We spend the next hour or so making negatives and moving my prints around the trays of chemicals in the dim light of the darkroom. Being in the darkroom doesn’t bother me. Once the film is loaded into the reel, it’s protected from the light, and so the darkroom isn’t completely dark—just sort of dim and murky, with the sound of water running out of the hose in the corner. It reminds me of a rainy day.

When the pictures are hanging up, drying off, Drew looks at me. I look at Drew. We both look at the photos.

“Wow,” Drew says softly, and I have to agree.

THEN

“Corey,” I announce the next day on the phone. “I’ve found my passion.”

“You’ve found your passing?” Corey asks, sounding confused.

“No,” I sigh. “My passion. I found my passion. You know, what I want to do. Like you and basketball.”

“Oh,” Corey says, sounding uncertain. Pause. “And what is this newfound passion?”

“Photography!” I announce with a flourish, and lean back in my chair. Somehow I expect this announcement to be accompanied by the sound of trumpets and other woodwind instruments. Are trumpets even woodwind instruments? They might be brass. I only took clarinet for six months in the fifth grade, so I don’t really remember. “That’s right,” I say, mistaking Corey’s silence for sudden awe and admiration for the fact that I’ve figured out what I want to do with my life. “I’m going to be a photographer.”

“But you hate photography,” Corey says.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. The professor is mean to you, and it’s not as easy as just taking pictures,” Corey recites. Ugh. Does he have to remember my exact words?

“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t hate it anymore. Something happened, Corey, when I started taking pictures. It was like, I didn’t think about the angle and the lighting and all that kind of stuff. Somehow I just knew what the picture should look like. And they’re really good.”

“What’s really good?”

“My pictures!” I say, throwing up my hands in exasperation, even though he can’t see me. “Are you even listening to anything I’m saying?” How is it he remembers exactly what I said about photography weeks ago, yet he can’t focus on what I’m saying now?

“Of course I am,” he says. “It’s just that it’s hard to take you seriously, that’s all.”

“Why is it hard to take me seriously?” I ask, frowning.

“Because last week you hated photography, and now it’s suddenly your passion,” he says. He sounds like he can’t believe how obviously fickle I am. Okay, granted, I did hate photography, but now I like it. Would it kill him to act a little supportive?