One Golden Summer(85)

“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 words In Use written 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 stinging in 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.”

“With a girl?”

Charlie winks. “With more than one.”

And with that, he turns and walks toward the door. “I’ll see you when you’re done,” he calls over his shoulder.

I stare at the darkroom door, a smile unfolding on my lips.



* * *





My first task is to take an inventory of the equipment and orient myself. This darkroom isn’t set up for color developing, but there’s plenty of black-and-white film in the bag Charlie brought. After giving myself a Google refresher, I begin mixing the developer, stopper, and fixer chemicals, pouring them into separate cylinders.

The vinegar smell transports me to a time when my world narrowed to another small room like this one. I used to spend hours upon days to get the perfect print, making contact sheets, testing and retesting the exposure to nail the contrast. Then doing it all over again with a single negative, enlarging it and running test prints, searching for the exact right balance of light and dark.

I turn on the red light so I can get a roll out of its canister. I won’t develop any photos today—the negatives have to be processed first. I steady my hands as best I can and manage to get the film onto a reel and into the developing tank without scratching it. I triple-check the amount of time it needs in each solution and how often I need to turn it over to agitate the chemicals.

There’s a scientific quality to this work that I find soothing. About ten minutes later, when I’m adding water to the developing tank to rinse off the chemicals, my face is scrunched in concentration, but my soul is singing. I should probably stop at one roll in case I’ve botched it, but I’m enjoying myself too much. I move on to a second.

When I’m ready to leave, there are three strips hanging to dry. I clean up, feeling lighter than I did when I entered the room. I’ve made art for nobody but myself. Even if there’s nothing here deserving of a gallery wall, that’s worth something.

My face is flushed with pleasure when I exit the school. Then I spot Charlie.