Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance by Kate Willoughby (suggested reading .TXT) 📗

“Am I correct in assuming I have another contingent from the hockey team this semester?” Larkmont asked with an air of amused resignation.

Several whoops cut through the air. I turned to see a small group of guys all sitting together in a cluster near the back corner.

Hudson Forte was one of them.

Shit.

My heart rate elevated, I whipped around to face forward again.

“Oh my God,” Ruby said in a low voice. “We’ve got to start going to the hockey games.”

I didn’t reply. He probably wouldn’t recognize me from The Marketplace. Too much of my face had been covered up. I’m not sure my own mother would have recognized me. But he might remember me as Blair’s roommate. I had my full face on today, as I had when I met him two years ago. I gave myself a fifty-fifty chance.

Larkmont said, “I hope everyone has prepared their introductory slide show. Any volunteers?”

For class today, we were to choose and present ten to fifteen photographs that inspired or represented us in some way. The photos could be amateur or professional.

Larkmont was answered by silence and chair scraping.

I raised my hand. When it came to presentations in class, waiting to get called on was ten times worse to me than actually standing in front of the class and doing my thing. Plus, as an added bonus, teachers universally appreciated someone getting the ball rolling. Did I mention the high-achieving Asian thing?

“And you are?” Larkmont asked.

“Indi Briscoe.” I carefully kept my gaze away from the jock-populated part of the room.

“All right, Indi, let’s see what you’ve chosen.”

After I synced my tablet with the big screen TV at the front of the classroom, my first photo appeared.

“This is a picture of me and my parents on the day they adopted me from the orphanage in Chengdu, China.”

I included this photo because you couldn’t really see my PWS. My parents looked so joyful and young.

“How old were you there, Indi?” Larkmont asked.

“I was eight months old.”

“Are you the only child they adopted? I know people often adopt several children.”

“Like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,” someone called out.

“No,” I said. “I’m an only child.”

I showed a picture of my parents’ pizzeria, our dearly departed family cat, Bonkers, and me on the day I got my driver’s license. I was wearing makeup by then, so it was safe to show.

“Next is another baby picture,” I said, advancing to a photo of a sleeping newborn in an elaborate butterfly costume.

Larkmont immediately recognized the work of Anne Geddes. “The queen of baby photography,” she said. “What drew you to her?”

“Everything I saw of hers was magical and innocent and full of hope, in direct contrast to this…”

When my next photograph, one of a toddler with a severe cleft palate, showed up on the screen, there were gasps and even a few F-bombs.

I’d done that on purpose—shown them a beautiful, perfect infant and then contrasted it with one with a facial deformity.

“That is one ugly baby,” someone said.

A couple of people laughed and, damn it, that was enough to set me off.

“Who said that?” I demanded, outraged.

No one responded.

“Well, whoever you are, shame on you. Because of people like you, life sucks for kids like this little girl. Not only are they ostracized, they often have difficulty breathing, eating, hearing and talking. When their mothers try to breastfeed them—what are we, twelve?” I asked when someone from the back row snickered. The guy wore an amused smirk as he balanced his chair on its back legs.

“Please ignore them,” Larkmont said. “Unfortunately, from time to time we admit students who have yet to achieve full adulthood. Please go on.”

Score: Larkmont, 1, Jocks, 0.

“As I was saying, when their mothers try to breastfeed their babies, the milk goes through the holes in the roofs of their mouths into their sinuses, causing them to choke. Some mothers don’t know any other way to feed their babies and many infants are malnourished as a result. Fortunately, clefts like this one can be repaired and it’s my goal in life to become a surgeon so I can help kids like this.” I clicked to the next photo. “In comparison, this is the same little girl after surgery.”

Except for two tiny scars beneath her nostrils, she looked adorable. This time, the class reaction was more appropriate. I saw people smiling in gladness and relief.

“I always thought the problem with clefts like this one was with the appearance,” Larkmont remarked.

“I know,” I said. “That’s what most people think.”

Later, I realized I should have closed the presentation with the cleft photos because the rest of my photos didn’t garner near the interest, but I still thought I got an A.

As the presentations continued, I was impressed by how often Larkmont identified the professional photographers in the second part of people’s presentations without being told. Someone remarked on it and she said, “I’ve been teaching this class for quite a while and believe it or not, out of the billions of photographs you can find on the internet, students gravitate toward the same images. And that’s not coincidence. Good photography is something we can all recognize. The best images are the ones that retain their strength and impact as time goes by, regardless of how many times they’re viewed.”

Hudson was the last one to present. He walked with the self-assured grace of a natural athlete and his physique rivaled that of any movie superhero, especially his thighs and butt. Thick with muscle, his legs looked powerful enough to tow a midsized sedan. Now that I knew his sport was hockey, I wondered if he was a fast skater or if that much muscle ended up slowing him down instead.

“My name is Hudson Forte. I play hockey, and…”

His teammates whooped it up for him.

“…I can hear the word ‘breast’ without giggling.”

He got some laughter, some of it from me, but it was reluctant.

Ruby typed something on her laptop and a moment later her text appeared on