I’m up late for no real reason that night, scrolling through my phone on the couch in the main room. I’m about to go to bed when Rayla’s door opens up and she stumbles out with her eyes half-closed. Obviously still very tired, she makes her way to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She’s in there for a couple of minutes before she leaves and goes back into her room. I watch that scene play out without saying anything because what is there to say?
I head to bed shortly after that. Morning comes, then afternoon and Rayla still hasn’t gotten up. I’m starting to think she died when she stumbles out of her room again. Still, in her t-shirt and underwear, she approaches me in the kitchen area and sits at the table. Rayla crosses her arms and rests her head on them as if she didn’t get enough sleep.
“‘Morning, babe,” she mumbles.
“It’s well into the afternoon.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you woke up almost at the same time you went to sleep. Who sleeps for an entire day?” I ask it a bit more callous then I meant to, as I’m genuinely curious.
“A person who's been up for three days straight,” she answers like that explains everything.
“And why were you up for three days straight?” Rayla lifts her head and quirks her eyebrow.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“...Yeah, that’s why I asked.”
“Look, let's leave some mystery to me. Let me ask you a question: can I get the other ‘B’ from this B&B?”
“Well, since it’s four in the afternoon, it's not really breakfast. But I can get you some coffee.” I get up to go to the counter.
“That’d be great, babe.” I pause while reaching for the coffee pot.
“Stop calling me ‘babe’,” I reply while readying the coffee.
“You got it, honey,” Rayla says trying to charm me with her smile of perfect teeth. I can see that I’m not going to get out of this without some kind of affectionate pet name. I want to find it annoying, but I can’t summon the energy.
“You call girls ‘honey’ and ‘babe’ when you can’t remember their names?” Hoping conversation will somehow make the coffee brew faster.
“I’m hurt you’d suggest such a thing ‘Becky Dover’,” she says my name the way I say it. “I’m excellent at remembering names. I just like to have fun.” I nod my head.
“Like walking around in your underwear?” I point out. She looks down and just now realizes her state of dress. Rayla quickly glances around the room witnessing one of the rare moments no one is here.
“Yes uhh,” she clears her throat, “It’s a part of my charm.” Her smile isn’t as confident as before but just as dazzling.
“Mhmm. I brought your clothes from your bike to your room. In case you wanted to wear something…” I trail off as I look her up and down in the seat. Slouched with her long chestnut brown legs, crossed now that she remembers she isn’t wearing anything. Her blue hair is short enough that it isn’t messed up from sleeping the day away. The bags under her eyes aren’t as severe as they were yesterday. I realize that I’ve been looking at her for too long.
“More appropriate,” I finish my thought. She knocks her knuckles on the table.
“I think I’ll take you up on that.” With that, Rayla quickly goes back to her room to change. By the time she comes out the coffee is ready. She’s wearing slim-fitted, black track pants with white stripes. She still has on her “No Idea” shirt. She sits at the table while I pour her and myself a cup.
“Would you like any sugar or milk?”
“Both, please.” I oblige and sit with her at the table. Rayla stirs her coffee, now fully looking around the house. She scans the environment with a curious eye. I suppose she didn’t take it all in when she first got here, being up for three days and all.
“Your great-great-grandfather built all this?” she asks before taking her first sip. She remembered that.
“Well, there have been some modifications over the years but yeah, all three floors. There’s a sad story about the third floor,” I explain. I ask myself why I included the last part while sipping my coffee. Rayla adds a bit more sugar to her’s. She has a sweet tooth.
“Hmmm, well let’s not have sad stories first thing in the morning.”
“Afternoon.”
“Whatever. Let me ask you something else:; what’s the job market like around here?” She stirs her coffee more.
“You could get a job in one of those sleepy stores, but I think they’d rather get your money than give you some.” I think about it for a second. “You might be able to do the odd job or two if you don’t mind physical labor.” Rayla closes her eyes and thinks.
“How much does that room cost?” Her eyes are still closed.
“It’s cheap. My mother makes the rates but she’d probably let you stay for nothing but your company.” Mom has always been so carefree with money for someone who runs a B&B (theoretically). “She wouldn’t let a young black girl rough it in the streets.” A corner of her mouth curls up. She doesn’t like the idea of staying somewhere absolutely free. Rayla hums quietly as she gets lost in some thought. She finally opens her eyes.
