Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 1) (4 page)

The entirety of my apartment wasn’t even as big as Shawn’s room, I realized, pacing from the carpet to the linoleum of the tiny kitchen, then to the carpet of the shoebox bedroom and the linoleum of the bathroom. When I sat on the toilet, my knees knocked against the cabinet beneath the sink.

When I’d first moved in, helping my foster dad heft the secondhand couch we’d bought for the joke of a living room, it had been everything. I was thrilled to be in San Francisco, at my own place, striking out all by myself—with a little bit of help. Even though my foster parents were gearing up to take in another kid, they’d urged me to take my bed to college, gifting me with an arsenal of plastic dishes and cheap cutlery to equip my kitchen.

We’d all cried when the final box was inside, my foster mom insisting on staying long enough to help me unpack and organize, my foster dad shooing her outside, saying that they were my things to put where I wanted, my wings to spread.

It was Patrick’s wealth on display with his fleet of cars and ostentatious house that made me feel like my apartment wasn’t worth a damn. It was a terrible realization. There was nothing wrong with this place, and it was idiocy to compare it to a billionaire’s home.

I flopped down on the bed and examined my camera. It was easily worth more than every item in this apartment combined. It was a model even more advanced than the small army of cameras the photography department loaned out on a project-by-project basis. In addition to the soft leather bag and actual body of the camera, there were three different lenses I could attach, depending on the nature of what I was shooting. There was a flash—what else was down there? I dug deeper into the bag and found a set of memory cards, a USB cable, an extra battery with charger, a cleaning kit, and a tripod, all folded up and compact enough to take with me everywhere.

I heaved a sigh and studied the bag, which had absolutely no signs of wear and tear, not a speck of dust or dirt on it. Had he even ever opened it? Even the USB cable still had a twisty tie, arranged perfectly in a figure eight. What was it like to have more money than you knew what to do with? I would always know what to do with my money, if I ever got any. I had goals.

But strangely enough, the goal that always remained at the top of my list had just been completed.

Get nicest camera money could buy? Check.

I carried the bag to my photography class later that week, tripod and all, to see what my professor thought about it. I’d spent the better part of the beginning of my day in the library, gobbling down everything I could find about the model. The strangest fact—it wasn’t even out on the market yet. I had to rely on a slim manual I’d located in yet another pocket of the bag I’d neglected to discover last night.

Patrick had a dazzling amount of money, and I knew he had to be well connected, but the fact that I’d benefited directly from it was a little mind boggling as an understatement. I almost felt like a criminal ushering the bag and its contents across campus. But most of me felt like I imagined a new mother might behave, cradling the bag to my side, taking care not to jostle it too much as I walked, and eyeing everyone I passed like they might want to try to steal it from me. They couldn’t have it. Patrick had given it to me. It was mine.

I’d considered tossing my little digital camera once and for all, once I’d seen the power of the photos that my new camera could produce, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It had been a gift from my foster parents, something they’d had to sacrifice to give me, and it would still do in a pinch. I instead tucked it into a drawer. This could be the beginning of its happy retirement. It had gotten me through college, nearly.

The photography studio was bright and airy, large windows partially obscured by blinds that could be shut so the room would be darkened if we were watching a presentation or reviewing one another’s work. All around the walls, students—past and present—had posted their favorite works. Being in this classroom never failed to inspire me.

We met once a week for class. Shawn liked to tease me that it was a fluff course—that I could goof around without having to actually show up like he did for his visual art studio time. But the truth of the matter was that a majority of the learning took place outside of the classroom. We applied the suggestions and criticisms we received from one another and the professor outside, taking photos in the real world.

“Let’s begin.”

We all found our seats and focused our attention toward the center of the room, where a tiny, nut-brown, old woman stood. Despite her stature, Mercedes Valdez commanded the room at all times. She had a strange energy that crackled around her, making everyone pay attention—whether they wanted to or not. It was as if all of the most essential and important parts of a regular person had been boiled down, distilled into a tiny, powerfully concentrated package.

That was Mercedes. She was my absolute favorite professor.

Mercedes was the one who’d, out of the blue, offered me means to attend the art institute here in San Francisco. My foster parents had encouraged me to apply to college, as had the guidance counselor at my high school, but I felt rudderless in my search. I didn’t have fantastic grades, and though I knew my foster parents would support me in whatever direction I headed, they just didn’t have the means to fund my education. It wasn’t something I resented. It was just a fact.

I’d taken to asking for a CD of my photos, along with the hard copies, anytime I got a disposable camera developed. It made it easier to upload my work onto social media—something I started doing more and more toward the end of my high school career. I liked the feedback I gained from the profiles that followed me, and I liked the challenge of having an audience for my work. God love them, my foster parents oohed and ahhed over my work, but they didn’t really know what went into composing the perfect shot. I didn’t really know, either. I clicked the shutter when it felt right. My followers were the ones who professed the apparent perfection of my shots.

Mercedes was one of my many followers. I’d perused her profile several times, intrigued by the way she warped the reality of her shots using digital software. It was some wonderful blend of photography and fine art.

When she started commenting on my work, she offered some of the most useful feedback out of anyone. Sure, it made me preen for someone to declare their adoration of a photo, but it didn’t help me get any better. Mercedes had real ideas about how to improve my shots, and she inspired me to push myself to keep improving. I was suspicious, but intrigued, one afternoon, to see a direct message from her waiting in my inbox. She’d always kept her comments public, completely transparent. What had she said that required the privacy of a direct message?

