the sweetest coating
won't matter
if there's poison
inside
Chris McGeown, from "Innermost"
Lena Grey is sixteen years old when she meets Jack Napier.
Well, perhaps this is a generous way of putting it: calling it a meeting as if it's preordained and inevitable rather than an unlucky happenstance.
She's in her sophomore English Lit class, the room frigid and damp with light bleeding through the slated windows; the bitter fall wind whistles through poorly sealed frames. Ms. Batson, a lively woman who speaks loudly and with verve, stands at the chalkboard writing out plot points from The Portrait of a Lady, and Lena's classmates sit in varying stages of alertness: the ones taking diligent notes sit at the front; the ones who don't care but have friends sit in the back, chatting in low tones and barely holding in their giggles at some ill-conceived joke; and then there are the kids watching the clock, waiting for the little hand to drag up to 10 AM. Lena isn't paying attention to any of them; she often doesn't. Her hand, tacky with smudged ink, pulls the edges of the paper from her notebook's spine; little accidental fractures turning into gouges with each swooping curve.
Why be in class when she can be somewhere else?
Tall pines and great oak trees hug the spine of a long, winding river. The dark water is still and clear as glass, reflecting upward a blurred mirror world. The air smells clean, thick with green and life and heavy with coming rain. Wet mud spreads between her bare toes. The water ripples out, slow and lazy when the tip of her finger dances across the surface, cool and inviting.
She's never been here before, but she saw it in a photograph once. It feels real, and that's what matters. Just as real if she had waded into a quiet river, felt its streams envelop her legs, gently glide between them. If she concentrates hard enough, she can hear a robin singing from a nearby tree.
Everyone looks up to examine the new arrival when he walks in—everyone except for Lena. She doesn't hear the heavy wooden door drag open and Ms. Batson stop mid-sentence, or when the low voices emanating from the back of the classroom quieten. It's early in the term, not an unusual time for transfers in her neighbourhood—kids come and go often—but it's still an event worthy of a quick moment of attention. The first opportunity to classify the new kid. Is he the type they will invite to sit with them at lunch, include in their inside jokes and catch him up to speed on which teachers will give extensions without much fuss and which lunch foods to avoid? Or is he the kind of person who can be sized up with a glance and given a wide berth, acting on gut instinct after catching a particular look in his eye and opting to delegate him into the Not My People category?
It turns out Jack Napier is neither—not at first.
His face is blank, expressionless; his eyes focus ahead but look through all of them. He says nothing when Ms. Batson asks him to introduce himself, only giving a small nod by way of greeting, and Lena misses the prompts from her peers, the tight-lipped smiles and sideways glances. She's using one of her favourite fountain pens to fill in the waves she drew along the border of her notebook with interlocking circles, and she doesn't realize he's taken the empty seat to her left until he throws his bag to the floor, not caring how subtly it lands. Lena jumps, the vision gone as quick as she conjured it, and gives a small noise of surprise. She looks up long enough to catch sight of him smirking, his back bowed as he slouches in the chair, his legs too long for the small desk and leaving him at risk of slipping out completely like some long snake.
She realizes she hasn't seen him before, that she's missed his name, and now that Lena's looking, she can't get herself to stop. His hair is wavy and dark blond, like gold under shadow, long enough to wrap around the shell of his ears lazily but not quite brush the back of his neck. His nose slants downwards, his jaw sharp and angular. Lena knows it's rude, but she finds herself staring at his profile, taking in the small dusting of freckles that span the entirety of his cheekbones, just visible below his eyes, and she imagines what light would be best to take his photograph.
This is invariably the first dive her mind takes—how to properly set her camera and what angle to take, how to capture the life she sees in front of her onto film. It isn't so much the people themselves that she sees but the things they tell her, what she can pick out from the smallest details and the way light hits her subject, searching to capture that elusive punctum. Her imagination picks up the rest, developing entire lives for people she hasn't asked even one question aloud.
This habit of inattention usually leads her to miss some of the more important details. Like how the blond boy is speaking to her, leaning in so close (or she leaned too far in, she wouldn't have been able to tell which) that she pulls back with a jolt, her cheeks getting hot as he stares at her, his gaze unwavering. The small quirk on one side of his mouth is the only sign that he feels anything at all.
"Pencil?"
Lena's face burns, her ears slow to catch up with the world coming into focus. "What?"
That sounded smart, she thinks, wincing at how she says it a little too loud, earning titters from the girls behind her as Ms. Batson waves her hands in elaborate motions Lena's too distracted to interpret.
"Pencil," he repeats, looking from her hand to her face. His voice is deep, unexpectedly so, a disinterested baritone that feels warm against her skin. The warmth flushes all the way to her chest when she looks at his eyes, the dark ochre that seems to miss nothing, steady and intense.
"Oh, yeah—yeah," she says in a rush. "Here."
She hands him the fountain pen in her hand and is surprised that the flush travels all the way down to her toes when the calloused pads of his fingers brush her thumb, like her nerve endings are pinching awake after having fallen asleep, and she remembers too late that she needs her pen to complete the design she worked on all class. She's close to asking him for it back and offering him what he'd originally asked for, a pencil, but the girls behind her focus their attention on the new boy, making note of how loose and large his pockmarked shirt is, the rattiness of his jeans and the dirt on his shoes. Lena thinks it best to say nothing, biting her tongue and staring at the incomplete design with a furrowed brow.
She tries to move on, start another on the opposite side, but she can't drag her attention away from the first or the boy across from her, how he smells faintly of cigarette smoke and sweat, how he doesn't use her pen for writing but for twisting it over his fingers instead in quick, practiced movements. He looks at her once out of the corner of his eye, lips pressing together to form a tight line.
Why ask for my pen if you're not going to use it? she thinks, but the question moves to the back of her mind as the vision of the river returns and she lets it wander, staring down at her notebook until her sight blurs. She's back in the water, the quiet stream climbing higher until it laps against her knees, the mud covering her feet and beckoning her deeper into the riverbed. The current picks up; the still surface turns turbulent. She hears a sound, a muffled voice. The blond boy is there, watching with faint curiosity, his head tilted with detached interest. She wonders if he knows how to swim, if he likes the feeling of the water as much as she does, if he knows how to push against the current before it rolls him under.
