur would introduce noise and granularity to a photograph.”
Can’t believe he’s still touting that shit .
“Yeah, well, we’re not outside, and he was a prick when I was a student too…
” My wince has nothing to do with the volume of her guffaw.
“Don’t tell your adviser I said that. What I mean is, there’s an artistic time and place for everything, even if shit-for-brains says there’s not…
” At this point, Cara and Emily are laughing too, and I crack a smile.
“Don’t tell anyone at TAILA I said that either. ”
I graduated from The Art Institute of Los Angeles (TAILA) a decade ago.
Improving my craft while among some of the greatest photographers in the country was invaluable, as well as learning how to navigate artistic spaces as a Black woman.
Barton Reinert tried to make my life hell.
Passive aggressive praise, overly harsh critique, unjustified failing grades—it would have made most people wither.
But I’d just escaped the purgatory my parents had me trapped in and wasn’t going down without a fight.
I raised so much hell, his efforts to prove my incompetency drove me straight to winning the prestigious Hartney Arts award three years in a row.
There was nothing he could do about it; my work spoke for itself.
Now he propositions me at every department mixer and covertly asks me to join his lectures through other members of the internship board. My answer is always no to both.
The phone rings, and Emily clears her throat before answering. “Thank you for choosing Framed Orchid Studio. This is Emily. How can I help you?” A wide smile lights up her pale face as she tucks a chunk of black hair behind her ear. “Oh, hi, Mr. Renner.”
“See!” Monique’s eyes squeeze shut when she gasps ominously. “He knows .”
“Barton Reinert wouldn’t dare call this studio again.” I snort. The memory of him fumbling over his words after I cussed him out the first time still gives me a rush. “That’s likely Kyle Renner , confirming his family’s session next week. Now focus. We’re almost out of time.”
“But—”
“Mo, girl . Woosah . Breathe.” Cara abandons the floppy dragon, marches up to Monique, and grips her shoulders. “No one’s lying in wait here. You’re just trying out different settings to see how light affects the picture. Have we steered you wrong yet?”
Mo shakes her head but makes no effort to step toward the tripod.
Cara sighs dramatically, turning to me with a gleam in her eye. “She’s not gonna master natural lighting.”
“Nope.” I tut, catching on immediately. “She’s not.”
Mo’s face falls as she shifts on her feet.“…I’m not?”
“Nope.” Cara smiles and shoots me a knowing glance.
“W-what am I gonna do then?” Her worried eyes shift between me and Cara .
I nod toward the camera in her hand with a smirk. “Not only are you gonna master it, you’re gonna make it your bitch.”
Her eyes widen comically. “My b-bi?—”
“ YOUR BITCH !” Cara calls, shooting her fingers in the air. I wince at her loud imitation of an air horn, but no one notices this time.
“Be-otchhhhh,” Emily adds a second too late, which gets Mo laughing.
I cock my head at my intern, eyebrows raised. “Say it, girl.”
“But—”
“Say it. Say it. Say it,” Cara chants playfully.
Mo stops midrebuttal when I raise a finger in protest. She nibbles her bottom lip, and I cup my hand behind my ear, waiting. A timid grin creeps across her face as she whispers, “I’m gonna make it my bitch.”
“Damn right.” I smile back. That confidence brightening her eyes is exactly why I do this.
I glance at the clock again. “Cara’s going to finish up your session, but I’ll be right at my desk if you need me…
Just. Try. It.” I poke her shoulder to accent my words.
“The worst that happens is we repeat the session. And maybe a visit from Reinert.”
Monique’s eyes widen and shoot to the door, as if saying his name is an instant summons.
“Only kidding.” I laugh. “No Professor. Embrace the grain. Just explore and see what works. You got this.” Her wary face breaks my heart, but pride stitches it back up when she straightens her shoulders and adjusts the settings on her camera.
It’s the third year of my partnership with my alma mater for this internship.
Providing Black, Indigenous, and POC photography students a supportive in-studio experience has been one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.
There were only a handful of us when I went, and the unspoken demand for excellence was stifling.
My internships were surrounded by stuffy assholes who were impressed with my work until they saw my face.
Once Framed Orchid made it big, I knew I wanted to give a safe studio experience to other TAILA students so they wouldn’t have to struggle like I did.
Rebuilding their confidence at the beginning of each semester is necessary, but frustrating.
They’ve already had heavy doses of the objective side of photography.
My goal is to remind them that art can still be subjective amid all the rules.
