Page 22 of Surrender to Me

Chapter 13

“Stop it!” Misty squealed through the walls. “I can’t even with you. Oh my god, Clay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The screeching joy was a level of happiness I had learned to expect from my housemate, but the volume level at six a.m. was still nauseating. “Ahhhh!”

I covered my ears with a pillow. I had turned nocturnal these last few days with night shifts at No Doze and sculpting in my free time. I climbed out of bed and walked to the shower, rubbing my eyes, pretending like I didn’t hear the two lovebirds’ chatter. I think I even heard Clay saying those three words…

Braggers.

It was Valentine’s Day, so I guess it was to be expected. I wondered what Clay’s extravagant gesture was as I rinsed my hair. What was an extravagant gesture to one couple, was completely inane to another, and with me, being single and all? Everything made me want to puke.

I had to pick up my developed film and printed photographs from the darkroom on campus, but that would only take a few minutes. They were the photographs from the party at Surrender, and I was excited to see them enlarged and in daylight. But my real plan for the day was a shift at the No Doze. I fully expected Bobby to drown us in muddy buddies and chocolate cake as a peace offering for the shift, and while my sweet tooth was never disappointed, I was mildly bummed that Clay had taken the shift off. We had survived it the last two years together. He made sure the drunken assholes leaving the strip clubs never tried anything with me, and I kept his wallet in check from disappearing into a fully nude juice bar. We protected each other, like big sister and little brother, but more like a physically tall and gangly brother and a bossy, but little, know-it-all sister. It would be weird working without him this year.

I rolled my eyes at myself. “Enough with the pity party,” I muttered. After I was dressed, I headed to the Foundation, wondering if there would be any hardcore artists there, stretching their day out until they had to join the Singles Awareness Day shenanigans. The studio was empty, but there was one woman hunched over an enlarger in the darkroom. The chemical scent wafted through the air. The smile dropped from my face as I saw the empty clothespins hanging on the line. Not a single picture was there.

I raced over to the rinsing tray, thumbed my way through the pictures—nothing. What the fuck had happened to my work?

I went through the revolving circular door and checked my cubby for my film and prints: everything was gone. My heart was racing at the possibilities—they could still be around, held hostage in the wrong cubby or tray, lost somewhere, an accident, or they could be destroyed. I imagined someone being offended by the scenes taking place in each photograph to the point of rage, ripping them off of the lines, shoving them in an abandoned corner of the studio. That seemed unlikely in a city as liberal as San Francisco, but either way, I was desperate to know where the photographs and film were. Even if I lost the prints, if I had the film, I could recover them easily.

After a few deep breaths, I returned to the darkroom and approached the woman.

“Hey,” I said. Her enlarger clicked off, then she turned towards me. “Have you seen anyone else here? I made some prints, and—”

“Check the trash,” she said and nodded towards the can by the door. I walked over slowly; pictures of smiles and masquerade masks, grimaces, the sliver of a wrist holding a raised whip, hands clutching rope, veins straining in necks. All of it torn to shreds and my film cut up in tiny translucent pieces beneath it. The pieces fell through my fingers like beads of sand in an hourglass. I let them go; there was nothing I could do now.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Lauder was here earlier,” she said.

“You didn’t stop him?” I asked quietly. The woman turned to her enlarger and shrugged.

“I don’t ask questions,” she said.

My eyes burned as I walked to my car. I told myself it was nothing, that I was only walking fast and clutching my fists to keep warm, but I couldn’t get the feeling of anger out of my head. Michael had destroyed my art, something I would never even dream of doing to another person, even if I didn’t like them. And he had destroyed something I had worked hard to get. I had finally spent enough time with the members of Surrender for them to trust me, to let me capture their essence, and now what would they think? In a way, Michael had destroyed a gift Owen had given me. I knew Michael didn’t like me, but this was an act of hatred.

I called Bobby on the way to the house and told him what happened. I was a mess.

“Stay home,” he said. “We’ll handle it.”

A knock on my bedroom door shook me from my slumpy pile of misery.

“Yeah?” I sniffled.

“Can I come in?” Clay asked.

“Go away,” I said. I felt like a pathetic teenager, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be alone. I heard Misty whisper something to Clay.

“Did something happen with Owen?” Misty asked. “Hey!” she said, which must have been a response to Clay poking her in the ribs.

“Nothing happened with Owen,” I said.

“Nothing?” Misty asked.

“Nothing.”

“Can we get you anything?” Clay asked.

I grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at the door. “Go away!”

“Sheesh,” Clay mumbled.