Exposure (2 page)

THIS TIME I HAD HIM IN MY CROSSHAIRS. Two more seconds and I'd take the shot.

“Hey, Skye! Over here.”

Damn. I looked up through the throng of orange-and-blue-clad spectators to see Jillian Folger, the editor of our high school newspaper, waving frantically at me from the second row in the stands. Her brown curls bounced like springs as she waved, fittingly spastic hair for her hyperactive temperament.

As I returned my focus to the rink, the arena erupted into a cacophony of screaming voices.

“
GO RAVENS … !!!
”

Thirty-seven seconds left in the hockey game and we were tied, 4 – 4. The crowd was on its feet, and our archrivals, the Golden Grizzlies, were on the offensive attack. I should have been focusing on the players speeding across the ice like angry sharks in a giant tank full of chum. Instead, I took aim at Craig MacKenzie, who was still in the penalty box. High-sticking an opponent had earned him two minutes in the “sin bin,” as it was sometimes called, and being a man down this late in the game was going to make it tough for us to clinch a victory in this first match of the season.

“
WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD!
”

The crowd was going primeval, but I was more interested in getting a closer look at Craig's gorgeous face through my zoom lens. I didn't care about the game itself, which was practically sacrilege for a native Alaskan like myself to admit. Hockey here was the equivalent of football in Texas — a religion — which explained why our school had its very own ice arena on campus as well as “The Ice Girls,” a squad of pinup-worthy skating cheerleaders who helped enliven (or should I say incite?) the crowd during timeouts.

“Now's your chance, MacKenzie! Annihilate them!” said someone standing a few rows behind me.

Craig was back on the ice now with eight seconds left on the clock. I gazed at him through my lens, stalker-like. He was taller and leaner than most of his teammates, with dark, wavy hair that fell over his green eyes in a charmingly cavalier fashion. Of course, you couldn't tell any of this through his armor of shoulder pads, shin guards, bulky gloves, and helmet.

Our star center, Duncan Shaw, grabbed my attention having just recovered the puck. He shot it with a forceful slap across the ice to a waiting Craig, who half-ran, half-skated toward the opposing goalie, elbowing a Grizzly defenseman out of his way before directing a shot that skimmed the goalpost and ricocheted into the net. With the click of a button, I caught Craig in his moment of triumph. His fists pumped the air just before the rest of his teammates piled onto him in celebration.

As our side of the rink erupted into cheers, I threaded my way over to Jillian.

“Talk about a clincher! This game's definitely destined for the front page,” she shouted through the din. “Dream boy is going to be
everrrrr
so grateful when he sees your pics!”

Anyone would be happy to see their mug on the front page of the
Polar Bear Post
, but especially Craig. As much as I liked him, I also knew he was the kind of guy who couldn't pass a mirror without sneaking a glance.

Jillian and I made arrangements to meet at the newspaper office after school on Monday to lay out the issue. I headed gingerly onto the ice rink to where the team had convened for the typical self-congratulatory ritual of high-fives, back slaps, grunts, and play-by-play recaps. Craig was at the center of it all with Duncan, the senior team captain. With his white-blond hair and yoked physique, Duncan could have been cast as a Norse god in a Hollywood epic. My flair for fading into the woodwork made it easy for me to snap a few more photos of the sweaty victors.

“Nice save, bro! Granted, you hooked that guy good heading into the goal. I can't believe the ref didn't call the foul.”

“What can I say, man?” Craig said, sounding barely winded. “Foul is fair, fair is foul. I knew he wouldn't send me back to the box with eight seconds left.”

“Hey, I don't care if the ref needs laser eye surgery, as long as it works in our favor. Way to hustle, Mac!”

I was surprised to see Craig blush, but Duncan covered for him by pulling him into a headlock and slapping his helmet hard. Just then a chill traveled down my spine, and I realized that Craig's Gestapo girlfriend, Beth Morgan, and her loyal henchwoman, Kristy Winters, had swooped in right behind me on their skates (both were Ice Girls).

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Beth's sleek golden ponytail swung authoritatively behind her, as if it, too, had a major beef with me. Confused for a nanosecond, I actually felt guilty. For what, I wasn't exactly sure.

“The shots,” Beth said, rolling her brown eyes toward their heavily shadowed lids. “Did you get any good shots of him?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“I bet you did.” Her knowing look made me feel, uncharitably, like scratching out her eyeballs, but I wisely refrained. Even though she was at least a head shorter than me, her ability to intimidate was on par with that of a trained assassin. Who knew a couple of bow-headed cheerleaders holding pompoms could look so threatening?

Beth motioned with her hand as if she was swatting away a fly, my apparent cue to step aside. I tried to do so without splaying myself across the ice. She brushed past me and practically leaped into Craig's arms, clutching him with heightened histrionics, as if he were Romeo, soon to be forever banished from Verona. You'd think they hadn't seen each other in months, when in reality it had probably only been two measly hours since their last make-out session. I couldn't seem to tear my eyes away from the horror of it all, but Duncan and the rest of the team acted totally indifferent to the blatant PDA as they mulled over plans for later that night. Apparently there was a postgame party over at The Hurlyburly Bar and Grill a mile from school. The food there was abysmal but it was an open secret that Easy Reynolds, the grizzled Vietnam vet who owned the joint, spiked glasses of Coke with bottom-shelf whiskey. In return for not checking IDs, he expected that a few extra tenners would be tacked onto his tip at the end of the night.

“Remember that time Duff tried to pay him in Canuck money and Easy went all PTSD on him?”

Kristy grimaced at the mention of her boyfriend, Duff Wallace. He was the team's power forward, but he was spending the semester in Edinburgh, Scotland, as part of a student-exchange program.

