The Neighborhood Weirdo Got His Photoshoot

Freshie had been in that same low kneel for almost twenty minutes, boots soles pointed straight at the camera, gingham bottoms pulled tight enough that the little orange bows looked ready to give up. The pumpkin patch was quiet except for the occasional rustle of dry leaves and the soft click of the shutter. She’d said yes three days ago when the short, skinny kid from three houses down finally worked up the nerve to ask if she would let him “practice portraits.” He showed up in a hoodie that hung off his frame, camera bag almost bigger than he was, and she picked the farm because the light was soft and nobody would bother them behind the hay bales.

He’d already burned through two memory cards. Every time she glanced back over her shoulder like that, freckles flushed, mouth slightly open, he had to lower the camera and pretend he was checking settings. His hands were shaking. She could hear it in the way the strap clicked against the body.

“Is… is the bow supposed to be that high?” he managed, voice thin. “On your hair, I mean.”

Freshie shifted her weight, just enough that the fabric between her cheeks pulled. “It’s fine. You’re shaking, though.” She didn’t turn all the way around. “You gonna finish the roll or keep staring at my ass through the viewfinder?”

He swallowed so hard she heard it. “I’m not— I’m composing. The boots give the foreground depth and your— the curve— it’s just good leading lines.”

“Leading lines,” she repeated, almost laughing. “That what you’re calling it? You’ve been crouched behind me for like half an hour and your jeans look tighter than these bottoms.” She rocked forward a fraction, soles of the boots lifting then settling again. “Tell me what you want. Actual words. Or I’m standing up and we’re done.”

He stayed silent for a second, camera still raised. Then, quieter: “Can you… arch a little more? And look back like you know I’m looking. Please.”

Freshie held the pose, letting the cool air hit the strip of skin above the gingham. Her thoughts were already drifting past the rest of the shoot—back to her room later, door locked, the same bottoms kicked into the corner while she replayed how small and nervous he sounded when he asked. She figured she had at least another ten minutes before he either came in his pants or finally lowered the camera and admitted what the pictures were really for. Either way, the light was still good. She stayed exactly where she was.