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"I thought once we started high school, you'd at least have lunch in the cafeteria."
"Why would you think that?"
"Oh I don't know? To fit in maybe?" She flicks my forehead teasingly.
"I’ll ask again. Why would I want to do that?"
"You're impossible. I've never met someone more averse to people than you." She sighs frustrated.
"That's not true. I like people."
"Yeah? Who?” She wiggles her brows accusingly.
"I like you," I deadpan without missing a beat.
She blushes again, bowing her head to open a bag of chips and then pass it to me.
"You're supposed to like me. I'm one of your best friends,” she finally replies more composedly.
I flip the page of my notebook instead of answering her. There's no use in having this conversation now. Friendship is not what binds me to Valentina, and even if she isn’t ready to admit it, it’s not what binds her to me either. To any of us.
“What are you reading?” She points to the book in my hand, her desperate attempt to move off topic.
“I’m not reading. I’m learning. This is homework.”
"Homework? Really?" she asks suspiciously, eyeing the book in my lap.
"It’s my kind of homework at least.”
She rolls her eyes at my vagueness and steals the notebook out of my hands. Instead of grabbing it back, I take a big bite out of my sandwich, letting her have at it. This notebook filled with photographs and collages—unlike most that I carry around with me—doesn’t have her as my muse, so I don’t see any problem with her having a little peek to cure her curiosity.
“What are these?” she hushes, her eyes wide as she begins to realize what she’s looking at.
“Just some images Logan’s dad brought me from his last tour in Iraq.”
She takes in each picture, her fingers tracing over them with delicate care. My chest swells up with pride as she takes a respective minute to take in such imagery. War is never pretty, but sometimes, even amongst such devastation, hope can still be captured on film.
“They’re beautiful and haunting at the same time. Did Logan’s dad take them?”
“No. They’re copies of pictures taken by a photographic journalist forThe Postwho shadowed the Major for a few months. See? This one shows Logan’s dad playing football with some kids beside his tank..”
“They’re pretty scary; no matter how flawless they look.”
“The truth is always scary, Valentina,” I explain, pushing one of her long jet-black locks behind her ear.
She leans into me, cradling her head in the crook of my neck and placing the open notebook back on my lap.
“Is this what you want to do someday? Go to these types of places?”
I nod. “Yes. Are you surprised?”
“I guess I shouldn't be. I know how much you love photography. I just thought you were going to take pictures of mountains or lakes, or something along those lines. I always imagined you in some beautiful exotic faraway land. Not a place like this where you could get hurt,” she stammers, fear coating her every word.
“Shooting landscaping doesn’t capture the same vulnerability and beauty that a human being can conjure up, Valentina. A shot done right can make you feel what that person is feeling at that very moment. Be it pain, suffering or uncontained joy. It’s ironic, but through the lens is the only time I actually prefer being around people. It’s as if they unknowingly let me in to see what lies in their soul. A mountain top can’t do that, now can’t it?”
“But at least it would be safe,” she whispers.
“Is that what worries you? My safety?”
