“Hey,” he replies.
It’s no wonder I’m so disappointed in modern banter.
“Evie, there’s something I wanted to—”
“Drew, thank you for dredging me out of the—”
We both speak at the same time, but before we can draw breath to try again, I hear another voice. “Miss Hudson?”
Both Drew and I turn, and a wave of excitement spreads through my entire being. Can everyone see it? I feel like they must. How does Oliver even know my surname? Oh, that’s right. From my public display of affection over his profile photo …
But he’s standing there with an enormous black eye! And then he places a hand on his chest, and sort of … bows. Who in this century bows, other than people meeting royalty and karate participants signaling peaceful intentions? It’s almost as if he’s done his homework on me, found out my obsession with period drama, and is deliberately communicating in my mother tongue. It’ssomuch better than “hey.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He produces a camera from his backpack, and I hear Drew sigh.
“I’m here to take pictures of you,” he says. “For theGirlsexhibition.”
What exhibition?“Oh! That idea didn’t get over the line,” I tell him, trying not to glare at Drew.
“Nuh, it did,” someone says beside us. “The sports theme would have been so much more interesting.”
I’m confused. Drew is studiously polishing a lens. Did he make this happen? Is that what he was going to tell me just now?
“You know what would have made a great photo for the exhibition?” Oliver says. “You on Saturday night, drenched, with all the pristine girls blurred in the background.”
All the pristine girls blurred in the background.
Hedidnotice me. I hadn’t imagined it. And now he’s here, at Photography Club, greeting me with the politeness of a Jane Austen hero … bad-boy black eye, poetic compliments, and wanting to take my photo, acting like my dream boyfriend come to life.
“Oliver, what happened?” I reach out and almost touch his face, but he flinches before I make contact with his skin.
“There’s a story there,” he admits, with a half smile. “It sort of involves you.”
16
Drew
Watching Evie pretty much fall in love with Oliver Roche in real time, right here in the art studio, just after he’s stolen my thunder about the exhibition theme punctures any excitement I had for this club.
I’d wanted to tell her at the party, but that was thwarted by black-eyed Darcy here, who I’m certain has never taken a photo with a proper camera in his life. He’ll have it set on automatic and the photo will be nothing like what I’d achieve if I spent time properly balancing the light, capturing just enough detail in her face, at just the right angle to tell a story.
“Who hit you?” she asks him, and even I am intrigued.
“Tell you later,” he answers, master of the cliff-hanger, directing her toward two free seats.
“When did we decide we’re doing my idea?” she asks me, after they get cozy in the second row.
“We didn’t,” one of the other boys answers, annoyed.
“Is anyone new to crafting artist statements?” I ask the group. It’s met with a complete lack of enthusiasm. “Sometimes having a statement in mind can help in finding the subject. Like authors imagining a book cover before they write. It helps you work out what you want to say.”
Oliver casts Evie a warm smile, as if he’s composing his artist statement on the spot. Some brilliantly worded bit of poetry, no doubt; he’s top in English. You can’t fault the way he pursues a girl. It’s like he conducts a forensic search of her history and morphs into exactly the person she wants. Theater-obsessed when he was seeing Bethany. Outdoorsy with Rowena. Now he’s apparently taken with photography and eighteenth-century English literature.
“For today, let’s practice portrait shots,” I tell the group. “Try to experiment with aperture and how it changes the focus of the background. Sometimes you want the subject in focus and the background blurred. Other times the background is part of the story.”
I can’t bear the idea of talking anyone through the complexity of the exposure triangle when I just want to escape the real-life triangle of Oliver, Evie, and me. Not that it’s actually that shape. It’s more linear. Between just the two of them.
