drifted right past Shawn, even though I was riding with him to his house…to Patrick’s house.
“I’m so sorry,” I said and laughed, a peeved Shawn pouting at me. “I had this idea…”
“Yes, yes, another idea,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I have an idea. Let’s hurry up and get to my place, so we can have a beer and debrief about our senior projects.”
I smiled. “All right. The idea won’t wait, but neither will our senior projects.”
“You’re lucky you at least have an idea,” he said, as we walked along the brightly lit sidewalk. It was one of those unseasonably warm days that had all of the San Francisco natives moaning and exposing pale shoulders in rarely worn tank tops, but it reminded me of the surprise swelters Los Angeles often endured. It didn’t matter that it was October and the hot weather surprised everyone. I liked the way the sunshine warmed my bones. Was there a place in this city where I could capture the duality of this glorious weather and the people who were ready for fall to embrace us fully? There was such a mixture of people enjoying and loathing the weather that I knew I had to capture it on my camera, somehow.
That was one handy distraction from my big crush on Patrick. I practically lived and breathed for photography. It was the whole reason I was in San Francisco in the first place, attending the art institute.
It was my truest passion.
I resisted an urge, now, sitting in the passenger seat of Shawn’s car, to go back over some of the photos I’d taken today. The camera had seen me through more than three years of school, and the battery was shot.
My camera was persnickety, cantankerous, belligerent, and a host of other unpleasant adjectives usually reserved for cranky old men. Its back display was cracked from the time I’d dropped it—hard—on the sidewalk, and I counted myself lucky that it still worked. It was grossly outdated—even by point and shoot standards now, but it had gotten me my best grades—assignments shot out of rhythm from the rest of the photography students, just the soles of my shoes slapping the pavement as I walked and shot and walked and shot until one of our batteries, the camera’s or mine, gave out.
These days, it was usually the camera.
If I had a big shoot or a big project, Mercedes Valdez, head of the photography department, would usually let me check out one of the department’s cameras. However, I couldn’t just check it out for shooting on my own time, and my own time was when I got the best material.
“I wish you’d share one of those famous ideas with me from time to time,” Shawn was saying, wheeling out of the parking lot and down the road. “I have no idea what I’m going to do for my senior project.”
“Oh, this isn’t a senior project idea,” I said, shaking my head. “This is an idea for today only—or for as long as this heat wave lasts.”
“I hate how hot it is,” he sighed, and I had to hide a smile. He was such a native San Franciscan, protective of the coolness. I couldn’t resist snapping a picture of him; I couldn’t resist snapping a picture of anything, anywhere.
“I’m not your project, am I?” he asked, glancing over at me as he drove. He couldn’t hide a twinge of hope—part of the self-absorption I’d come to recognize from many of the visual art students. I was sure his fragile but loveable ego would really like that.
“Part of it, maybe,” I answered, snapping another picture, making him smile. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but leading him on was probably no better. “Oh, there it is. Stop, stop!”
I made him pull over halfway through the commute to his house, spotting a native San Franciscan stubbornly encased in jeans and crouched beneath an umbrella to ward off the hot sun. Next to him was a pair of tourist girls in barely there sundresses, snapping photos of themselves on a cellphone. Perfect. That was the duality I’d been hoping for.
Chapter
“I’m so sorry,” I said and laughed, a peeved Shawn pouting at me. “I had this idea…”
“Yes, yes, another idea,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I have an idea. Let’s hurry up and get to my place, so we can have a beer and debrief about our senior projects.”
I smiled. “All right. The idea won’t wait, but neither will our senior projects.”
“You’re lucky you at least have an idea,” he said, as we walked along the brightly lit sidewalk. It was one of those unseasonably warm days that had all of the San Francisco natives moaning and exposing pale shoulders in rarely worn tank tops, but it reminded me of the surprise swelters Los Angeles often endured. It didn’t matter that it was October and the hot weather surprised everyone. I liked the way the sunshine warmed my bones. Was there a place in this city where I could capture the duality of this glorious weather and the people who were ready for fall to embrace us fully? There was such a mixture of people enjoying and loathing the weather that I knew I had to capture it on my camera, somehow.
That was one handy distraction from my big crush on Patrick. I practically lived and breathed for photography. It was the whole reason I was in San Francisco in the first place, attending the art institute.
It was my truest passion.
I resisted an urge, now, sitting in the passenger seat of Shawn’s car, to go back over some of the photos I’d taken today. The camera had seen me through more than three years of school, and the battery was shot.
My camera was persnickety, cantankerous, belligerent, and a host of other unpleasant adjectives usually reserved for cranky old men. Its back display was cracked from the time I’d dropped it—hard—on the sidewalk, and I counted myself lucky that it still worked. It was grossly outdated—even by point and shoot standards now, but it had gotten me my best grades—assignments shot out of rhythm from the rest of the photography students, just the soles of my shoes slapping the pavement as I walked and shot and walked and shot until one of our batteries, the camera’s or mine, gave out.
These days, it was usually the camera.
If I had a big shoot or a big project, Mercedes Valdez, head of the photography department, would usually let me check out one of the department’s cameras. However, I couldn’t just check it out for shooting on my own time, and my own time was when I got the best material.
“I wish you’d share one of those famous ideas with me from time to time,” Shawn was saying, wheeling out of the parking lot and down the road. “I have no idea what I’m going to do for my senior project.”
“Oh, this isn’t a senior project idea,” I said, shaking my head. “This is an idea for today only—or for as long as this heat wave lasts.”
“I hate how hot it is,” he sighed, and I had to hide a smile. He was such a native San Franciscan, protective of the coolness. I couldn’t resist snapping a picture of him; I couldn’t resist snapping a picture of anything, anywhere.
“I’m not your project, am I?” he asked, glancing over at me as he drove. He couldn’t hide a twinge of hope—part of the self-absorption I’d come to recognize from many of the visual art students. I was sure his fragile but loveable ego would really like that.
“Part of it, maybe,” I answered, snapping another picture, making him smile. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but leading him on was probably no better. “Oh, there it is. Stop, stop!”
I made him pull over halfway through the commute to his house, spotting a native San Franciscan stubbornly encased in jeans and crouched beneath an umbrella to ward off the hot sun. Next to him was a pair of tourist girls in barely there sundresses, snapping photos of themselves on a cellphone. Perfect. That was the duality I’d been hoping for.
Chapter
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