6

The next day I only have one class, and I end up sleeping through my alarm. So instead of going, I head to the nearest drugstore to have my archaic roll of film developed. The guy at the counter gives me a look like I'm insane, but takes it.

I know that we're supposed to do this ourselves, but I have no idea how to set up a darkroom. And one thing I don't want to do is use the one in the art department.

Never know who I might run into.

Wednesday, I have time to pick up the photos on the way to class—to the class. The guy at the counter hands me one of those envelopes and I pay him with fives folded lengthwise, pretending not to notice his smirk as I turn around to leave.

On the metro ride to school, I go through the pictures. They're shit, every single one. Blurry. Out-of-focus. A couple are so bright I can't see a damn thing. And the final one looks okay—except it's cut across the center and the right half is entirely black. I guess I could hand them in and claim it's my new form of high art that they plebeians simply don't understand.

But even I'm not shithead enough to do that.

As I exit the metro, I throw the envelope with all the pictures into the trash. I expect to be the last one to get there. I drag my feet all the way to the classroom, dreading the moment I have to walk through the door and see Elizabeth there, at the front of the room. With her little attendance clipboard, with her smile and with all the girls and boys practically ripping her clothes off with their eyes.

But when I get there, it's just her, leaning over her Macbook with a focused look. A projector screen is rolled out over the dry-erase board behind her. When she hears my steps, she looks up, and her expression shifts—almost imperceptibly, but I see it. The smile becomes a little less professional and distant, and her shoulders slump a little, as if in relief.

"'Aska," She says. Like She's genuinely happy I'm here. Forgetting the LA, in my name.

Surprised to see me, perhaps? I bite back the scathing question and nod hello before shuffling to the farthest end of the big table.

But She doesn't let it go.

"So how was it?"

I tense. Needles prickle all the way up my spine. "How was what?"

"The camera. Did you get a chance to try it out?"

I nod again, stiffly. Of course the camera, what did I think She was talking about?

"And?"

I give a shrug. "Sorry. I have nothing to show you. I threw them all out."

"Why?"

"Because they were shit."

The words hang in the air between us, unnecessary, ugly and crude. I'm the one who feels like shit. I am shit.

"You just need to learn how to use that camera. You can't just point and click, it's not an iPhone."

"I'm sorry," I repeat. "I'll bring the camera back next class. I never should have taken it."

"Hey, it's no trouble, especially if you—"

I can't take it. I cut her off. "I can afford my own. We both know that, don't we?"

For a moment, she looks hurt, and I—I want to curl in on myself, into a little ball of shame and misery, and disappear.

"I know you just wanted to help out," I say. My voice is tinny. "But you don't have to do that. You don't have to give me special treatment."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm going to start thinking you want something in return."

She sighs, shakes her head. Rubs her eyes.

"Alaska—"

The door opens, and the two scrunchie girls burst in. They throw their bags on the table, laughing at something they were just talking about. The small space is filled with their presence. Elizabeth shifts uncomfortably.

"I'll be happy to talk about this some more after class, if you need to," she says in her even, calm teacher voice.

"That's okay," I say, as neutrally as I can, keenly aware of the girls' eyes on me. My face is flaring. Can they see it? "I don't think it's necessary."

"Actually, I really think it might help," she says, a note of firmness in her voice that sends a trill of alarm down my spine. "I want you to do well in the class."

"Of course," I mutter, and sit down.

I don't really remember what the first real class is like. Elizabeth shows some slides of famous photographers and their work. She goes over light and exposure techniques of which I probably would have understood nothing even if I had been paying full attention.

I intend to be the first one to bolt the second class is over. Which shouldn't be hard since I didn't even take my laptop out of my bag. As everyone else starts to fumble with their things and slide back their chairs, I grab my backpack, sling the camera bag over my shoulder, and shoot from my seat.

Her voice stops me when I'm already at the door. The sound of my name on her lips whispers against the back of my neck. She has a way of saying it, Alaska, like a breath. Like my name is actually something unique and beautiful. It infuriates me.

But I stop.

Audrey pushes past me unceremoniously, giving me a hate-filled glare over her shoulder. It takes me a beat to process—me? What have I done? It can't be because of—because of her.

She can have her if she wants, her and all of her attention. Anything that makes her leave me alone.

Others shuffle out, the last girl fumbling interminably with her notebook, zipping and unzipping her stupid laptop bag a million times. All the while, I'm debating if I should just go—not like she's going to run after me and stop me. But I can't. Don't antagonize her, she can ruin your life. I grit my teeth.

I hate this. I hate this whole situation.

I hate her.

Finally, it's just us. I glance sideways at the half-open door; every so often students hurry past. I don't know if I want to be in a closed room with her.

She sits on the corner of the table and runs her hands through her hair. "Can you tell me what the problem is?" she demands, dropping her teacher voice.

"You're seriously asking me?" I reply in a quiet snarl. "You think I'm the problem?"

"I'm just trying to help."

"Well, I don't need your help."

