Edges

Casey's always preferred photos to paintings. There's something about the crisp realism of a photograph that he responds to, unlike the soft-edged illusions of paint on canvas. Perhaps it's because the photographs seem to reveal truths while the paintings hide seductive lies in tempera and oil.

Casey knows all about lies.

He knows about the bitter untruths of adults who look at him but never see his bruises or his blood-stained clothing. He knows about innocent words spoken by fellow students in tones sharp enough to wound. He knows about casual cruelty passed off as "teasing". Casey knows the kinds of things that are said about him when he isn't in the room.

Casey knows about hiding.

The weight of the camera is both a comfort and a burden. He wears it around his neck like a shield some days, and thinks it makes him a little bit invincible. He's noticed that Gabe and the others are less likely to shove him into lockers if he has the camera, which is why Casey really hates gym class. He's not absolutely certain why the camera protects him, because he doesn't know Gabe and the others all that well, but he suspects that they like having their photos in the school newspaper, and as much as everyone seems to dislike Casey, even Delilah seems to respect his photos. Maybe. At least a little.

Casey really hates the Coach for making him leave the camera locked away in the darkroom during gym class -for safety, of course.

Casey thinks that if he ever got Coach into a museum, Coach would probably prefer the sculptures. He doesn't seem like a photograph kind of person. Actually, Coach doesn't seem much like a museum person.

Delilah seems to only like photographs when she's in them, or when she's using them to harass someone. Casey noticed that the series of photos she made him take of last year's homecoming parade had disappeared from the photo file. Delilah hated last year's homecoming queen. Casey imagined that somewhere in Delilah's house was a dartboard with those photos on it. He thinks Delilah with any pointed object would be pretty frightening.

Actually, Delilah herself is pretty frightening.

She and Stokely are arguing again, another catfight by the water fountain, when Stan intervenes. Delilah looks like she might turn on him when he takes her arm, but then she just gives Stokes an odd smile and walks away with Stan.

Stokely stomps off in the other direction, and the rest of the students grumble a little, feeling cheated out of a spectacle. Casey waits a minute, then follows Stokes. He's pretty sure she would pick photos over paintings, too. If anyone ever cared to ask her.

By the time he gets outside, Stokes is out of sight. Casey hesitates, looking around, and his gaze settles on Zeke, lingering on the long form where it leans against the side of the school, smoking casually in blatant disregard of the rules.

Casey takes a shallow breath, his fingers twitching almost involuntarily, wanting to capture that image on film.

Photos. Definitely. Zeke Tyler would choose photos. Casey can envision the two of them in a museum, side by side, moving quietly through a gallery, speaking only occasionally as they absorbed the truths displayed around them. Heads tilting towards each other so they could speak without disturbing the other patrons. Going to the gift shop afterwards and buying a postcard of their favorite work as a souvenir, then stopping off somewhere for a soda and talking, losing all track of time until the sky was streaked orange and the stars began to appear. Leaving the car, laughing and rubber-legged from the hours on their feet followed by sitting too long, not wanting the day to end. Parting with the words: "I know a little gallery on Seventh..."

Zeke turns his head and blows out a lazy stream of smoke. His lips curl up and his eyes are dark under his bangs. He raises his hand and it hovers mid-air for a second before he completes the motion, bringing the cigarette to his lips.

Casey lays a hand on the camera and breathes. Someone pushes him from behind and says something nasty. Casey doesn't really hear the words but his body responds to the tone. He moves away, his shoulders hunching forward. A flash of a familiar hostile face jolts him and he remembers he's on a mission to find Stokely. When he looks back towards the wall, Zeke is gone.

Casey knows all about truth, too.

He thinks about Stokely's cold-eyed stare and clipped voice when he tries to talk to her, giving him non-answers and turning her body away from him in hard-edged anger. He presses his hand against his camera and stands aside, letting her go without protest, watching her from the corner of his eye as she trudges off. "No man is an island," he thinks, "but this woman might be a peninsula."

At home, he sets down his camera and lays down on his bed, his hand on his chest. Closing his eyes, he thinks about Zeke and the museum again. He thinks about hard edges. Beside him on the wall are a few of his favorite black and white photos - shots taken when the subjects were unaware of the camera's watchful eye. Casey chose each one of them for what it reveals - Delilah's soft smile, Stokely's unwary gaze, Zeke's relaxed posture. Sometimes after a long day the photos make Casey sad and he wants to take them down, but something always stops him. Today is no exception.

He opens his eyes and turns his head, face mere inches away from the photos, so close that the images almost blur. He shifts backward until the lines resolve and he studies the familiar images a very long time. The light changes as the sun dims and his eyes get heavy. He blinks against the somnolence of inactivity. Slowly he slides forward, a half-inch, then another, the figures in the photos blurring slightly until their edges soften into an undefined haze.

He thinks of Monet and Renoir and the wood-paint-polish scent of museums. He imagines the warmth of a hand pressing into his and an arm against his, breath ghosting against his ear and a soft, rasping laugh tickling against his neck.

He looks up again at the images on his wall, sharp lines gone soft focus, and he allows himself a smile. He slides a hand along his chest and inhales, stretching. Casey decides that, maybe this once, some soft edges might not be so bad after all.

:::end:::

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