Free Principles of Love by Emily Franklin Page A

the sisterly power on Charmed. If we are financially or emotionally secure/dominating, breaking out of our molds like in Pride and Prejudice , we are somehow dangerous. I climb the spiral staircase up to my tower room and humor myself by thinking I’m somehow mystical myself — that I can snap my fingers or wiggle my nose to get what — or whom — I desire.
    After kicking radio butt (a weird image, I admit), I am riding high. I started by meeting Richard Markowitz at WAJS and instead of a summer job type interview (ie Have you worked at The Gap previously?) we went right into the recording room and he put headphones on me. Dad waited in the lobby while I learned not to pop my p’s and bust my b’s, and smooth talk about pizza and the Marshfield Garden Center. I find out on Tuesday if I get to do a real ad. The money’s not bad, but the best part is getting to sing and feel professional in a completely different arena. No school, no dramatics, no crushes or papers — just using my voice.
    I blathered my way back to school with my dad, and went for a run, needing to get rid of my nervous energy. With each step, I recreated the pizza jingle (Extra sauce — sure thing! Bet you can’t pick — just one thing!). Now, I’m sitting on the steps outside the student center. Saturdays are empty on campus. Day students are home, boarders are either signed out to some DS’s house, or studying, or at a sports-related event, or pretending to study while getting felt up in the library. I am none of those things, none of those places.
    Before I even realize where I’m going, I find myself outside the naked men statue exhibit. I wander in, shyly gazing up at the rather daunting bronzes. I pause by one lean statue, and crack myself up imagining all the nakedness coming to life. A funny and creepy Dawn of the Dead gone porn image. As I’m laughing, who should walk in but —
    “You could give a guy a complex,” Robinson says.
    “Oh,” I say, steadying myself on a statue’s thigh, “I’m less harsh when presented with the real thing.” Oh, like I’d know.
    “Glad to hear it,” Robinson says. I’m afraid he’ll walk away so I search through the brain files trying to find a topic. All I can do is focus on him — his mouth, his eyes — and then his shirt — a white one. No stain.
    “You’re going to get stained,” I say and point to his oxford.
    He looks down. “True,” he says. And then, “Any chance you want to be my hands?”
    Huh? Whatever that means, yes. Yes, I do.
    “I mean,” he clarifies, “Do you know how to develop film? I’ve got a roll from August I want to do today.”
    And so begins my first photography tutorial with Robinson Hall. He leads me into the dark room and shows me the various trays of fluids, the light-exposing machines, the strips of film. My whole body registers every word he says.
    “Lay the developing paper in the bath,” he instructs. Oh, why not us in the bath together?
    “Hey, cool — it’s turning into a real picture.” He doesn’t make fun of my excitement, he nods and smiles.
    “I know, isn’t it amazing. It’s like learning to drive — or how to make an omelet or sex or something…” I’m somewhat baffled but the mere mention of sex and I’m a heart-thumping mushy wreck. But only on the inside. “You know?” he asks.
    “Sort-of,” I say. “You mean how when you don’t know what something is, or how it’s made and then you find out and it’s like oh, that’s what it means.”
    “Exactly,” he says.
    He explains how to slick the photo to the wall to let it dry without curling, taking my own hand into his, allowing little drops of water to turn warm between our fingers and run down my arm. I give a little shiver.
    “You cold?” he asks. I shake my head and expect him to do the guy thing, offer me his sweatshirt or something, but he doesn’t.
    We do tests strips to see how much light each picture needs, and I get to feel the warmth of Robinson’s