LUCIA

 

The last time I’d read ‘An Exercise in Love,’ I was in eighth grade and had just been approached by a modeling agent while at the mall, who asked me if I’d ever considered modeling.

From the tender age of eleven my parents had already been considering it for me.

That year, my mother had had a huge movie premiere—some action blockbuster—and we’d walked the red carpet as a family. The media loved my parents’ love story—my mother was a Hollywood director who had fallen in love with—and married—the star of her first movie, my father. She was also ten years his senior.

The red carpet was terrifying—the constant flash, people screaming, a steady stream of celebrities I recognized and wanted to faint over. It was old news for my parents, but I didn’t know how to stand. Where to hold my arms, how to tilt my chin.

I just smiled for the camera—beamed, really, like a dorky eleven-year-old does when someone points a lens in their face and says ‘smile.’ Later, looking at the photos in People magazine, it was obvious my parents had training—they were smiling, but it was attractive. They were happy, but not too happy.

Underneath the caption, the magazine had written: Lauren Paley posing with her husband, Mark Bell and their daughter, Lucia.

We looked like the perfect Hollywood Family. Afterwards, I’d been featured in a couple of those articles: “Mark Bell’s daughter…a stunner already at eleven!” My mother had showed that to me, asking me how I felt about it.

“About what?” I’d asked, sinking lower in the passenger seat. It was Saturday and on Saturdays I begged my parents to take me downtown so I could walk to my favorite bookstores. Sometimes I wouldn’t call for a ride until nightfall, having spent the entire day reading.

“Well, about that magazine saying you were pretty. More than pretty, a stunner. Did you like that?”

I glanced at my mother. I didn’t know if I was pretty, but I thought she was. Even though she was behind-the-scenes, her wealth and status kept her focused on image just like other famous people. Botox, yoga, facials, crystal meditation, juice cleanses, kale smoothies…at 44, she looked ten years younger, a combination of health, good genes, science and a ton of fucking chemicals.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Hey, later, can we get ice cream?” I asked, because I was eleven, and too young to realize that my mother saw an opportunity.

I was smart for my age and a voracious reader—at ten, I’d finished Catcher in the Rye and I was in the middle of reading I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I didn’t have the emotional maturity to understand those novels fully at the time, but the words had a powerful effect on me.

 At the age of twelve, I’d gone rollerblading with my father down Venice and the paparazzi had snapped a photo of us. Lucia Bell: all grown up and looking hot! My mom had shown me the caption on the photo and I grimaced.

“Ew,” I said, because even at twelve that seemed gross.

“Not what I would have said, true,” she replied, tapping her finger against the photo. “But it’s interesting, don’t you think? I mean, you’re already a little famous without even trying.”

I crinkled my nose, mostly grossed out and just wanting to go back to what I’d been doing before she’d knocked on my door—writing.

The summer before I’d begged my parents to send me to a creative writing camp, since the only time I felt happier than when I was reading was when I had a pen in my hand. Those four weeks were the best of my life. So much uninterrupted time to just write. The camp was set in a beautiful nature refuge, and we were encouraged to walk and hike and sit in gorgeous meadows, taking in sights and textures. The different birdsongs, the way the grass swayed in the wind, the peculiar shape of a dandelion.

Away from the image-obsessed pressure of L.A., and my mother’s constant pushing, I felt lighter somehow. Free. The camp was filled with writers my age and they were weird and cool and dorky and I fucking loved it.

“You have the soul of a poet,” our instructor, Gloria, had said, smiling as she read the small collection of poems I’d written by the end of the four weeks. My heart felt like it was going to burst. When I got home, I told my parents all about the camp, talking a mile a minute, flushed with excitement. I wanted them to read my poems.

“And when I grow up, I’m going to be a writer!” I declared, with all the sweet naivete of a twelve-year-old. I spun around the kitchen, laughing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” my mother said calmly, in between barking at someone on the phone, “Writing’s not a real job. Not poetry, anyway.”

Just a year later, at thirteen, my picture was appearing at least semi-regularly in celebrity magazines—my mother was pushing my father to take me everywhere. I never suspected a thing, but it had been part of her grand plan.  

She’d show me the pictures, and I’d scoff. But I was a new teenager, an intense mixture of huge ego and horrifically low self-esteem. The comments in the magazine were complimentary.

