Page 34 of The Calendar of New Beginnings
She paused for a moment and scanned the class. People were shifting in their seats. Many of them weren’t making eye contact now.
“Just so you have a sense of what you’re getting into, for one exercise, I’m going to play a particularly grisly scene from a recent battle in Afghanistan, captured by an award-winning cameraman, and ask you to take a picture as it’s being played. The dean has graciously given me permission to use the planetarium for this purpose. You’re going to see people getting shot, dying, moaning, screaming. Hear machine guns being fired. Your hand is going to shake. Your adrenaline is going to rush.”
A kid in the front row gulped, and she stared at him before continuing to scan the crowd. These were her students now, and she felt a new sense of responsibility. It was up to her to teach these kids what she knew so they could survive in war and be successful if they followed a career path similar to her own.
“I can’t simulate people trying to kill you as you take a picture,” she said, walking to the other side of the room. “But I can help you gain some understanding of what that’s like. And how freaking hard it is when you’re trying to takethe perfect photo to capture what’s unfolding around you. To create an image that will reach out and grab the throats of people sitting a world away in London or Hong Kong or Dare Valley.”
Someone held up extra copies of the syllabus, so she walked to the last row and took them from him. She kept her pace slow and deliberate as she made her way back to the front of the room, taking time to settle into her new skin.
“We’re also going to take photos of starving animals at the local pound and dead animal carcasses on the road. I can’t find a starving child or someone dying of a machete wound here in Dare Valley, but we can start initiating you into the world of an international photojournalist.”
She pulled out her camera phone and waggled it in the air. Her students’ eyes latched onto the object.
“Who plans on using this camera for class?” she asked. “You’ll notice I didn’t specify a professional camera as a class requirement because they can be incredibly expensive.”
All but a few outliers raised their hands.
“This used to be your best friend,” she said before setting it on the table in front of the dry-erase board. “It’s a good camera for a college student. You’re in journalism school because you’re still learning and deciding how you’re going to specialize. I’m going to show you different camera models a professional would consider. Personally, I’m a Leica fanatic, and if you don’t know Leica, you’d better Google it once class finishes. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t even know about the most famous camera models out there, you’re going to be in trouble in my class.”
Several people were furiously writing in notebooks while others tapped on their tablets and laptops. It was weird to see that kind of technology in the classroom.She’d gone to college when the most advanced item a student could bring to class was a graphing calculator.
“You’re also going to become intimately familiar with Henri Cartier-Bresson, who’s considered the father of photojournalism. You’re going to read a few of his books during our time together. Don’t worry about writing this down. It’s in the syllabus.”
The students gave her their attention again. She had them on edge now, she could tell. This class was more than they’d bargained for. Jill would be proud—no one would be be able to accuse her of being boring.
“Papa Henri—as I like to call him—said a lot of things about this magical art called photography. You’ll read about them in his books, and if you miss a particularly important insight, I’ll point it out here in class. He’s going to be teaching you too, so don’t think it’s only going to be me up here.”
She put her hands behind her back as she strolled to the dry-erase boards. Choosing a purple one—at least it looked purple—she uncorked the lid. “My favorite quote from Papa Henri is this: ‘It is an illusion that photos are made with the camera…they are made with the eye, heart, and head.’ When you take a photo for my class, make sure you’re using all three.”
The words touched her anew. What if she had lost one of the three critical elements needed to capture a moment of reality in a photograph? She shook off the fear. This wasn’t the time.
Turning, she folded her hands and regarded her students. “Now. I want to hear your names, and why you’re here.”
CHAPTER NINE
After a quick run through the park after work, Andy showered and headed over to his mother’s house. He hadn’t called to tell her he was dropping by, but he knew she’d be there alone. Moira had agreed to help arrange it.
His sister was free and clear of her old job, having cleared out her office on Friday. They’d celebrated with drinks afterward. His sister hadn’t asked him about his protectiveness toward Lucy at Hairy’s the other night, thank heavens. Then again, she knew him well enough to deduce he had his reasons.
When his mom opened the door and saw him, she immediately tightened up. It wasn’t like him to stop by without warning, let alone at five thirty on a Monday.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking over his shoulder. “Is something wrong with Danny?”
His heart sank, and he knew he had been right to come here. It was past time for him—for them—to face their demons. “No, he’s with Jane and Moira. Jane agreed to give Danny and Rufus some dog training after I begged. AndMo’s soaking up all the auntie time she can get during her break from the day job.”
“Moira told me she was heading to Jane’s, but she didn’t mention seeing Danny.” Her shoulders sagged with relief, and a slow smile flickered across her round face. “You were a good daddy to let Danny have a dog. I know Rufus isn’t easy, but he makes him so happy.”
“I tell myself that daily,” Andy said with a laugh, pulling her into a hug.
“Lucy told you about our calendar,” his mom said against his chest.
He nodded. “Yeah. How about we sit and have a drink?”
She fussed with the hem of her cream blouse before turning and striding off to the kitchen. He followed her, aware of the tension locking her shoulders in place once again.
“Mom,” he said as he entered her bright apple-green kitchen, “I’m not upset about the calendar. I was just…bothered you were afraid to tell me about it.”
After handing him his favorite beer, she busied herself with pouring a glass of Cabernet. Giving her a moment to stew, he retrieved the shamrock bottle opener, popped the top off his beer, and took a deep draw. The IPA wet his whistle, but it didn’t soothe his dry throat.
