How I Fall (16 page)

My eyes traverse back to the lined up shots. Like I’ve been pushed off a cliff, I plummet back into Cam’s photos so hard I can’t look away again, even with Patrick going nuts and buzzing my phone against my hand like it’s about to catch fire.

I’m looking at one football, then the next, then the next. And with each new glance, with each new shot, I lose my breath.

I hold my breath.

I can’t catch my breath!

A ball, on an empty field, tinted cream and white placed next to fresh field-chalk lines. The chalk’s covering spiked grass. He’s set it all up so it looks like a shot that came out of the 1940s.

“Very. Very. Cool.”

Next football. This time, the whole ball is covered in a black stretching shadow that gives the impression the sun is setting right behind it. So much so, that you can only see the shape of the ball, and you think for a minute that the whole photograph is actually black and white.

I blink at this one a long time, and wonder what’s holding me hostage and I realize I’ve been grabbed by a trick of color. He’s somehow captured the dark green blades of grass tucked all around the ball. I have no clue how he’s done this, and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been digitally altered. It gives the effect that the ball has been there, unmoving while the grass has grown under it for a very long time! I can’t even tell what season it is, and I get the sensation there’s something wrong with this particular ball—like it’s sick—or off balance, and just like the first shot, very much alive and ominous instead of a man made object.

How…how does he do this? So powerful.

The next is the same ball again. This time, cleats are blurred and moving in the background. It’s like our high school team is running all around it. On this, he’s captured his own fingertips on the ball! Like it’s just about to be released in a throw. It’s Cam’s hand. I can tell. It’s strong, tan and has long fingers with perfectly square nails. He’s holding the ball in a way that you just know—this is a quarterback who gets exactly where his fingers fit around the ball.

My head spins again as I stare at his composition. You can even see a man, striding toward the person holding the ball. The man’s arm is up and pointing directly at the shot, but he’s all blurred just like the running cleats in the background. And it looks like he is pissed off.

Ha! Is this Cam’s dad? Is this some sort of Cam Campbell attempt at a selfie while playing football?

How did he pull off holding a camera and capturing this shot with people obviously in motion all around him? He must have used his iPhone on this. Maybe it was a prank pulled during a practice?

I suck in a breath and think…
again…just…so cool.

Next is a football on the stadium bleachers. Overexposed to the point the entire shot and everything in the shot are white.

The ball looks flat. Heavy. Like it’s made of solid, textured marble. Like it would be impossible to pick up or hold.

Or possibly…
oh my wow. It looks like ice!

The bleachers, the sky above it, and even the grass have also been rendered pure white.

Like they’ve been frozen!

My stomach flips and my heart races because again, it seems this was not done with editing effects at all! It’s all light and exposure, and lens apertures—or something but I don’t know what—and, like the first one, this shot looks like it should be hanging in a modern art museum!

I mutter, “No wonder he got an A+! Amazing. These shots are unbelievable. Extraordinary even, and I’m a complete idiot.”

I swallow and stand up, trying to get a bird’s-eye view of a few of the shots all together. My eyes dart from shot to shot. My pulse races against my wrists, temples and pounds at my heart.

“He’s so talented. Much better than I am…much better than I could ever hope to be. Miss Brown…
why
didn’t you tell me?”

My heart has clenched so hard now that I can hardly breathe. From relief, from longing, from surprise, and from regret. Because Miss Brown did try to tell me.

I climb up on the couch because I have got to get a better view. I want to see them all together like they’re one, giant collage. I don’t even care if I fall or if the president of the whole dumb club comes in here and spots me face-flat on the carpet. I have got to see these all zoomed out! Grasping the back of the couch with my good arm for balance, I gain footing and stare down at the lined up shots, letting my gaze wander right then left, then up, then down, then diagonally, soaking them all in, trying to memorize each and every one.

I feel dizzy, happy and humbled to the point I have this odd sensation I might actually cry.

I clutch my bad hand to my heart, wondering if it’s possible I’m having a heart attack. Somewhere from far away, I hear my phone buzz and buzz. I try to reach for it but I can’t grab it without tumbling, so I let it buzz-slip off the suede and fall with a soft thud onto the carpet. No way am I giving up this view to go after it.

I stare at the shots so long I feel like I’ve floated out of my own body.

