A Blind Spot for Boys

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I
f you want to see the world with fresh eyes, haul yourself off to the Gum Wall in Pike Place Market. At least that’s what Dad said twelve years ago when he brought me to the brick wall studded with spat-out, stretched-thin, and air-hardened wads of gum. Thousands of pieces. Hundreds of thousands. Both of us were armed with cameras for my first photo safari. His was a heavy Leica with a powerful telephoto lens, mine a red point-and-shoot I’d inherited from him, not some chubby plastic toy.

Back for what must have been my thirty-sixth trip to this weirdly mesmerizing wall, I still felt vaguely nauseous as I looked at all that petrified gum. I sighed, restless from fifteen minutes of positioning my tripod and another five waiting around for the perfect light. Last night, Dad had suggested the wall might make the perfect addition to my college application portfolio. He was right. After all, what’s more unique and
memorable than the Gum Wall? But then Dad begged off this morning—yet another panicked SOS call to our family business, Paradise Pest Control—leaving me to face the gum alone.

The morning sun had yet to trace its way over the alley. I shifted my weight and fiddled with my camera some more. Patience has never been my virtue, which could be a slight problem. My favorite photographers talk about being on constant alert for that split second when the ordinary transforms into the extraordinary. Until my portfolio review a few months ago, I thought I’d captured plenty of those moments: my grandparents holding hands, gnarled fingers interlaced, during their fifty-sixth and final anniversary together. The sunburst of disbelief on my mother’s face a moment after her only game-winning goal in her adult soccer league. The first grin from the guy who stole my heart…

Stop
, I told myself whenever my thoughts slid back to the boy who ruined me for love: Dominick Adler, Crew Boy, Mr. Yesterday.
Stop.

As if my thought had conjured Dom himself, my heart lurched as it had done for the past year whenever I glimpsed a black Gore-Tex jacket. Always thinking, hoping, believing it might be—

I lifted my camera, tripod and all, and zoomed in on disappointment.

Not Dom.

Just a balding middle-aged man venturing down to the market for first dibs on fresh fish and flowers. Of course. Dom, a.k.a. Mr. Wrong—wrong boy, wrong time, wrong place—was in California, interrupting the best years of his post-college life, not to mention my love life, to create some rescue-the-rat cell
phone game. A game, excuse me, I had inspired after telling him about an impossibly huge alpha rat that had outwitted Dad’s traps and bait for months. A drop of rain hit my head as if I needed a reminder that Crew Boy had washed himself of me seven months ago. And that was precisely what I should do with this inscrutable Sphinx of a Gum Wall, all come hither but never revealing its secrets.

But I couldn’t bail on the wall, not when I needed an iconic shot. The associate director of admissions at Cornish College had said as much with my portfolio laid flat in front of her. “Your photos of street fashion are really good, and good makes you pause,” she had said after a close look at nine of what I thought were my best shots. “But a great photo knocks your heart open. So give some thought to that. What knocks your heart open?”

I didn’t have to think; I knew. But it wasn’t like I could exactly call Dom up and ask to take a series of portraits of him, not when he’d been black-ops incommunicado for more than half a year.

The Gum Wall, I figured, at least forced a reaction. So I spent another couple of minutes fussing with my tripod. The sky, though, remained stubbornly dark.

Time to face facts: This scouting trip, like every other boy after Dom, was a total bust. I was about to lean down to unscrew my camera off the tripod when the clouds parted. Through the cracked gray sky came a luminous ray of sunlight. The Gum Wall glowed with an otherworldly translucence. Right then, I could almost believe in miracles.

The decisive moment, that’s what Henri Cartier-Bresson, who pioneered street photography, called it. The fractional
instant when a moment’s significance comes into sharp focus. And there it was at last: my decisive moment.

I crouched down to my tripod, perfectly and painstakingly positioned, already savoring my photograph.

“Whoa! Behind you!” a voice called above the whirring of bicycle wheels that turned to a squeal of mad braking.

