“I wasn’t not speaking to you. I texted. I said hello when you stopped by.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You know you can’t tell a lie to save your life. Come on.”
I climb out of the car and follow him up the concrete stairs to the entrance. A man in a janitor’s uniform opens one of the glass doors. He’s a big guy with glasses, probably in his late sixties. Charlie shakes his hand.
“Good to see you, Tony. Thanks for doing this.”
“Not a problem. I’m here all week anyway with school starting soon.”
“I appreciate it all the same. This is my friend Alice.”
“The photographer,” Tony says, shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I say as we step inside. The lobby of Madawaska Valley District High School looks like that of any high school: Speckled shining floors and fluorescent lights. Glass cases of trophies and photos. A set of doors that leads to what I assume is the cafeteria, with its long, uncomfortable-looking tables. I feel immediately out of place, the same as I did at Leaside High.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Tony says. “I’m sure you remember the way.” He gives me a stern look. “Make sure he stays out of trouble. I’ve taken care of enough of Charlie Florek’s messes to last a lifetime.”
“You’re famous in this town, huh?” I say as we walk down a dim hallway lined with blue lockers. He’s dressed in shorts and a hoodie, and it’s easy to imagine him walking in this same spot twenty years ago.
“It’s a town of twelve hundred people. Everyone’s famous.”
I hum. “I get the impression you’re special.”
Charlie stops in front of a door and pulls a single key from his pocket.
“What is this?” I ask when we step inside, though it’s clearly the art room. A space not so different from this one was my sanctuary as a teenager. The chairs sit, overturned, on large tables. There’s a sink and tall storage cupboards with stacks of paper and canvas stretcher bars on top. The walls are covered with color charts and posters detailing two-point perspectives. Drying shelves, wooden artist mannequins, canvas rolls. The smells of my youth come flooding back to me: freshly sharpened pencils, oil paints, turpentine.
“This,” Charlie says, watching me take it all in, “is my apology for putting you and Nan and Bennett in danger.”
“You’ve already apologized.”
“Not well enough.”
He takes a step to the side, and I follow his focus to the door at the far side of the room. There’s a light box over the top, the wordsIn Usewritten in red.
My jaw drops. “There’s a darkroom?”
“Yeah.” Charlie holds out the tote. Inside is my box of film. All the rolls I’ve shot this summer. “You’re free to use it as much as you’d like before the year starts.”
“How?”
“Because I’m famous in this town.” He smirks. “And the art teacher here, Olive, is the daughter of one of my mom’s good friends.”
I stare at Charlie, speechless and enormously touched. He knows that I miss using a darkroom. My heart feels too big for my chest, like it might crack right open. I’m smitten. I’m struck. I’m crushed by the totality of Charlie. This complicated, kind, infuriating man.
“I also promised to buy Olive a bunch of supplies for her classroom.”
“Thank you.” My voice catches, and I blink away the stingingin my eyes. “No one has ever done something like this for me before.”
Charlie brushes this off with a wave of his hand. “Text me when you’re done, and I’ll come pick you up.”
“You’re not staying?”
“Nah. I don’t trust you to keep your hands to yourself in that tiny room. I’m irresistible in red light.”
“You’ve been in there before?”
“Yep.”
