Shutterspeed (6 page)

‘You're too late. You've let the shop down,' Ken says as his son hurries past him, carrying the motorcycle helmet.

Dustin ignores him and moves behind the counter, sliding open the third drawer, in which he flicks through the F's.

‘Forget it. You're late. I'll finish it myself.'

‘Just a minute,' Dustin tells him, rustling through packets until he finds hers. ‘My maths homework … I left it here.'

‘Again?'

‘Some of it.' He lies automatically, his attention entirely focused on the address handwritten on Terri Pavish's packet:
12 Leticia Close, Mount Claremont.

‘I trust that motorcycle helmet isn't for your use.'

‘It's a present for Nugget. It's his birthday.'

And with that, Dustin leaves, squeezing the helmet into his backpack on the way out. The bell above the shop door jingles as he slides the door behind him.

He cycles north to Terri Pavish's house with a tailwind that suddenly sweeps up and ushers him faster. He turns off the West Coast Highway and onto the railway path, dodging pedestrians and joggers with iPods. The smooth surface undulates beneath him. Wind fills his ears and clears his mind. He hasn't prepared anything to say. Just to hand over the helmet will be enough.

He turns into Amelia Road, then left into Leticia Close. He lets the bike's momentum roll him under the eight peppermint trees that line the street. At number twelve he abandons the bike and lets it lie in the driveway, its front wheel still revolving as he bounds up the five steps. He knocks on the pale blue door. This is where she lives!

He waits for a sound from inside. He knocks again, listening for something to signal her movement toward him.

He waits, knocks, waits.

And as he waits — without the roar of wind in his ears — he can hear the real world: a dog running in the street; a radio from a neighbour's bedroom; a sprinkler; a van reversing in the next block. The sounds remind him of reality. His heart rate falls and he can feel the pull of the earth.

Suddenly the helmet is awkward in his backpack, digging into his spine. He feels a hotness rise from his chest, creeping up his exposed neck. He flushes red. He realises she probably wouldn't have ridden home without a helmet. She'd be back at the cinema now, or in a store buying another one. He feels stupid.

Peering into her front window, he's met with his own reflection in the glass. The truth of it hits him — skinny knobbly shoulders, a long neck, scruffy hair, and the fretful face of a sixteen-year-old out of his depth.

He pulls the helmet from his backpack, places it on the top step, then leaves. He cycles into the strong headwind, impatient and angry. He's just a kid after all.

When Dustin reaches home he's exhausted. He drinks water quickly, refilling the glass twice but it doesn't satisfy him. The house is empty of Ken, but even so the thought of his father sends him to the sanctuary of his own room.

He turns off the light and stretches out on top of his duvet. His feet hang off the edge of the single bed, suspended in air. Everything here is too small for him — it's a bedroom for a child. In the darkness, he feels the walls contract and the ceiling hover right above him. Tonight, there's not even enough space to dream.

He's barely awake for the ride to school in the morning. Often it feels that way — like he's still sleeping while cars and pedestrians part quietly without waking him. Today's like that.

He buys an egg muffin from the canteen and feels some of its energy seep into him.

Mr Jose is late to form class again, so Shania takes the opportunity to power-trip.

‘I trust you've been practising your high jump, Dustin,' she smiles.

‘Bite me.'

‘Blow me. I've entered the nominations and they're printing the program as we speak. So buck up, lanky legs,
you're doing the frosby flop for Shenton House next week.'

‘You can kiss my frosby —'

‘Forget it, Dust, she's not worth it,' Nugget tells him as Mr Jose settles into his chair at the front of the room. ‘We both know you'll wag anyway. Hey, what happened to you the other day? I waited at Bob's Bikes for an hour.'

It already seems like weeks ago. Dustin thinks for a bit before remembering he'd been at his dad's lab, with Terri Pavish.

‘You said you'd be there,' Nugget says.

‘I said maybe.'

‘Whatever. I got the Yamaha, a silver one.'

‘Nice.'

‘I'd show you the photos but Eva and Hilda are looking at them.' And sure enough, the two German exchange students are huddled over a handful of shots, giggling. One of them points, wide-eyed.