In the time it takes Lena to blink, the bell rings and her classmates spring from their seats, eager to pack their things and rush out the door. She's one of the last to get up, dodging swinging purses and backpacks and wayward elbows, and she looks for the blond boy, rehearsing in her head what she needs to say to get her pen back so she won't sound foolish again. But before she can ask, he's gone like he had never been there at all, the faint smell of smoke the only thing left behind, and she wonders if he'd been a figment of her daydream after all.
"Lena!" a voice calls, dragging her attention from the empty seat to the doorway. "You're spacing out again, c'mon."
It's Rose, and Lena can't help but smile, the boy and his hair and his voice forgotten. Collecting her things and waving goodbye to Ms. Batson, they walk down the busy hall together to calculus, the class Lena enjoys the least and where Rose excels, avoiding the bombastic and over-excited rowdiness of the football players huddling around the corner, the groups of girls blocking the way but too engrossed in one another to notice, and the long lines of students waiting to file into their classrooms.
Rose drops her head down to Lena's ear to speak over the racket that is every five minute period between classes, "I swear, one of these days I'm not gonna be there to herd you like a cat."
She's taller than Lena by three inches (they measured last summer to settle a bet), her locs are black and wiry with long strands of silver and gold braided in, a new style she's been sporting since the start of the fall semester over a month ago. Lena always feels that Rose is better put together than she manages to be; she never looks tired, her clothes match and fit her thin frame, and her nails are a new colour every week and somehow remain perfect until she strips it away with acetone to start again. She's also her best friend, has been since junior high, and Lena can't imagine her life without her.
She leans into Rose, rolling her eyes. "Oh, what would I do without you?" Lena drawls in a bad Southern accent, earning a laugh and a gentle elbow to the ribs.
"Become a permanent fixture somewhere, probably." Rose smiles despite the tone of admonishment. "What were you staring after, anyway? You looked like you were stuck in a dream or somethin'—"
"Lookin' good, Rosie," one boy, Lena thinks his name is Nick, interrupts as he shouts across the hall. His friends jeer and look her up and down, passing over Lena with a few pointed glances and mumbled comments to one another.
She recognizes them from around school but doesn't remember their names, just that they are loud and often rude. This has happened before, boys focusing on Rose and her height and big eyes and severe cheekbones—the track star, the tease. Rose is beautiful and Lena's favourite subject to photograph, but Rose taught her that not every expression of interest is sincere. It still confuses her, why someone would be duplicitous when it's easier to be honest, but she trusts Rose. She knows how to read people better than Lena does.
"C'mon, Riley is having a Halloween party next Friday, you should come. You can even bring Miss Eyebrows with you."
The boys burst out laughing at that, referring to Lena's thicker brows, something she refuses to pluck into a thin line. Mostly because it's too much trouble but also because it hurts beyond basic maintenance to take a pair of tweezers and rip out her own hair for hours at a time. It's a conscious effort not to touch or hide them behind her hair.
"It's okay," she says, sensing Rose's building anger. "It doesn't matter, let's just go to class."
Lena wants to pretend the boys said nothing; she doesn't want to waste her energy on them even as her chest tightens, but Rose stops and plants her feet. Anyone who knows her like Lena does would see that she's furious, but the boys see someone who's tall and pretty with her hands on her hips, a firecracker giving them the reaction they want. Rose parties often and is friends with many of the athletes, but she refuses to date, and it seems to be a running competition to see who could get her to crack first. Rose knows this, but she still rises to the challenge. She maintains her smile but it grows cold, and she stares them down like they're six years younger and have the stunted intelligence to match.
"If I had a nickel for every time someone cared what you thought, Eric," she smiles widely, ogling him like he had her and curling her lip in disgust, "then I might have just enough for bus fare to the mall."
Eric's, not Nick's, grin falters and the boys behind him become a chorus of oohs, and Lena snorts. Rose smirks now, and others passing along stop to stare at Eric and he goes red, struggling to find a comeback.
"Real smooth, bud," one boy says, grinning widely and elbowing Eric's arm as the rest of the group descends into raucous laughter.
Rose scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Losers."
Lena agrees, but she doesn't want to linger. She hooks her arm through Rose's and drags her attention away from the subject of her wrath as the second bell rings.
"You didn't have to talk to them," Lena says, moving past the tight rows of desks to get to their usual seats. She's glad none of the boys from the hall are in the class with them, but Lena still feels tense, embarrassed. She unconsciously runs one finger over her brow now that they aren't around to see, wondering if they are too thick, and lets her hair fall around her face. "It's okay, seriously. They're not very original."
The look in Rose's eyes says that's not the point, and she reclines in her chair, stretching her long legs. "Dumbasses like them don't get to mouth off without someone telling 'em to shove it where the sun don't shine." Rose clicks her tongue against her teeth and leans over to push Lena's hair behind her ear, her long nails gently brushing against Lena's scalp and making her skin tingle in a different way than the boy's had when he touched her fingers. "C'mon, honey—you look emo when you hide behind your hair like that."
Lena waves her hand away, indignant. "I'm not emo, I just like my hair like that." She brushes it over her shoulder and it spills down her back; even if she doesn't like how it makes her neck feel bare, it keeps Rose from fussing and rearranging it during class. "And… Thanks, by the way."
Rose grins widely, showing the small gap between her two front teeth. "I got you, girl." She jerks her chin and winks like she's some smooth guy from a rom-com and they both break into giggles.
