Excerpt from Effects of Light

From Chapter One

I step out of the car into dust. Even one step and my flip-flopped foot is brown with sweat and air and the dust all around us. Off the vinyl, my knee-backs are sticky and help me pretend there's wind here. Only for a minute though, and then they dry. Myla steps out too and she slams the front door and scowls at me. She goes to help. She thinks I should be helping too. Instead I roll up the window slowly and hope they unload before I'm done. Myla says she knows my tricks and she's right. Even now, even with trees above us, the sun feels like a huge quilt pressing on my head. Like the stuff that goes in quilts, the insulation, the waffle part. Hot, like you can't even breathe as deep as you want. Like smothering.

Myla slams the hatch shut. I can tell it's her without even looking because it's her kind of slam: a little angry, but mostly bored and bossy and knowing what's about to come. She wants credit and no matter how she tries, she thinks she won't get it. She helps and I stand here. Then Ruth's voice comes, bright bells across the hot hot day: "Pru, come carry." I close my door softly and walk around to the back of the car. Myla already has one of the coolers that Ruth's rigged up for carrying film. Myla's also trying to put the backpack on when Ruth says, "There's no way you can carry the backpack like that while we're hiking. Give it to Pru." So Myla puts it on my back and I smile at her over my shoulder. Ruth says, "Keys?" and Myla holds up her right hand and jingles them in the air. "Okay," says Ruth. "Good to go." And she hoists the tripod onto one shoulder and takes off, out of the parking area and into the grass. The dust billows up, brown coughing air, and we walk into it. Myla goes last. She pushes me into place in front of her.

The river air cools us when we walk, but I still feel hot all over until we stop for a drink and then I get shivery. I move out on the rock to the break in the trees. I lie in the sun and it warms me. Myla comes and sits next to me and sloshes the canteen in the air. She's whistling, quiet, humming too, and then Ruth says, "I know we've been to this part of the river a million times, but I want to take you guys in a little further, if you're up for a bit of a hike. It's only about half a mile." She's making her voice sound excited so we'll get excited even though it means carrying everything for a lot longer. "Oh, come on," she says. "I'm excited to work on this one little ravine; you guys are going to die when you see it." She looks at us, squinting her eyes. "What you're doing right now is beautiful but there's no way I can get it in this light. Remember where your feet and hands are and maybe we can redo it later on." And without looking at her, I can hear her getting the heavy tripod ready for lifting up and balancing on her shoulder.

Myla rolls her eyes. She says, quietly, "Like we were only sitting here so she'd want to take a picture." I know what she's saying and I also know she's right and a little bit wrong. I did come lie on the rock because I was cold but also because I wanted Ruth to see. Not just because she'd want to take my picture but because she'd see Myla and me together, see girls basking and think, 'I've got to capture that.' Then she would take pictures of Myla and me together, and Myla would still want them. And then things would feel the same again.

We catch up with Ruth and she tells us a joke about Kissinger and Nixon and Kennedy on the Titanic. I don't get all of it but I like the part where Kissinger says, "Women and children first," and Nixon says, "Fuck the women and children," and Kennedy says, "Do you think we have time?" Myla and I giggle and everything feels laughing and loose. But then Ruth says, half joking, because she knows he swears all the time, "Don't tell your dad I said that," and Myla says, fast, "God, Ruth, we're not little kids anymore. Pru's ten. I'm fifteen. Remember? I think we can handle a little swearing," and the dark shadow comes back. Then we turn a corner and climb up a big boulder and see out over this perfect little place of green and water and smooth rocks. Ruth laughs and says, "Well, maybe it's more of a lagoon than a ravine. What's the difference? Myla, you always seem to know that kind of thing."

"I do not," says Myla, and she's grumpy. Ruth's already setting up the tripod and stretching the black accordion paper part of the camera. She gestures me over and opens the backpack and pulls out the lens and unwraps it, delicate and soft. She touches my shoulder and says to both of us, "Just put the stuff up there, on the bank. Make sure none of it gets wet." Myla mutters, "We know," and I nudge her foot. She gives me a look but I know she's not as mad as she seems.

Now's the part that always feels strange because who knows when or what will start the shoot. It's like the three of us all have a little dance around each other and maybe Myla or me will do something to step into the air that will make Ruth stop and say, "Hold still." But sometimes the things that I think will make her excited don't work and instead we'll just eat sandwiches and not take pictures at all. But today I lean over to look at a little frog and Ruth says, "Pru, hold it. Myla, can I have the reflector?" and they're both already into place, Ruth grabbing her darkcloth and shrouding it over her shoulders and her camera like they have secrets, and Myla shaking the reflector into a big round circle of white that gleams into my eye and makes me want to blink. Myla already knows it's too much and she stands back a little, moves the white to a different angle and shimmers my ankle a little bit but not much more. Ruth grabs the cooler and pulls out a film holder, focuses the camera, slides the holder into the back of the camera and checks the shutter. She pulls out the slide, leaving the film inside the camera, and says, "Look here, but just with your eyes," and then cllllick goes the shutter and Ruth says, "One more. This time, no clothes." So I memorize my feet in their certain way on the rocks and my hands pressing on my knees and where my hair slides down my cheek and then I stand up and take off my dress and throw Ruth that and my underpants. They get a little wet when I step through them out of the water, but they'll dry. I get back in place, even though it'll never be exactly right, and look back down in the water. The little frog has swum away. Ruth says, "Head down a little," and she's looking through the camera again, the eye of it all the way open. Then she focuses, takes another holder, pushes it in, pulls out the slide, and says, "1 2 3," and cllllllick it's taken. Ruth sighs. That's the sign to let me stand up and she turns to Myla and says, "Now you. There, where Pru is. And Pru-y, you back there on that rock."

Myla walks up and she's already naked and takes my place and I can see she's proud, proud to be noticed. Ruth says, "Crouch, Myla. Beautiful. Lovely hands," and I take my place back on the boulder and lean my body into the sun. "Arms out, Pru," Ruth calls. And out my arms grow into the air. And Ruth says something funny, something I can't hear but I know it's a joke because it makes Myla giggle. And then Ruth calls, "Beautiful, girls. Beautiful." The sun is on me and I smile. What an easy day to make pictures. I want to stay and stay like this, with Myla in front and me in the sun, and me out of focus and happy. Ruth calls out instructions and for each picture I lower my head, or lift up my arms, or turn to one side or the other. Myla stays the same in front of me, even her back full of joy. And everything is cool and warm at once.