I follow Drew into the classroom, where he takes his coat off and sets it on one of the chairs. The gray striped sweater he’s wearing underneath slides up a little bit, revealing a strip of his flat stomach. I quickly look away, and throw my own coat on one of the nearby tables.

“So did you get any good shots?” he asks. He sits down at one of the long tables while I grab a reel from one of the cupboards against the wall. We’re the only ones in the photo lab, which scares me. I was counting on having to wait at least an hour to use the equipment, which would give me time to slow my beating heart and maybe put my head between my legs to keep from fainting. Although I’m not sure how I was planning on putting my head between my legs with lots of people around. I mean, it’s one thing to have your personal problems exploited to the world, it’s quite another to look like a crazy person.

“Um, shouldn’t we just chill for a little while?” I ask Drew, setting the reel on the table and sitting down across from him. “I mean, you know, talk, relax. You must be tired.”

“Tired? From what?” Drew asks, looking confused.

“Class?” I try desperately. “The gym? The emotional exhaustion of having your every move taped?”

Drew laughs. “Nah, I’m cool.”

“Okay,” I say, sighing.

“Now,” Drew says, setting the reel and a practice piece of film on the table in front of me. “The trick to getting your film loaded into a reel is twofold. First, you need to practice doing it with your eyes closed, and second, you need to find the place where the film enters the reel before you go into the darkroom, so that you don’t have to fumble for it in the dark.”

“Okay,” I say doubtfully. Drew hands me the reel.

“Find the place where the film goes in,” he instructs. “And keep your fingers on it. Hold the roll of film in your other hand. Then close your eyes and load it.” I practice doing this a few times until I have the hang of it.

“Wow,” I tell him. “That really makes a difference. Keeping your hand on the place where it’s supposed to go in, so that you don’t have to find it. Your dad taught you that?”

“Yeah,” Drew says, his voice softening.

“Oh,” I say, swallowing. “You must miss him a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“So, um . . . how did . . . I mean, was it like a drunk driver or something?” I ask, wondering if it’s appropriate to ask someone how their father died.

“No, actually, it was a tractor-trailer,” Drew says, looking down at his hands. He plays with a string that’s popped out of the sleeve of his sweater. “It was February, in the middle of a really bad snowstorm. The guy’s brakes failed, and my dad tried to swerve, but he couldn’t get out of the way in time.”