Page 2 of Perfect Praise

“Why’re you so happy?” a familiar voice says.

I snap my head up, and a groan escapes my mouth before my body can react. I don’t stop until I’m close enough for Russell to lay his hand on my shoulder. Delicate, tentative, just like the tone of his lying, traitorous voice.

I skirt out from underneath it and try my best to ignore the blinking red light from the one camera on Earth that I’ve grown to despise.

As a photographer, I never imagined I would think these thoughts or harbor a hatred for a camera and the person behind it, but here I am—hating that I photograph pro golfers, one of whom is my ex-boyfriend who convinced me to do a reality show with him. Now I’m unfortunately roped into finishing out my contract, even though we’ve been broken up for months.

“What do you want?” My voice comes out sad rather than angry like I intended.

“I wanted to see if you needed hel—” Russ cuts himself off when his eyes dart over my head.

I can almost feel Locke’s intensity moving toward us.

Russell tracks him.

So does the camera.

Locke doesn’t even bother to look at any of us as he passes. “Get that fucking camera out of my face, Craig.”

Craig, the cameraman, sighs.

We—well, most of us—are supposed to act like it doesn’t exist. That’s the point of a reality show, obviously, but Locke has the luxuryof doing whatever the fuck he wants since he isn’t on the show. Or because he’s the best golfer in the world?

I thought it would get easier to ignore it, that eventually the camera would become a part of my landscape. And it did for a while—until three months in when Craig caught me catching Russell with a girl wedged against a wall. His tongue down her throat. His hand up her dress. While he was dating me.

Now, it just makes me feel like an anxious ball of sunshine during a solar eclipse. It’s smothering and blackens my otherwise bright and happy heart.

When Locke is out of earshot, Russell focuses back on me with a glint of an accusation burning in his eyes. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” I insist, biting the inside of my cheek. I go against my natural instinct to talk too much. What I do is none of his goddamn business anymore. I am allowed to be in a closet with Locke doing whatever the hell I feel like doing.

But it’s two-fold:

One, I don’t want the world to see me break down on a future episode of this stupid show because Craig is filming our conversation. They’re already going to see me be humiliated on national television in a matter of hours when the next episode airs our dramatic break-up that happened in real life months ago.

Two, I’m too nice. I still care about Russell’s feelings and want him to like me, because I want everyone to like me.

I’m light personified.

I care too much about everything, about everyone else, and in the process, I sacrifice myself to make others happy. I’ll mold—and then I’ll mold again. To brighten others. To try to make them feel good. Let them take what they want from me. One thing I am constantly molded into is a doormat to avoid conflict at all costs.

Russ drills into my brain with a death stare of skepticism mixed with a healthy dose ofI don’t want you, but no one elsecan have you.

“It’s nothing,” I say, pushing past him before I can’t help but add a sincere, “I promise.”

I’m proud that I at least don’t look back when I whisk myself through the double doors and into a room full of men.

No one looks at me, and no one continues to look at me as I wind to the other side of the conference room and set up my camera.

That’s supposed to be my purpose as a sports photographer though, so I guess I’m the best person for the job. Blend in, catch the moments around me. The blips in time that are otherwise missed. No one ever really notices me or thinks about the person actually taking the picture.

Think about it next time—there’s a whole person looking through the viewfinder with wants and dreams and feelings, capturing other people’s mid-air moments of greatness. We may hide behind the camera, we may seem invisible, but we’re not.

Sportsphotography isn’t really my passion, though. Do I want to be taking mid-swing golf shots of men with five-hundred-dollar clubs? No. I wish I was capturing newborn babies and families and birthdays—lifestyle photography.

Unfortunately, this word snags on my mother’s voice in my head every time I think it.

“Lifestylephotography?” it rings like a high-pitched squeal. She has this way of saying not-so nice things in a way-too nice tone. Her chuckle always makes me clench my teeth. “That’s not a real job, sweetie. There can’t possibly be that much money in any photography. When are you getting a real job?”

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