Billie doesn't want to work on the film because it's a Saturday and she's convinced that means it's our off day. Only, I haven't touched the footage since the treehouse and I have a weird feeling that she filmed without me.
She holds the camera to her side like a baby. It's dead, but I'm not sure. Her fingers, lithe and lusting, are on the shutter, trembling, imagining all the things in the world that look good in front of a camera.
She's pulling me through the forest, boots smacking mud into the air. She's got a purpose. Something more important than our project.
"Where are we going?" I aak her wrist, watching her mismatched bracelets sway and tap. My Vans are mud and the laces are untied and my jeans are wet. "Billie ?"
"Revenge," she says like it's that simple. Only, it's not because I don't want to be part of her revenge plan. I want to sit and read about Japanese goldfish and make a vision board that belongs to me. Mine. Mine. Mine!
I imagine myself pulling away from her, ripping my wrist out of her hand, but it's like magic keeps us bound.
She stuffs me into the treehouse with her bag and gets inside behind me. Her camera held tight against her hip.
She sits down in front of me, holding the camera up and over her eye, looking at me on the beanbag that swallows people whole. But, she's not snapping away. She's not filming. Just looking. Doing no harm.
I wrap my arm around my chest, tucking myself deeper into the beanbag because it's better than being in front of her camera.
I see a lens that twists and enlarges to see me better and she sees beauty. Naked, naked beauty.
"This is the best part about photography," she says, camera clicking mechanically in her hands. "I get to keep things forever and ever and ever." She snaps a picture, flash blinding.
She opens her notebook. There are new pictures of a little pale girl, naked and red beneath a shower. Only, that girl is Grace and she's not aware that she's having her picture taken. She turns herself to the camera, rinsing the soap from her hair, but the camera sees small, small breasts and a 'V' for girl parts. And Grace isn't aware.
I look away. Billie laughs like it's all good fun, hiding the book away in her bag. She grabs my hand, pulling me out of the treehouse and towards the main road.
"There's a noticeboard in the café," she says,
blue hair smacking in the wind, writing dark, dark words against the sky. "Everyone will see her. Stupid bitch."
I don't think that Grace is a bitch even though she's mean and I don't think it's okay—even if Billie hates her.