The Second Trimester

Ocracoke
1996

The nor’easter arrived the second week of January, after three days in a row of higher-than-normal temperatures and sunny days that felt unfamiliar after the grayish gloom of December. I could never have predicted that a gigantic storm was in the offing.

Nor could I have seen the changes ahead in my relationship with Bryce. On New Year’s Eve, I still considered him nothing more than a friend, even though he’d chosen to spend the evening at my house while the rest of his family went out of town. Gwen brought over her television and we tuned in to Dick Clark’s show live from Times Square; as midnight approached, we counted down with the rest of America. When the ball dropped, Bryce set off a couple of bottle rockets from the porch that exploded over the water with loud bangs and tails of sparkles. The neighbors on their porches clanked pots with spoons as well, but within minutes, the town reverted to sleepy mode and lights in the nearby houses began to blink out. I called my parents to wish them a happy New Year, and they reminded me that they would be coming to visit me later in the month.

Despite the holiday, Bryce was back less than eight hours later, this time with Daisy, which was the first time he’d brought her over. He helped my aunt and me take down the tree—which was a definite fire hazard by then—and dragged it out to the road. After I repacked the decorations and swept up the needles, we took our places at the table for schoolwork. Daisy was sniffing around in the kitchen; when he called her over, she promptly lay down near his chair.

“Linda said it was okay to bring her when I asked her about it last night,” he explained. “My mom says she still wanders too much.”

I glanced at Daisy, who stared back at me with innocence and contentment, tail thumping.

“She seems fine to me. And look at her cute face.”

Sure enough, Daisy seemed to know we were talking about her, and she sat up, poking her nose at Bryce’s hand. When he ignored her, she moseyed toward the kitchen again. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he said. “Daisy? Come.”

Daisy pretended not to hear him. It wasn’t until the second command that she finally returned to his side and lay down with a groan. Daisy, I noticed, was sometimes stubborn, and when she tried to wander off again, he ended up putting her on a leash and attaching it to the chair, a vantage point from which she watched us, looking glum.

That week or so was pretty similar to the previous week: schoolwork and photography. In addition to letting me take a lot of pictures, Bryce hauled over a file box filled with photos that he and his mother had taken over the years. On the back of every photo were notes on the technical aspects of the shot—time of day, lighting, aperture, film speed—and little by little, I began to anticipate how changing a single element could alter the image entirely. I also spent my first afternoon in the darkroom, watching Bryce and his mom develop twelve black-and-white photos I’d taken downtown. They walked me through the process of how to get the chemical baths just right—the developer, the stop bath, the fixer—and how to clean the negative. They showed me how to use the enlarger, and the way to create just the right balance of light and dark I wanted. Even though most of it went over my head, when I watched the ghostly images emerge, it seemed like magic.

What was interesting was that even though I was still a novice at taking pictures and developing prints, it turned out I was a bit of a natural when it came to Photoshop. Loading the images required a high-end scanner and a Mac computer, and Porter had purchased both for his wife a year earlier. Since then, Bryce’s mom had edited a bunch of her favorite photographs, and for me, reviewing her work was the perfect way to be introduced to the program because I could see both the before and after images…and then try to replicate them myself. Now, I’m not saying that I was the kind of computer wizard that Richard was, nor did I have the experience with the program that Bryce and his mom did, but once I learned one of the tools, it stuck with me. I also had a pretty good sense of what aspects of a photo needed editing in the first place, a sort of intuitive understanding that surprised them both.

The point is, between the holidays and tutoring and all things photography, Bryce and I were together from early in the morning until evening, pretty much every day from Christmas until the big storm hit. With Daisy our constant companion once January arrived—she loved nothing more than to follow us when we were practicing with the camera—my life began to feel almost abnormally normal, if that makes any sense. I had Bryce and a dog and a newfound passion; thoughts of home seemed far away, and I was actually excited to get out of bed in the mornings. It was a new feeling for me but also kind of scary in an I hope it keeps going kind of way.

I didn’t think about what spending so much time with Bryce would mean for the two of us. In fact, I wasn’t really thinking about him much at all. For most of that period, he was just there, like my aunt Linda or my family back home, or even the air I breathed. Once I’d picked up the camera or studied photographs or played around with Photoshop, I wasn’t sure I even noticed his dimples anymore. I don’t think I realized how important he’d become to me until shortly before the storm rolled in. He was standing on the porch after another long day together when he finally handed me his camera, the light meter, and a new roll of black-and-white film.

“What’s this for?” I asked, taking it.

“In case you want to practice tomorrow.”

“Without you? I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You know more than you think you do. You’ll be fine. And I’m going to be pretty busy the next couple of days.”

As soon as he said it, I felt an unexpected pang of sadness at the thought of not seeing him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be here, but I have to help my dad get things ready for the nor’easter.”

Although I’d heard my aunt mention it, I figured the storm wouldn’t be much different from what we’d experienced on and off since I’d been in Ocracoke. “What’s a nor’easter?”

“It’s a storm on the East Coast. But sometimes—like it’s supposed to do now—it collides with another weather system and it feels like an out-of-season hurricane.”

As he explained, I was still trying to process my discomfort at the thought of not seeing him. Since we’d met, the longest time we’d spent apart was two days, which, I now realized, was also kind of strange. Aside from family, I hadn’t spent that much time with anyone. If Madison and Jodie and I spent a weekend together, we were usually getting on each other’s nerves by the end. But wanting to keep Bryce on the porch for just a little longer, I forced a smile. “What do you have to do with your dad?”

“Secure my granddad’s boat, board up the windows at our house and my grandparents’. Others, too, around town, including your aunt’s and Gwen’s. It’ll take a day to get everything set up and then the day after, we’ll have to take everything back down.”