Startled, I lost my balance, jostled the tripod, and only at the last second caught one of its legs before my camera could smash onto the asphalt. I wasn’t so lucky. My elbows broke my fall. I gasped in pain. Not that I cared, because a cloud scuttled across the sky. The fleeting light vanished. The colors of the Gum Wall muted. My knock-your-heart-open moment was gone.

“Are you kidding me?” I wailed in earsplitting frustration as I scrambled off the ground and checked my camera—thankfully, fine. My elbows, not so much. They burned. Even worse, the fall had ripped a hole in my favorite sweater, cashmere and scavenged for three bucks at a rummage sale.

“You okay?” asked the moment destroyer.

Only then did I lift my glare to a dark-haired boy with Mount Everest for a nose, jagged as if the bridge had been broken and haphazardly reset. Twice. I pointed the tripod accusingly at him. Everest was about to see some volcanic action. “You ruined my shot. Didn’t you see me?”

“I thought I had enough clearance, but then you… and your…” said the guy, waving at the general vicinity of my bottom.

“My what?”

“Well”—he cleared his throat and shifted on his mountain bike—“you got in my way.”

My eyebrows lifted.
I
got in
his
way?

He rubbed the side of his nose. “Can you take it now?”

I jabbed the tripod toward the cloud-filled sky. “The sun’s gone.”

“It’ll be back.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Not yet. I’m Quattro.”

Quattro, what kind of name was that? Then, I guessed, “Oh, the fourth.”

A startled look crossed his face as though he wasn’t used to girls with healthy gray matter. I smiled sweetly back at him.
Hello, yes, welcome to my brain.
With slightly narrowed eyes, Quattro inspected me as though he was recalibrating his first impression of me. I stared back at him. Mistake. He swung one leg over the bike, propping up the kickstand as if he’d been invited to stay.

I sighed. Here we go again. Why does the right trifecta of hair, height, and hamstrings give me the illusion of being more attractive than I am? It was more than a little annoying, especially after last night, when Brian Winston—senior at a rival high school and latest post-Dom conquest—lunged at me as if three dates qualified him for a free pass to my paradise. Sorry, despite my ever-changing stable of guys, I am virginal as fresh snow. Shocking, isn’t it? It was to Brian. And to Dom. And all the boys in between.

I quickly unscrewed my camera off the tripod, which should have been universal sign language for
Sorry, but this chicky
babe isn’t interested.
But did Quattro catch the hint? No. He said, “I’m visiting UW. What do you think about it?”

This guy was harder to lose than a case of lice. But thanks to hot summers toiling at my family business, deploying pest control techniques on rats, wasps, bedbugs, and other vermin alongside my twin brothers and Dad, I knew exactly how to handle this situation.

I assessed Quattro with an expert and clinical eye: nearly my height, at just over five seven. Brown hair streaked with gold. The poor guy must have been color-blind. What other possible explanation could there have been for pairing purple shorts with red sneakers from Japan and an orange Polarfleece pullover? It was almost tragic how much he clashed. My eyes widened. The pullover hugged the lines of his V-shaped torso closely. Much too closely for an off-the-rack purchase.

“You didn’t actually have that
tailored
, did you?” I couldn’t help asking him, as I gestured at his chest. His barrel-shaped chest.

Quattro had the grace to flush as he plucked at the fabric. “Oh, this? Let’s just say my kid sister’s life goal is to be on
Project Runway
. She raids my closet for”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“‘practice.’ You should see what she’s done to some of my jeans.”

In spite of myself, I laughed and watched his eyes slide down to my mouth as I knew they would. I could practically hear my best friend, Reb, teasing me:
Man magnet!
Quattro was more appealing than I had first thought. Just as I was trying to decide whether to retort or retreat, the sun reappeared.

“Lo and behold,” said Quattro, his eyes gleaming with a
decidedly self-satisfied look. The light illuminated his cheekbones, so chiseled Michelangelo might have used him as a model. I blinked, stunned.

