The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (best novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

pond, but to him, and likely almost everyone else in Dunford, it’s the duck pond. I took a series of shots at the pond last spring, before I even had the idea to do a photo montage for Parker, and I’m hoping that once I develop them, I’ll have a shot that’s good enough to include in the collection.

The low red lighting and soothing warmth in the darkroom calm my nerves. I can feel my muscles relax as I measure out my baths of developer, stopper, and fixer. When I breathe in the scent of the chemicals, I wonder, briefly, if they might help clear my sinuses. I start by making a contact sheet of all the duck pond negatives. Once I have miniatures of each shot, I choose which one looks most promising. Sliding that negative under the lens of the enlarger, I reflect the image onto a sheet of photo paper, making test strips at various exposure times so I can get the tone I’m looking for in the final print. I’ll develop several of the shots, but my instincts tell me this is the best one.

Back when I was taking these photos, a swan came in for a landing directly in front of me and I clicked my shutter just in time to capture him in the split-second before he touched down, enormous wings fanned out and feet hovering inches above the water. Mirrored in the shot is the swan’s reflection, an upside-down wavering image that gives the photo a dream-like quality.

Even after years of developing black and white prints in my darkroom, I am still struck by the magic of dropping a piece of photo paper into the developer bath and watching the image slowly appear.

Using a pair of tongs, I transfer the print of the swan to the stop bath, before dipping it in the final tray to fix it. After I’ve rinsed it off, I hang the sample print on my drying line, admiring the breath-taking power and grace in the swan’s wingspan. It’s a great shot.

I go through the same process with a few of the other shots, but none of them come close to the dramatic intensity of the swan caught mid-landing. As I’m considering how to crop the image so that it works as a square ten-by-ten, I realize there’s a duck on the far edge of the picture, completely unconcerned with the swan’s imminent arrival. I don’t want to crop out the duck, but I do want to zoom in a bit closer on the swan. If I keep the duck, I risk sacrificing detail on the swan, which is the focal point. The duck, however, adds a tiny bit of character.

Who am I kidding? It doesn’t matter. None of these shots really matter. I sag against my work table and draw a shuddering breath.

Normally, I am very particular about cleaning up my darkroom, but I do a rushed job, leaving the trays of chemicals where they are. I can deal with them later. Right now, I feel like I could collapse at any second. Back in my too-bright kitchen, I make myself a cup of chamomile tea; just holding the hot mug calms me. I sit at my table sipping it slowly, staring straight ahead. At nothing. I don’t look at my phone and I don’t turn on the TV. When I finish my tea, I go to my room and lay on top of my neatly made bed. I close my eyes.

I wake up almost an hour and a half later, strangely calm. When I check my phone, I see that Jason has called again. Shit. I can’t ignore him forever.

“Hey,” I say when he picks up after only one ring. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. It’s been a crazy day.” Is it possible that I sound completely normal?

“You sound stuffed up,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ve got a bit of a head cold. Maybe a sinus infection.” Have you seen the news? I want to ask. Have you been following the case about the missing girl?

“I was calling to see if you wanted to watch Survivor tonight. We haven’t seen last week’s episode yet.”

As much as I would love to snuggle up on the couch with drinks and popcorn to watch a show with Jason, tonight I am definitely not up for it. Just hearing Jason’s unsuspecting voice makes me feel as though the floor is about to fall out from under me. “You don’t want to be around me,” I say. “I’d probably get you sick.”

“Do you mind if I watch it without you? Otherwise it’s going to lock.” His voice has an edge to it.

“No, go ahead. I’m probably just going to bed anyway. I feel like crap.”

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” he says, and he genuinely sounds apologetic. I decide to forgive him for his unsympathetic tone a minute ago. “I hope you’re feeling better in time for your interview.”

“Me too,” I say. I don’t mention the alum spill or the fact that I was sent home early or that my mom had a heart attack. I don’t mention anything that matters, except for this one fact that I am suddenly desperate to cling to: “I love you,” I say.

There’s a strange pause before he replies. “Love you, too.”

His words sound mechanical. And that hesitation, that brief scrap of silence before he answers, drops into my stomach like a hot stone.

LATER, AS I’M LYING IN bed staring at the ceiling, when nothing has happened, when no one has shown up at my door to take me away, or to question me, I convince myself that there’s still a chance my life isn’t about to disintegrate before my eyes. Jason’s hollow words echo in my mind, along with the empty space before he uttered them. Words trying to sound like truth.

But we do love each other. We have to.

I made a mistake with Amir. I told myself I did it to protect him, because he deserved more, but