AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He is. Pre-med.” Millar looked smug but then he checked his watch and his eyes bugged out. “We need to go. If we don’t, we’ll be late. See? Hunting down a story fucks with my life. Gotta fix that.”
I wasn’t comfortable with being referred to as ‘a story,’ even if he meant it figuratively. But I accepted a hug as we left together, wishing him well.
We separated on the climb up toward Hess Hall. My mind turned over the revelation that Millar knew about me and Adam as I walked away. There was nothing I could do about it. The best I could hope for was that he would keep it to himself.
For the rest of the walk I focused on the trial ahead: getting Marta Neuheim to approve my class transfer request.
When I reached the sidewalk leading past the Clarence Brown Theater and the Circle Theater over to the Art & Architecture building, I paused at a concrete outdoor table nearby to free my Leica from my backpack. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I framed the modern roof of the white building against the blue sky and took the shot. Ease seeped into my bones.
Zooming in on the bolted concrete walls, I snapped a few of the rugged mix and the dark holes. My breathing came easier, and my worries over Millar and the meeting ahead faded. I started toward the main entrance to the building.
As I passed the cubbies by the door, a place where Art majors left minor works to dry, I paused to peruse the creations with a curious eye. Some were no better than the art I’d seen produced at Kingsley by the more talented kids, but there were others that showed a genius of mind that I envied.
I took photos of those, as if I could steal their magic and infuse it into my own work.
Then I headed inside, taking in the mélange of odors: oil paint, graphite, stale air, and the acrid scent of photo-developing chemicals. Footsteps echoed behind me on the concrete stairs as I took them up a flight to Marta Neuheim’s office.
Outside her door, I checked my Leica over. It was in good working order, of course. Then I knocked.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice called out, tinged with a faint unplaceable accent.
Marta had wild, loose, dark hair streaked with silver. She looked to be in her mid-fifties and was adorned in a colorful dress of green, pink, silver, and white, with a matching silver scarf around her neck. Her glasses were perched at the end of her nose. She looked at me over the rims of them, giving me the phantom urge to push my glasses upmynose, even though I’d worn contacts today, as usual.
“Hi,” I said, when she cocked her head at me. “Um, I’m Peter Mandel.”
Her eyebrows went up as if to encourage me to get to the point.
“I’m a freshman, and I’m taking Photography 110 with Professor Michaelson. I don’t think it’s a good fit for me. He said I’d need to talk to you about making a change?”
Sitting back in her chair, Marta took her glasses off and put them aside. “What kind of change were you thinking of?” Again, with the vague accent.
“I’d like to skip up to the 200-level.”
She kept her eyes on my face as she shrugged her mouth. “Mm, I see.”
I rushed on. “I brought my portfolio. And my camera.” I indicated my baby. “I’ve been taking photos for years now and won several contests and competitions as a high schooler. I also already know how to use a darkroom and develop film. My art teacher taught me how back in high school.”
“Your school made a darkroom available to students?”
“It was private. Kingsley.”
“Ah.” She motioned toward the chair opposite her. “Sit. Let’s have a look.”
As I held out my portfolio, she moved paperwork and staplers, as well as a flip-top storage box full of negatives, around on her desk to make room for it. She took it from me and placed it in the center of her desk.
My stomach trembled. To another person, having their work assessed to skip up a level might not be so anxiety-provoking, but this was the first time a professor would be evaluating my work. It felt like everything—the class, my future, my self-esteem—rode on her approval.
A very loud knock came at the door, and Marta looked up and over my head. “Ah, just a moment—Peter, did you say it was?”
“Yes.”
“I need to speak with this student. I’ll be right back.”
“No problem.”
She rose and walked with a flowing grace from her office, closing the door behind her. I heard her voice and another but couldn’t make out the words.
While I waited, I checked the settings on my Leica, lifted it to my eye, and snapped a picture of Marta’s desk. I looked around at the stacks of paperwork, the photos of family, and the walls covered in framed photos that I assumed were Marta’s.
