Page 27 of Promise to Break

Maricela

Journalism was nothing I imagined I would want in my life. To be fair, the only thing I aspired to as a kid was not to die. I never had a role model other than my sister, but her dreams were not for me.

Photography came to me on the night a ring was put on Serena's finger. I remember the joy I experienced when I looked at the pictures left behind. Every emotion, every physical gesture, was captured for eternity on the small device in my hand, pink or not.

It became my passion, the only thing I allowed myself to enjoy fully and with no regard or reservations. Because of this new obsession of mine, I started printing the pictures I took and putting them on albums upon albums. The power of capturing a moment for eternity is grand. It allows a story to write itself. So naturally, I love my photography class very much.

Surprisingly, it's not only because of my obsession with the act of taking photos, but also because of my weird fan-girl obsession with my professor Maverick Hope, or Mr. Hot Stuff, as Raven loves to call him. When I enter this classroom, my bad mood vanishes into thin air.

"Let's start, you rich nincompoops," Maverick begins as he stands in front of the chalkboard, looking as if he just rolled out of bed after a crazy night. His thick, wavy hair is completely disheveled, and his shirt is wrinkled and adorned with a stain of what I assume is coffee. The cherry on top is the unmistakable aroma of expensive alcohol that reaches my nostrils from my spot in the first row. He doesn't give a shit about us, and he likes to show it.

People know little to nothing about the enigma of Maverick Hope. Raven proclaims he's definitely Welsh with his hot accent, and I tend to agree. From what I've managed to find out about him, his talent didn't take him very far, which is a shame. Maverick is only thirty-four. He's got nine awards under his belt between journalism and photography, especially but not exclusively because of his work in various war zones. Maverick did his best work in a small village in Colombia that some warlords had taken over. Chaos can be seen all around, but what captures the audience so completely in his photographs is a little boy who couldn't be older than seven, tending to the wounds of his mother. That footage won two prestigious awards.

It's one of my favorite works of his, and I may or may not have looked at those photos for hours on end, studying every angle and crying each and every time I fall into the boy's eyes. A little boy who knows he'll have to grow up as fast as he can. The heartbreak, hatred, and acceptance of his reality are all there in this small moment of time, captured in the lens of a camera.

"I asked you to take a picture of the truth," Mr. Hope scolds. "I didn't ask for selfies, Miss Knight. Be more creative. Even an airhead like you should be able to come up with some deep truth to show us." The one thing about Maverick that I don't care so much for is his terrible behavior towards us.

"I did. It's me. I'm a real person," the airhead exclaims. The chuckles of her peers come and go until she shuts them up with a single glance. Oh, the joy of having power and money.

"Is it the real you? This girl hidden behind a pound of makeup? Did you just step off the stage of a cheap soap opera when you took this photo? If you wanted us to see the real you, you'd have shown us a broken part of yourself, the real struggle people like you love to hide behind your masks."

My gaze is plastered on his eyes as he berates her like a little child. He continues, getting down on more students, scorning their work, and questioning them about what they intended to show the world until he gets to me. A tiny smile that raises the corners of his lips says he likes what he sees.

"Now, this is what I'm talking about. You should all learn from Miss Fernandez here. Brilliant work." He studies the picture on my desk for another minute, humming and nodding while he does. Unlike everyone else, I didn't bring it up on my laptop or my cellphone. I printed it.

Ignoring the male grunts and moans from the assholes behind me, I wait for Mr. Hope to ask me about the story behind this picture. It's always like that. After all, I got the title of the slut of this school, the whore who has slept with all the teachers because of my exceptional grades.

Truly, learning here hasn't come easy for me. When I came to this college, I had a lot of catching up to do, but when I did, it all made sense. But the morons here use my good grades to validate my whorish status. If they knew their favorite slut is actually a twenty-year-old virgin, they'd probably lose it.