Even though I have no clue what these pictures are about, when I stare at them all together like this I understand, down to my core, that I am looking straight into the secrets of Cam Campbell’s soul. Even though I don’t know anything about this guy, I suddenly feel him. Know him all too well, but not at all. These shots, even though they are about football, remind me of my own!

I can tell he’s lonely. He’s angry. He’s really smart and
…what…what?

Cam, taking shots of these isolated footballs, reminds me of my obsession with taking photographs of other people’s straight legs and pretty, lined up and turned out feet.

This guy’s got something going on—something constantly on his mind. And it’s obvious it’s all about footballs but not the game of football but rather
…what…what?

Miss Brown’s words come back at me:
Like you…Camden Campbell is a lot like you.

Miss Brown knew me better than I knew myself and I refused to believe her. My head spins, faster and faster. I think the same thought over and over again:
We could…we could. Cam and I could win the WOA.

The pain in my chest hurts even more. Suddenly I understand why. This feeling is something I don’t do. This feeling is actually one I work to avoid at all costs.

This is hope. Terrible, dark, horrible, fickle, addicting and impossible hope.

Worse, it’s a level that frightens me. I know from experience when hope feels this huge it’s really hard for me to think clearly. When hope is this bright and this beautiful…it can be dangerous to my heart. To my very soul.

CP has taught me the hard way, over and over again, to be cautious about hope. To be realistic about hope. To understand hope should never be attached to giant wishes and certainly not to my deepest dreams.

But the WOA photography contest is a realistic dream. It is tangible and, unlike my endless wishes and dreams that I am one day miraculously cured of my CP, winning the WOA is a dream that
could
come true. With a partner who takes photographs like this, why shouldn’t I hope for it?

I climb down very slowly and sit so I can place my hands over my face. I need a moment to block out his photos. I need to calm my swirling, mixed-up thoughts and to decide just where I’m going to place this
hope
.

I breathe hot air into my hands and shake my head, opening my fingers to let my gaze wander over the all-white iced-football photo one more time.

I’m half laughing as I say, “What if? What if?! With shots like these, his light capturing skills combined with my willow trees and what I know how to do with my camera angles. There would be no stopping us! What if?”

I pull my hands away and pick up each of Cam’s shots and place them into a stack as though they were made of precious diamonds and slide them back into the envelope, keeping my favorite one out and stare at it. For a moment I let my over active imagination go all the way.

I picture me and Cam down by the lake. I envision his gray eyes crinkling just at the edges with a thoughtful smile while I explain exactly what I want to do. I see the ropes hanging in the branches and I hear the camera shutters going off. After looking at his work, I believe that Cam would understand me and the project. His work proves he’d have the patience and perseverance required to hold out—to take as many as you need to take—to get just the few that might be perfect enough to win! Not to mention…he’s obviously got the passion for it. You can see he loves waiting for the light and taking just the right shot from angles no one would ever think of doing—just like I do. I saw the two billion football thumbnails that brought about these few shots with my own eyes.

This kid is focused and dedicated to his subject matter. If I can convince him to focus in on my subject matter…but wait, I don’t have to convince him. He’s been assigned to do it just like me and whether he likes it or not!

“We are going to win!” I laugh. “We are. We just have to…”

*Applause. The school auditorium erupts in cheers! Miss Brown shouts into the microphone: “Presenting the first ever,  Brights Grove, Ontario winners of the esteemed,Western Ontario Arts, WOA Photography Contest! Ellen Foster, Camden Campbell and Laura London, come claim your medals and start planning for a summer living in the dorms!*

But then the doubt creeps back in and my head hums with it.
If the scholarship can’t be shared…then what? If the ice is not too difficult to work around, that is. And if the ice doesn’t break off the branches when we run the pulleys, because they look so heavy. Then there are the moisture factors and cold temperature factors off the lake we won’t be able to predict. They might mess up the Nikon from even functioning, which means we might only be able to use our iPhones to do the shots.

“Ellen. Ready?” A sharp knock hitting the outside of the locker room door throws me back onto the planet and almost off the whole couch. I shove the last photo back into the envelope. Compared to Cam’s subtle, beautiful photographs, the locker room now seems so tacky and over bright it hurts my eyes to focus.

