Picture Me This

By Marina Lovechild

"One snap with the shutter of my camera, and you will be mine forever," he whispered.

My name is Sam, short for Samantha. I’m regular, boring and plain. During my time in college, the only class I could ever relax in was photography, or at least… until I met him.
The new photography teacher changed everything. He is too sexy for his own good, and his mind too twisted for words to describe. Now, I live every aching moment thinking about him, knowing that I shouldn’t. Together, we spiraled out of control, tumbled into the darkness, and honestly..? I think I like it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Lovechild
• Release date: Jul 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386450504

Book preview

Chapter 1: Sam

I’m regular, boring, and plain. I've never really liked it, but I've never been bothered enough to do anything about it. Instead, I get high. Not too often, but when college gets too unbearable, I need to haze my mind in order to deal with the pressure. I have no friends to confide to and my family believes me to be perfect, and I’d be an idiot to break their illusion. They pay my tuition after all.

As long as I behave in class, I can do whatever I like in between them. When it comes to not having any friends, it’s not that others haven’t tried, or that I haven’t tried... I just always seem to… fall out of touch with them after a while. All we can talk about is this small little place we like to consider our world—the college itself, and it’s not enough for me. Even so, I never tried to make them talk about anything else, so I guess the blame is on both parties.

I even thought I’d get along with dope heads like myself, but their ideas of deep conversation kills my buzz and also leaves a bitter aftertaste of reality mixed with senseless fiction.

I basically like being alone. I always have.

That’s why I’m so surprised when I see a man entering the dumpsters behind the school parking lot; a place that I’ve come to see as my own personal oasis. As he sees me sitting leaned against one of the dumpsters in my untied combat boots and baggy army jacket, he seems just as shocked to see me there. Especially when we realize that we both know each other.

Mr. Robertson? I call. His pristine white shirt almost blinds me in the sunlight, but there is no mistaking his short brown hair, perfectly trimmed beard and black rimmed glasses. He might only be a substitute teacher, but he’s quickly grown a reputation at my college, being one of the few people we’ve had that are still famous photographers instead of retired ones. Almost everyone knows what he looks like, even before they’ve met him. All they have to do is use the internet to find his image.

Samantha, he replies.

It's Sam, actually.

Oh, is it? he smiles, then he spots the joint in my hand. I try to hide it, but I know it’s too late. Funny, he continues, I never considered you to be the type that…

Got high?

One of my flaws when being on my second joint—I say the first thing that pops into my mind, and it’s often brutal honesty. Even when it’s not in my own favor.

Is that what you kids call it these days? he winks.

I laugh. You’re like five years older than me at most. I’m pretty sure we still use the same lingo. Want some? I reach out my joint, seeing that in my haste to hide it, it’s been unlit.

No… he murmurs, I… Like to stay clear headed.

Is that why you’re hiding behind a dumpster? I snort.

In fact… he muses, yeah. I like to take a break every now and then. Just like you, though I do it with other means.

So what are you hiding from? I ask him, picking up my lighter and bringing life into the short stump of rolled grass that I hold between two fingers.

I wait for Mr. Robertson to answer me, but seeing how intently he's watching me as I embrace the paper rolled stump between my lips, I wonder if he even heard my question. The paper is still moist from my ironically cherry-scented lip balm. I like the scent, and it makes me feel like a starlet from the ‘50s. I wonder if he’d roll his eyes at me if I told him that.

I look up and admire his tall stature, his brown hair illuminated by the sunlight, turning it into a tint of red. I thought I’d be nervous by this sort of weird intimacy, but I find myself liking the way he watches me from above. It’s almost possessive.

So... Sam, is it? How long have you been getting high in a cozy place like this?

I raise an eyebrow, realizing that he completely ignored to answer what he was hiding from. Now I'm even more intrigued. You didn’t answer my question.

Neither did you.

I sigh, knowing I've hit a dead end. Pot might make some people more inclined to open up, but by Mr. Robertson's reply I'm guessing it either doesn't affect him, or passive smoking doesn't really work like that. Does it really matter?

I’m just a worried teacher, that’s all, he smiles. His hands set themselves to rest inside of the pockets of his jeans, his body hunching against one of the dumpsters. I wonder if his beautiful white shirt is going to get dirty.

And I’m just a curious student, I reply, taking another draft from my joint. He looks down at me, his hazel eyes so focused I feel as though I'm exposed, but I don't know how. My cheeks start to burn, and I have to look away.

It must be hard being different than those around you, he says, nodding his head towards the campus. Students are sitting underneath trees and on benches, all enjoying the sun. Some are talking to each other, others reading books. But they all look happy.

What do you mean? I say, trying to ignore the sting that has arisen in my chest. It's as though Mr. Robertson knows that I'm not happy, and that I haven't been for a long time. In fact, I haven't really thought about it myself until now. I don't like it.

 People are laughing, smiling, and you keep wondering what the punch line is, he says.

I stare at him, my mouth open. I don't know what to reply.

At least, he continues, that's how I feel.

So instead, you decided to hang out with one your students behind a dumpster?

He chuckles. How terrible is that, huh? I'm new at campus, so I should acquaintance myself with the faculty, or at least the campus itself. I barely know where the library is.