So I found myself becoming a little more curious.

When I was fourteen, my mom and I were back-to-school shopping at a downtown mall.  A scout approached us as I was looking at jeans. In my hands was a collection of Beat poetry I’d just bought at the bookstore nearby. As the woman chatted with me, examining my bone structure and complimenting my smile, my mother was sharp-eyed and hawkish. The grand plan was coming to fruition: a director, a movie star, and a model—the trifecta of fame.

I’d glanced at my mother for an answer when the scout asked if I’d like to come down and do some portrait shots. She had nodded coolly, the epitome of aloof.

I did it, and it was easy, and it taken so little time I was still able to meet my friends at the movies that night. I hadn’t seen the big deal, but I’d heard the murmurs of people in the studio. After the first shot the photographer paused, looking at it. Called a few folks over who made similar serious faces. I thought I’d done a bad job. But they’d taken a few more, my head tilted eighteen different ways, and when it was over the agent asked me if anyone else had seriously approached me for modeling.

“Oh…no,” I said, laughing nervously. “Can I go now?” A boy I had a crush on was going to be at the movies with us.

“Yes,” she’d said slowly, “you can go. And, um, Lucia, just so you know, I’m going to give your parents a call.” She paused. “Immediately.”

That night, she strongly urged my parents to take me out of formal schooling and have me sign with her modeling agency.

“High fashion,” my mother had said, perching on the edge of my bed with barely concealed excitement. I had been sitting there, surrounded by the remnants of my Algebra homework, texting my friends on my flip phone. “Runway in Milan and Paris. Vogue covers. This could be your life, Lucia.”

I remembered laughing, since the models I saw on runways were grown-ups and I was definitely not a grown-up.

“There’s a short timeline for modeling,” my mother pressed. “Most of them retire in their mid-twenties, so we’re not talking forever here. We don’t have a lot of time to make this decision before you get too old.”

 “Can I still go to school?” I’d asked, thinking about English class, my favorite. It was how I could be a secret bookworm without the popular kids finding out I was a big nerd. “And back to writing camp?”

She’d shaken her head, but didn’t seem upset by that.

“Aren’t parents supposed to want their children to stay in school?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. My natural sarcasm had really started to kick in that year.

“You’d still get an education, Lucia,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “Just not the typical one. Like the kids who are in my movies. You’d have an on-set tutor. After high school, you’d test for your GED. It’s the same as a high school diploma.”

“But it’s not the same as going to actual high school.” I’d said, sitting up straighter and disturbing the delicate balance of my Algebra homework. Papers spilled to the floor. “I thought…I don’t know, I thought I could do like, fun modeling. Like be on the cover of a magazine for the downtown mall. Or a pageant or, I don’t know, easy stuff. The girl who lives down the street does it and she never has to miss school. She just makes extra money and gets her photo taken.”

Which sounded like a good deal to me: feed this newly-wakened desire for attention while still getting to go to English class and prom and football games. At fourteen, I’d just had my first kiss. Who would I kiss on a photo shoot?

“High school is nothing,” she said, smoothing her hand down my hair. “I know this doesn’t make sense now, but you’ll forget about high school as soon as you’re in your twenties. It won’t matter. What will matter is you’ll be famous,” she said. “Lucia, that agent sees something in you, something she took very seriously. She saw, in you, an amazing amount of raw potential. She told me she hasn’t been this excited about a new talent in a very long time. You could be famous.”

“Like Kate Moss?” I’d asked, trying to understand. It was a big concept.

Her eyes gleamed. “Yes. That’s what I’m telling you. There’s no guarantee, but if you work hard and meet the right people and get the right jobs…your life could look very different in a couple years.

I swallowed, wondering how we could be having this conversation surrounded by calculators and homework and my friends texting me winky-emoticons. Some part of me recognized this as “not normal,” but I’d grown up in Hollywood and everyone I knew was image-obsessed and desperate for fame. Why couldn’t I be a part of that?

After she’d left me to “think about some things” I’d pulled out that collection of Beat poetry, reading Diane’s words obsessively, trying to find some meaning. Because even though my dream had been dismissed earlier, I still wanted to go to college for creative writing.

Be a writer.

A lost dream now.