"Alright, class," their calculus teacher, Mr. Farhid, drones from the front of the classroom, smothering the high energy with a damp blanket. He's a monotone man, quiet except for when he starts getting into the heavier theories and finds a new life that will fade again when the bell sounds, the pits of his shirts perpetually stained with sweat. Lena already feels like falling asleep. "We're continuing today with the basics of implicit differentiation—"
Lena doesn't understand most of what Mr. Farhid says. Most of the concepts take her longer to remember, nevermind understand, and she isn't sure why she let Rose talk her into taking it as an elective last spring. There isn't time to get lost in her head here. She copies every equation and definition he writes on the board, transcribing the lecture verbatim as best she can, but it soon becomes another language entirely.
"You didn't answer my question before," Rose whispers.
"Huh?" she replies half-heartedly, her head floundering in mathematical signs that might as well be hieroglyphs for all the sense they make.
"Why're you so zoned out before? Stuff with your dad again?"
Lena sighs. She knows Rose will help her study later, but she can't help but feel frustrated that Rose can give it half the attention she does and still pass with straight A's while Lena struggles to keep her average at a C-plus. Rose can manage to both take detailed notes and talk, and Lena rests her chin on her hand, thickening the lines of the equations until they bleed together.
"No—no, things are fine with him." Lena looks away and hopes she sounds convincing. "Just a new guy that was in class earlier." She resists the notion that she dreamt him up and remembers how he took her pen, the heavy look in his eyes, his radiating disinterest and the afterimage his profile left in her mind.
"Ooh!" Rose shakes her shoulders suggestively, wriggling an eyebrow. Lena's face feels hot like it did when the boy first looked at her.
"Shut up, it's not like that—"
"Miss Grey and Miss Williams," Mr. Farhid says, staring at them both from over the rim of his circular glasses. Lena feels like crawling in a hole and disappearing when the whole class turns to stare with him. "Less chatting, more listening."
They both nod and apologize, and Rose goes back to making neat notes with clean lines while Lena gives up, her attention too unfocused to do more than doodle idly on the edge of the page. The windowless room grows warm and the air heavy with sweat and chalk as he clears the board to start a new, never-ending list of numbers that hurts Lena's head just to look at. It's like the dust coats her lungs as she breathes it in, her sweater too stifling as the minutes pass, sweat building on her neck under her thick hair and dripping down to the small of her back. She wants to be outside with her camera, working on the assignments that mean something and she'll actually use in her life when school finishes. Who needs calculus apart from doctors and math geniuses? Why can't they teach her how to do her taxes or how budgeting is supposed to work?
Maybe it's not too late to drop the class, she thinks. Rose might try to talk her out of it, but she doesn't know how she'll manage another three months of this, nevermind trying to pass any kind of exam without tanking her GPA. She doesn't look up, too immersed in the angry scribbles she turns into an abstract mess of clouds until a crumpled up piece of paper lands by her hand. She opens it a little at a time under her desk, and she immediately recognizes Rose's handwriting.
Tell me on the way home.
Lena sneaks a glance Rose's way, nodding slightly before writing a hurried reply.
Mill on 5th. Y/N?
She knows what the response will be, but she smiles at how quick Rose is to give it, and how she bolds the letters in coloured pen and surrounds it with half a dozen little hearts.
YES!
She feels lighter for knowing that she has something to look forward to, and her classes skip by as if they are eager for the day to be done, too. She doesn't see the blond boy again, and he fades until she forgets about her pen, forgets the way her fingers tingled pleasantly when they touched his. Rose doesn't remember to ask either when they sit together for lunch, laughing loudly when Eric sees them from across the cafeteria and glares. Perhaps it's the sugar high from Mrs. Williams' oatmeal cookies that she sent with Rose as dessert or the childlike excitement at the prospect of adventure, but it doesn't matter, she feels more energetic than she has in days.
Lena has a sense of eternal optimism, a belief that every encounter, every event is an important milestone that will build to a better ending than how her life began. She holds onto that, holds it close, holds it like it will ward off pain through the power of belief alone. Lena doesn't want to remember that her story isn't the only one unfolding, that there are other players with aims different from her own, and that they are rarely kind.
The world grows vivid wherever she looks, the hues brighter and the edges soft, lingering on the familiar and the novel, but there is still so much she misses, important details rendered invisible. Like how the blond boy sits in the far corner of the cafeteria, tapping the end of an unlit cigarette against the stained tabletop as he evaluates his schoolmates one by one, the boredom threatening to surge in his lungs and burst out of his hands as it consumes him from the inside out, his skin itching in a way that makes him want to tear at it. He might not know their names, but he's good with faces. Lena may have forgotten the blond boy from English class for the moment, but Jack Napier didn't forget her. So, he watches. Watches her joke with her friend and cover her mouth as she laughs. Watches her smile and absently braid her black hair. Watches as she seems to float away in her own little world.
He gently bites the filter of his cigarette between his teeth and lights it, breathing deep until the smoke fills his lungs, exhaling out the window cracked open behind him. The ashes pirouette down in a spritely dance, and he relishes the heat, how he feels something new flicker in his stomach, how he burns.
He might not be bored for much longer.
"Why'd you have to pick such a cold day to do this again?" Rose asks, bunching her bright pink puffer jacket closer to her neck to keep out the October wind.
They walk down the large front staircase of the school, taking two steps at a time while avoiding the clusters of smokers and wannabe gangsters waiting for the bus and the student council advertising some Halloween bake sale with a hand-painted banner. Rose is better at weaving through the crowds than Lena, and she struggles not to fall behind Rose's long stride.
"Sorry," she buttons up her oversized jean jacket, but the denim does little to keep her warm, "It'll be better when we find a way inside."
Rose stops and whips around, and Lena is too slow and nearly makes them both tumble down the stairs before she catches herself. Rose doesn't seem to care, she's waving her finger in the way Lena has seen Mrs. Williams do at least a hundred times. "Oh, hell no, you're not making me go in there for anything. I thought you just wanted to get some close-ups of the outside?"
"I mean—I wanted to do both," she starts, the words tumbling out when Rose sighs. "C'mon, it won't be that bad—"
"No, Lena—that place is an absolute trash pile and you wanna go diggin' around like you wanna get crushed by some falling beam? Jumped by some homeless junkie? No thank you, ma'am, I prefer my bones where they're supposed to be and not getting stabbed. I prefer you that way, too."
