Shutterspeed Page 5

  Mr Jose is late to form class again, so Shania takes the opportunity to power-trip.

  ‘I trust you’ve been practising your high jump, Dustin,’ she smiles.

  ‘Bite me.’

  ‘Blow me. I’ve entered the nominations and they’re printing the program as we speak. So buck up, lanky legs, you’re doing the frosby flop for Shenton House next week.’

  ‘You can kiss my frosby —’

  ‘Forget it, Dust, she’s not worth it,’ Nugget tells him as Mr Jose settles into his chair at the front of the room. ‘We both know you’ll wag anyway. Hey, what happened to you the other day? I waited at Bob’s Bikes for an hour.’

  It already seems like weeks ago. Dustin thinks for a bit before remembering he’d been at his dad’s lab, with Terri Pavish.

  ‘You said you’d be there,’ Nugget says.

  ‘I said maybe.’

  ‘Whatever. I got the Yamaha, a silver one.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘I’d show you the photos but Eva and Hilda are looking at them.’ And sure enough, the two German exchange students are huddled over a handful of shots, giggling. One of them points, wide-eyed.

  ‘Nugget, are you wearing dick togs in the photos?’ Dustin asks.

  ‘I’d come from the beach.’ Nugget grins proudly.

  ‘Since when do you wear dick togs at the … ah, forget it. You’re a shocker.’

  ‘Jealous,’ Nugget mumbles.

  And classes roll into each other. They watch the end of Gladiator. Russell Crowe finally dies and Mr Ramsay wipes away tears before switching on the lights. After an hour of Hollywood eye candy, he seems horrified by the ugly mass of students before him. There’s an essay to write but Dustin knows that can wait, just like the project for work studies and the revision notes for human biol.

  But the art assignment gets his attention.

  ‘To accompany your portfolio,’ Mrs Blackler says, ‘you’ve got to hand in your journal, with preliminary sketches and notes. I want to see you’ve thought about your subjects and how to place them.’

  ‘Who can be a subject?’ asks Jasmine, swinging onto the stool beside Dustin.

  ‘Anyone. Friend, family or stranger. It’s a character study, not a modelling shoot, so have some fun. Think about how you’re going to position them in Freo — with an old Moreton Bay Fig perhaps, or in the pinball arcade. Or in the markets with crates of fruit and veg.’

  Jasmine bites her bottom lip and opens her visual journal.

  ‘I’ll be marking you on the technical aspects of photography, of course,’ Miss Blackler says, ‘such as composition, perspective, exposure and movement. But I’m also marking you on how your photos grab me. Don’t waste school paper on dullness.’

  Jasmine’s making notes, but Dustin’s just listening and it’s all going in. He looks out the window to where the harbour is, far away. Something’s beginning to make sense.

  ‘There was a French writer in the nineteenth century called Balzac,’ Mrs Blackler tells them, ‘who said that all physical bodies are made entirely of an infinite number of ghostlike skins, one on top of another. He believed that photography had the power to peel away a layer at a time, with each photo diminishing the subject. That’s why he only ever allowed one photo to be taken of himself.’

  ‘Mental,’ Shania says.

  ‘Really? He’s not the only one suspicious of photography. In some indigenous cultures people are afraid to have their photos taken because they believe it’ll steal a part of their soul. They’re frightened they’ll lose a bit of themselves.’

  Shania’s amused. ‘Serious?’

  ‘They’re right, you know,’ Mrs Blackler says. ‘That’s the whole idea.’

  ‘Can I steal you?’ Jasmine whispers into Dustin’s left ear. ‘You can try.’

  When the class falls quiet with sketching, Mrs Blacker leans over Dustin’s desk. ‘Did you get any good shots yesterday?’

  ‘They’re okay.’

  ‘When you’ve finished the roll,’ she tells them, ‘I’ll pair you two up and show you how to use the darkroom.’

  ‘I’ve learnt already, miss,’ says Jasmine softly. ‘I did extension art last year.’

  ‘Did you? Do you think you could help kill two birds with one stone then? I’ve got a whole pile of unprocessed black-and-whites from the swimming carnival in there, and the magazine committee’s on my back. It’d be great if you could develop one or two while you show Dustin how things work.’

