he purrs in a low, rumbling voice that reminds me of the BigBad Wolf when he licks his chops and says
All the better to eat you with, my dear
.
“I’ll give you a ride on my bike,” he says.
The fluorescent lights hum. Ian leans in closer and they’re about to kiss, but then the back of Carla’s head clunks against her locker and they pull apart.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”
They turn in my direction. I don’t want them to see me, so I dash down the hall toward the stairwell, but I know I’m not going to make it in time. In a panic, I try two doors. The second one opens, and I slip inside just as Ian and Carla turn the corner. I crouch behind the door and listen to Carla’s loud laughter as they pass. I’m so intent on eavesdropping that I don’t notice I’m in a small room with a glowing red light until a male voice behind me says, “Excuse me.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. I whip around to see a ghoulish face looking at me with a very annoyed expression.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to walk into a darkroom when the red light is on?” he says sternly.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I blurt. “Did I ruin anything?”
His eyes widen. “Well, if you’d burst into this room two seconds earlier, my entire roll would’ve been
tabula rasa
. Hours and hours of posing and shooting. Clarissa would’ve had my head on a platter, and I could’ve kissed good-bye my big chance of becoming Richard Avedon’s personal assistant.”
He looks vaguely familiar. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. “Who’s Richard Avedon?” I ask.
He frowns and rattles off: “Famous photographer.
Harper’s Bazaar. Vogue
. Marilyn Monroe. The Parisienne Collection …”
“Oh yes,” I say, pretending I know what he’s talking about. “Do you know him?”
He sighs. “No, but it is one of my many ambitions to be a famous portrait photographer and work for
Vogue
.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and assesses me. “I suppose you’re more of an Imogen Cunningham type. Or—wait. Wait. Diane Arbus. Black and white. Raw. Naked. Dwarfs. Freaks. Am I right?”
I gawk. What is he talking about? I want to ask who Diane Arbus is, but I sense this may be a stupid question.
He says, “Oh, please don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not saying you’re only interested in dwarfs and naked people. I’m just saying that you strike me as someone who’s … intellectually artistic.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“Yes, I do. You’re Jules, the new girl in my drama class.”
And then I recognize him. Geoff Jones. “I didn’t recognize you in this light.”
He grins. He has an eager puppy-dog smile that doesn’tquite fit with his scrubbed-clean, handsome looks, but it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to smile right back. Geoff is one of the stars of the drama class. His monologue this week was brilliant. We had to do character monologues based on fairy tales and nursery rhymes. I did Rapunzel in her tower, waiting for the prince to return, wondering if his visit had been just a figment of her imagination. The crazy-isolation thing kind of appealed to me, but I think it made some students uncomfortable because after I finished, there was dead silence before people started clapping. Mr. Gabor said that I was “theatrically unnerving, in the best sense.”
Carla did a spoof of a skipping poem about a Girl Guide who dumps her date. Typecasting? Still, I have to admit, she has great comic timing, and she sure knows how to flaunt what she’s got.
But the funniest monologue was Geoff’s. He dressed up as Little Bo Peep, in a fluffy hat and flouncy crinoline. His Bo Beep was an alcoholic transvestite who had fallen asleep and lost her sheep, and now she was threatening to turn them into lamb chops if they didn’t come out of the forest wagging their tails behind them. Even Mr. Gabor cracked up.
“I loved your Bo Peep. It was hilarious,” I
All the better to eat you with, my dear
.
“I’ll give you a ride on my bike,” he says.
The fluorescent lights hum. Ian leans in closer and they’re about to kiss, but then the back of Carla’s head clunks against her locker and they pull apart.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”
They turn in my direction. I don’t want them to see me, so I dash down the hall toward the stairwell, but I know I’m not going to make it in time. In a panic, I try two doors. The second one opens, and I slip inside just as Ian and Carla turn the corner. I crouch behind the door and listen to Carla’s loud laughter as they pass. I’m so intent on eavesdropping that I don’t notice I’m in a small room with a glowing red light until a male voice behind me says, “Excuse me.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. I whip around to see a ghoulish face looking at me with a very annoyed expression.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to walk into a darkroom when the red light is on?” he says sternly.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I blurt. “Did I ruin anything?”
His eyes widen. “Well, if you’d burst into this room two seconds earlier, my entire roll would’ve been
tabula rasa
. Hours and hours of posing and shooting. Clarissa would’ve had my head on a platter, and I could’ve kissed good-bye my big chance of becoming Richard Avedon’s personal assistant.”
He looks vaguely familiar. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. “Who’s Richard Avedon?” I ask.
He frowns and rattles off: “Famous photographer.
Harper’s Bazaar. Vogue
. Marilyn Monroe. The Parisienne Collection …”
“Oh yes,” I say, pretending I know what he’s talking about. “Do you know him?”
He sighs. “No, but it is one of my many ambitions to be a famous portrait photographer and work for
Vogue
.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and assesses me. “I suppose you’re more of an Imogen Cunningham type. Or—wait. Wait. Diane Arbus. Black and white. Raw. Naked. Dwarfs. Freaks. Am I right?”
I gawk. What is he talking about? I want to ask who Diane Arbus is, but I sense this may be a stupid question.
He says, “Oh, please don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not saying you’re only interested in dwarfs and naked people. I’m just saying that you strike me as someone who’s … intellectually artistic.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“Yes, I do. You’re Jules, the new girl in my drama class.”
And then I recognize him. Geoff Jones. “I didn’t recognize you in this light.”
He grins. He has an eager puppy-dog smile that doesn’tquite fit with his scrubbed-clean, handsome looks, but it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to smile right back. Geoff is one of the stars of the drama class. His monologue this week was brilliant. We had to do character monologues based on fairy tales and nursery rhymes. I did Rapunzel in her tower, waiting for the prince to return, wondering if his visit had been just a figment of her imagination. The crazy-isolation thing kind of appealed to me, but I think it made some students uncomfortable because after I finished, there was dead silence before people started clapping. Mr. Gabor said that I was “theatrically unnerving, in the best sense.”
Carla did a spoof of a skipping poem about a Girl Guide who dumps her date. Typecasting? Still, I have to admit, she has great comic timing, and she sure knows how to flaunt what she’s got.
But the funniest monologue was Geoff’s. He dressed up as Little Bo Peep, in a fluffy hat and flouncy crinoline. His Bo Beep was an alcoholic transvestite who had fallen asleep and lost her sheep, and now she was threatening to turn them into lamb chops if they didn’t come out of the forest wagging their tails behind them. Even Mr. Gabor cracked up.
“I loved your Bo Peep. It was hilarious,” I
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