Lena doesn't want to be discouraged so easily, but her face falls. Rose is stubborn, and Lena often has a hard time changing her mind about anything. Most of her excitement centres around finding a way inside the mill, seeing the massive machinery herself, finding that perfect shot, something her peers in her photography class wouldn't think of on their own. Rose clicks her tongue.
"Don't get like that," she says, squeezing Lena's arm briefly before throwing an arm around her, the smell of Rose's vanilla perfume filling her nose. Lena rests her head against Rose's shoulder, playing along despite the disappointment. She tries to think of an argument that will somehow change her mind. "We can still have a good time without getting crushed, alright? So let's—what the hell?"
Lena's gaze follows the direction Rose points to with her chin. She doesn't know what she's meant to look for, all she sees are other teens, a few teachers on bus duty, and a janitor.
"What?"
Rose makes a sound in the back of her throat that's stuck between a scoff and a sigh. "There," she says, directing Lena's head toward the long railing where a small group of goth kids have gathered to chain-smoke. "The weirdo staring at us."
Lena finally sees who she means. It's the boy from her English class. He sits on the railing, slouched with his elbows on his knees and a cigarette between his lips. He is looking at them, and he meets Lena's eyes for a long second before he glances away, reaching up to pinch the filter and take a long drag, the smoke pouring out his nose as he exhales. Her cheeks are inexplicably hot again, and she remembers that he still has her pen.
"Oh, he's not weird," Lena forces out, clearing her throat. "He's new—he was in my class this morning."
"Yeah, he was in American History with me in fifth period. He's weird."
She doesn't miss the contempt in Rose's voice. Something cinches tight in her stomach. "You don't even know him." She wishes she sounded more convincing, that she didn't sound so small.
"Some people you don't wanna get to know any better than having a good enough look at their face so you can avoid 'em," she says with finality, steering Lena away and down the rest of the stairs.
"Rose, that's mean." She wants to tell her that he's borrowed her pen and she thinks it would be kind to say hello, she remembers too well what it's like moving to a new school without knowing anyone, but Rose doesn't leave any room for arguing.
"Not mean if it's true," she sings, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
"Hey—"
She hurries Lena along when she looks back to find the blond boy, but he's gone, and Rose is never one to linger. "You're too nice for your own good."
She lets Rose lead her down the sidewalk, still damp from the morning's rain. The residual oil in the gutters has an electric glow as they refract the street lights like small mirrors, all green and red and grey sky. The air is thick and heavy despite the wind, and Lena shivers in a cold sweat. It isn't long before she's distracted again, her regrets about not knowing the blond boy's name and Rose's comments now muted as she thinks about the steel mill and the hole in the fence they'll have to get through without ruining their clothes. Rose won't forgive her if her jacket gets torn.
They've been neighbours for five years, with Rose living a little further up the street in a townhouse with her mom and four brothers while Lena shared a two-bedroom apartment with her dad that's seen better days. She doesn't think it's a bad neighbourhood—the other tenants in her building leave her alone and smile when she does, and most people keep to themselves. It isn't the worst borough to live in, not like the Narrows, but that doesn't stop Rose from touting her can of pepper spray and attempting to teach Lena how to break someone's nose.
"We'll be fine, you don't need to be paranoid," Lena says, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering while Rose puts the can in the outside pouch of her backpack.
"You like pushing our luck too much," Rose rejoins.
She laughs, eyes trained forward as they near the mill. It takes a moment before Lena realizes Rose is no longer beside her. She turns to find that Rose has her back to her, facing the way they came. "Are you okay?" Lena asks, confused, worried. She thinks she might have done something wrong, upset her somehow. She knows Rose prefers taking the bus home, that she's prone to worrying, but she's more vigilant than usual, and she feels guilty for asking her to come along. Her throat feels tight, and she holds the strap of her backpack harder, her knuckles going white. "Rose?"
She stands still for a moment longer before dragging her attention back to Lena and smiling half-heartedly. "It's… Just had a weird feeling. I don't know—it's fine. Let's get that 'perfect shot' of yours so we can watch a movie." She jogs to catch up with Lena, linking their arms together, and Lena takes a deep breath in relief. "Mom said she might go to Blockbuster tonight."
The worry Lena felt a moment ago disappears. She loves spending time with the Williams, their affectionate bickering and not-so-subtle inquisitiveness. It felt less lonely for being there, and she likes that Rose always invites her without thinking, like she belongs. "Can we watch Clueless?"
Rose doubles-over in relief, clutching her heart. "Oh my God, I thought you were gonna ask for Ferris Beuller or something dumb with Drew Barrymore."
She taps her hip against Rose's, laughing through her nose. "And subject you to any other movie chronicling the myriad of tragedies that comes with being a white girl in middle-class suburbia?"
Rose groans. "Don't even get me started. Cinematic tragedy, honestly."
They burst into giggles when their eyes met, unabashed and loud as they ignore the people passing by and anyone and everyone who might stop to stare.
...
On the corner of Fifth Avenue East and Duval Street, past the railyard and on the perimeter of the Industrial Park with its spewing waste clouding the atmosphere, is an old steel mill. It belonged to the Sionis family once, back before they moved into cosmetics, and its towering brick chimneys and hulking slabs of concrete and metal were once a symbol of Gotham's status as a powerhouse of industry. It's been abandoned for fifteen years, but, like many things on the East End, it's an afterthought as Gotham's economy sinks further into the harbour and the crime rate seems eager to outdo itself every year in how high it can climb. There aren't any residential buildings around for three blocks, and it's because of its relative isolation that the city hasn't torn it down, allowing it to rot like an old carcass collapsing in on itself, its bones brittle and its guts hollowed. The seven-foot-high fence topped with barbed wire is another deterrent the city relies upon to save itself the pains of spending money on the already rotting borough, nevermind that three kids died tagging its walls within a decade and it's a common meeting point for gangs and a shelter for the homeless.