Most of my interns come to me completely gutted, terrified to make mistakes.
I get it entirely. When you’re marginalized, perfectionism is expected everywhere.
Even a tiny slip-up could be a death sentence for their budding careers.
So no matter how pissed I get at the powers that be, I’ll always encourage plenty of trial and error in this space.
This is their safe place to fail and fail again, until they learn to fly.
They’re still fucking here ? The squeal from the masonry saw hits my ears before I put my purple crossover in park.
Construction workers mill around the two homes closest to the parking lot.
My head falls back with a groan as I look across the bungalow court at my solitary craftsman-style cottage at the other end.
I bought one of the first reconstructed units a few years ago, and it’s perfect for me.
Small, cozy, and quiet…for the most part.
The only thing I don’t like is how long it’s taking for them to finish the other units.
All construction is supposed to be wrapped up by 5 p.m. daily, so I usually don’t have to deal with the piercing shriek of metal on stone.
But here it is at six, with no signs of them stopping.
Grumbling obscenities, my shoulders scrunched to my ears, I gather my things and scurry past the chaos through the tree-lined courtyard.
There are only four rows of homes, but by the time I reach my door, my head is pounding from the noise.
I snatch the potted purple orchid waiting on my coir doormat and tap the keypad, slamming the door behind me with a huff. Silence . Well, mostly.
It’s not that I can’t handle any noise. If I know beforehand, I can disassociate to cope with it.
But loud and unexpected shoots dysregulation through me so fast I want to curl into a ball and dissolve.
Between that, my rigid routines, and hyper-focusing on my interests, my therapist has her theories about me.
That’s one reason I’m already packed for my trip tomorrow.
Since I insist on going, she encouraged me to take the evening to prepare for the music festival chaos my sister talked me into.
Flipping the lock, I leave the house dark as my breathing slows, focusing on the farmhouse-style wooden beams outlining my vaulted ceilings. There’s enough light from the transom above the door to read the card hanging from the brown pot in my hands.
Happy (early) Birthday, Will! Hope this gets to you before your weekend getaway.
—Sam
I smile as the pounding in my head dissipates, dropping my camera bag on the mocha microsuede sofa on my way to the kitchen.
My best friend, Samson, owns a flower shop in Fort Bender and regularly sends me plants like I’m not horticulturally hopeless.
Flora enters my house with the hope of a thousand suns, only to leave as withered mulch.
It infuriates me to no end that I can’t figure out the plant life cycle. Spite drives me to keep trying.
Me
Thanks for the flower, dork. Aren’t these things super hard to care for?
Sam
Didn’t you get accepted into 3 Ivy Leagues, nerd?
Me
For math, not marigolds.
Sam
Touché. I’ll send a care sheet. How’s the Dracaena trifasciata and Monstera?
Me
Translation, I beg.
Sam
Stripey Leaves and Holey Hearts…
In the dumpster with the cactus and aloe…
Me
See! My names make much more sense. Stripey and Holey are currently taking a nap.
A dirt nap.
Sam
You didn’t water them enough, did you?
Guilty.
Me
They only liked bottled water from the titties of Antarctic icebergs. I had no chance.
Sam
Maci says that’s not a thing.
Giggling as a picture of my one-year-old goddaughter’s scowl fills the screen, I set my phone on the counter.
There’s no drainage hole in the bottom of the pot, but since I’ll be gone all weekend, it’ll probably need the extra water.
I run the faucet over the silvery orchid roots until water flows down the sides, spilling some on the herringbone hardwood.
Grumbling, I set the pot on the windowsill above the sink, wipe up the spill, and shift into decompression mode.
Tabletop fountain . Vanilla wax warmer . Light over the stove .
I grab my camera bag from the couch and stick it in the small bedroom turned editing studio at the front of my house, then slip back through the kitchen and down the hallway to my room.
Stretchy pants . Hair off my neck . Yoga mat .
Retracing my steps back to the kitchen, I cue up my version of a mindfulness playlist on the record player, breathing out the stress as soft R&B eases through the wireless speaker.
It’s fascinating, really—the invisible force of sound.
How something so innocuous has the power to soothe or torment.
Enhance or defile. Establish or ruin. It’s astonishing.
With the flip of a switch, the gas fireplace ticks to life—the last step in my routine. I settle on my mat on the living room hardwood and take a cleansing breath. My eyes fall closed. I’m finally at peace. My therapist might just be right .