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When I Was

When I was twelve, they decided, I needed a creative outlet to stop beating up on the boy who lived one door down from us. I was a negative influence on him, and hindering his growth as an individual.
When I was twelve, I decided, he totally deserved it for owning more albums than I did. I needed a creative outlet like he needed another Weezer seven- inch record.
When I was twelve, they decided, beating up on Noah was just my excuse to be closer to him. Girls don’t fight, they love! So something must be psychologically wrong, they said. Why else would I be so aggressive? They scheduled time for us to meet and get to know one another, with the guidance counselor an arm’s length away. Just in case.
When I was twelve, I decided that the only way to get my hands on his albums was to suck it up, go to guidance, and talk to him.
When we were twelve, we realized how much we had in common. But just because we were similar didn’t mean I had to like him.
When I was twelve, my parents set up the darkroom in the empty basement, to let out the “creative rage” they insisted I had all pent up that came out as purpley bruises on Noah’s scrawny arms. They hung clotheslines from wall to wall so I could hang my prints to dry. They set up shelving for trays, chemicals, and paper. I experimented with my mother’s old camera, and ended up breaking it during one perilous shoot by the train tracks.
The day I was thirteen, Noah came by the house, a newspaper-wrapped box under his young arm, taut with newfound pre-teen muscle. He ran out of regular paper and reindeer seemed inappropriate, he said. To smooth over any animosity we still possessed for each other, he had saved and mowed the lawn more times than was healthy for it to buy me a new camera. 35 millimetre, Canon, newest model, newest everything, just for my birthday. Because you can’t have a darkroom without a camera, he said.
The only condition, he said, was that he had to come with me whenever I shot a roll. He had to be present in the new darkroom for any prints to be made, just so he could watch and try to help me hate him less.
I agreed, as long as he brought over his albums.
He still comes over almost every day, even four years later. I’ll make print after print, neglecting the classwork I should be doing. He’ll sit in his designated corner, outfitted with a jacked-up chair he saved from the curb, lean his head against the poster-padded wall, and talk. I’ll listen. We’ll leave our backpacks on the other side of the basement door like a sand bag barrier against the parental hurricane. Of course they were pissed- we weren’t doing our homework. Leave your problems on the other side of the door before you entre the Darkroom, Noah says. We’ll talk about whatever we want to; it’s aimless like that. There are no words in the darkroom, just talk.
I like to hear him talk.
“I was thinking,” he says.
“Again?” I ask, glancing at him through the red haze. He nods, hair scratching the paper behind him. Anthony Kiedis glares down disapprovingly. “About what, Noah?”
He smiles, and closes his eyes. “Everything and nothing,” he says. “I’m waxing poetic.”
“You’re waxing shut the hell up, Noah.”
He laughs.
My prints rustle as I pin another up to dry, the line bobbing up and down like a guitar string. The latest addition to his music collection plays from the old stereo next to him.
“Why do I keep coming back here, anyway? We used to hate each other.”
“We still do,” I joke.
“I mean, I live right down the street,” he says, ignoring me. “I could go straight home after school, but I have to come down here. Why is that?”
“I’m always making prints,” I say. “It’s part of the Deal.”
The Deal that he wrote up on the basement wall when we first started using it looks the same as it did the first day. Noah must always be here when you make a print, for fear of Death. No outside distractions in the Darkroom. No arguing in the Darkroom. No food in the Darkroom, unless you share.
Noah’s chair is right under the Deal. He’ll sit and write stories about things he doesn’t tell me
He likes to write in capitals. All of his poems are capitalized. I like to watch the way he chews his lip as he writes.
“That’s probably part of it,” he says, watching me from under his eyebrows as he rationalizes aloud. “But...what if there was more? Like, another part.”
I pause, leaving a wet print hanging from one clothespin. The line waits, barely moving.
“More...like how?” I ask, tentative. “More to why you keep coming over...?”
“Yeah.”
The other clothespin sits abandoned on the counter.
“More, like...I can’t even explain it.” He shakes his shaggy head. “But, being around you this much...you grow attached.”
“Attached,” I repeat.
“Attached. And...you learn to take risks.”
He’s still watching me. My cheeks blend in with the lights, skin seamlessly flowing into red air.
“Risks.”
He’s still watching me. He watches me as he stands up, stands in front of me, and stares at me.
“You know. Risks.” He chews his lip again. “...the best kind to take.”
When I was seventeen, I decided, I needed to take more risks.
When we were seventeen, we decided, this was the best kind of risk to take.
When I was seventeen, I decided, the darkroom in my basement became the best thing that ever happened to me.
When I was seventeen, I found that I could be closer to Noah if I didn’t beat on him.
Because when he was seventeen, he told me he loved me.