Free The Book of Matthew (The Alex Chronicles Book 1) by K.T. Doyle

right.”
    “Seriously, Matt. You can cancel. I won’t be upset. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”
    “Can’t miss our last lesson of the semester,” he said.
    “Okay. If you’re sure.”
    “Yep,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
    Lisa must have been listening on the other side of the door; it opened the minute I hung up the phone. She came trundling in, laughing. She paused in the doorway to say her good-byes to the imaginary person she was pretending to talk to. It was obvious, though, that the only conversation she had been involved in was mine.
     
    II.
     
    “Stop squirming,” Bobby said. “He’s waiting.”
    The photographer stood in front of us. I was pulling down on the folds of my dress. Dozens of couples were lined up behind us outside the gymnasium in the lobby of our high school. They were practicing their smiles and waiting for their turns to be positioned into uncomfortable poses.
    “I can’t help it,” I said. “My dress is too tight. It’s hard to breathe.”
    Bobby’s hands were lightly grasping my hips as the photographer had instructed. Once I was done fixing myself, I clasped my hands together at waist level, making sure the small bouquet of flowers around my wrist was perfectly centered.
    “All ready, then?” The photographer inquired.
    Our perfect postures and sculpted smiles indicated yes.
    The photographer put his eye up to the lens of the camera that sat about neck high on a tripod. “Look at the camera. On the count of three…”
    At that moment I remember thinking: The number of times he repeats that phrase in the course of a year must be staggering. Weddings, proms, bar mitzvahs, graduations, birthday parties…
    Until that point, I had thought photography was one of the best professions in the world. It must be great to be surrounded by happy people and have the honor of capturing on film some of the happiest moments of their lives. And then being paid for that art you created—it must be so rewarding.
    But standing there like a plastic mannequin under a bright spotlight, feeling like the intense heat would make me melt, made me change my mind. The stress of finding the perfect thing to wear, a dress I’d never wear again. Making sure I looked picture perfect. Posing ourselves so unnaturally. What a charade. But I had to do it. I had to go through all this bullshit first in order to lose my virginity to Bobby Fraser. I just hoped it was worth it.
    “Smile big for me!” the photographer called to us.
    I whispered under my breath through a toothy grin. “This is stupid.”
    Bobby heard me. “I know,” he whispered.
    It’s amazing how many events require people to submit to such fakery. And it’s even more amazing that people continue to subject themselves to it. Dress themselves up in uncomfortable clothing, put on their best simulated smiles and pretend to be happy. How bogus.
    Any seasoned photographer must see through it after awhile. He must notice the hint of sadness behind the smiles. The beads of nervous sweat clinging to a groom’s forehead. That twinkle of teenage lust in the eye of a tuxedoed prom boy. The embarrassed sideways glance a mother gives her child right before the snap of a family photo to make sure he’s standing still.
    But even worse, he probably empathizes with his subjects, shares in their pain and fear and frustration. How could he not? After all, he’s probably gone through some of the same things at some point in his own life. After awhile, he must become like a sponge that soaks up all the negative energy until it becomes his own. It must be uncomfortable to do his job. It must be hard to show no emotion.
    While putting on my own pretend smile the thought occurred to me: Other than working in a funeral home, being a photographer must be the most depressing god damned job in the world.
    The photographer counted aloud. “One, two, three!”
    There was a flash and a snap. Before I had time to blink away the white