Lena and Rose pass by it every day on their way home if they don't take the bus, and it's captured Lena's attention for as long as she can remember. It's the running joke in the neighbourhood that it's haunted; ghost stories are traded like party favours and she loves listening to each, every subsequent addition sounding more plausible than the last. Rose doesn't like the look of the place, and she's asked Lena more than once why she likes it so much. Lena told her it's based on a feeling, the memories left behind, the echoes that bleed into the foundations. She wants to encapsulate it onto film, catch some flicker of the life that once was so it feels like she had really been there when it first sparked, even if she's just staring at a photo in her hand.
She can see it for herself now through the chain-link fence, all its promise and mystery. Her skin feels like it's vibrating, her mind whirring through where to start first, what angle to take—she just needs to get her camera ready.
"What's he looking for anyway?" Rose asks, shifting on her feet and rubbing her arms to stay warm.
"New perspectives, he said." Carefully, she switches her 70mm lens for her 35mm, making sure the glass is clean as she lines up the threads before twisting it in place.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She shrugs. "I don't know. It's supposed to be open to interpretation—practicing the new techniques he talked about last week and stuff like that."
"Like what?" Rose sounds impatient, and Lena looks up to see her shivering, her brown hands turning ashen as she wraps her coat around her waist tightly. Lena tries to move faster without dropping something.
"Contrast and framing. You know—finding things in the environment that act as a frame for the shot."
She has her lens, she has her tripod, her leather-bound journal is there for her to take notes, but where's the film? She digs deeper into her bag, she knows she has some. She can clearly remember putting it in one of the inside pockets. But which one is it?
"Sounds like nonsense to me. Can't you just take a picture of a door?"
Lena smiles and gives her a significant look from under her raised brow. "No, it can't just be of any door, it has to speak to the viewer and—"
She cuts herself off, her mouth dropping in horror. The pockets in her bag are empty—they don't have the film. How could she be so forgetful? So stupid? She drags her fingers through her hair, looking down the street and trying to think through the chaotic flurry roaring in her ears.
"Hey, what's up?" Rose asks, stepping around Lena to drop down in front of her. She places her hands on Lena's cheeks. "Don't look like that, tell me what's wrong."
It takes several seconds to find her voice, to swallow the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. "I'm such an idiot."
How could she forget? Why didn't she think about these things instead of just running off without checking?
"What?" Rose's hands are cold, they help Lena's mind sharpen again, and they slide from her cheeks to her shoulders. "No you're not. What's—"
"I don't have any film at home and Mr. Nakamura said I could use some from the supply cupboard," she blurts out, her chest constricting. What she doesn't tell Rose is that she can't afford any of her own, her dad hasn't given her any money in weeks, and the little she does have from working for the school paper and what her thea gave her for her birthday is meant for groceries. Mr. Nakamura is kind enough to let her use his own personal stores; it's the only reason she's able to stay in the class. Embarrassment pinches her cheeks between two invisible nails, sharp and piercing. "I forgot to grab it earlier. I'll have to run and get some."
Rose sits back on her heels, breathing out in relief. She thought this was something more serious, but Lena's overreacting again, and her expression smooths. "That's not the end of the world. I'll come with." She stands, brushing nonexistent dirt from her Levi's before holding out her hand. Lena takes it, but she can't meet her eyes.
"No, no—it's alright. You go to your house and get snacks or something and I'll meet you there." Rose gives her a look, one eyebrow raised and her arms crossed over her chest. Lena pretends she doesn't see it, wrapping her equipment in her old t-shirts and placing them in her bag. "If I run, we can still get some good shots before it gets too dark. I'll be quick, promise."
Rose huffs and waves her on, confirming that they'll meet at her house, and Lena sprints. It was a ten-minute walk to the mill, so she could make it to school in five if she doesn't stop for breaks. She doesn't have the stamina or the speed Rose does, but her energy is good in short bursts. She'll be winded by the time she got to Rose's house, but she can live with that—this wouldn't have happened if she'd been thinking.
She's impressed with herself that it's not until the seventh block that her legs cramp, that her lungs protest and burn, and she barely looks both ways before running out into the street when the crosswalk hand flashes red. She needs to be fast if she wants this to happen today—otherwise she has to wait four days until the weekend, and she'll need to find time to develop the film on top of that. No, better that it happens today.
Her chest heaves by the time she gets to the school, her shoes heavy like they're caked in cement, but she makes herself jog up the front staircase, now deserted. They haven't locked the doors yet, and she makes herself pick up the pace, weaving her way through the empty halls and its eerie dim lights and long echoes reverberating the sound of her sneakers hitting the linoleum, until she comes to a halt in front of the stairs leading to the basement. The photo lab is down there; it's the best place to have a darkroom and to keep the film and equipment from getting too hot like it would in other parts of the school. She catches her breath and adjusts her heavy bag before descending, holding onto the railing to steady her shaking legs.
It's dark as she gets close to the bottom, the lights off and the door shut. She's worried that Mr. Nakamura's left and locked everything up behind him—she saw a group gathered for a school club and a janitor, but she doesn't think anyone would be able to help if she asked. She doesn't know if she'll be able to stop herself from crying if it's locked. She prays it isn't.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forces a big breath of air to fill her chest, holding it for a long moment before releasing it. Her hand shakes when she reaches for the handle. Please, let it be unlocked. She almost whoops in excitement when it opens, but she settles for a quiet squeal instead, turning on the fluorescent lights and blinding herself.
"Dang it—"
She shields her eyes and blinks just in time for one of the bulbs to flicker out and die, shrouding half the room in burnt shadow. The rooms needs better maintenance, Mr. Nakamura says that often, and Lena spends so much time in here that she could feel her way through the dark if needed (but she's glad that she doesn't). She starts by his desk, where he usually keeps his extra supplies, but she doesn't see the film he set aside for her to use.