  The darkroom doesn’t smell like Ken’s photo lab; it’s not as sharp. The smell is gentler and sweeter. It fills Dustin’s lungs as he stands in the darkness, waiting for Jasmine to find the light. A globe turns red above them, just enough to see shapes and movement. The white of Jasmine’s teeth and eyeballs stands out and he laughs.

  ‘Cool, hey?’

  ‘Can I get high from these fumes?’ he asks her.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Let’s stay here all day then,’ he says, pushing some bottles aside and sitting up on the workbench. ‘Free fumes, aircon, no Shania and no maths. Heaven.’

  ‘How can you not know how to do this? Your dad has a photo lab — doesn’t he have a darkroom?’

  ‘Why would he? The processor does it all. Darkrooms are for try-hard art geeks like you.’

  She flicks him with a tea towel twice before he can snatch it from her and flick her back.

  ‘You scream like a girl.’

  Bottles of fluid fall to the floor and a tray slams against a wall as they flick tea towels at each other, making fresh welts that instantly burn. Each successful strike is laugh-out-loud funny.

  ‘Dustin, you’re in trouble when Mrs Blackler comes back.’ Shania’s voice shouts from the other side of the door.

  ‘Shhh,’ says Jasmine, pulling the tea towel from Dustin’s hands.

  ‘No way, I’m not even yet.’

  ‘Bad luck, we’ve got work to do.’

  They wait in the silence with white grins until they hear Shania’s footsteps retreat.

  Jasmine organises the bench with confidence. She picks through bottles, pulling three out and lining them up. ‘Pass me the bottle opener from the drawer.’

  She prises a film cover open, slides the film spool out, and winds it carefully onto a reel. She drops it into the developing tank, fills it with a fluid, then sets the timer. She shakes it, waits, shakes and waits, and after a while tips the fluid out, replacing it with a different one, then another. The whole time, she’s serious and in control.

  ‘Shit, how do you remember how to do all this?’

  ‘It’s not hard, Dustin. I like it.’

  ‘You’re a weird one.’

  ‘You can talk.’ After a while she attaches a hose to the tank and lets tap water stream through it. She relaxes now, and both of them watch the water bubbling in the sink like a small fountain. ‘I mean it — I really like it. I like the feeling of looking at a photo I’ve created, all on my own. I like holding something in my hands that never existed before. You know what I mean? That’s what I’m good at.’

  ‘Jasmine, I’ve seen the cheerleading shakers you made and they were crap.’

  ‘They don’t count, I’m talking about cool stuff. When I leave school that’s what I want to do — make things, like jewellery, or paintings, or photos. I want to bring things into the world that make it a better place.’

  ‘Are the fumes messing with your head?’

  ‘Well, what do you want to do? You can’t ride a bike for a living.’

  ‘Couriers do.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You can do more than that.’ She turns off the tap and takes the long strip of film from the tank, pegging it above the bench. ‘Maybe you should try the high jump after all. You might be good, you know, find your calling. Forget Shania, do it because you want to try something new. Who knows, I could be good at the javelin, or something. We could both try …’

  ‘You want me to be like one of those jocks in house colours on Athletics Day?
Someone like … Nugget?’

  ‘That’s not what I said,’ Jasmine says. ‘And leave Nugget out of it. I don’t want you to change, I just want you to be … happy.’

  ‘I’ll be happy when school’s over Jaz, that’s it. Now what?’ he asks, nodding at the film. ‘Is it done? Why are they so small?’

  ‘Relax, they’re not enlarged yet. Just big enough to see.’ She takes a small squeegee and runs it down the length of the film.

  They lean in, seeing funny action shots in the pool. In the small frames, Dustin recognises people he knows.

  ‘You are good at this,’ he tells her.

  She grins, keeping her lips closed. ‘It’s magic.’

  18

  Dustin buys hot chips and a Coke at lunch, and is on his way to the peppermint tree when a boxing glove flies through the air and smacks his left elbow. It takes him by surprise and he drops his chips.

  ‘Sorry, Dustbin!’ yells Nugget, his head and neck sticking out from one of the phys rec room windows. ‘I was aiming for your head.’

