It's a Love Story

Juliette's POV

“Miss Juliette?” my maid’s voice called over the intercom. “Miss Juliette?”

I was carefully applying mascara when I responded. “Yes?”

“Mr. Berg’s here to pick you up, Miss,” she told me docilely, her voice staticy.

“Thanks Delilah. I’ll be done in a second.” I finished my makeup and stepped back from the mirror. I shook my hair up, making it intentionally messy rather than boring. Then I slipped into my black Jeffrey Campbell studded heels that had a rocker-chic edge and took a look at myself in my full-length mirror. I mussed up my hair a little bit more for effect, then I was satisfied. Just because I had to wear a uniform didn’t mean I couldn’t look good.

My Blackberry vibrated from my bed. I checked the number quickly. Connor. “Alright, alright, I’m coming,” I muttered to myself, hastily grabbing my bag and heading out of my room. I practically ran down the stairs when my phone began vibrating again. I passed through the kitchen, where Delilah was standing, looking a little worried, and grabbed an apple. “Later, Delilah.” I turned to head out and found myself face to face with my mom, who was standing in only her light blue silk Oscar de la Renta bathrobe, with her makeup smudged. “Morning, Mom,” I said tentatively. My mom was the type of person who never got out of bed without perfect makeup, perfect hair, and a perfect outfit, usually complemented with a spray of her Chanel No. 5 and her pearls. So her appearance right then was a little unlike her.

“Mom?” I said again when she didn’t respond. She teetered a little. “Whoa, Mom.” I held her up so she didn’t collapse and smelled the ominous stench of stale vodka, which was getting more and more familiar lately as my father’s business trips became longer and longer.

“There’s my baby,” she slurred, holding on to her diamond necklace as though it was her refuge. “My Juliette.” She patted my head, then tried to drink out of the empty glass she held in her hand.

I frowned, worried. Then my phone began vibrating again. “Fuck,” I swore under my breath. I didn’t have time to deal with my trainwreck mother now. I was late. “Delilah, I have to get to school, can you please take care of her?” I threw her a begging look. “Please?”

“Yes Miss Juliette,” Delilah replied hesitantly. “But, it’s the third time in two weeks…”

“I promise, I’ll talk to her when I get home,” I said desperately. “But I really have to go now.”

“You’re leaving me, Juliette?” my mother muttered as I shifted her weight to Delilah.

“I’ll see you after school, Mom. Thank you, Delilah.” I hurried out of there as fast as I could.

“We’re fucking late,” was my boyfriend’s greeting as I entered his expensive car.

“I’m sorry. I just had to…” I paused. What could I say? Oh yeah, I just had to deal with my drunk mother, who, yes, was drinking at 7:10 in the morning? It would spread like wildfire if I told him that, and in this town, that kind of secret was scandalous. “I just slept in.”

Connor wasn’t even listening anymore as he backed out of my immense driveway. “Honestly, Juliette, I can’t pick you up if you’re going to be late all the time,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hey,” I said impulsively. “I’m coming to your football game today after school.”

He turned to me, his blue eyes brightening. Connor was a star football player, but I hated to go to his games. I just wasn’t into sports, that was all. “You will?” he said, sounding pleased.

“Definitely,” I assured him.

“I can’t wait,” he said happily. “You never come and watch me.”

I smiled at him, watching him as he drove. Connor was that popular football player that all the girls wanted, and I, as his girlfriend, could definitely see why—his tousled dark hair gave off an air of nonchalance coolness, his light blue eyes were sexy and confident, and he was well-built. We’d known each other since preschool—unfortunately, he happened to be Nicole the Bitch Berg’s twin brother, but aside from that minor unpleasantness—and we’d been dating for a couple of months now. It was easy to make Connor happy. And he made me happy, too. He was always very sweet. At least, when he wasn’t in a bad mood. Or around his friends. But he definitely wasn’t that kind of asshole jock. We were good with each other.

He turned on the radio to some craptastic mindless rap and began humming along with it. And that’s when I zoned out.

“Hey, Wolff, how’s it going?” I greeted my photo teacher fifth period as I headed into the studio.

“Hello, hello. I hope you’re having a good day,” Wolff said distractedly as he leaned over a print someone had done. The owner of the print stood nervously next to him, waiting for his critique. “Do you think…What if we cropped this side over here? Or burned it in so it isn’t so light?”

The girl shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

He looked up. “Well, forget about me for a second. What do you think?” he asked her seriously.

I smiled as I grabbed my photo binder. That was the best thing about our photo teacher—he never just told us what to do with our pictures without always asking what us exactly what we thought. He was genuinely interested in our opinions. It was almost refreshing to have a teacher who cared about us, instead of one who plowed through the coursework without even looking up. My class liked him a lot. He was also only seven years older than most of us, so that helped us connect with him really well. But because of the age difference, the idea of calling him Mr. Wolff was not a possibility—we usually referred to him by his surname or, on occasion, we called him “sir”, which was meant to be more ironic than polite,

“Hey, Wolff, how was Parent’s Night?” a kid in my class, Justin, asked as he dumped his bag on one of the tables.

Wolff grimaced. “Oh, fabulous,” he said, semi sarcastically, but only I heard him as the rest of the class filled up. “Hey, guys—” he called out. “Guys—” He waited until everyone was done talking. “Guys—okay. Thanks. Look, so your abstract contrast prints are due tomorrow, so today we’ll be working all in the darkrooms. If anyone needs me to check over their contact sheets, I’ll be happy to do that. Anyone absent…no…Okay, you can get to work.” The class chattered loudly as they bustled to grab their photo binders and head out to the darkrooms.

“Wolff?” I said as everyone began leaving. He was scribbling down on the attendance sheet.

“Yes, Juliette?” he said distractedly.

“I already finished all of my abstract contrasts prints,” I told him, half-proudly, half-embarrassed.

“Really?” He looked up right away. “All five?” I nodded. “Let’s have a look at them, then.”

Feeling almost shy, I picked up my photo binder and spread the prints out on the table. For some reason, I really wanted him to like them—not because I just didn’t feel like doing them over, but because…I’m not sure. I wanted his approval.

I held my breath for a long moment as he looked over my pictures carefully. He leaned over the table to get a better look, then picked up one particular picture to analyze. “Hmmm,” he said.

“Wait, they’re not good?” I felt panicked.

He looked up at me, his concentration broken, as though he had forgotten I was there. “What?”

“What do you think?” I asked nervously.

“Juliette, these are—” He seemed to struggle with the right words. I held my breath. “Stunning. They’re beautiful.”

“Really?” I felt myself smiling.

“Yes, really.” He smiled back at me. For a moment, we had eye contact, then he looked quickly again at the pictures and loosened his school tie slightly. “See, look at this one here. The way the light reflects off here into the lens—”

I zoned out for the second time today. I could get to the technical stuff later, all that mattered to me right then was that he had liked it. For some reason, his compliment had made my entire day.