"Where did you put it, Mr. Nakamura…"
She tries a different cabinet, looking for his tight, messy scrawl with her name on a sticky-note, moving to the back of the class toward the darkroom when the usual spots turn up empty. Doubt creeps in. Maybe he didn't leave her anything after all. She might have imagined the whole thing, thought he said one thing when it was really another. She's all too aware of how much time is passing, how Rose must be waiting for her, and she's almost ready to quit and resolve to wait when she checks the last cupboard just inside the small alcove that leads into the darkroom.
"Dóxa to theó!" she all but shouts, touching the silver cross necklace resting against her chest and looking skyward. Lena isn't religious, she can't remember the last time she went to church, but she still sends a silent thank you to whoever might be listening.
Mr. Nakamura's left three rolls of film for her; the nice kind, too. She opens her bag on the counter by the rinsing station, loading one of the rolls into her camera to save time when she meets Rose, making sure the teeth are holding the film properly and tightening the rewind knob until the slack is gone. She hums the tune for "Wannabe," singing the chorus under her breath as she sways her head back and forth, her exhaustion forgotten as she walks to the stairs, head bent as she starts setting the aperture and ISO.
Lena thinks she's alone, so she doesn't think to look up until she's less than a foot from something warm, something breathing. She raises her head to be met with a tall shadow blocking the doorway—a phantom with a thin white outline giving it shape. She's too scared to scream. Her bag slips off her shoulder and she grips the camera so hard that she thinks her hand might bleed. It's a slow kind of terror that feels like it lasts for hours but transpires in a matter of seconds. She can't tell the difference. Her heart beats faster than she ever remembers it doing before, a sharp pain that makes it hard to breathe, the shadows becoming some heavy, terrifying thing on the cusp of swallowing her, dragging her down its wet throat to trap her in its stomach, leaving her to cry for help without ever being heard.
It feels so real. She's sure her heart stops. She's almost certain that this is the last thing she'll ever know.
But reality triumphs again. Her eyes adjust to see the outline of a face—a person, not anything else. Her lungs remember how to draw in air and her mind clears. Her ribs hurt, heaving harder than they did when she ran, but she recognizes this face.
It's the blond boy from before. He's just leaning against the door frame, unmoving, but he looks different than he did in class. She can tell what he's feeling now. He looks amused. Entertained. And he's smiling. She isn't sure if it's meant for her.
"You—you scared me," she forces out, covering the shake in her voice with a laugh.
"Did I?" he asks. His head tilts forward, his chin dipping toward his chest. He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth pulling back in a tight smile like it's attached to a line, like there's a hook in his cheek he can't remove. It's the most expressive she's seen him yet.
Why is she so scared? What's there to be afraid of? It's irrational, her imagination gone wild to the point she almost gave herself a panic attack. It's like her dad tells her, she's too stuck in her own head, projecting. Her cheeks hurt with shame.
"I—I'm sorry about that, I was… I was just surprised, I didn't think anyone else was coming down here." She sneaks a glance upward, and his expression changes. His eyes droop and his mouth softens, but he doesn't move. He must still be confused, she thinks, wondering why this crazy girl is wandering around the basement singing a Spice Girls song to herself. "I was just getting some film. Mr. Nakamura left me some—have you met him yet? I usually know where everything is, but it's a bit trickier in the dark."
She assumes he's there because he's going to join the class and wants to check out the room. Maybe he thought he was going to meet the teacher and is surprised to find it empty, too. She can't think of any other reason why he'd be here, why he doesn't leave now.
Lena assumes, but she never asks.
"When you're in here developing a lot of film, you get a good feel for where everything is in the dark." He's taller than her by at least six inches, and his shoulders are broader than she first thought, his shirt baggy against his lean frame. She looks away when she catches herself staring, twisting the camera strap around her finger. It's quiet when she doesn't speak. The only sound comes from their gentle breathing. Somehow, it makes the embarrassment worse. "You have to be careful with the light down here. It's not a nice feeling when your photos are overexposed and all your hard work is gone. Have you ever had that happen to you? It did to me once, last year—I didn't really know what I was doing and ruined a whole batch of negatives."
She wants to say more, but she isn't sure of where to go next. He's still as a statue, his eyes flicking from the camera to her face. Even in the dark, she can feel the weight of them. She feels smaller. Her hand goes to her throat, twisting her necklace back and forth, the quiet almost unbearable.
"So, too much light destroys it?" he asks.
That's the most he's said to her in one sentence. His voice has a cadence that feels like a finger tracing her spine; it still surprises her how deep it is, the gruffness of it. She's happy he asked her something, and she tries to hold back a childish sense of eagerness. She nods, leaning against one of the long tables and setting her bag beside her.
"When they're being developed, yeah. And, well, I guess afterwards, too. You don't want to leave them out in the sun, either. It bleaches the colour after a while."
"Light ruins it then?"
He surprises her again when he detaches himself from the doorway to sit on the desk beside her, his hand close to hers. Her skin warms like she's standing out in the sun on a summer's day. She's glad for the half-darkness so he can't see her face flush.
"Oh, no—that's not entirely what I meant. It's…"
Now she's babbling, out of sorts and tripping on her own tongue. She ignores how her skin feels like it's being pricked by a thousand small needles just shy of breaking through and looks away. She pretends she's talking to Rose, that it's not this boy—or is he a man? He sounds like a man—even though Rose doesn't smell like smoke, and her racing blood slows.
"You need light to take the photograph; it's what goes through the shutter to define the image and impose it on the film—you can't take pictures without it." She holds her camera up for emphasis, pointing to the lens and the small, intricate parts that keep it functioning, that allow her to try and make something beautiful. "It's just after that you have to be careful. It needs to develop in the dark—it's a volatile process. Heat and light can warp it, obscure the image. So we develop film in the dark and where it's cool so we can see what we captured—it gives it a space to become what it's supposed to be."
When he says nothing, she worries she's said too much again, droned on while he sits here bored. She pushes her hair behind her ear and risks a glance at him. He's staring at her, but it's different than before. There's mirth in his eyes, and their weight doesn't feel as heavy. His smile looks real, close-lipped but broad enough to show a faint dimple in his cheek.
