Exposure Read Free Page A

cases.
    â€œOil gluttons!” screamed Jenna Powell from across the parking lot, addressing a trio of pretty boys as they piled into a massive SUV. Jenna was the president of the school’s Green Team, and she took her eco-consciousness to an almost militant level. Whether being talked down from a birch tree she’d scaled in homage to her tree-hugging heroine, Julia “Butterfly” Hill, or organizing subversive “Ride Your Bike to School” rallies, Jenna’s gung-ho, guerrilla-style tactics were a constant source of entertainment, and she often made the front page of the
Post
. That said, I respected her tenacity and thought her methods showed genuine creativity. Her intentions, at least, were always good, which is more than you could say for the huge oil companies she often railed against.
    I could see my breath condensing in front of my face as I continued past the parking lot onto the school’s quad.
    â€œWait up, Beanpole!”
    My pulse sped up with excitement. My gawky stature had earned me lots of nicknames over the years, but only one person called me Beanpole. Not exactly your typical term of endearment, but nevertheless, it was music to my ears.
    â€œNice shot, Mac,” I said, turning back to see Craig jogging to catch me. It was obvious from his damp hair that he’d just emerged from the locker room. He smelled yummy — like Irish Spring soap. Realizing I should say something else instead of breathing in his heavenly pheromones, I patted the camera by my side. “A true Kodak moment if ever there was one.”
    â€œI hope you got my good side!” As if he even
had
a bad side? “Where are you running off to?”
    â€œThe darkroom.”
    â€œIt’s past ten. Security will nab you sneaking in this late.”
    â€œ
Au contraire
… Mr. Richter, the chair of the art department, believes that ‘creativity cannot be confined to the hours between eight a.m. and three p.m.’ He’s made sure the art lab stays unlocked so that we can use it when inspiration strikes. You’d know this if you ever decided to suck it up and take an art class.”
    â€œYou know I can’t do that. It’s not on the old man’s master plan for my ‘academic development.’”
    â€œDoes your dad think you’re going to go insane and cut off your ear or something? It’s just an art class.”
    â€œIt’s complicated.”
    I knew a few things about complicated. Like my friendship with Craig, for starters. Two years ago, I was one of the first people he had befriended when he moved to Anchorage from Illinois. He was, unquestionably, the cutest guy I had ever laid eyes on, and at the time, he was not yet clued into the high school hierarchy that pegged me a mere plebe. During the summer prior to the start of our sophomore year, we hung out almost every day, and the more I got to know him, the more I liked him. He was sweet, sensitive, and funny. We had everything in common, from our interest in art to our mutual obsession with Orson Welles films. I’d never really had a “best friend” — I was more the loner type. But getting to pal around with the new boy in town had opened my eyes to a whole world of possibilities, and I’d hoped, to something more than friendship.
    I stopped in the shadow of our school’s Gothic main tower, its crenellated roof line looming, castle-like, in the gloaming. Above the carved masonry of the entrance was a shield emblazoned with the words
Veritas Vincit
.
    â€œHang on a sec,” I said. “The light right here is fiendish. I love it.” I held my camera up and focused on the crest.
    â€œDo you know what it means?”
    â€œâ€˜Truth conquers.’”
    â€œSo you’re a Latin savant, too?”
    â€œHardly. They drilled it into us during the world’s most boring orientation the start of freshman year. Count yourself lucky you missed