  ‘Get fucked, fucker.’

  ‘Bring your scrawny hairy arse in here. I need your help. And bring the glove.’

  Dustin’s never set foot in the physical recreation room but he’s heard about it. Apparently this is where all the kids who don’t like sunshine go at lunchtime. It’s a place for the nerds, the geeks, the wimps and the victims, and he wonders what the hell Nugget is doing in there.

  He steps inside and lets his eyes adjust. Nugget’s on the far side of the room so Dustin’s got to walk between the air hockey table — where two skinny kids wearing skater gear use words like ‘gnarly’ and ‘olly’ — and a cross-eyed kid playing darts.

  ‘I need you to hold something,’ Nugget tells him.

  ‘You must be desperate, Nugget. You should know that pick-up line doesn’t work on me.’

  ‘Hold the bag, would ya.’ Nugget puts the glove back on. The punching bag thuds with each short blow.

  ‘What the …’

  ‘I’m doing time. Coach is making me work the bag because of Greggor’s concussion at training on Monday.’

  ‘Shit, that was you?’

  ‘It was an accident.’ Punch. Jab.

  ‘So you’ve been sent here? To the land of the hobbits?’ ‘Go easy, Dustbin, they’re not that bad.’

  ‘You’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘Can’t. Coach said I have to get out my aggressions twice a week till the end of term. He said that punching this thing is good for anger management.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Nugget pauses and the bag sways. He hands Dustin the gloves. ‘Try it.’

  ‘Not my thing, mate.’

  Nugget stills the bag with the palm of a hand. ‘Don’t you ever want to hit someone?’ he asks, seriously.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘I get over it.’

  ‘Shit, mate, sometimes you just gotta hit something. I’d go mental if I didn’t play rugby.’

  ‘You are mental,’ Dustin tells him, turning to leave.

  ‘Hey, wait,’ Nugget pleads. ‘I need your help. Well, your advice.’

  Dustin stays, curious. Nugget’s his best mate, after all.

  ‘You know those two new exchange students, Eva and Hilda? I scored a date.’

  ‘Geez! Which one?’

  ‘That’s the problem — I don’t know. I chatted ’em both up and then this morning I get a note in my locker saying that “she” wants to “get to know me” on Friday night. It’s signed by Eva, but which one’s that?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Are you mental? One’s much hotter than the other.’

  ‘You mean the one with the longer hair?’

  ‘Hair? I mean the one without the bushy eyebrows.’

  Dustin scratches the back of his neck. He’d never noticed eyebrows.

  ‘You’ve got to find out for me,’ Nugget tells him.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Get Jasmine to, then. She’s …’ Nugget slows down, struggling for the right word. ‘She’s … charitable. You can’t leave me turning up to a date not knowing who I’ll be meeting. Especially if her eyebrows remind me of John Howard. Sick!’

  Dustin laughs at his hairy, beefy mate. ‘You’re scared of a German chick?’

  ‘Shit, yeah! They’re full-on, aren’t they? The note she left was real up-front, you know. “I would like to observe your accessories.” She’s going to jump me! You’re not taking this seriously.’

  ‘Mate, cancer is serious. A German chick throwing herself at your massive agates is not serious. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘You must have some kind of wisdom to share with me. You’re the ladies’ man after all.’

  Dustin snorts with amusement until he realises Nugget’s not joking. He’s been called a number of things in his life — a lazy bastard, a selfish prick, a waste of space — but never a ladies’ man. ‘Since when?’

  Nugget turns back to the punching bag and hits it with soft, swift hooks. ‘Well … you must be …’ right hook ‘… to score with Jasmine.’

  Dustin grabs the bag with both hands to still it.

  ‘You know what I mean, dickhead,’ says Nugget, pulling his shoulder blades back. ‘It’s okay, she’s a cute chick.’

  ‘She’s not my —’

  ‘Whatever you reckon. I’m just saying what it looks like.’

  ‘But you’re wrong. Geez, you’re my mate, you’re supposed to know that.’

  ‘I just know what I see.’

  The bag sways between them and Dustin shakes his head.

  ‘Well, you’re more of a dickhead than I thought,’ Nugget tells him.