"...and I don't want anything from you. I'm sorry if your job has made you so jaded that you think that's all a person could ever want from you."

Blood rushes to my face. I throw a paranoid glance around, but there's no one outside the door. Ber gaze follows mine.

I can't believe myself, but I'm the one who, finally, walks over and shuts the door.

Now we're alone. What have I done? My heart speeds up and I have to wipe my palms on my pants. She's not actually going to—what? Threaten me? Attack me? I feel idiotic for even thinking it.

Then again. If she decided she could get away with it...

"I know you're thinking it. I can see it in your eyes." She sounds strangely bitter.

I square my shoulders. "You have no idea what I'm thinking."

"Well, let me tell you what I'm thinking, then. I don't want to make your life difficult. I'm not going to report you—"

"There's nothing to report me for. I'm not breaking the law," I snap.

"...I'm not going to out you. I have no interest in that." The look in her eyes is calm and sad. "I want you to complete your semester, and pass the class. The last thing I want is to cause you problems."

"And yet that's exactly what you're doing."

She sighs and starts to pace the room, which is only three or four strides long in either direction.

"Let me tell you something. Elizabeth," I pronounce her name the French way, enunciating every syllable. She stops and turns to face me.

"You underestimate me. I know exactly what's on your mind. You think that I'm somehow special, different from the other students, that we have some kind of connection, you and I. Because I danced for you and maybe, for a moment, you thought I was hot and I was acting like I found you hot. Maybe you saw something in my eyes or on my face that made you think I liked you. Well, I have news for you, I do this every night, several times a night. I give them what they want and make them fall in love with me a little bit. I look at them and I dance for them and I make them feel special, like they're the only one to ever walk in that place and get a dance from me. And the only reason they feel that way—the only reason you feel that way—is because I wanted you to."

I pause to draw in a breath. My head is spinning a little and my heart thrums angrily. In the back of my head, a panicked voice trills in alarm, but it's too late to stop the stream of words. "Well, I'm not whatever you imagined in your head I was. I'm not some manic pixie dream girl. I'm not a stripper with a heart of gold. You don't know the real me. You only liked my projected illusion, and the real me has nothing to do with it."

I half-expect the usual spectrum of emotion to flicker over her face in rapid succession: disappointment, disillusionment, and then the inevitable conclusion, the typical result of thwarted male entitlement: rage. But instead she just listens, her head slightly tilted.

"So who does, then?" she asks, her voice devoid of anger, filled only with notes of gentle curiosity.

"Who does what?"

"Who does know the real you? And how does one qualify?"

"You still don't get it. The real me isn't likable. I'm misanthropic, I have no friends because I have no idea how to maintain a friendship. I don't think I can make a meaningful connection with another person at all, and I don't even know if I'm interested in trying. So I wasn't sent to your class by some guardian angel of yours, to breathe new happiness and joy into your life. We just had some shitty luck, that's all. And you know what? I shouldn't have to drop the course because you can't seem to get over it."

We face each other in silence for a few long moments.

"Report me to whoever you want," I say, trying to be cold but my voice is just tired. "I don't care. Just leave me alone." I extricate myself from the strap of the camera bag and put it down on the corner of the table. Her gaze travels from the camera back to me.

"I'm sorry, Alaska ."

"Don't bother."

"No, I mean it. I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone. I won't treat you any different from the other students."

"How generous of you," I say cuttingly.

"The truth is, I'm not the type of person who drops hundreds on lap dances, but I bet you hear that a hundred times every night."

No joke.

"So maybe it's my... inexperience, so to speak. But yes, I did find you attractive. And maybe I'm crazy but in that moment, it seemed like you thought I was okay too. Maybe I'm even crazier for finding you even more attractive when I met you for the second time, here. Maybe it's my brain clouded with hormones and self-delusion."

I should tell her damn fucking straight, but for some reason I don't. I just stand there, suddenly aware of how little space separates us.

"But you're absolutely right. It doesn't give me the moral right to single you out, bother you and harass you. So I'm going to leave you alone, like you asked."

She pauses, and I let myself exhale.

"And maybe everything you told me about yourself was fake, and you didn't let the real you slip through even once—I have no trouble believing that, even though I really don't want to. Just because I enjoyed the persona doesn't mean I have any claims on the person underneath."

I gulp, but there's not enough air in the room. "Thank you."

She shrugs. "You should probably go."

I don't say anything, I just nod, turn around, and make my way to the door. I pull the handle and it creaks open. I hesitate before taking the final step outside.

"Just don't forget," she speaks up. "The assignment is worth fifteen percent and it needs to be handed in by next class at the latest, or you'll get zero."

I freeze like someone jammed an electric shocker into the base of my spine. Then I kick the door open and storm out, letting it swing shut behind me. I practically sprint down the hallway, half-hoping to hear hurried steps behind me, to hear her voice calling my name.

Nothing happens.

I want to scream but the elevator is full of people, so I just hold my breath till black and red motes start to dance in front of my eyes.