Out Like a Cigarette

“Class, turn to your partner. You are now looking at your lifeline. For the rest of the semester you will be working on the grade that will either pass you, or bring your shiny A down to a disgusting C. Or, your disgusting C down to a humiliating F. Your choice. It is expected that you will clock in an hour of work after school hours, on weekends, every day. Each day missed, unless arranged with me due to illness or something serious, will lower your grade by one percent. Might not sound like much, but if you don’t watch it then the grade drops faster than you’ll be able to say ‘wait’. The project can be anything, but has a minimum of ten pages, one rough draft, one edited draft and one final draft. I know how you guys think, and write. If you both contribute then perfect, if not then one of you will fail. That’s it, any questions?” Our English teacher, Ms. Miller told us as soon as the bell rang.

The tardy students are locked out. They will be screwed. Everyone knows that she doesn’t write the rules or rubrics, you either hear it or don’t. She is still my favourite teacher a month into the school year. She really is a hard-ass, no exceptions for anyone. Then I realized something.

I am going to be stuck working, talking to and spending my valuable time with Chase, or Lace, whatever the fuck his name is.

Shit.

We haven’t spoken since that one day, much to my pleasure. He’s too good of a kid for my tastes. He won’t be any fun to put up with.

“Do we really have to work with people next to us? I mean, we work with them on everything. Why not someone new?” I ask, speaking aloud in class for the first time. Ms. Miller looked at me and smiled as though she were waiting for that question. She probably was.

“Well, the reason is because this is alphabetical order and that makes it easier for me to put in the grades. Also, because I said so, and in this classroom I am God.” She tells us, some laughing softly at her joke. At that she turns, letting in the poor, late bastards. They shuffle to their seats, looking to their partners in hope.

“So, Winland. What’s your first name? If we are going to be working together for the next several months it’s the least I can know.” Chase… Jace, that’s his name, says to me.

“Too bad. Winland works just fine. What kind of work or literature are we going to write? Story, poem, narrative, epic, any ideas?” I ask him, getting on point. The sooner we finish the better.

“How about… We make a portfolio of photos relating to one subject then write a page about each that forms a story? It’ll give the class something to look at and will be more original that what the other shmucks are doing.” He proposes. It sounded like a really good idea. Too bad he thought of it.

“What if I don’t have a camera?” Which I actually don’t. Well, not one that I use, or know how to use.

“Well, then we will go out together and take turns using mine.” He says. “Then we would easily be able to get the hour necessary for us to work together each day, as well as do something fun. Then sorting through the pictures will also use up a lot of time. Writing the pages will be the easiest part, so we need to make sure we have a lot of time used up before doing it.”

“Sounds like a plan. Now, write it out and I’ll go hand it in to her for approval.” He does as I say. Good.

I end up being the first one to go for approval. All the other groups are still arguing on what to do. Ms. Miller looks up as I approach the desk before taking the paper from me. Reading through it a light on interest sparks in her eyes.

“Make sure to use some of your pictures, Jace is one of the best photography students in this school. At least half the pictures have to be yours. Make sure half the writing is his, you’re the better writer.” She tells me, signing the paper in approval. I nod as I go back to my desk next to Jace.

“Half the photos must be mine, and half the writing must be yours.” I tell him, sitting down. “Meet me by the front doors of the school at four this afternoon. Bring your camera. We’ll get started and get this over with.” I tell him. We fall silent for the remainder of class, for the remainder of the day.

“Mother! I am home!” I call out into the house, unsure whether any other inhabitants are here or not. Waiting a moment for a reply and receiving none leads me to believe no one is, in fact, home. Like always. Either at work, on a business trip, at a party, fundraiser, charity dinner/ ball, etc., it was anywhere but home. And they wonder why I starting doing illegal shit to amuse myself. At least the house arrest is up. I still have to call my PO about where I’ll be going each time I go out, though.

I go upstairs to my room, which still needed to be unpacked, sit at my desk and start on my homework. Despite spending a large majority of my free time in and out of the police station, court rooms, juvie and my PO’s office I maintained a 4.20 GPA. Now it might be higher since I haven’t done anything illegal for a month except steal some guys’ wallet . I returned it. Just without money. High schoolers are easy targets. I finish my physics, calculus and psychology homework quickly and easily. All that leaves for now is English.

At three thirty I get up, call my PO to tell her I was meeting a partner for a school project in front of the school and would be working with them for at least an hour before leaving. Right before I climb into my car I think a moment then go back into my room. I sort through a few boxes Jake had packed for me that had shit from the same shelf as what I’m looking for was from. I find it fairly quickly and speed to get to the school on time. Being late pisses me off.

