CLICK.
The shutter in my head snaps, and there’s a picture of Don Cranston, editor in chief of the Windale Press, looking through a stack of my photos. He’s a wiry man with a bristly mustache, white skin, and an ever-widening bald spot on the very top of his head. The hair that rings it isn’t quite brown, but it’s not totally gray, either. It’s the color of dead leaves in the fall.
Don is examining my photos with a level of scrutiny I would only associate with a jeweler peering through a loupe at the crystalline angles of a diamond. He’s even got a magnifying glass nearby. There’s a reason Chief Albright likes to refer to Don as “Mr. Junior Detective.” Don lives and breathes with the tiny, intricate movements of our small town, stalking from corner to corner in a long tan trench coat, scribbling in his pocket notebook. The magnifying glass really puts that image over the top.
After a few minutes, Don finally sets down my stack of pictures. His oversized wooden desk stretches between us, and he watches me across it. His fingers are laced together over his mouth.
“You’re friends with the chief’s son, right?” he says finally.
“Yeah…,” I reply, readjusting my seat in the chair. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It doesn’t,” Don says. “I just wanted to see if you’d ask that question. You’re applying for the summer internship?”
“Uh … yes. Why else would I be here?” I cock my head at him, confused and weirdly uncomfortable.
“Another good question. You know you’re one of many applicants for this program, right?”
“Wait, really?”
“Well … no. But it’s still a tough program.”
“I assumed so,” I say, already regretting coming down here. “That’s why I wanted to be a part of it. I’m trying to get into a good journalism school.”
Don eyes me for a moment. “That’s admirable. And I’m honored that you’d consider the Press to help you in that journey.” For that split second, he almost sounds genuine. “But one thing they’ll teach you in journalism school is what exactly assumptions are and whom exactly they make an ass out of.” He waggles his bushy eyebrows in a very Groucho Marx kind of way, and I’m suddenly ready for this interview to be over. My friends are meeting up soon for lunch on Dagger Hill, and I can’t think of a better way to spend my afternoon.
“Listen, Don—er, Mr. Cranston,” I say. “I just need a few good internship hours for my college application. Can you help me or not?”
Don pauses, trying to look intimidating but failing. Eventually he sighs and removes his glasses. “Your pictures are really good, Mr. Bencroft,” he says. “And I mean really good. Not only can you come in here whenever you want over the summer, but if for some reason the college thing doesn’t pan out, I’ll hire you the second you graduate high school. The Press could use a photographer like you.”
I emerge from the Windale Press office a few minutes later. It’s an old, tilted building at the corner of King Street and Perkiomen Avenue, only about two miles west of the Triangle. The sky is bright and blue and full of possibility. It’s going to be a hot one today, but I’ve got my red puffer vest and my dad’s hat on. Not to mention his old Polaroid Sun 600 draped over my shoulders. I take a big whiff of premium summer air and let it out in a long whistle.
Up the street, some kids are playing hopscotch along the sidewalk. It’s extra hard because the concrete is broken and buckled, lifted by old tree roots. I stop, aim my camera, snap the shot. The picture comes sliding out the front, a gray square. I won’t know if it’s a decent shot until it’s fully developed, but that’s part of the fun. Risking what feels most precious—in this case, a piece of film that may or may not have been wasted—and taking the chance anyway, waiting to see how it all turns out, being okay with the outcome no matter what …
My friend Kimberly would call that blind optimism. I just think of it as hope.
Thinking of Kim, I check my watch. Her shift is almost up at the diner. Gabe and Sonya are supposed to meet us outside, then we’re going up to Dagger Hill for lunch. After that, it’s back to Sonya’s place for a while, then on to the premiere of Ghostbusters II tonight.
As I head east on King Street, flapping the undeveloped photo at my side, I notice a dense knot of black clouds to the north. Right now they’re just a single blemish on a smooth, perfect sky. I’m sure if there is a storm, it won’t interrupt our lunch.
I hope.