“He's probably not wasting any time thinking about us,” she bellyached, evidently concerned that he was at that very moment kissing some winsome Scottish harpy.

Duncan shrugged his shoulders. “We're doing pretty okay without him, thanks to Mac's ability to channel Gretzky. Who knows? Duff might come back and find he's been dethroned!”

Kristy scowled. Beth smiled smugly. Craig's face held a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

As the team headed off the rink toward the locker room, I clumsily made my way back to terra firma. Fifteen minutes later as I was packing up my camera equipment, I sensed someone looming over me. I looked up to see our sports reporter, Leonard Livermore, smiling down at me with complete and utter adoration on his shiny face. It was probably the only time I'd seen him from this vantage point since he stood all of five-foot-two inches and I pretty much towered over him. On the social totem poll, he was equally diminutive, and yet he had a disproportionate level of self-confidence, at least where I was concerned. No matter how many times I rejected his romantic overtures, he seemed absolutely certain that someday soon I would throw myself into his welcoming arms as the dramatic score from some sappy romance movie reached an inspiring crescendo in the background.

The worst part about the whole situation was that bad breath, dandruff, and turbo-charged sebaceous glands aside, Lenny had a good heart. I felt like a total bitch for not requiting his ardent passion — after all, I fervently subscribed to the beauty-is-more-than-skin-deep philosophy. But there was no way Leonard and I were ever going to end up in a state of couple-hood. Not even my pinky finger could dredge up any romantic interest in the guy. I mean, even the poor guy's name was a turnoff. Since I couldn't find my way to being cruel — the only thing it might take to get him off my back for good — I had to play the tactful Elizabeth Bennet to his sniveling Mr. Collins on more than one occasion. Painful, to say the least.

“Hey, Lenny, I was just on my way to — ” I stood up, peering around for the nearest exit and thinking of the best way to pull the ripcord on this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Skye, I really need to talk to you,” he said, adding dramatically, “It's important.”

Oh no. I quickly did a mental thumb-through of the excuses I could use for the upcoming weekend like watching my baby brother, finishing my project for art class … oh sweet Jesus — my social schedule wasn't exactly jam-packed.

“Can we talk on Monday, Lenny? I really need to go develop this film.”

“Still living in the Dark Ages?” He often recycled this lame joke, referring to my stubborn resolve to use my dad's old camera instead of the digitals employed by everyone else in the free world. I loved the challenge of a 35-millimeter camera. Without the ability to review every shot, I had learned to trust myself. I treasured my time in the darkroom and the hands-on art of developing film. Granted, it took more effort to do it my way, but I was convinced that the results were worth it, even if it meant incurring the unbridled derision of everyone on the newspaper staff.

Lenny didn't wait for me to bat an eye, but instead took a deep breath and blurted out a phrase that still haunts my waking memory: “Will you go to prom with me?”

I was dumbstruck.

“But prom is
months
away,” I said, stalling because I was utterly unprepared for this. “I can't really think that far ahead. It's only October!”

“Did someone else already ask you?”

“No, but….”

“Then you'll go with me?” How was I going to get out of this one?

“Oh, Len, I'm way flattered that you would even think to invite me. But you know, you might change your mind between now and then. You might end up wanting to take some other girl, and, well, I'd hate for you to feel like you were already obligated to me.”

Lenny examined me for a moment with a critical gaze. His frizzy, rust-colored hair sat like a molded Brillo pad on his head.

“So, presuming I don't end up wanting to ask anyone else, which I won't — duh! — then you'll go with me?”

“Uh … maybe we should play it by ear.” It was hard to appear casual in the face of such a nightmarish scenario; still, I tried not to let him see the absolute look of unmitigated horror in my eyes. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, after all.

“Okay, I'll consider that a ‘yes,' then, barring some unforeseen catastrophe, natural disaster, or change of heart on my part. Let me know what color dress you're wearing so I can color coordinate my cummerbund.”

Color-coordination? Cummerbund? I'd really stepped in it now. At least I had almost seven months to hatch an escape plan. I grabbed my belongings and hightailed it out of there while Lenny stood grinning at me.

Letting the arena's glass doors swing shut behind me, I slung my camera strap over my shoulder and started across the parking lot. People were still filtering back to their cars, walking swiftly to avoid the crisp October air. They traveled in segregated packs: giddy freshmen girls with long, stick-straight hair, all dressed virtually alike in jeans, fleece-lined boots, and orange and blue knit scarves; the skater kids in their sweatshirts and jeans; and the band geeks lugging cumbersome trumpet cases.

“Oil gluttons!” screamed Jenna Powell from across the parking lot, addressing a trio of pretty boys as they piled into a massive SUV. Jenna was the president of the school's Green Team, and she took her eco-consciousness to an almost militant level. Whether being talked down from a birch tree she'd scaled in homage to her tree-hugging heroine, Julia “Butterfly” Hill, or organizing subversive “Ride Your Bike to School” rallies, Jenna's gung-ho, guerrilla-style tactics were a constant source of entertainment, and she often made the front page of the
Post
. That said, I respected her tenacity and thought her methods showed genuine creativity. Her intentions, at least, were always good, which is more than you could say for the huge oil companies she often railed against.

I could see my breath condensing in front of my face as I continued past the parking lot onto the school's quad.

“Wait up, Beanpole!”

My pulse sped up with excitement. My gawky stature had earned me lots of nicknames over the years, but only one person called me Beanpole. Not exactly your typical term of endearment, but nevertheless, it was music to my ears.

“Nice shot, Mac,” I said, turning back to see Craig jogging to catch me. It was obvious from his damp hair that he'd just emerged from the locker room. He smelled yummy — like Irish Spring soap. Realizing I should say something else instead of breathing in his heavenly pheromones, I patted the camera by my side. “A true Kodak moment if ever there was one.”