Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 05 | ''Hey, creep!''

THE WEEKS PASSED IN a slow blur for James. Elmwood Heights High was beginning to feel like a fog he couldn't quite shake, lingering at the edges of his thoughts even when he wasn't in the building. His days fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm: wake up, force down some breakfast, drive to school, keep his head down, and capture fragments of the world through his camera lens.

The Polaroid had become more than just a hobby; it was a shield. There was safety behind the lens, a place where he could control what he saw, what he focused on. He liked to think the camera let him see the world in a way no one else could—a frame frozen in time, a sliver of beauty amidst the suffocating weight of high school's social hierarchy. It didn't matter that people looked at him strangely or muttered under their breath. To James, the pictures were all that mattered.

At first, the whispers had been just that—quiet, fleeting words carried by the wind. Someone might glance at him, then at the Polaroid hanging around his neck, a half-hidden smirk on their lips before turning away. "Weird kid," he'd overhear from time to time, but nothing that stung. Nothing that bit deep enough to leave a scar. They didn't touch him, not like he had seen them do to others.

Sometimes, as he wandered through the hallways, camera in hand, he'd catch glimpses of other students—lonely kids with hunched shoulders, isolated figures who seemed to melt into the shadows, marked by the same cruelty he'd witnessed from afar. Graffiti scrawled across lockers, a group of jocks shoving some poor kid into a locker, a taunting laugh that echoed off the sterile walls of the school.

But none of it had happened to him. Not yet.

The thought gnawed at him in the quieter moments—what was it that kept him safe, for now? Was it because he didn't challenge them? Because he stayed invisible enough, hidden behind the film and flash of his camera, a non-threat? Or was it just a matter of time before they turned on him, too?

The question lingered, but for now, it was one he could push aside. As long as he stayed quiet, as long as he didn't stand out too much, he could keep to the background. And he could focus on his photography, on the small bits of beauty he found in the most unexpected places: a beam of sunlight slanting through the window, dust particles suspended in the air like stars, a bird perched on the edge of a chain-link fence in the parking lot, its feathers ruffled against the wind.

But then came Wednesday.

It had started off like any other morning—a dull ache in his chest, a hint of dread he couldn't quite name as he drove to school in his mom's car, the Polaroid resting on the passenger seat beside him. The sky was overcast, the sun hidden behind a blanket of gray clouds, casting everything in muted tones. The school hallways were the same as ever—filled with noise and faces that blended together, none of which belonged to him.

James wasn't expecting anything to be different.

But then he saw her.

It was in the middle of second period, between the hum of shuffling students and the low chatter of conversation, when she walked into the hallway—Sandra Adeyemi.

She didn't just enter the space, she claimed it. Her presence was like a wave that washed over the crowd, drawing every eye toward her in silent, involuntary awe. She moved with the kind of effortless grace that belonged to a dancer, her every step fluid, her posture straight and proud. Her brown skin glowed under the fluorescent lights, catching the attention of every boy around her like moths drawn to flame.

She was different from everyone else here. Unapologetically so. There was something striking in her features—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and dark, almond-shaped eyes that glittered like obsidian. Her black hair was braided, framing her face with a kind of precision and beauty that seemed almost unreal to James. Every detail, from the way her long, dark braids swayed as she walked to the quiet confidence she carried with her, left him entranced.

He heard whispers float past him, students muttering her name with a mix of admiration and jealousy.

"Sandra Adeyemi," one boy whispered to his friend as they watched her walk by. "The new girl from Nigeria."

"She's gorgeous," the other boy muttered, not bothering to hide the way his eyes followed her.

James barely registered the words, too focused on the vision of her walking down the hallway, her expression indifferent to the attention she was gathering. She moved through the crowd like she was untouchable, her head held high, as if the whispers and stares didn't matter at all. She radiated confidence, the kind of self-assurance James had never seen before, especially not in this town.

His fingers itched to capture her beauty, to freeze this moment in time. It wasn't just that she was stunning—there was something about her that demanded to be remembered, something he knew he'd regret if he didn't photograph it. His Polaroid was already in his hand, ready to snap, before he even made a conscious decision to do so.

James hesitated for a brief moment, glancing around to make sure no one was watching too closely. The last thing he needed was to be called out for being a creep, but the urge to capture Sandra's image was too strong to resist. He stepped to the side, positioning himself in the shadow of a locker as she moved further down the hall, waiting until the angle was perfect.

He lifted the camera to his eye, heart pounding as he framed her in the viewfinder. There she was, a living work of art, standing out like a bright flame against the drab, beige walls of the school. The camera clicked, and the flash of light illuminated her figure for just a brief second, freezing her in time forever.

It was perfect.

The photo slid out of the Polaroid with a soft whirring sound, and James caught it in his hand, staring at the blank square as it slowly developed. His breath caught in his throat as her silhouette began to appear on the page, the shapes and lines coming together to form the image of Sandra Adeyemi, forever captured in the soft, ethereal light of the hallway.

He was mesmerized by the photo, by the way it seemed to bring out the raw beauty of her features, the way it froze her in a moment where she looked untouchable, untamed. He hadn't taken the picture out of some superficial desire to objectify her—no, this was something else. This was art. This was capturing a fleeting piece of the world that might never exist again.

He was still staring at the picture, lost in the developing image, when a sudden, sharp voice cut through the noise of the hallway.

"Hey, creep!"