 

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This morning, I’d woken at sunrise again, flinging open my cabin door for a glimpse of the rocky coastline. It had rained hard last night—the beginning of a storm—and the waves seemed angry. There, right on the front step, was a collection of Diane di Prima’s poems. When I flipped it open, ‘An Exercise in Love’ was marked with a post-it and a handwritten note. Cal’s handwriting was neat and orderly, and he’d highlighted the last lines.

They were my favorite too. My friend walks soft as a weaving on the wind. I clutched the book to my chest, perching on one of the rocks overlooking the beach.

Soft as a weaving on the wind. I read the line, over and over. It was the dual w-words, the hard ‘v’ sound in ‘weaving’. The contrast of the word ‘soft’ against the harder consonants.

I sat like that for a long time, reading it over and over. When I finally stood up, brushing rocks from my legs, I was startled to find my cheeks wet with tears, although I hadn’t realized I’d been crying. Which used to happen to me all the time when I read poetry.

“You getting ready, Lu?” I glanced back to see Josie and Ray, packing up their supplies for the day. I wiped my face hurriedly.

It was barely seven in the morning. I needed to sit in makeup and hair for at least three hours and then we’d be filming until dark. Suddenly, I longed to be back at that creative writing camp, letting my pen move across the paper.

“Born ready,” I lied, slipping the book into my back pocket. “What’s on the docket today?”

“Calvin’s taking us to the woods,” Josie said excitedly.

“Calvin’s coming?” I asked, perking up. Someone has a crush.

And suddenly the day looked a little brighter.

 

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As soon as we met up with Calvin on the trail, I wanted to thank him for the poem, for how perfect it was this morning, that specific moment. But he was standing there, looking kind of cute in his flannel, his ever-present scruff, and I got a teeny-tiny bit nervous.

Just a little. But it was there.

He avoided me though, chatting with Ray about the set-up. I wasn’t sure why I needed Cal’s attention so much. That morning, getting ready in the cabin, I caught my reflection: makeup-less, hair a giant tangle. I was wearing an old sleeping shirt that was stained and fraying at the bottom.

I crinkled my nose, feeling gross and unglamorous—a by-product of being on these shoots. You spend all day having experts make you look like a perfect human specimen, so when you see yourself without fake lashes and airbrushed makeup, your self-esteem plummets.

Instinctively, I’d picked up my phone, opening Snapchat. It was the kind of thing I would have posted about—taken a #wokeuplikethis selfie and waited for the compliments to roll in.

Even just two days without those interactions had left me feeling weird. Adrift. I hadn’t realized how much I craved it. Wondered, briefly, if my parents had known how much this job would turn me into a fame monster.

But then we turned the corner and the beauty of the natural landscape stunned me into silence.

“Wow,” Taylor said, beside me. I heard Josie suck in a breath.

I walked up ahead to where Calvin was standing. “What is this place?” I asked.

We were in a forest of mostly redwoods, towering over our heads. And evergreens, ripe with the scent of Christmas. Colorful wildflowers dotted the forest floor and the air was alive with birdsong. And in the middle?

“My grandfather’s campsite,” Calvin said, grinning. I smiled back at him, and for a second we were the only two people in the entire world.

“Fucking cool, man,” Taylor said, pushing past us towards the fire ring. Josie was already setting up a makeshift hair-and-makeup set and Ray was scouting location ideas. Joanna was with wardrobe, unpacking outfits they’d wheeled out in huge suitcases.

I perched on a log and, to my great surprise, Calvin sat next to me. Our thighs brushed and I turned, about to make a snarky comment. But he noticed, immediately sliding a foot away from me. With one finger, he slid his glasses up his nose, his other rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” he mumbled.

“I don’t bite. Unless you want me to,” I said, trying to save him. He started to cough uncontrollably and I gave him three hard whacks on the back. “Did you swallow a bug or something?”

He shook his head, coughing a few times more before clearing his throat. “Thanks, uh, and sorry.”

“Calvin, you can sit next to me. And I was totally joking about that biting thing,” I said, giving him an easy smile. He returned it, and then I said, “Or…was I?”

He laughed, which was the point, and seemed to visibly relax. Now would have been a good time to bring up the poem, but we were surrounded by people. I kind of liked that it was a secret. Our secret.

“So this is it, huh?” Ray asked, indicating the space in front of us. Josie joined us, interested. Ray had wanted a background on this campsite to “inform the narrative” of the shoot.