“Y-yeah.” My voice shakes, and because Nash probably heard that and is pausing at the other side of the door I quickly add in a happy sounding. “Be right there!”

Nash knocks once more. “Turn out the lights for me, would you?”

“Sure.”

Scrambling for my things, I click off the TV, and shove the magazines and flowers back into place, then grab my phone off the carpet. Heart pounding, I walk through the locker room, flipping lights until my iPhone screen is the only thing lighting my way back through the room. As I slowly approach the glowing exit sign, I scan Patrick’s barrage of unanswered texts, smiling slightly at each one:
Did Laura say anything about me?

Did she?

Don’t hold back now…Ellen? PLEASE. I know you are ignoring me. I need help with this. Her.

I head for the door and more come in:
  Ellen. I’m serious. I think I will never be the same after today. Are you there?

Please.

I actually feel as if I’ve fallen into another reality. Can’t you relate at all?

A new text comes in from him:
Did. Laura. Say anything about me? Throw me a bone! Lie to me? Where are you?

I pause and reply:
Here. And yes to this day being otherworld and beyond. I get you. I also feel like this is not our home planet. Patrick, you should see Cam’s photography. He’s so talented. I’m in shock. The WOA project is going to be better than I’d imagined. He’s…amazing. I’m in awe of him and his talent. Forget about Laura for a second. Did Cam say anything about me?

Patrick fires back:
Please don’t mock me.

Me:
I’m not. Did Cam say anything about me?

Patrick:
My heart actually hurts right now and all you can do is joke.

Me:
I’m not mocking you. No. Laura did not mention you. Now tell me about Cam. Did he mention me or not. Has he ever? I really want to know.

Patrick:
Uh…he might have.

Me:
Woot! Yay. Word for word. Spill it. Does he ever talk about photography?

Patrick:
You said Cam was an empty-headed jock. What is going on with us? I think what you’re trying to say to me is SLEEP ON IT. I’m saying the same to you. No way is Camden Campbell your answer to the WOA project win.

Me:
What if he IS?

Patrick:
Now we both sound mental. Maybe it’s a full moon or something?

I reply:
LOL. Let’s hope by Saturday morning we will both be able to admit that we were having a temporary bout of insanity. I’ll buy the box of chocolate frosted Timbits that will wash the rest of this madness away! Deal?

My phone buzzes again, lighting up against my hand. I glance down, already typing GTG, but just as I push open the locker room door I realize I’m in a new text feed that’s completely empty of any other conversations. The only word typed here is one simple:
Hey.

I gulp out, “Holy-Cam-Campbell!”

The door slams me back into the dark locker room.

Heart closing up my throat, I read the name I’d entered earlier into my contacts at the top of my screen again and again:
Cam Campbell. Cam Campbell. Cam Campbell!

Then, as though I’ve become paralyzed, I re-read that one word two hundred times:
Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey.

*Wonders: When a guy says ‘hey’ what are they really saying?*

A second text quickly follows the first:
Hey?

Studying the two texts as a set, I try to simulate his voice in my mind in an attempt to decipher what he means.

First, I go with the rumbly, goose bump-sexy version of his voice:
Hey. Hey?

Ahh! That makes my cheeks burn.

Next, I try his chatty-friendly voice with a twinge of laughter next:
Hey. Hey?

Also makes my cheeks burn and my throat close up a bunch more.

Shaking my head, I try to tone down my reaction and go a third round by trying his regular quiet, serious-low voice:
Hey. Hey?

And my cheeks catch fire.

I rest my forehead against the door and wonder if I should text him back.

But
what?
What should I say? Is it really lame if I just type ‘hey’ back?

Is ‘hey’ plus a smiley face too much or too little or just too stupid and cliché?

After the photographs I’ve just seen, one tiny smiling face has to be way too little. I wonder if he knows that Miss Brown sent his shots home with me.

I gulp again, full panic setting in now as I’m wondering if Miss Brown sent my shots home with him! If so, he knows already I’m just a fraud compared to him. A girl who wishes to be tons of things but is actually only just a beginner. I turn around and let the door hold me up as I stare down at my phone, clutching it with both hands, holding my good thumb poised to type words while I scan my brain for any fleeting signs of witty intelligence that I might be able to fire out.