Flash Photography
Turning slowly in front of the long mirror on the back of the dorm room door, Beth surveyed the strapless black dress with a critical eye, smoothing her hands down over the skirt.
Very sophisticated, she thought. Her mother definitely would not approve. Beth frowned. She could hear her mom now, saying again that black wasn’t suitable for young girls. The strapless part would likely leave Mom completely speechless. And not in admiration.
She set her mouth in a stubborn line. But I’m not a young girl anymore, she thought rebelliously. Eighteen and in college isn’t a child. Her mom wanted to keep her confined to childhood forever.
“I almost lost you, Bethie,” her mother kept saying. “You can stay with me a little longer.”
Well, she couldn’t. She couldn’t be a child forever, no matter what the scary lady had done all those years ago. She hadn’t thought about that much lately, and wasn’t sure why it was coming to mind now.
She took one last look in the mirror. There were faint tan lines on her shoulders, from hours swimming and playing in the summer sun, but she still thought the strapless bodice of her dress looked wonderful.
Although…wearing this dress in a dressing room, or front of a mirror in her dorm room was one thing, being seen in it in public was another. She shrugged on a short black sweater, telling herself it was only because the Southern California evening was a little cool, and the lecture hall was bound to be cold, as well. She could always lose the sweater when she got to the reception. If she felt like it. Grownups made those sorts of decisions. For themselves. For now, she wanted to focus on the lecture, and a reception.
Even that sounded excitingly grown-up and sophisticated to her. A private reception, at a gallery. The woman being honored was a best-selling author. Beth picked up her copy of the book, Tour of Terror: An Embedded Journalist with a Combat Unit in Iraq. The blurbs on the cover said it all. “Tour of Terror is a tour de force.” “Journalism at its best…a must read.” “Johnson captures the essence of the ‘boots on the ground’ experience.” Beth’s Journalism 101 prof was an old classmate of the author, and he’d wangled an invite to the soiree for his students. She might even get to speak to the author, although she wasn’t going to be so gauche as to ask for an autograph. She tossed the book onto her bed. Time to get going. It was a long walk across campus to Fitzgerald Hall.
The lecture was riveting, and Beth was floating on cloud nine at the reception. She had dreams of how her own career would play out, how she would crack open scandals and pen her own journalistic masterpieces. Anna Johnson was a shoo-in for this year’s Pulitzer, and short-listed for a National Book Award, too. She was smart, and tough, and talented. Everything Beth wanted to be.
At the bar, Beth hesitated. She had no idea what to ask for. She didn’t want to drink, but she didn’t want people to think she was a stupid kid, either. She looked around, thinking.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. He was a cute blonde surfer type, totally wrong for the bowtie and black vest get-up his job required.
“Can I get a glass of orange juice, but with ice and a swizzle stick?” she replied, giving him her best persuasive smile.
“Sure. One virgin screwdriver, coming up.” His smile was understanding. Maybe, she thought, he was a more experienced bartender than he looked like.
While he worked on the drink, Beth fished a dollar out of her purse to put in the oversized brandy snifter that was serving as a tip jar. After a moment’s thought, she added a second dollar. He had been nice.
Turning away from the bar, her drink in her hand, she felt much more at ease in the crowd. She could drift around the gallery now, looking idly at the art as she worked her way closer to the guest of honor.
A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she pivoted to see the back of a tall, lean man in a long coat who had apparently just turned away. She had a little momentary flash of recognition. The shoulders, the line of his back – surely she'd seen him somewhere before? Then it was gone. After all, she lived on a crowded campus, in a large city. Most of the people here were connected to the University, somehow. She'd probably seen three quarters of them before without being conscious of it. She shrugged mentally. No big deal.
At last, it was her turn to speak to Ms. Johnson. "I really enjoyed your book," she said. "That description of the firefight outside Tikrit was just amazing. Did you ever find out what happened to the men in the squad who got cut off from the main unit?"
"You really have read the book," Ms. Johnson answered, and as Beth smiled brightly, she caught a flash from a camera off to the side. It was the tall man, an expensive camera hiding most of his face. When he saw her looking he turned away quickly and vanished around a corner. Strange. He was probably just an event photographer, she thought.
"– the rest of the patrol got picked up by a unit from another base," Ms. Johnson was saying. Beth realized she'd missed a sentence or so. "I didn't find that out until much later, though."
Beth nodded, and reiterated her admiration, as another person came up to take the author's attention.
Beth spent some time hunting for the photographer, hoping she could arrange to get a copy of the picture of her with Ms. Johnson. He seemed to have vanished, however, and she wasn't able to spot him again.
Still, even without a souvenir picture, it had been a great evening. As she walked across the campus back to her dorm room, she had the oddest feeling that someone was following her. More than once she stopped and turned suddenly, peering into the shadows to see who might be there, but all she saw was the empty sidewalk behind her. It was funny, she thought, but she often felt like she was being watched. She supposed that everyone felt that way, at least from time to time, but to her, it always seemed benevolent. Her mother said she had a guardian angel. Maybe that's who it was.
Her mind turned back to the problem of the picture, and it occurred to her that she needed to approach it like a good journalist. If the gallery had hired event photographers, they'd have a record. All she needed to do was call them. Tomorrow, during business hours, would be soon enough. They’d give her a name and a number, and she could contact him directly. Problem solved.
She was going to be good at this investigative stuff. She knew it. Filled with resolve, she walked a little faster.
Mick was following her. Although not just following. Sometimes he flanked her, circling wide enough to see the grin on her face. It gave him a good feeling, but here she was at the door to the dorm, and it was time for him to get back to the darkroom and see how his pictures came out. He’d almost been caught tonight. His little girl was growing up, and getting smart. He’d have to follow a little further back, from now on.
when she saw that photo? 
Well, I feel a little stupid quoting myself, but once again I was sure I hadn't read this before. 
