If I'm Being Honest(25)
“I need help on today’s assignment,” I reply, undeterred.
“Which part, specifically?” he asks evenly.
“Um.” I give the board a quick glance. “The . . . first part?”
The hard line of his mouth curls in a frown. “Why don’t you get started,” he says, “and you can raise your hand if you get stuck. I’ll send Mr. West over.”
He starts to walk away, and everything pent up in me for the past week forces out my next words. “Come on,” I say. “That’s it? I defended you today. I’m going to keep doing it, too. By the end of the week, you’ll be Brendan. Not BB.”
Brendan walks back to me, and I’m caught for a moment by the commanding intensity in his expression as he looms over me. “I don’t need or want you fighting my battles for me. I can stand up for myself. Here, watch: Cameron Bright, return to your assignment and don’t bother me again.”
He returns to his desk, leaving me in the middle of the aisle, a little stunned. I know I should be frustrated, offended, demoralized.
I’m not. I’m impressed.
I sit down in front of my computer, an approving smile forming on my lips.
Thirteen
I’M ON FAIRFAX THE NEXT DAY, TAKING photos on my phone. I had the time today when cross-country ended—I finished my Econ homework yesterday, I checked ahead in the Ethics textbook and wrote this week’s paper over the weekend, and of course I’m way ahead of the class in The Taming of the Shrew.
I don’t want to go home. Not with my mother and me pretending to ignore each other. Hours to myself to photograph are exactly what I need.
I don’t love Fairfax. It’s dirty and noisy. It’s like the music in every restaurant and trendy store is turned up ten notches too high. It’s crowded—people wait outside some of the stores with literal camping equipment, prepared to stay overnight in hopes of grabbing a jacket or pair of sneakers. While parking in Los Angeles is never easy, only varying degrees of frustrating, parking on Fairfax is a crime against humanity.
I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t better than nearly everywhere in the entire city for inspiration. It’s where I come every time I want web design ideas, and it never disappoints. Parts of the Arts District give it competition, but when it comes to design, Fairfax is unparalleled.
I grab a quick photo of the juxtaposition between the hard, industrial font of a gym on the corner and the jagged, indecipherable pink graffiti on the outer wall. It’s a great combo. If I ever design a website for a musician or a club or something it would be perfect.
Not that I ever would. Not with Penn or Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market. Web design is only a hobby, not the kind of thing I could do professionally. Not the route to a life resembling my dad’s—
I cut off the train of thought. I can take a day for a hobby. I’ll return to Econ tomorrow, to my almost-finished Wharton application and worrying about the internship.
Today, I’m taking one afternoon to cut myself loose from the thick cords of my life pulling me down—pulling me apart. The helpless positions my mom puts me in. The accomplishments I need to achieve to prove I’m worthy of my dad’s pride. The inadequacy of my entire personality to a friend I respect, a problem I can’t figure out how to remedy right now. For one afternoon, I need to escape it all.
I wander down the block, passing advertisements for concerts and movies—identical posters copied over and over in a nonsensical row. Sweet and spicy air wafts over me from the churro cart. I’m about to go over and grab one when I’m drawn by my camera to the sign over a coffee shop. It’s lettered in swooping, old-school font on a blue background. It’s a nice blue, heavier than sky blue, but more complicated than American-flag blue.
I could photograph everything, honestly. The billboards that are more art than advertisement. The graffiti spray-painted onto the sidewalk. The coffee shops neighboring delis from the thirties.
I’m about to cross the street to check out a café when I hear my name. “Bright!”
Nobody calls me that. Well, nearly nobody.
Reluctantly, I glance back to find Paige Rosenfeld climbing out of a car as crappy as mine. She’s illegally parked in front of the red-painted curb for a fire hydrant.
“You want to make it up to me, right?” she calls. From the trunk of the car she hefts a cardboard box over to the curb.
“Um,” I say, confused. “Right?”
Paige grins. “Carry this into the Depths of Mordor for me.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
She nods in the direction of the storefront windows behind me. Following her eyes, I find THE DEPTHS OF MORDOR written over a display of dusty paperbacks with elaborate fantasy covers.
I cross my arms. “You know,” I call, “wanting you to forgive me doesn’t make me your personal slave.”
Paige’s grin never falters. She shrugs. I notice a meter maid driving up the street—and I guess Paige does, too, because without a word she climbs into her car and pulls away from the curb.
I gaze at the box.
I just wanted the afternoon off. But . . . I don’t have to go home for a couple of hours. I doubt my mom would bother calling even if I didn’t come home for dinner. I do want to work on getting Paige to like me.