"Hmm."
She smiles back too widely in comparison to his, and she bites her lip between her teeth, chuckling through her nose. "Sorry, I can talk too much. Just tell me when to stop if you feel like falling asleep."
He laughs quietly, a deep rumble in his throat. "It's fine."
She thinks he means it, that it's not an empty nicety. Maybe it's because he says so little at a time, but what he does say sounds true to her ears. She stares at his profile again, distracted by how the muscles in his jaw tense and jump, how his curls are tighter at his temples, and she doesn't notice him taking her camera until it's out of her hands. A noise of protest rises in her chest, but she quiets it, biting her lip harder as she watches him turn over her camera in his large hands. They look strong, wiry, his grip sure and almost delicate. He examines every part like when he had stared at her before, gently running his fingers over the dial on the top and the shutter button. She remembers the brief moment when they touched her hand.
She wants to tell him that's her only camera, that she saved all the money she could make for over a year to buy it used, how it's the one thing she owns that matters the most, but she doesn't. Don't make a big deal out of it, it's fine, see? she thinks, wringing her hands to keep them from reaching for it. He'll give it back when he's done, she's sure of it, even if her stomach tries to tell her differently.
He smirks. Her stomach does a flip and she gasps when her camera slips from his fingers, her heart stopping as every muscle seizes, but he catches it like he didn't almost let it crash to the floor. His grip seems so steady now that she wonders if it even happened at all, if the half-light is playing tricks on her eyes.
"Careful—" she says, reaching to take the camera back, but he pulls away, his head bent over it, examining without seeing.
"I will." He sounds amused, like she's said something funny and he's trying not to laugh. Her hands worry over one another, words itching to be spoken but left unsaid on her tongue. "It's nice."
His voice sounds soft, some of the gruffness gone, and he holds her camera out and places it in her hands, making sure her grip is good before letting go. His fingers linger on the inside of her thumb, the calloused pads catching against her skin. That sense of tingling returns like he's running a live current through his veins. She shivers.
Lena isn't sure what she expects to happen next, but it still jars her when he stands to leave, grabbing his bag from the floor to sling it over his shoulder. She looks away when she catches herself staring at his forearms.
"Oh, um—" The words fade when he turns, eyebrows raised in curiosity. She takes a breath that feels too short. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't catch your—"
"Jack." It's the first time his smile spans the entirety of his face, splitting it and showing straight lines of teeth. His dimples are more pronounced and, even in the dim light, his eyes seem brighter, like warm honey.
"Right. Jack." He goes to leave again and clears the doorway before she remembers why she wanted to talk to him before. He's halfway up the stairs before she catches up to him, her camera tucked safely away in her backpack. "Jack, before you leave—could I have my pen back? The one I leant to you before? They're from that nice stationery store on 51st Street, and—"
He turns in place on his heel with a spin reminiscent of a showman, and Lena can almost see it for the half-bow he gives and the way he pumps his brows, his mouth pulling into a smirk. The look of amusement is more apparent in the light, and she hopes he can't tell how much her cheeks darken, grateful for her brown skin to hide the rush of blood.
His expression is almost bullish when he reaches behind his back. She holds her breath. "You mean this pen?" She nods, reaching for her pen when he pulls it out from nowhere, hanging loosely between two fingers, only for him to pull back, going up another step to tower over her. "How 'bout I show you a magic trick instead?"
"Magic?"
She's reminded of a show at Amusement Mile her dad took her to once. She was small, maybe six years old, and it was just before the park closed for good. She remembers standing in rapt attention, his cliché black tophat, his booming voice and the advertised opportunity to witness something spectacular. She remembers not wanting to see sparks or lights or proof of the supernatural. She remembers wanting to be fooled, for her eyes to be tricked with the promise of her belief being rewarded, being shown a hint of the truth behind the lie.
"I'm going to make it disappear."
She likes it when he smiles, how there's something behind it with that same promise of the reveal. He holds the pen high. Just a pen, just an ordinary pen, his eyes say. He twists it over his fingers like he had in class, like it's some small baton that dips and weaves between his knuckles.
His other hand waves in front of it once, twice.
She leans against the wall, giving him the same attention she had to the magician, eyes open and searching for the illusion, the prestige.
His hand obscures the pen for the third time.
"And…" His hand drops with a dramatic flourish. "It's gone!" The hand that held the pen is empty, his palm facing up. He was too quick for her to see where it went, but Lena laughs and gives him his due applause, her eyes dropping to her shoes when his gaze doesn't leave her face, not even when he bows. She doesn't know if her skin will ever cool, if its staccato beat will calm.
"You're good at that," she says, dragging her gaze up tentatively to find him standing straight, his eyes heavy and half-lidded, his grin fading. She swallows, uncertain. "I get to have it back, though, right?"
It's hard to keep her smile when his is gone. The air shifts, and she realizes that no one's ever looked at her like he is now. Like he can see the thoughts as they appear in her head. Like he knows every one she's ever had. Like he knows her dreams.
For a moment, she thinks he's going to leave, that he's decided she's not worth the attention. But he doesn't. He drops down two steps in one stride, until his chest only inches away from hers. She can smell the cigarettes again, how it clings to his shirt, old sweat lingering in the fabric. There's nowhere to back away unless she goes down the stairs, into the dark. She makes herself stand still, her hand shaking when she pushes her hair from her face. His face is carefully blank, empty, but his eyes feel like they're trying to burn her alive.
She can't tell what he's thinking at all.
Her pen appears in front of her face, and she almost thinks it's floating, jerking back and almost losing her balance. The corners of his mouth twitch at that, but he offers her the pen. Just like when she reached for it before, he draws back when her fingers brush his.
"Your name."
"Huh?" She winces, embarrassed at how she's so easily distracted by him, how she keeps getting lost.