Several rows behind me, Lila lets out a snort as Mr. Hope lifts the photograph for the entire class to see. "How can an old woman with wrinkles on her face and flowers on her head be a truth? How is it different from what I did?" The annoyance in Lila's voice is as clear as water on a hot day.

"Well, it's for Miss Fernandez to explain," he answers, motioning for me to stand. "So, tell us, Fernandez, what made you take this picture?"

"She's the cook at the Fierro mansion. Her name is Marlina. I love her very much," I admit, not looking at anyone but the picture in front of me. "What I love most about her is her joy in the little she has. You can see it in her eyes, and I don't think I could ever smile like that and be as glad for what life has given me as she is. Here, even with sweat on her brow and as tired as she is after a long day, Marlina is full of gratitude toward life just for giving her the opportunity to bake bread. It's a gift to be so full and fulfilled without looking for more, in my opinion. So her truth is a gift for someone like me."

Every single person in the class of twenty-seven students stares at me as if I'm some sort of alien. But all I see is Marlina singing the songs of Alejandro Sanz. She likes so much with her raspy lilt as she kneads the dough, not caring that Franco is already yelling at her to hurry up.

Mr. Hope nods and turns to the class. "See, this picture tells the story of a woman who doesn't have much, but is still truly happy with the little she has. We probably wouldn't know the motive the photographer had in taking this photograph just by looking at it, but we can see the happiness of the woman as she works the dough. She looks beautiful even, and maybe because of her labor. "

He turns to me and motions for me to resume my seat. "Great job, Fernandez. Thank you for showing us and telling us your truth." I sit down and listen to the other students as he continues around the room, and they speak about their photographs. Some are here because their families have companies connected to the journalism field, while others are taking this course only because they needed that one additional subject, and they thought photography would be easy. But not one of them will go out and dirty their hands by looking for a story and finding what can be defined as truth.

"Today, we are going to speak about poverty," Mr. Hope begins again once that assignment has been completed. "I know it's a subject no one here can relate to, but that's the whole point. You will have to show me something that is new to you. I want to see the beauty and the simplicity of things. I want to see the pain and the injustice, and I want it as raw as possible."

"The Wild One does." That comment came from Leroy, the moron who took a picture of his third finger, saying that he doesn't give a fuck about the world. He smirks and points at me with that same middle finger. What an asshole.

Mr. Hope narrows his eyes. "Well, then, I will expect a lot more from her in that department. I need to see a real-life struggle, real-life work, and I need to see the beauty and the tragedy at the same time."

No other than Lila interrupts the silence in the classroom that follows. "But why? This is a pristine college. You said yourself that we can't relate to it, and we never will." She is so sure that life will never strike at her, and unfortunately, she's probably right. I wish I could live knowing that I have everything I need without fear of losing it.

"I know that most of you are here because you'll undoubtedly manage some company connected to journalism in some way. I don't see the lot of you working in the field, but for you to run that company profitably, you need to understand the other side." Each word Maverick says is directed at Lila. I glance at her, and judging by the expression on her face, none of his words penetrated that tiny brain of hers.

Lila sniffs. "And we'll understand it by going to places where there are poor people? This is ridiculous. I'm going to be the director of a fashion magazine when I get out of here. I don't need to understand the poor." The consternation in her voice is noticeable to all. As if the mere idea of understanding poor people is offensive to her. Her family owns five multi-million dollar businesses, and each of her brothers will eventually control one of them. It doesn't surprise me that the redhead chose fashion. She's excellent at wearing beautiful things.

"Miss Knight, does your family employ only rich people in the fashion industry?"

"I guess not," she grumbles as she checks her nails.

"So, let me enlighten you. For those dresses to be on your body, a child goes off every morning and makes the fabric. He starts from the very beginning, from growing the flowers needed for the coloring of the fabric you so lovingly wear. You, of all people, abuse more than most of us. For this reason alone, you must understand poverty because you need it to wear your Prada shoes."

---