Page 81 of Faux Real
“Natural?” I ask, unsure of what to do with my hands. “Do you want me to pose?”
“That’s the opposite of what I want you to do,” he says, bringing the camera to his eye. “Spin around, jump, throw some leaves, do anything you want, just don’t pose.”
“Throw leaves?” I ask, eyeing the ground. “They’re dirty.”
“My assignment, my rules,” he says, nodding to a pile of withering red and orange leaves. “Go on now, pick ‘em up and toss ‘em in the air.”
“Oliver—”
“There’s no one around, Kennedy,” he says. “No one’s watching except for me. Just do it.” He pauses, his eyes softening. “Please?”
“Fine,” I concede, giving him a tiny scowl as I collect a pile of leaves. “Tell me when.”
“When,” he says. A lopsided grin clips the corners of his lips as I toss the leaves into the air, spinning as they cascade around me. His laugh and the clicking of his camera are the only thing I hear as I act like a complete idiot, repeatedly showering myself with nature’s carcass. “Brilliant, Kennedy, you look like a little woodland fairy, all you’re missing is some animal friends.”
“A woodland fairy?” I ask, letting out a chuckle. “Nice, it’s like a dream come true.”
“Keep going,” he pushes, changing angles every few shots. He pauses, checking the roll count on the camera. He clicks his tongue. “And that’s all she wrote.”
“We’re done?” I ask, dusting bits of leaves off of my sweater. “That’s it?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he says, the roll winding backward. “One of the downsides of a film camera.”
“And the fact you can’tseethe photo until it’s developed,” I add, walking over to him. “Why don’t you use a digital camera? What’s so special about film?”
“So many things,” Oliver says, adjusting the tattered camera strap around his neck. “Film blends light and color much better than digital, it’s more forgiving when it comes to overexposure, and I like the grain, it adds character and texture to every image.” He scans my face. “Film is raw, Kennedy. It’s unpretentious.”
“It’s more real,” I muse, my pulse quickening as he picks a leaf out of my hair.
“Exactly,” he whispers, dropping his hand. “And real is always better, Kennedy. Always.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you implying that I’m not real?”
“I didn’t say that,” Oliver says, his tone unconvincing. “We’re talking about cameras, are we not?”
“Are we?” I ask, confused.
“You tell me,” he says, handing me my camera bag. “Let’s head back now, yeah?” He glances at me. “You cold? Do you want my jacket now?”
“No, I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile as we head back toward campus. My phone rings. I frown when I see that it’s my father calling. Great. “Hello? Daddy?”
“Kennedy,” he says, his tone stoic, even, emotionless as always. “I’m calling to inform you that I will be working over Thanksgiving. If you wish to still come and visit DC, Tracy has agreed to keep you company.”
“You’re working?” I ask, my jaw clenching. “But I haven’t seen you in months, Daddy.”
“We will see each other at Christmas, Kennedy,” my father states. “No need to get emotional, it is just a holiday.”
“I’m not gettingemotional,” I say in a tight tone. “It’s just that you made me a promise and now—”
“I do not have time for your theatrics, Kennedy,” he sighs. “If you want to come and spend the long weekend with Tracy, that is an option, if you do not, then I will see you at Christmas. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “Understood.”
“Excellent,” he says. “Perhaps you can use the holiday to revise your essay for Harvard. I do not believe you sent me your best work.”
“Not my best? I worked really hard on it, Daddy.”
“Not hard enough,” he states. “I must go now, Kennedy. Goodbye.”