Which I’d rolled my eyes at, since Taylor and I could be semi-naked and groping each other, with expensive clothing on, literally anywhere. No narrative needed.

But this was Shay Fucking Miller, as Ray had reminded me.

“Yeah, so…as I was telling you all before, my grandfather hosted tons of writers, famous and non-famous, at the bookstore regularly. Some did readings or held workshops. Others were ‘in-residence’ and would spend their days on a permanent retreat, writing in the cabins and drinking whiskey with my grandfather in the evening.”

He paused, rubbing his jaw for a moment. “But there was a time, in the late 60s, when Big Sur was really known for naturalism. Living off the land, going back to a more primitive lifestyle.”

“But with drugs,” I said, and Calvin laughed again, nodding.

“Ye-es, I’d say LSD was pretty popular out here. And weed, like a lot of weed. But my grandfather would lead these artist retreats out here and they’d camp for days, sometimes a full week. There was nothing overtly special about it, but I know from reading his journals that these experiences out here were spectacular. Moving and mind-blowing, all of these now-famous writers swinging through Big Sur on their way to—and from—San Francisco. Trying out new pieces, experimenting. Sitting around a campfire and talking about life: the hippie movement, the JFK assassination. The seventies and what that decade would bring. It’s easy, under a canopy of trees like this to stare up at the stars and wonder about the meaning of your life.”

I had been leaning closer and closer to Cal, drawn in to the image he was painting. I wanted to be with those writers. I wanted beautiful words under a wild sky, sweet communion around a campfire.

My fingers itched, but not for my phone. I hadn’t brought my journal, but there was a poem there: Calvin, perched on this tree, remembering his dead grandfather. The sweep of his dark hair. His strong, aquiline nose. His mouth, forming around the word ‘canopy.’

“So…um, yeah, I guess that’s it,” he said, looking suddenly embarrassed. He looked up at me, shrugging. Josie and Ray had been standing right next to us the entire time, but Calvin was talking to me. Only to me.

“That’s beautiful, Calvin,” I said softly and he smiled, tentatively. “Also, I think that’s the most words you’ve said at once for the entire time we’ve been here.”

“Ah, well,” he said, smiling wider now, “You take an introvert into the wilderness and they usually open up.”

We sat in silence for a moment, taking in the trees. “It’s one thing I’ve always loved about the people who choose to live here,” he finally said. “It’s like reverse-suburbia, this desire to live in such a rural place. Not only rural, but completely chaotic, uncontrollable. The waves aren’t calm and the water is freezing. The trees are gigantic. There are no box stores or chain restaurants or movie theaters. You’re just…completely vulnerable.”

 I opened my mouth to respond, but Josie interrupted. “Lu, mija, I’ll need you in makeup ASAP. I’m thinking some body paint, Haight-Ashbury-style,” Josie said. She looked at Calvin, smiling. “Cal inspired me.”

“See? It informs the narrative,” Ray said, stalking off to fret over lighting.

“Happy to, uh, help,” Cal said, standing and brushing tree bark from his jeans. He reached down, offering his hand and I grabbed it without thinking. His warm palm closed over mine and I remembered his steel grip on my wrist yesterday—so much power in those fingers.

“Thanks,” I said, disentangling quickly. “And thanks for the story. I kind of wish I’d brought, like, a lot of fucking LSD for this shoot today.”

“It would definitely make things more interesting,” he laughed before turning away.

“Wait,” I said, and he turned back. “You’re staying, right?” I didn’t want him to go.

Plus, I still needed to thank him.

“For the shoot?” he asked, pointing to the slew of cameras. “To be honest, I hadn’t planned on it. Won’t I just get in the way?”

“It’ll be fun. And we’ll never find our way back without you,” Josie chimed in. “Just stay. Craft services has coffee and donuts.”

“And I’ll be walking around with my top off for a lot of it,” I said, propping a hand on my hip and winking outrageously.

Cal reddened before saying “Oh, well, okay then.” He walked back towards the log we’d been sitting on, removing a slender book from his back pocket.

“Always with the books with that guy,” I said, rolling my eyes at Josie.

“You’re such a flirt,” she teased, rolling open a rainbow palette of eye makeup.

“It’s part of my charm,” I said, leaning over to plant a big kiss on her cheek. “And you love me for it.”