‘Nugget, are you wearing dick togs in the photos?' Dustin asks.

‘I'd come from the beach.' Nugget grins proudly.

‘Since when do you wear dick togs at the … ah, forget it. You're a shocker.'

‘Jealous,' Nugget mumbles.

And classes roll into each other. They watch the end of
Gladiator.
Russell Crowe finally dies and Mr Ramsay wipes away tears before switching on the lights. After an hour of Hollywood eye candy, he seems horrified by the ugly mass of students before him. There's an essay to write but Dustin knows that can wait, just like the project for work studies and the revision notes for human biol.

But the art assignment gets his attention.

‘To accompany your portfolio,' Mrs Blackler says, ‘you've got to hand in your journal, with preliminary sketches and notes. I want to see you've thought about your subjects and how to place them.'

‘Who can be a subject?' asks Jasmine, swinging onto the stool beside Dustin.

‘Anyone. Friend, family or stranger. It's a character study, not a modelling shoot, so have some fun. Think about how you're going to position them in Freo — with an old Moreton Bay Fig perhaps, or in the pinball arcade. Or in the markets with crates of fruit and veg.'

Jasmine bites her bottom lip and opens her visual journal.

‘I'll be marking you on the technical aspects of photography, of course,' Miss Blackler says, ‘such as composition, perspective, exposure and movement. But I'm
also marking you on how your photos grab me. Don't waste school paper on dullness.'

Jasmine's making notes, but Dustin's just listening and it's all going in. He looks out the window to where the harbour is, far away. Something's beginning to make sense.

‘There was a French writer in the nineteenth century called Balzac,' Mrs Blackler tells them, ‘who said that all physical bodies are made entirely of an infinite number of ghostlike skins, one on top of another. He believed that photography had the power to peel away a layer at a time, with each photo diminishing the subject. That's why he only ever allowed one photo to be taken of himself.'

‘Mental,' Shania says.

‘Really? He's not the only one suspicious of photography. In some indigenous cultures people are afraid to have their photos taken because they believe it'll steal a part of their soul. They're frightened they'll lose a bit of themselves.'

Shania's amused. ‘Serious?'

‘They're right, you know,' Mrs Blackler says. ‘That's the whole idea.'

‘Can I steal you?' Jasmine whispers into Dustin's left ear. ‘You can try.'

When the class falls quiet with sketching, Mrs Blacker leans over Dustin's desk. ‘Did you get any good shots yesterday?'

‘They're okay.'

‘When you've finished the roll,' she tells them, ‘I'll pair you two up and show you how to use the darkroom.'

‘I've learnt already, miss,' says Jasmine softly. ‘I did extension art last year.'

‘Did you? Do you think you could help kill two birds with one stone then? I've got a whole pile of unprocessed black-and-whites from the swimming carnival in there, and the magazine committee's on my back. It'd be great if you could develop one or two while you show Dustin how things work.'

The darkroom doesn't smell like Ken's photo lab; it's not as sharp. The smell is gentler and sweeter. It fills Dustin's lungs as he stands in the darkness, waiting for Jasmine to find the light. A globe turns red above them, just enough to see shapes and movement. The white of Jasmine's teeth and eyeballs stands out and he laughs.

‘Cool, hey?'

‘Can I get high from these fumes?' he asks her.

‘Dunno.'

‘Let's stay here all day then,' he says, pushing some bottles aside and sitting up on the workbench. ‘Free fumes, aircon, no Shania and no maths. Heaven.'

‘How can you not know how to do this? Your dad has a photo lab — doesn't he have a darkroom?'

‘Why would he? The processor does it all. Darkrooms are for try-hard art geeks like you.'

She flicks him with a tea towel twice before he can snatch it from her and flick her back.

‘You scream like a girl.'

Bottles of fluid fall to the floor and a tray slams against a wall as they flick tea towels at each other, making fresh welts that instantly burn. Each successful strike is laugh-out-loud funny.

‘Dustin, you're in trouble when Mrs Blackler comes back.' Shania's voice shouts from the other side of the door.