Lo and behold, indeed.

Lifting the camera before the quirk in his lips could vanish, I zoomed in on hazel eyes that tilted at a beguiling angle that I hadn’t noticed either. Hazel eyes framed in criminally long lashes. Hazel eyes that were rapidly narrowing at me.

I snapped a few shots in quick succession.

“Hey, who said you could take my picture?” Quattro demanded before he wrenched around to face the wall.

But he
owed
me. I moved in to capture his profile. He was the one who’d ruined my perfect shot, gone in a flash of an instant.

“I hate having my picture taken,” he confessed, his steady gaze meeting mine through the viewfinder.

Damn it if I didn’t see a hairline crack of vulnerability when he self-consciously rubbed his nose. His beakish nose. A flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks. Guilt flushed mine. I lowered my camera. I could empathize. When I was in second grade, my feet sprouted to women’s size eights, which was traumatic enough since I kept tripping over them. I didn’t need my older brothers to call me Bigfoot or joke that I had mistakenly swallowed one of Jack’s magic beans to make me more self-conscious than I already was.

“I wasn’t taking a picture of
you
,” I said before adding guiltily, “per se.”

“Really.”

I held my camera in front of my chest. “It’s for my blog.”

“A blog? Don’t you need some kind of a release form? Or my consent?”

“I’ve never needed—”

“What blog?”

“
TurnStyle
.”

His expression began at startled and skidded toward fascinated. A girl could float away from an admiring look like that. The set of his lips softened. “No kidding.”

Him? A follower of street fashion? Not a chance. He was obviously about to feed me a line. Even though I’d pretty much heard them all, I leaned my weight back on one foot and waited. Impress me, O Color-Challenged One.

But then Quattro said unexpectedly, “My sister reads you. Religiously.”

“Really?” I frowned.

“Seriously. Kylie’s going to think I met a rock star. But I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into fashion.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, now acutely aware of the hole in my oversize sweater and the messy ponytail I’d tucked into a faded black baseball cap. While this was my uniform as a photographer, nothing flashy to draw attention to me, Quattro with his precious watch and designer sneakers would never understand that I had to go thrifting for my wardrobe. Trolling Goodwill and garage sales for clothes is much cooler when it’s a choice, not a necessity. So I’ve made it my personal mission to help girls see that style has nothing to do with the shopping mall. Not quite a save-the-world ambition, but it was mine. I tightened my grip on the camera.

Lifting my chin, I clarified, “Street fashion.”

“Okay.”

I appreciated that he didn’t ply me with a lame compliment, especially the one usually dropped on me:
You should be in front of the camera, not behind it.

Instead, Quattro said, “Bacon maple bars.”

“What?”

“My modeling fee.” His expression was dead serious. “They’ve got to be on the menu wherever you’re taking me.”

“I don’t pay modeling fees. And gross, you don’t actually eat those, do you?”

“Well, yeah. Bacon. Maple syrup. Deep-fried dough. You know you want one. So…?”

“I’m not hunting for doughnuts with you.”

“Nothing to hunt. Voodoo Doughnut in Portland.”

Voodoo. A small smile played on my lips as I recognized the name. More accurately, I recognized their most infamous offering, shaped like a certain male appendage. Luckily, before I could point that out, Quattro jabbed his thumb southward and asked, “Want to go?”

“It’s a three-hour drive each way. Seriously?”

He looked stricken. “It’s not a drive. It’s a pilgrimage.”

Despite my best intentions, his words made me laugh again. Then I scrutinized him, really scrutinized him: His fashion taste was questionable, but he was funny, smart, and buff—his-muscles-had-muscles kind of buff. A sly whisper insinuated itself into my head:
And best of all, he’s from out of town.
Which meant there’d be no possibility of a relationship, no drama, no trauma. I was officially between boys. So what was wrong with a little harmless flirting?