 

◊

 

 

“Maravillosa, chica,” Josie said, standing back to assess her handi-work. She held a thin makeup brush in her hand, head tilted.

I made a silly face at her. “Gorgeous, hey?” I said. Joanna was putting the final touches on my hair: a giant floral crown of dark pink peonies.

“Ray, what do you think?” she asked.

I stood completely still, Ray to my left and a bevy of cameras to my right. I couldn’t speak when Josie was doing the body painting, so I had to listen to Taylor prattle on about his time with Brad Pitt, on the movie they’d just done together. If I heard Taylor say the words, “He’s just a chill dude, man. A chill, chill dude,” one more time, I was going to punch something.

Ray’s face came into my line of vision. “Perfect,” he said, nodding. He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Listen, you’re probably going to carry this shoot again today.”

“Yep,” I said, stretching my neck, already aching from the weight of the flowers. “It’s all good. I’ll handle it.”

Reputation or not, I was known in the industry as a “one-and-done”-type of model. I usually nailed it the first time, every time.

I was just that fucking good.

Taylor, though, could throw off the whole day with his nerves…and our serious lack of chemistry. I swallowed, conscious of the cameras a few feet away.

“Let me snap a photo of you,” Josie said. “If we had internet, I’d have you all over my Instagram.”

I groaned. “Ugh, with the flowers and the trees and the body paint.”

“Mhmmm,” she said, indicating I should strike a pose. I did, and her smile told me it was a good one. “Looks like we’ll have to just make memories the old-fashioned way.”

“I fucking hate that,” I said, but when she showed me the photo I smiled. “Well…I do look cute.” I was in brown suede boots that laced up the backs of my legs, up over my knees to the middle of my thighs. A cream, sleeveless shift dress barely covered my ass. The dress had a deep v-neck, and I was bra-less. I felt kind of wild and Woodstock—flower crown and hippie boots and my boobs out and proud.

And the crown jewel? Josie had hand-painted an intricate pattern of flowers and tribal designs in gold and silver paint up the entirely of my right arm and across my chest. Delicate leaves fanned out from around my eyes.

“Wood-nymph Woodstock,” Ray declared, squeezing my shoulders and nodding over my head to his camera guys. “Just what Shay Miller wanted. Now let’s get this show on the road. We have about 4 hours of sunlight left and approximately one million outfit changes.”

I sighed, tossing my hair, trying to dredge up an iota of the excitement I used to feel. Josie words of concern rattled around, but I chalked it up to being tired.

“Where do you want me?” I asked.

 

◊

 

 

“Gorgeous, Lucia. Fucking gorgeous,” Ray said. “Keep that face, got it?” I gave a subtle nod that I’d heard, then went back to “the face.”

Taylor and I had moved through the first couple poses already—not too bad, considering Taylor was nervous. But we hadn’t had to face each other, or really interact off each other—we were both just working the camera separately.

I looked over at Calvin, perched maybe twenty feet away on a fallen log. Coffee in one hand, his book in the other. So far he hadn’t looked up once, not even when I’d walked right past him. I was surrounded by cameras but I just really wanted Calvin to look at me.

I didn’t know why. Except that he was alternately nervous around me, yet seemingly immune to my charms. It was weird. 

“Next pose, guys,” Ray said. “Taylor, on the log, laying down.”

“Um, what?” Taylor asked.

“Laying down. Shay wants—” he flipped through his notes, “—he wants the scenes in the woods to be ‘erotic.’”

“What’s so fucking erotic about the woods?” I asked. I mentally prepared myself to dry-hump Taylor on a log in the middle of the wilderness, in front of dozens of near-strangers.

It was actually not the most awkward thing I’d ever done in a photo shoot.

I glanced back at Calvin, who was still immersed.

I’d changed outfits: the boots were still on, but now I wore short cut-offs, a long Indian-printed shawl and white bikini-top. The flower crown had been replaced with a high bun.

“Am I naked? Semi-naked?” I asked Ray, voice a little raised. I thought I saw Cal sway a bit.

“Maybe in a bit,” Ray said seriously, although I had been totally joking.

He came over and walked us through what he wanted—me, miming crawling towards, and on top of, Taylor. Some scenes of me licking and/or biting his bare chest. Alternately, Ray also wanted some sweet kisses—adoring looks.