‘Shhh,' says Jasmine, pulling the tea towel from Dustin's hands.

‘No way, I'm not even yet.'

‘Bad luck, we've got work to do.'

They wait in the silence with white grins until they hear Shania's footsteps retreat.

Jasmine organises the bench with confidence. She picks through bottles, pulling three out and lining them up. ‘Pass me the bottle opener from the drawer.'

She prises a film cover open, slides the film spool out, and winds it carefully onto a reel. She drops it into the
developing tank, fills it with a fluid, then sets the timer. She shakes it, waits, shakes and waits, and after a while tips the fluid out, replacing it with a different one, then another. The whole time, she's serious and in control.

‘Shit, how do you remember how to do all this?'

‘It's not hard, Dustin. I like it.'

‘You're a weird one.'

‘You can talk.' After a while she attaches a hose to the tank and lets tap water stream through it. She relaxes now, and both of them watch the water bubbling in the sink like a small fountain. ‘I mean it — I really like it. I like the feeling of looking at a photo I've created, all on my own. I like holding something in my hands that never existed before. You know what I mean? That's what I'm good at.'

‘Jasmine, I've seen the cheerleading shakers you made and they were crap.'

‘They don't count, I'm talking about cool stuff. When I leave school that's what I want to do — make things, like jewellery, or paintings, or photos. I want to bring things into the world that make it a better place.'

‘Are the fumes messing with your head?'

‘Well, what do
you
want to do? You can't ride a bike for a living.'

‘Couriers do.'

‘You know what I mean. You can do more than that.' She turns off the tap and takes the long strip of film from the tank, pegging it above the bench. ‘Maybe you should try the high jump after all. You might be good, you know, find your calling. Forget Shania, do it because you want to try something new. Who knows, I could be good at the javelin, or something. We could both try …'

‘You want me to be like one of those jocks in house colours on Athletics Day? Someone like … Nugget?'

‘That's not what I said,' Jasmine says. ‘And leave Nugget out of it. I don't want you to change, I just want you to be … happy.'

‘I'll be happy when school's over Jaz, that's it. Now what?' he asks, nodding at the film. ‘Is it done? Why are they so small?'

‘Relax, they're not enlarged yet. Just big enough to see.' She takes a small squeegee and runs it down the length of the film.

They lean in, seeing funny action shots in the pool. In the small frames, Dustin recognises people he knows.

‘You
are
good at this,' he tells her.

She grins, keeping her lips closed. ‘It's magic.'

Dustin buys hot chips and a Coke at lunch, and is on his way to the peppermint tree when a boxing glove flies through the air and smacks his left elbow. It takes him by surprise and he drops his chips.

‘Sorry, Dustbin!' yells Nugget, his head and neck sticking out from one of the phys rec room windows. ‘I was aiming for your head.'

‘Get fucked, fucker.'

‘Bring your scrawny hairy arse in here. I need your help. And bring the glove.'

Dustin's never set foot in the physical recreation room but he's heard about it. Apparently this is where all the kids who don't like sunshine go at lunchtime. It's a place for the nerds, the geeks, the wimps and the victims, and he wonders what the hell Nugget is doing in there.

He steps inside and lets his eyes adjust. Nugget's on the far side of the room so Dustin's got to walk between the air hockey table — where two skinny kids wearing skater gear use words like ‘gnarly' and ‘olly' — and a cross-eyed kid playing darts.

‘I need you to hold something,' Nugget tells him.

‘You must be desperate, Nugget. You should know that pick-up line doesn't work on me.'

‘Hold the bag, would ya.' Nugget puts the glove back on. The punching bag thuds with each short blow.

‘What the …'

‘I'm doing time. Coach is making me work the bag because of Greggor's concussion at training on Monday.'

‘Shit, that was you?'

‘It was an accident.'
Punch. Jab.

‘So you've been sent here? To the land of the hobbits?' ‘Go easy, Dustbin, they're not that bad.'

‘You've got to get out of here.'

‘Can't. Coach said I have to get out my aggressions twice a week till the end of term. He said that punching this thing is good for anger management.'