“I’ll make it work.” She finishes her coffee in one go and stands up. “That coffee is slamming by the way. Definitely let me get another of those. Been too long since I had home-brewed coffee,” she says as she walks to her room, only to stop and turn to face me again. “Did you move the rest of my stuff in here?”
“No, just your clothes.” With that, she alters her path and heads outside. I pour her another cup as I wait for her to come back. When she does, she has a messenger bag, a bookbag and two carrying cases for cameras. She holds them all with no problem, clearly used to it.
“You guys have WiFi?” she asks while opening the messenger bag.
“This may be the middle of nowhere, but we’re not savages. The password is eighteen B’s” Rayla frowns at me for clarification. “Eighteen of the letter ‘B’,” I explain.
“Ahh,” she says while taking out her laptop. I can’t tell what kind it is since it’s covered in all sorts of stickers. Cartoon characters, phrases, logos of companies I don’t recognize, and other random things. “Just as well, my laptop is dead.” Rayla jogs to her room to put it on the charger. When she comes back she takes out her cameras, inspecting them. The first one looks expensive, like something a professional would use. She mumbles to herself as she looks over whatever it is she needs to. She takes out different lenses and checks them over with practiced precision. She has a bunch of memory cards and parses through them, asking herself questions. Deciding on one, she sticks it in the camera and puts all of it away.
The second camera she takes out is much simpler than the first. It doesn’t have as many lenses, dials or switches as the other; it’s older and worn with age, a few scuffs, and scratches along its edges. Rayla holds and inspects it with a gentler, more intimate touch than the first, despite the ruggedness it possesses.
“You a photographer of some kind?” I add milk and sugar to her coffee.
“Yeah,” she chuckles, “some kind.” She finishes her inspection and turns to face me again. “You said it’s 4 in the afternoon?”
“Yeah.” I finish adding the obscene amount of sugar she’d want in it. Rayla looks past me to the nearest window, examining something.
“Hmm, maybe tomorrow,” she says to herself. I’m starting to get the feeling she talks to herself a lot. “Becky, would you show me around town?”
“Sure.” It’s better than the inevitable swarm she’s soon to face if she doesn’t leave.
“Thank you.” She puts both her cameras away and slings their cases over her shoulder. Rayla downs her coffee quickly and heads to the door.
“Guess I’ll finish my coffee later,” I say to myself.
I meet Rayla outside as she turns her motorcycle on, she offers me the helmet again before looking at my twist-out.
“Right, just got your hair done.” she puts the helmet on herself and I hop behind her.
As we stroll into town, Rayla slows down and the meager populace of this town starts to take notice of the stranger driving around a Dover girl. I direct her to Liberty Boulevard, the longest street with the most businesses. I don’t know where she might want to go, so I wander somewhat aimlessly. I, admittedly, give a lackluster tour of the fine establishments this town has to offer. I want to impress Rayla but even I know you don’t brag about a dying horse to someone from one of the biggest racetracks. That’s a weird analogy. The point is I can’t muster up the fake enthusiasm to act like I’m showing her anything remotely exciting.
If Rayla picks up on this, she doesn’t say anything. She’s taking pictures of everything, no matter how mundane it is. Her hands are perfectly steady as she takes each picture with her fancy camera.
“You never answered my question, are you a photographer?” Kinda silly question to ask when she has two cameras and taking pictures of everything. She aims her camera at a store that repairs electronics.
“If you’re asking am I a professional then, yes I am. I even got a website. I’m legit.” CLICK. “What’s the deal with this town? It didn’t really show up on my GPS. Just some buildings.” CLICK.
“Yeah, that makes sense. Freedman Hills is usually forgotten.”
“Freedman Hills,” Rayla repeats “with a name like that, there’s some history here. Tell me about it,” she asks.
“It was built by escaped and freed slaves. We’re just North of what was the nearest slave state.” I feel like a real tour guide now. “The town is about as old as my house. It was a haven for Black people back in the day.” Rayla puts down her camera and frowns.
“Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?” I just lift an eyebrow at her. “Right, dumb question.” We both know the answer to that. I start walking again and Rayla follows closely behind, listening intently.