Fearing the worst (that I actually wasn’t worth a damn, that she thought I was a fraud, that Mercedes was a man masquerading behind the profile photo of an older woman, waiting to gain my trust so he could flash his genitalia at me), I opened the message and was surprised by a series of links, a phone number, and this:

“You are one of the most gifted young photographers on this site. I'm a professor at the Art Institute of San Francisco, and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to get you here in the fall. Look at the links I’m sending you. Talk it over with your parents. And give me a call.”

My foster parents were much more suspicious than intrigued, but everything panned out. The links led to the institute’s website, not pornography, and Mercedes had been warm and kind over the phone, answering my foster parents’ questions and inviting us for a campus visit.

We took a train up to San Francisco, which was an experience in of itself, and the rest, as they say, was history. I fell in love with the strange but artistic campus, rooted in history but forward thinking. This was something I wanted deeply to be a part of. And it was Mercedes who assuaged my foster parents’ concerns about everything.

“She’s just a train ride away from home if there are any doubts or if you want to visit,” she had said, as we all hovered around an incredible mural painted by someone famous. “And this truly is a place to grow. Loren’s already at an advanced level in photography, but this is the right college for her to become even more of an expert. She’ll be challenged here.”

“I don’t doubt that she’ll be challenged,” my foster dad had said slowly. “My concern is just…San Francisco is an expensive place to live. This college is expensive, too.”

Mercedes held up her hands. “All taken care of.”

“All taken care of?” my foster mom repeated. “What does that mean?”

“The institute has many endowments, but a particularly generous one from a famous photographer enables us to bring one photography student to attend school here on a full ride,” Mercedes explained. “I’ve taken the liberty of submitting Loren’s name and some of her work for this consideration, and it’s hers, if she wants it.”

“Do you want it?” My foster parents looked at me. They both had dark hair and dark eyes, contrasting greatly with my light blond hair and blue eyes. Throughout my childhood, it had only served as constant reminders that I didn’t belong. That I was an outsider. Unwanted.

But when I nodded and they enveloped me in a tight embrace, I’d never felt closer to them. This was it. They’d seen me through a turbulent childhood, plucked me out of a terrible situation because they’d seen something in me, and now they saw that I was going to turn out all right. I was going to turn out better than all right. The Art Institute of San Francisco wanted me. I was going to be something.

“What have you got for me today, Loren?” The rest of the class was talking quietly; Mercedes had been doing one-on-one meetings with each student and reviewing the photos they’d been shooting, and now it was my turn. Even though the meetings were supposed to be casual conversations, I noted a distinct hush fall over the room. It was always like that when I showed my work. The hush fell somewhere on the spectrum between awe and exasperation. In my very first photography class at the institute, an upperclassman taking the course as an elective demanded to know why I had to be so good. It had flummoxed me. I didn’t ask to be talented at something, nor could I grasp the idea that my talent might be offensive to other people.

I retrieved my envelope of photos from my tote bag, and Mercedes laughed.

“You know, you could save a lot of money if you just showed me your images on a screen,” she told me. It wasn’t the first time, but I just couldn’t afford a laptop.

“There’s something special about having prints,” I said, smiling as I hefted the weight of all those moments in my hands. “Something different from a screen.”

The students sitting nearest me craned their necks to glean glances of my work as I handed it over to Mercedes. I’d never been prouder of a set of photos. They were all from the morning at the bridge with the camera Patrick had gifted me. I hadn’t spoken to him since that day, I realized with a flush. The day of the bridge. The day of the camera.

The day of the kiss.

“Loren, these shots are a giant leap forward for you,” Mercedes said, not even halfway through the roll. “What’s changed?”

“Something pretty major,” I said, unzipping the camera bag and taking the camera out. I instantly had the attention of the entire class as my professor gasped, enchanted.

“But this model isn’t coming out until next year,” she said, her hands hovering over the body of the camera. “Can…can I?”

“Of course.” She’d entrusted me with so many of the department’s cameras. Surely to goodness I could trust her not to break the camera that Patrick had given me.

“How did you come by this?” she asked, flipping on the display, scrolling through the settings.

“I guess I had connections I didn’t know I had,” I said, feeling sheepish as I sensed the resentment building around me. “Patrick Paulson—my friend Shawn’s dad. Shawn’s a visual arts major.”

“Ah, yes. That painter who has the terrible crush on you.” Mercedes handed the camera back to me amid a couple of audible snickers. I flushed, wondering what people were thinking and fearing the worst.

“Shawn and I are just friends,” I said. “Best friends.”

“That’s one half of the equation, maybe,” my professor said, smiling, and then refocused on the task at hand while I sat there, puzzled. “You’re a very lucky young woman. You’ve been turning in some of the most inspired and innovative shots in this program, and you’ve usually only had a point and shoot at your disposal. This really takes it to the next level, Loren. I expect amazing things from you.”

Someone muttered a criticism of my new advantage a little too loudly, and my professor perked up. She had ears like a bat.

“Here’s an impromptu lecture, even if we didn’t have plans for one today,” she said, strolling back to the center of the room. “You should never be satisfied with your work—never. If you have that one person in the class who consistently turns in stronger work than yours, that’s the muse who should push you to become even better. Keep taking photos. Get out there. I can’t say it enough. Explore the city. Go everywhere you can. And never neglect to take your camera. You’ll surprise yourself with what you’re able to achieve, but you can never, ever be satisfied. You’ll become bound by your own limitations, unable to advance in your art.”

Everyone around me absorbed this silently, nodding here and there, but I was enraptured.

This was excellent advice—only I wasn’t applying it to photography.

I was going to apply it to Patrick.

I wasn’t going to be satisfied with his dismissal of me. That kiss at the bridge had been real.

I wasn’t going to let the limitations keep me from getting what I wanted: Patrick.