Behind him were blue skies, and I was pretty sure that he and his father were overreacting.

But they weren’t.

The next day, I woke to an empty house after sleeping in later than usual, and my first thought was No Bryce.

To be honest, it left me feeling a bit out of sorts. I kept my pajamas on, ate toast in the kitchen, stood on the porch, wandered the house, listened to music, then ended up in bed again. But I couldn’t sleep—I was more bored than tired—and after tossing and turning for a while, I finally summoned the energy to get dressed, only to think, Now what?

I suppose I could have studied for finals or continued working on the next semester’s assignments, but I wasn’t in the mood for that, so I grabbed a jacket and the camera along with the light meter, loading all of it into the basket on my bicycle. I didn’t really have an idea of where to go, so I pedaled around for a while, stopping now and then to practice taking the same kind of photos I’d been taking all along—street scenes, buildings and houses. Always, though, I ended up lowering the camera before pressing the shutter. In my mind’s eye, I already knew that none would have been all that special—just more of the same—and I didn’t want to waste the film.

It was around that time that I sensed that the mood of the village had shifted. It was no longer ghostlike and sleepy, but strangely busy. On practically every street, I heard the sounds of drills or hammers, and when I rode past the grocery store, I noticed that the parking lot was full, with additional cars lining the street out front. Trucks filled with lumber rolled past me, and at one of the businesses that sold tourist items like T-shirts and kites, I saw a man on the roof fastening a tarp. Boats at the docks were lashed with dozens of ropes while others had been anchored in the harbor. No doubt, people were getting ready for the nor’easter, and I suddenly realized that I had the opportunity to take a series of photos with an actual theme, something with a name like People Before the Storm.

I’m afraid I went a bit crazy with it, even though I only had twelve exposures. Because there was no joviality in the people I saw—just grim determination—I tried to be as circumspect with my camera as possible, all the while trying to remember everything that Bryce and his mom had taught me. The overall lighting, fortunately, was pretty good—thick clouds had rolled in, some grayish-black in color—and after checking the meter, I’d peer through the viewfinder and move around until finally achieving the perspective and composition that felt right. Thinking back on the photographs that I had studied with Bryce, I’d hold my breath, keeping the camera perfectly still while carefully pressing the shutter. I knew they weren’t all going to be amazing, but I was hoping that one or two would be keepers. Notably, it was the first time I photographed people going about their daily lives…the fisherman securing his boat with a grimace; the woman carrying a baby while leaning into a wind; a lean and wrinkled man smoking in front of a boarded-up storefront.

I worked through lunch, only stopping at the shop for a biscuit sandwich as the weather began to perceptibly worsen. By the time I got back to my aunt’s house, I had a single exposure left. My aunt had returned early from the shop—her car was in the drive—but I didn’t see her, and I arrived just as Bryce’s truck pulled in. When he waved, I crazily felt my heart speed up. His father was beside him, and I could see Richard and Robert in the bed of the truck. I grabbed the camera from the bike basket. After Bryce hopped out, he strolled toward me. He was wearing a T-shirt and faded jeans that accentuated his wide shoulders and angular hips, along with a leather tool belt that held a cordless drill and a pair of leather gloves. Smiling in that easy way of his, he waved.

“How did it go today?” he asked. “Anything good?”

I told him about my People Before the Storm idea and added, “I’m hoping that you or your mom will be able to develop them soon.”

“I’m sure my mom will be happy to. The darkroom is the happiest place in the house for her, the only place she can really be by herself. I can’t wait to see them.”

Behind him, at the truck, I saw his father unloading the ladder from the bed. “How was it on your end?”

“Nonstop, and we still have a few more places to go. We’re heading to your aunt’s shop next.”

Up close, I noted the smudges of dirt on his shirt, which didn’t detract from the way he looked in the slightest. “Aren’t you cold? You probably need a jacket.”

“I haven’t had time to think about it,” he said. Then, surprising me, “I missed you today.”

Bryce glanced at the ground, then met my eyes again, his gaze holding steady, and for a split second I had the distinct sense that he wanted to kiss me. The feeling caught me off guard and I think he must have realized it, too, because he suddenly hooked a thumb over his shoulder, quickly becoming the Bryce I knew once more. “I should probably get going so we can finish before dark.”

My throat felt dry. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

I stepped back, wondering if I’d been imagining things, as Bryce turned away. He fell in beside his father as they approached the storage area beneath the house.

Meanwhile, Richard and Robert lugged the ladder toward the porch. On instinct, I moved away from the house, unconsciously trying to figure out how best to frame a final shot with the single exposure I had left. Stopping when the angle seemed right, I adjusted the aperture and checked the light meter, making sure everything was ready to go.

Bryce and his father had vanished inside the storage room, but after a few seconds, I watched Bryce emerge with a piece of plywood. He leaned it against the wall, then returned for another; within minutes, there was a stack of them. Bryce and one of the twins carried one sheet to the front door, while Porter and the other twin did the same. They disappeared inside, my aunt holding the door open for them, only to reappear on the porch a few seconds later. I lifted the lens as they began putting up the plywood over the sliding glass door, but the shot wasn’t worth taking because all of them had their backs to me. Bryce sank the first screw, the rest following in rapid succession. Up went the second piece of plywood with equal speed, and the four of them descended the ladder. Both times, I lowered the camera.

Two more pieces of plywood went over the front window just as quickly, and again I had a bad angle. I didn’t get the shot I wanted until the ladder was moved to my aunt’s bedroom.

Bryce went up the ladder first; the twins handed a smaller sheet of plywood to their father, who then passed it farther up to Bryce. I zeroed in on the focus and suddenly Bryce had to twist in my direction; as he gripped the plywood with both hands, I automatically pressed the shutter. Just as quickly, he twisted back, in position to secure the plywood, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d missed it.