“Anyway, then the Civil war came through, this place was hit hard. We rebuilt, White supremacists attacked, we rebuilt, more awful stuff happened and we rebuilt.” Beatrix, my third oldest sister, knows history better than I do but I continue. “World War 1 and 2, the Korean and Vietnam wars came and so did the draft.” I check a text I get on my phone. Bella wants me to pick up some ingredients. She’s making chicken and dumplings for our guest tonight. “‘The government always forgets about Freedman Hills until there’s a war and they need cannon fodder.’ Something I always heard my mom say.” I start walking toward the grocery store. “Between all that, the town never got much bigger, basically nothing significant has ever happened here, and certainly no one famous was born here.” Rayla has a strange expression on her face, processing all that I’ve told her. I can practically see the cogs turning in her head, but exactly she's thinking I can't say.
We walk into the grocery store and a blast of cool air hits us from the A.C. I grab a basket.
“That’s the long and varied history of this town. What’s it like being a photographer in New York City?” Rayla comes back to reality and just now seems to notice where we are.
“It’s hard to make a living off it,” she answers as she starts to look through the pictures she’s taken so far. “You ain’t the only one and everybody wants to pay you in ‘exposure’,” she air quotes around the word with particular disgust. “Mr. I Have 600 Followers wants to pay me in exposure.” She scoffs. “And so many of the girls who ask me to take photos of them, request really weird edits.”
“Like what?” I pick up shortening.
“They always want me to make their faces look like those filters on those apps. They’re really messin’ with our concept of beauty. When I’m done, half the time they don’t look like real people.” Rayla starts taking pictures again.
“So why do you do it?”
“They pay me,” she explains. CLICK. A picture of an empty aisle. “Most of the money I make comes from doing photo shoots. Headshots, fashion, modeling, people who are just flexin’, that sort of thing.” CLICK. Tower of soda cans.
“You like it? Photographing people? Cuz it looks like you prefer taking pictures of nothing.” CLICK. She’s captured the essence of canned peaches.
“Don’t get me wrong, you get invited to a lot of events, meet interesting people, sample some hors d’ oeuvres.” CLICK. Pile of apples. “And I like taking pics of girls in uhh….” she clears her throat “risqué outfits as much as the next girl. But I like taking photos of whatever I want when I want to. And that rarely ever pays.” CLICK. Rotisserie chickens spinning. I compare two containers of paprika, Bella’s secret ingredient.
“You like grocery stores that much?” I pick the bigger one.
“No, yes. I’m taking pictures just to have them. Better to have them and not need them, than get a request and not have anything on hand,” she explains.
“Who would request pictures of a grocery store?”
“You’d be surprised how many companies ask for shots of ordinary stuff for websites and stuff like that. Plus there’s always a contest or two I could enter.” She puts her fancy camera away and takes out the older one. “It’s mostly for practice though, don’t want to get rusty.” She looks me up and down before aiming the camera at me. “You ever model before, Becky?” I put my hand on the lens.
“Not for a fancy New York photographer, no.”
“Hmm, I like the way you say that. Makes it sound like I’m an exotic animal or something.”
“You have blue hair.”
“You got me there. Still, you should think about it.” Rayla wipes her lens with her shirt. “I wouldn’t mind if you were the model.”
“I don’t think there are models that are quite my size.” I look over Rayla’s slender form. She looks like she’d be at home on a runway, despite her casual outfit. I pick up a sack of flour. That’s everything Bella asked me to get.
“There are many plus-size models. Not that you’re plus size. I mean, you are but- I don’t mean that being plus size is a bad thing or anything.” She makes a small groan. I put the stuff on the conveyor. “Before I shoot myself in the foot, I mean to say that you’d be a nice model.” That was the most awkward attempt at a compliment I’ve ever heard but I still smile. Rayla quickly aims her camera at me and takes a picture. “Becky Dover smiling. That’s a front-page photo,” Rayla says with her own dazzling smile. I can’t help but chuckle at her.
“You always this much of a flatterer?”
“Only to pretty girls, babe.” Rayla lets a sly smirk slide across her face. I can’t think of anything to say to something so cocky, so I let out a small scoff, ignoring the warmth spreading to my cheeks. I don’t even realize I’m staring at her face until the checkout clerk clears her throat to get our attention.
“Cash or credit?” She politely asks. I quickly pay and we exit the store.
Rayla starts up her motorcycle to hear the engine die.
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