  Dustin walks out of the rec room into the great wash of daylight, and the school oval snaps into focus. He just wants to chill out under the peppermint tree, where things make sense. He buys a pie and walks to where Jasmine sits, drawing.

  ‘Where you been?’

  ‘With Nugget. He’s lost the plot. I think his testicle’s stolen blood flow from his brain.’ Dustin’s glad he can laugh about it — Jasmine has that effect on him.

  She licks pistachio salt from her fingertips. ‘I reckon Mrs Clark’s pregnant. Do you think so?’

  ‘Which one’s she?’

  ‘My drama teacher.’

  ‘The hot one?’ he says, his mouth filled with meat.

  ‘The married one. She rushed out of class again today and I reckon she’s got morning sickness. When she came back she smelt kind of like spew.’

  ‘Jaz, I’m eating.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be weird? Being pregnant?’

  ‘It would be for me.’

  ‘It’d be weird, I think, but kind of nice,’ she says rubbing the turtle-bump under her school shirt. ‘Pregnant women look so happy. You know, when they’re not throwing up. They just glow.’ The bump moves, like something out of Alien.

  ‘Gross. Why are you still carrying that thing around?’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Umm … put it back where it came from? That would be normal.’

  ‘I’m not a deserter, Dustin.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he admits, ‘I know you’re not. What do you know about eyebrow shapes?’

  ‘You mean cosmetically or spiritually? There’s a facial analysis chart at my parents’ shop you could check out if you want.’

  ‘Enough, forget it,’ he says, throwing his empty pie wrapper at her. ‘Nugget can shag John Howard for all I care.’

  Jasmine grins and pats her turtle. ‘You’re a strange boy.’

  He glides into Fremantle after school, tyres silent on the bitumen. People and traffic let him slip through, all the way to the cinema. He buys a ticket and sinks into a red seat, the same one as yesterday. Terri Pavish isn’t in the theatre — he hadn’t really expected her to be — but when he looks to her seat in the eleventh row, it’s as
if he can almost catch a glimpse of her; as though the silhouette of her remains.

  The film about a musician’s life rolls out on the screen. Near the end Dustin reaches for his bag and quietly, slowly, edges along his row. He walks down the aisle to the eleventh row, where he slides in. Looking at the screen, he can sense — with the hairs on his skin — her sitting beside him. And it’s the best feeling he’s ever known.

  17

  Dustin wakes up groggily on the couch to the sound of his father washing dishes. His watch says it’s past 8:00pm. Slinking to the kitchen, he fills a glass at the sink and drinks. Ken moves around him, organising clean crockery into the correct places.

  ‘Big day at school?’

  ‘Must’ve been.’

  ‘There’s fish on a plate in the fridge.’ ‘Okay.’

  ‘Do you have homework?’

  ‘Done it.’

  ‘There’s a movie on TV tonight I want to watch.’

  Ken sits in the lounge room with a bowl of ice-cream and a cup of decaffeinated Nescafé coffee. He flicks through a newspaper as he waits for the movie to start.

  Dustin picks at the crumbed cod on the plate, watching the opening sequence before giving up on the movie and taking the plate to his room. He sits on his single bed, surrounded by plain walls the colour of sand. There’s nothing superfluous here except the three photos of Terri Pavish on the corkboard above his desk. Lying back, he gazes at her again. One day soon he’ll walk right up to her. What will he say? You’re something different. I want to know you.

  Looking at each photo in turn, he sees everything he wants. Speed. Independence. Freedom. He wants her; he wants to be like her. He admires the impermanency of this woman — blink and she’s gone. Like vapour. Like a memory.

  But he won’t let her disappear the way his mother did. Dustin recalls Mrs Blackler’s advice — that some things are too important to let slide: That’s why we take photos, Dustin. So people don’t disappear.

  And he knows that if it wasn’t for these photos on his wall, Terri Pavish wouldn’t exist to him either. She’d be as transient and meaningless as air, slipping past him on night roads, and dissolving into crowds in Freo. Without these photos, Terri Pavish wouldn’t be real. That’s why he must keep them on his wall, letting her breathe, making her permanent. She’s too good to disappear.