You'd be wasting your time. Their art books are basically non-existent and I swear I saw a guy urinate amongst the classics.

Ah.

Mr. Robertson smiles at me again, but there's sadness lurking underneath it. How can a man of his stature feel so left out? Even if this is the first time we've talked, it's as though I've known him for years, and I want nothing more but to start pouring my heart out, because in my mind... he would understand. Because he would understand me.

I shake my head. It must be the joint talking, and who is to say this isn't one of his regular stunts to reel girls in? Basically all of my class desires him, and knowing how young he is, it's not like it would be frowned upon if he slept around with a few of them either. Because I'm a loner, does he think I'm an easy target?

I bet it must be tough having all of the college girls lusting after you, I blurt out. Bet you can barely catch a break, and that’s why you need to hide, so you can be yourself for a little while. I get up from my position, feeling my legs wobble as I do. I catch the side of the dumpster to regain my posture. By now he must be either scrutinizing me or pitying me, and I’m the kind of person who wants neither. Tell me, are the teachers after you, too? Fucked anyone of them lately?

He takes a step back, laughing, almost nervously. But there is a flame brooding underneath the surface. I can see it in his eyes that I made him uncomfortable, and I like it. He wants to be seen as being in control.

I can see that I have intruded on your safe place, he says, but I’d suggest you to be wiser next time when it comes to those things. He points towards my joint. You’re lucky it was me that saw you, because even though I might not have been teaching here long, but I’ve heard plenty to know that Mr. Longhorn is a real ballbuster when it comes to drug addicts.

I scoff, but I can’t get out a word thinking of what he insinuated I was a part of.

‘Drug addicts.’

See you in class, he says. If your mind is clear enough to remember the way, that is.

I stamp out my joint as soon as he leaves. My buzz has been ruined once again.

Chapter 2: Aiden

This town is small, and incredibly miserable. As soon as I stepped out of the car and started to unpack my belongings in the inconceivably small apartment which I was to call my home for the next year, I had regretted it immediately. Unfortunately, after having signed the contract with the town's college, I had given up the right to be anything else but their photography teacher for a semester.

One positive thing about my position here is the anonymity. Outside of campus, I can roam the streets in silence and without interruption. When I go to the store no one asks for my autograph or starts to giggle when they see me picking up a bottle of kid-like grape soda instead of coffee. I can drink or eat with abandon without ever being judged nor thinking about my image.

If I need to be remembered of how it feels to be watched constantly, all I have to do is go back to the college. Not all, but enough students, knows that I used to be someone famous, which is good enough for them to try to talk to me.

Except Samantha... She barely gave me the benefit of the doubt; labeling me as an old man trying to get into her pants as soon as I uttered a word to her. I may be an attention-seeker, but I do not abuse my power. I only like knowing that I have it, and that the people around me yearn for it. It's what I've been used to ever since I started my career, and it's the small part of it I still have left. Recognition.

Sam however seemed intent on proving my guilt rather than give me the adoration that I was seeking for. I wonder if I had previously given her a bad grade to make her think so low of me, or if she merely has problems with authority. The more her words had stung, the more had I wanted her to be on my side, which somehow made me try to hurt her just like she had hurt me. Unfortunately, my words had been hollow and I had left her seemingly unaffected.

I know it's childish of me, but somehow I can't rest until I find a way to put her in her place. If she thinks she can battle with a professional photographer, then I'll put her to the test and laugh as I see her fail.

Yeah... I know. Childish.

Chapter 3: Sam

I like to take pictures of myself. It’s not a vanity thing. Not really. I pose myself in ways so that my face is never seen, or I disguise myself into characters that people won’t relate to me. I thought it was because I was too embarrassed to ask someone else to pose for me, but to be honest I don’t think anyone else would want to.

Photography is the small joy I’ve had since coming to this college. All else is basically math, history, blah, blah, blah. We’re all studying to become the best and all that.

Even so, I know I’m no good at handling cameras, and the fact that Mr. Robertson remembered my name when we met was a sheer miracle. I barely ever speak up in class. I merely do the assignments, and since the ones I do bare qualify for a good grade, I know I’ve been hanging on by a thread.

Because of that, it's no small wonder that my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach as I enter the classroom of Mr. Robertson and hear him call out; The time has come for evaluation!

It has been mere hours since our conversation behind the dumpster, and I wish so desperately that it hadn't happened at all. As I take my seat together with a few other latecomers, people around us start to murmur, while I start shrinking deeper and deeper into my seat.

What kind of evaluation? they whisper, Are we to build groups and try to take portraits of each other?

Who would I even dare to ask if that was the case? Who would even want to be in the same group as me? Though to be fair, I'd rather have a subject handed to me rather than a camera and someone screaming Go! Be creative! because if your portrait of a classmate fails, at least you can try to blame it on them for sabotaging your photo op on purpose...

That’s right, he continues, tomorrow I would like you all to bring me your best work, limited to one photograph. I want to see your progress.

I hear excited voices spreading throughout the class room, intertwined with mutters colored by the same anxiety that I myself am experiencing. I hate all of my photos, and now he wants me to choose best? They're all rock bottom.

I hide my face in my palms. This is a terrible, terrible day. When I look up I can't stop myself from shooting a look at Mr. Robertson, seeing him twist a bemused smile towards the class. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to notice my