"Your, ah, name." His eyes dart upward like he's staring at someone knowingly when she doesn't answer. He sighs, his shoulders dropping as he cocks his head. "I told you mine, what's yours?"
She shies under his attention, how close he is, but he doesn't waver. She finds her voice. "I'm Lena."
Jack grins again. It's faint, the corners of his lips twitching. He stares at her mouth, his eyes tracing the curves of it, the warmth gone and replaced with something cold like smooth river stones, dragging his gaze up to meet hers.
"Pretty."
She's in the river again. She isn't standing still anymore; she moves with the current, floating toward new horizons, her stomach in her throat, her eyes looking upward at the passing clouds, the tree branches reaching toward one another rather than the coming rocks.
It's when she blinks that she sees that he's gone, that she's alone. The dark crawls up the stairs behind her.
She's cold. Adjusting her bag, she winds her way through the halls. They're darker than before, too. Like it bled from the basement to swallow the way. Guilt makes her throat tight. She realizes too late she's left Rose waiting, that it's probably dark, how she feels strange and light and heavy all at once. She's paying attention this time, looking where she's going, the tightness growing until she can't swallow.
"There you are!"
She recognizes this voice, and the knife made of guilt twists a little deeper. She waves and smiles, jogging to meet Rose before she's wrapped in a hug that's so tight it takes her breath away. Rose is tense, her body a wound spring, but she relaxes when Lena hugs her back.
"I'm sorry," she says into Rose's locs. They're damp and smell like perfume and wind; she takes a steadying breath. She hides her face so she doesn't have to see her anger, but Rose doesn't give her much choice, pulling away to look Lena up and down, her worry sliding into exasperation.
"Jesus, Lena." Now that she's sure Lena's in one piece, the frustration bubbles up, her hands tight at her sides. "Don't freak me out like that."
"Freak you out how?" Lena knows she shouldn't have stayed, but she thinks Rose is overreacting. She wasn't gone long. Right?
"I thought you were hurt or something—it's been almost an hour."
Her stomach drops. Has she really been gone for that long? She imagines Rose waiting on her porch, bag at her feet and waiting for Lena to come running down the street. Shame burns her eyes.
"Where'd that pale-ass beanstalk go?" Rose asks when Lena opens her mouth to apologize, looking down the hall the way she came. She's angry, but none of it is directed at Lena.
"Where'd what go?" Maybe it's because she's tired, but she doesn't understand the question. Rose clicks her tongue.
"The blond guy. Tall. Curly hair. Creepy."
There's an edge in her voice. She's used to hearing it when Rose is ready to dig into someone like she did Eric, and she tries to laugh, wincing at how hollow it is.
"Oh—Jack?"
Rose rubs her brow, her eyes trained to the ceiling like she's silently asking for divine assistance. "I don't care what his name is. Was he here?"
She doesn't mean to hesitate, but Rose knows the answer before she can make herself speak. "Um, yeah, just—just for a second."
"Fuck, girl. You need to get your danger radar recalibrated," Rose groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. She throws her wet locs over her shoulder, and Lena sees that it's not just her hair that's damp, but her clothes are, too. Small puddles form under her sneakers and drip down the seams of her jacket.
"I still don't really know what you're talking about. And why are you soaked?"
Rose turns the full force of her glare on Lena, her jaw tense and rigid. She inhales deeply, holding the air in her chest and letting it out in a sigh, her anger draining with it. "When you started going back to school, I saw him heading the same direction out of nowhere. I waited twenty minutes, but when you didn't come back I thought something was wrong."
"That might not have been him." Lena has the sudden urge to tell Rose what happened in the basement, that she doesn't need to worry. She wants to explain that Jack is nice, that she wasn't hurt and she's fine, but Rose won't be able to hear her if she tries. So, she swallows the idea, relegating her time spent sitting next to Jack into the small cache of memories she can't tell Rose. Seeing her upset is like bruises forming on her own skin, and she forces herself to smile, to sound lighter than she feels. "And… And even if it was, it could've been for anything."
It doesn't work. Rose deadpans, disbelieving. She crosses her arms. "Anything."
"Yeah, he's thinking about taking the class and—"
"You are so fucking naïve sometimes," Rose interrupts, her voice hard.
Lena flinches and stares down at the puddles under Rose's feet, how they flood outward, their surface smooth until another drop falls from her jacket. She nods because Rose is right—she screwed up, she doesn't think about these things. It isn't the first time.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Her voice is softer, and she comes close to hug Lena again. They sway for a moment, and Lena relaxes. That's right, Rose wants what's best, wants her to be safe. Her nails gently scratch Lena's scalp, working through her hair as she pulls away. She's smiling, and Lena forgets her hurt. "Just… use your brain, alright?"
She nods and manages to laugh. "Alright. Sorry I made you worry."
Rose waves the sentiment away, looping her arm through Lena's like they always do as they walk down the empty halls.
"Nah, I'm glad you're good. Need to get you a watch with an alarm or something, though, or you really will turn into fungi somewhere and I won't be able to find you."
She circles Lena's thin wrist with her long fingers, and they joke about how Lena would forget that, too. It's raining outside, and Lena covers her backpack with her jacket as she and Rose race back to her house, her shoes full of water and her pants soaked to the knees. She loves the rain, how it tickles her scalp, and she doesn't feel the same exhaustion that she did running to school, her muscles warm and alive.
Her mind doesn't linger on what happened in the basement, but she doesn't forget him this time. She doesn't know if she ever will. She wonders if she'll see him tomorrow and finds a small bit of happiness that Jack didn't give her pen back, that he kept it in way of an excuse to talk to her again. She smiles when they pass the steel mill, like it somehow had a small hand in opening a new path to follow, some route to take her where she never imagined.
AN: Thanks for reading and checking this out! This takes place roughly twelve years before the events of The Dark Knight. If you're looking for a definitive origin for Jack/Joker here, you won't find much other than an array of multiple choices amid a cloud of ambiguity. I hope you'll join me for the ride. Reviews are very welcome and greatly appreciated!