“For the flotilla, you mean? I thought about it, but I figured it would be a waste of time. I tried last year, and I couldn’t get the photos to turn out right. The colored lights all came out white.”
“Did you try using the automatic setting?”
“I tried everything, but I still couldn’t make it work. At the time, I didn’t realize I should have used a tripod and adjusted the ISO, but even then, the images probably wouldn’t have come out. I think the boats were too far offshore, and obviously they were moving.”
I had no idea what any of that meant. “Seems complicated.”
“It is and it isn’t. It’s like learning anything in that it takes time and practice. And even if I think I know exactly what to do for a shot, I still find myself changing the aperture constantly. When I shoot in black and white—which I normally do—I also really have to watch the timer in the darkroom to get the shading just right. And now, with Photoshop, there’s even more I can do in post.”
“You have your own darkroom?”
“My dad built it for my mom, but I use it, too.”
“You must be an expert.”
“My mom’s the expert, not me. When I have a problem with a print, either she helps or Richard does. Sometimes both of them.”
“Richard?”
“With Photoshop, I mean. He automatically understands anything computer related, so if it’s a Photoshop issue, he can figure it out. It’s irritating.”
I smiled. “I take it that your mom taught you photography, right?”
“She did. She’s taken some incredible shots over the years.”
“I’d like to see them. The darkroom, too.”
“I’ll be happy to show you.”
“How did your mom get into photography?”
“She said she just picked up a camera one day in high school, took some photos, and got hooked. After I was born, neither my mom nor my dad wanted to put me in daycare, so she began to freelance with a local photographer on weekends, when my dad could stay with me. Then, whenever we moved, she’d find work assisting a new photographer. She did that up until the twins came along. By then, she’d started homeschooling me—and taking care of them—so photography became more of a hobby. But she still goes out with her camera whenever she can.”
I thought about my own parents, trying to figure out their passions, but aside from work, family, and church, I couldn’t come up with anything. My mom didn’t play tennis or bridge or anything like that; my dad had never played poker or whatever it was guys did when they hung out together. They both worked; he took care of the yard and the garage and emptied the garbage, while she cooked, did laundry, and cleaned the house. Aside from going out to dinner every other Friday, my parents were pretty much homebodies. Which probably explained why I didn’t do much, either. Then again, Morgan had the violin, so maybe I was just making excuses.
“Will you keep up the photography once you get to West Point?”
“I doubt I’ll have the time. It’s a fairly regimented schedule.”
“What do you want to do in the army?”
“Maybe intelligence, like my dad? But part of me wonders what it would be like to go the special forces route and become a Green Beret or get selected for Delta.”
“Like Rambo?” I asked, referring to the Sylvester Stallone character.
“Exactly, but hopefully without the PTSD afterward. And again, we’re back to talking about me. I’d like to hear about you.”
“There’s not much to say.”
“What’s it been like? Moving to Ocracoke, I mean?”
I hesitated, wondering whether I wanted to talk about it or how much I would tell him, but that feeling lasted only a few seconds and evolved to Why not? After that, the words just began to spill out. While I didn’t tell him about J—what was there really to say, other than that I was stupid?—I told him about my mom finding me puking in the bathroom and picked up from there, talking about everything right up until the moment he’d shown up to tutor me. I thought it would be harder, but he didn’t interrupt me often, allowing me the space I needed to tell the story.
By the time I finished, there was only half an hour left before the ferry was going to dock, and I was saying a silent prayer of thanks that I’d bundled up. It was freezing and we retreated to the van, where Bryce pulled out a thermos and poured two cups of hot chocolate. His parents were chatting up front and we said a quick hello before they went back to their conversation.