“After this, it’s up against the tree,” Ray said.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

Ray shrugged. “Shay wants it. Like kind of this animalistic, carnal-fucking-in-the-woods type thing. All the sexy parts of Woodstock, but on steroids.” When I arched an eyebrow he said, “You heard it from Cal himself. Things used to get wild back here in the bohemian days. You don’t think a few people fucked against this tree?”

Cal looked up at that, hearing his name. “Um…what?” He asked.

“Fucking. Against trees,” Ray said, somewhat impatiently. “Don’t you think some of these camp parties used to get a little crazy?”

Calvin met my eyes. “Yeah. Um…I mean, I think Ray is probably right. You mix drugs, horny writers and the outdoors and I’m sure.” He swallowed, held my gaze. “I’m sure there was a lot of fucking.”

My blood heated under Cal’s appraisal. I caught his eyes wandering: my bare stomach, the almost-see-through bikini, my dark magenta lips. 

“I can see it,” I said. “Yeah.” I tilted my head. “Thanks Cal.”

He nodded, before settling back down. And immediately going back to his book.

For an hour, I gave it my all. Erotic high fashion wasn’t hard—I’d done Maxim and Vogue. Cosmo and walked the Milan runway. But it was different: attempting to embody a soft-core vibe in a high-class way. Taylor had to basically just lay there while I crawled, licked, bit. I made my way up to his face…and immediately hit a roadblock.

“All right, kids. Time to turn on the romance,” Ray said.

Except Taylor and I could not pull off the romance. I mean, I thought I was probably doing okay, but Taylor’s face was wooden. Tired-looking. Every time I tried to kiss him, we’d almost headbutt each other.

I burst out laughing at one point, I couldn’t help it. I was straddling Taylor, his hands on my thighs, and every time I leaned in close he’d make this ‘kiss me’ face that was a blend of both constipated and confused. I didn’t know how he did it.

Ray came over, looking like a disappointed dad. “What’s going on with you two?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing,” I said immediately, but Taylor cleared his throat.

“I’m just tired,” he said. “We’ve been shooting for hours.”

“Um, one hour,” I said. “And it’s not that bad. You’ve basically just been laying down.”

“Taylor, I need you to work off Lucia. Look at her: she’s gorgeous. She’s like this sweet, fuckable, wood nymph you’ve stumbled upon in the forest. Tell yourself a story in your head. You know, get into it.”

Ray and Taylor kept chatting and I climbed off Taylor’s lap for a second. I swigged water, munched on a few almonds, my mind distracted. I looked at Calvin, who was now chatting amiably with Josie and Joanna. They were laughing at something he said.

I wondered what Cal would do if he’d stumbled upon me in the forest, looking like a sweet, but fuckable, wood nymph. Flowers in my hair, wrapped in some gauzy white fabric. Naked underneath. All wide-eyed and innocent. The few times I’d seen Cal’s guard fall, I’d glimpsed an inner sexuality that was more intense than his shy demeanor—or maybe that was just my imagination.

But I secretly thought he’d know what to do with me.

How to corrupt my innocence. Maybe against this tree.

“And now the tree part. You good, Lu?”

I half-choked on some water. “Um…oh yeah, Ray. Feeling great.”

Taylor looked a little pale, having just had his ass handed to him by Ray.

“Okay, then. Let’s get sexy in the woods.”

Josie and Joanna scurried over—touching up lipstick, fixing my hair. Josie took my shawl and the top.

“Time to get naked, I guess,” I said, my hands covering my breasts. I didn’t know why, I was never shy on these sets. But Cal had moved closer, was leaning up against a tree not fifteen feet away.

I stepped backwards until my skin hit the bark. It was rough, abrasive on the soft skin between my shoulder blades. Taylor followed, covering most of my body with his.

“Hands on her thigh, Taylor. We need to focus in on the boot.” I hitched my leg up, Taylor’s hand holding up my knee. The jean shorts slid higher. I arched my back, fingers trailing up his spine.

“Okay, don’t look at each other for…uh…” For the rest of the shoot, I thought. “For the time being. Taylor, you’re looking down at her body. Lu, you’re looking off to the right. Let’s play off that.”

I turned my neck, closed my eyes for a second.

And opened them to find Calvin staring right at me.

 

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