I arrive in front of the school at four sharp, but Jace is already there and waiting. Damn. If he had been late I could have used the excuse I didn’t think he was coming to get out of this. Sighing, I open my door and walk over, the object foreign in my hand.

“Whoa. Nice Camera. I though you said you didn’t have one?” He asks, eyebrow rising.

“When did I ever say I didn’t have one? I just asked what would happen if I didn’t. But, I don’t know how to use this thing. Never have, never planned to.” I tell him, deadly serious despite the grin spreading across his face as though it was a funny joke.

“Hahah, okay. I’ll show you how; my dad has one that’s similar. How’d you get it? These things cost almost ten-thousand dollars.” He tells me in amazement.

“This one is a Mamiya D22, 22 Megapixel Digital Camera Kit, with a M645AFDIII Camera Body & 80mm f/2.8 D Series Lens. It was five dollars shy of ten thousand. Now, how the hell do you use it?” I say, handing it to him.

He walks me through all of the functions I’ll need, going back a repeating what I ask patiently. If I was him I would have slapped me by now, if not ten minutes ago. We use about twenty minutes like this, and he didn’t even show me everything it could do, just the basics that he knew without any experience with the damn thing.

“So… You ever going to tell me how you got the camera?” He asks, again. Didn’t he take a hint?

“Where should we start with the photos?” I ask in reply.

“Did you steal it?”

“How about the park? It would be easy to find fun stuff to take photographs of, as well as fun to go to just in general.” I say, avoiding his questions.

Really, I didn’t steal it. Jake got it for me a few years ago as a birthday present. His family wasn’t all that wealthy; they barely made enough to live off of. He wouldn’t admit to it, but I knew that he got his job at Best Buy to get the money, and the discount, to buy it for me. Not the reason he gave me, which was that he wanted to be able to buy his own groceries to eat. I felt so bad that I stopped photography and never used it, which in turn made me feel worse until I hid it. When he found it, unused, while helping he pack he just looked at me, attempting to hide the hurt look he had, and put it into the box. This will be the perfect time to master the use of it so that way when I see him again I can take a single picture for him, so perfect that his hurt about its lack of use will heal. Hopefully.

“Sounds good. Let’s go.”

We walk the short walk to the park, him stopping to photograph a few things here and there on the way. By the time we arrived there it was about 4:45. Time went fast.

“Should we count the time spent showing you how to use your camera toward the hour? In the report of what we did we can say that we were preparing for the photography.” Jace says, turning to me.

“Sure.”

“You’re a person of few words. Why? Do you just not like talking, or is there a long ago reason that only people with access to the deep, dark corners of your mind and memories will know?” He asks, surprising me with his question. His very drawn out question. He used a lot of detail with what he said.

“Don’t like people.” I say, keeping it short to make a point.

“Why not?” He asks. Are people really this nosey? No wonder I dislike them so much. I forgot what it was like meeting new people, them trying to get to know you. Back in the city everyone in school and our neighborhood knew better than to talk to me, having found that out so long ago it’s not remembered when.

“Do you always ask this many questions?” I ask, pushing the spotlight of questions to him.

“Unless they give me the information willingly.” He tells me.

“Why?”

“Because I like knowing the people I work with and am around constantly as I am you.” He says before asking “Why do you seem to resist, push away and hurt everyone who you are around?”

“Because I don’t like them.” I tell him, shock and disbelief colouring his eyes slightly.

“How do you know if you don’t know them?”

“I have never liked anyone besides one person. No, you cannot know who the person is. No, you will not change that.” I tell him, answering the questions I know will come next.

“How do you know? Can you tell the future? Though, by knowing the future, wouldn’t you change it? I’ve got an idea, wanna hear it?” He asks. I shrug consent. “If you promise not to try to dislike me, I swear I will make you fall in love with me.”

“No.”

“Whatever, Sunshine.”

“What?! What the hell did you just call me?” I demand, furious. I hate nicknames. That’s why I don’t give people my first name. Ever.

“Sunshine. You won’t tell me your name, I feel rude calling you by your last name, so I am going to call you Sunshine, due to your bright demeanor.”

“No you will not.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Do you try to piss me off?”

“No, why?”

“You act like it and are really good at it.”

“Cool, thanks for letting me know, Sunshine. I’ll try a bit harder.” He says.

“Try harder to what, piss me off more or not piss me off?” I, yet again, demand. He makes me even bitchier than normal.

“Guess we’ll see.” He says, smirking. The look in his eyes is so completely and utterly full of trouble that I almost start to smile. Almost. Maybe I was wrong to write him off so quickly .