tell him.
“Thank you,” Geoff says with a crisp bow. “And I liked your Rapunzel. It made my skin crawl. That’s why I thought of Diane Arbus and those photos she took of freaks. Do you know what she said about freaks?” I shake my head. “She said,‘Most people go through life dreading they’ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They’ve already passed their test in life. They’re aristocrats.’ ”
We stand face-to-face under the red light as those words wash over us, and I know, in that moment, that I’ve stumbled upon someone who belongs to the same tribe as me. “That’s very profound,” I say.
“I know,” Geoff says. “Do you want to stay and see what I’m working on? Or do you have to go?”
I stay. In the red light, everything has a clinical laboratory calmness. The chemicals in the air smell acrid and metallic. Geoff has one roll of film hanging up, drying, and some negatives ready to be printed. He sets up the enlarger and times the exposure. Next he submerges the shiny exposed paper into a pan of liquid, swishing it back and forth with a pair of tongs, lifting it up so that the solution drips off and then dipping it into a second pan and a third. We listen to the splash of liquid and the clink of tongs on the metal pans. It’s oddly peaceful, like being in a murky underwater world.
I watch over Geoff’s shoulder as smoky shapes spread across the slick paper and form into a black-and-white photo of a woman’s face. She looks like Cleopatra with her high forehead, prominent nose and luminous cat eyes. “What do you think?” Geoff asks.
“She’s stunning!” I say.
Geoff laughs. “I’ll tell her.”
“Who is she?” I ask.
“My mother.”
I gasp. “
That
is your mother?”
“She’s an actress. She needs a new head shot.”
“Is she famous?”
“Not yet. When she lived in New York, she did off-Broadway. But then she got married and moved here, and they got divorced. And now she does plays, and occasionally commercials—just for the money. Have you seen the soap commercial where a cowgirl uses a bullwhip to flick the dirt off clothes?”
“No.”
“She was the cowgirl.”
“Oh,” I say. “It must be great to have a mother who’s an actress.”
“It has its perks,” Geoff says. “She’s helping me practice my monologues for the
Hamlet
auditions.”
“Already?”
“Sure. You should try out.”
“I might.” I pause. “Carla Cabrielli is trying out for Gertrude.”
Geoff rolls his eyes. “She thinks she’s so hot.”
“She’s my neighbor. We’re renting the house next door.”
Geoff freezes. “Oh my God! Jules, be careful! Carla’s the queen bitch of the entire school. And Debbie and Marlene are her skinny mean dogs who snap at you when you walk by. Injunior high, she made a hobby out of making girls cry. And last year, she broke up with her boyfriend—on his birthday!”
“I think she has her eye on Ian Slater,” I say offhandedly.
Geoff nods. “Yeah. They’re in my French class. Whenever she leans over his desk to ‘borrow a pencil,’ she almost has her cleavage in his face.
Quelle
trollop!” I laugh. Geoff grins back at me. “Listen,” he says, “keep away from that girl. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look in her direction. You don’t want anything to do with Carla Cabrielli.”
“Motorcycle Mama”
Two days after I do my Mae West number in drama, Ian slides into the seat beside me, just like that, like his cold-shoulder treatment never happened. I act nice, but not too nice. After class, he follows me to my locker and practically kisses me right there in the hall. Inside, I’m shrieking, “Yes! Yes!” But I’ve learned my lesson. I play it cool. When he offers me a ride home on his motorcycle, I say, “Okay,” like I have nothing better to do.
In the parking lot, he climbs onto his bike and waits while I stuff my books into my fringed leather purse, sling it over my shoulder and
“Thank you,” Geoff says with a crisp bow. “And I liked your Rapunzel. It made my skin crawl. That’s why I thought of Diane Arbus and those photos she took of freaks. Do you know what she said about freaks?” I shake my head. “She said,‘Most people go through life dreading they’ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They’ve already passed their test in life. They’re aristocrats.’ ”
We stand face-to-face under the red light as those words wash over us, and I know, in that moment, that I’ve stumbled upon someone who belongs to the same tribe as me. “That’s very profound,” I say.
“I know,” Geoff says. “Do you want to stay and see what I’m working on? Or do you have to go?”
I stay. In the red light, everything has a clinical laboratory calmness. The chemicals in the air smell acrid and metallic. Geoff has one roll of film hanging up, drying, and some negatives ready to be printed. He sets up the enlarger and times the exposure. Next he submerges the shiny exposed paper into a pan of liquid, swishing it back and forth with a pair of tongs, lifting it up so that the solution drips off and then dipping it into a second pan and a third. We listen to the splash of liquid and the clink of tongs on the metal pans. It’s oddly peaceful, like being in a murky underwater world.
I watch over Geoff’s shoulder as smoky shapes spread across the slick paper and form into a black-and-white photo of a woman’s face. She looks like Cleopatra with her high forehead, prominent nose and luminous cat eyes. “What do you think?” Geoff asks.
“She’s stunning!” I say.
Geoff laughs. “I’ll tell her.”
“Who is she?” I ask.
“My mother.”
I gasp. “
That
is your mother?”
“She’s an actress. She needs a new head shot.”
“Is she famous?”
“Not yet. When she lived in New York, she did off-Broadway. But then she got married and moved here, and they got divorced. And now she does plays, and occasionally commercials—just for the money. Have you seen the soap commercial where a cowgirl uses a bullwhip to flick the dirt off clothes?”
“No.”
“She was the cowgirl.”
“Oh,” I say. “It must be great to have a mother who’s an actress.”
“It has its perks,” Geoff says. “She’s helping me practice my monologues for the
Hamlet
auditions.”
“Already?”
“Sure. You should try out.”
“I might.” I pause. “Carla Cabrielli is trying out for Gertrude.”
Geoff rolls his eyes. “She thinks she’s so hot.”
“She’s my neighbor. We’re renting the house next door.”
Geoff freezes. “Oh my God! Jules, be careful! Carla’s the queen bitch of the entire school. And Debbie and Marlene are her skinny mean dogs who snap at you when you walk by. Injunior high, she made a hobby out of making girls cry. And last year, she broke up with her boyfriend—on his birthday!”
“I think she has her eye on Ian Slater,” I say offhandedly.
Geoff nods. “Yeah. They’re in my French class. Whenever she leans over his desk to ‘borrow a pencil,’ she almost has her cleavage in his face.
Quelle
trollop!” I laugh. Geoff grins back at me. “Listen,” he says, “keep away from that girl. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look in her direction. You don’t want anything to do with Carla Cabrielli.”
“Motorcycle Mama”
Two days after I do my Mae West number in drama, Ian slides into the seat beside me, just like that, like his cold-shoulder treatment never happened. I act nice, but not too nice. After class, he follows me to my locker and practically kisses me right there in the hall. Inside, I’m shrieking, “Yes! Yes!” But I’ve learned my lesson. I play it cool. When he offers me a ride home on his motorcycle, I say, “Okay,” like I have nothing better to do.
In the parking lot, he climbs onto his bike and waits while I stuff my books into my fringed leather purse, sling it over my shoulder and
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