I miss participating in NaNoWriMo, but I know that my current work schedule doesn’t exactly lend itself to writing over 1,600 words a day, every day, for a month. That said, in 2016 I started writing a modern version of The Picture of Dorian Grey for NaNo, and while I know there’s next to no chance that I will actually write 50,000 words this month (or even write every day, because I’m actually on vacation and very busily so from today until late Monday), I thought I would share the first chapter that I wrote about two years ago, in hopes that it will encourage me to – at the very least – write more. And so, without further ado, Chapter 1 of A Photo of Dorienne…

Chapter One

Everything smelled like roses.

Not the real ones, no; some heady Italian perfume that hung in the air and reminded Henrietta – called Henri by her friends – of death.

She lit a joint in hopes of covering one smell with another and spun her chair around to face her roommate’s computer. “I don’t see why you bother with this shit,” she said, smirking; the picture that filled the entire screen of Lisa’s seventeen-inch laptop was good, there was no denying that – but it was also strange. Something out of its time, Henri reflected.

Lisa had disappeared for the entire summer, skipping several of her junior year finals and missing the first few days of the fall semester classes. Her social media accounts had gone inactive, and she hadn’t replied to text messages or voicemails. Not that Henri was inclined to attempt to contact her very much – she knew that Lisa was prone to unplanned absences…even if one had never lasted quite so long, before.

And yet she had returned from class on the first Thursday of the semester to find Lisa in front of her computer, entirely focused on one hell of a picture. It was a photograph taken at some sort of music festival – Henri guessed Bonnaroo, based on the fact that Lisa was originally from Tennessee and didn’t seem to travel much – and it featured five stupidly gorgeous people: three young women and a young man, the background lit by glow sticks and, far in the distance, disco balls.

“It’s amazing, Lis. Stop messing with it and work on the rest of what you need to enter it in the contest.”

Lisa leaned back in her desk chair, her bright purple hair practically glowing in the beam of sunlight that dominated their room for half of every day. “I dunno, Henri. I’m not sure I can let it go.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it’s not right. It’s perfect for me, but there’s too much of me in it.”

Henri laughed. “You know I love you, Lis, but you are not those people. They’re too perfect, too fly-by-night fashionable. They’re the type of people who never take a bad selfie. They’re not real.”

“On the contrary, they are very real. And there’s something about this one…” The girl Lisa pointed to was in the middle, taller than her girlfriends, nearly as tall as the two young men on either side. She had perfectly natural brown hair and shining hazel eyes; nothing about her should have been extraordinary and yet…it was.

“Well, in the end it’s up to you, of course.” Henri shrugged. “I just don’t think you’re going to find a photo much better than that for the exhibit. Think of what winning would do for you!” The art school’s annual exhibit and competition meant more exposure and new connections than any college senior could hope to garner for themselves, but even though Lisa was clearly distraught over missing out on such an opportunity, she still answered Henri’s plea with a stubborn shake of her head.

“You’ve helped me quite a bit over the years, and I’m not stupid – I know I’m good at what I do. Your family name and all it brings you…my ‘talent’…Dori’s very presence…mark my words, all of these things are going to come back to bite us in the ass someday.”

Henri stood and approached Lisa’s computer, leaning down to get a closer look at the photograph. “Dori? That’s her name?” she asked, pointing to the girl in the middle.

Lisa blushed furiously. “Um, yeah. I didn’t mean to tell you that.”

“You are so damn weird sometimes. What does it matter if I know her name?”

The other girl turned away. “It’s hard to explain. I guess…well, when I like someone a lot, I don’t want to talk about them with anyone else. You know I love my secrets…it’s why I never tell anyone where I’m going when I leave town. I feel like, without these little bits of mystery, there would be no romance in my life, and I want to protect that for others, too. I’m sure you think I’m foolish, but there it is.”

“Foolish? Nah,” Henri said, squeezing Lisa’s shoulder as she backed away from the computer. “You seem to forget that I’m engaged to my high school sweetheart because we’re the only people we trust to not burn through the other’s trust funds. And, you know, he makes me laugh from time to time.”

“Oh, please. You and I both know it’s not as bad as all that. The way you talk about Vic and the way you act around him are completely different; it’s like you love him, but you’re ashamed of that. It would be kind of awesome if it wasn’t so sad, because you never do anything wrong, but you talk as if you have, or would, even though you and I both know better. I’d pay a pretty penny to capture that cynicism and learn all about where it comes from.”

“Trust me, you don’t really want to know,” Henri replied, laughing. And yet it seemed that Lisa had touched on something, because after that Henri stubbed her joint out in her barely-hidden ashtray and buried her face in a book. The two young women were silent for quite a while, until Henri eventually glanced at her phone, swore under he breath, and practically stumbled to her feet, dragging a messenger bag off her bed as she rushed to their bedroom door.

“I’m about to be late for class, but I’m going to insist that you answer my question before I go – really answer it.”

Lisa refused to look at her. “What’s that?”

“You know damn well what it is.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this shit, Henri.”

“Yeah, well, I wish you’d just be straight with me when I ask you things that should have easy answers. So go on, tell me the real reason why you don’t want to put this photo in the exhibit.”

“I already did,” Lisa insisted.

“False. That line about there being too much of you in it? Nonsensical.”

Lisa sighed and shook her head. “Henri…every photo that I take – every photo that anyone who truly loves the art of photography takes – is really a portrait of that photographer, far more than of whatever is in it.”

“Or whomever?”

“Exactly. I took this picture of Dori and her friends, but it’s me who reveals myself in it. More than they possibly could. It’s like I opened the door to a room where my deepest, darkest secrets are stored.”

Henri laughed. “And what secrets are those?”

“I don’t know why you’d care, but I’ll tell you, if you want to know.”

“You know me better than that.” Henri was one of those constantly curious people; she was so curious so much of the time that it often annoyed those around her. “Out with it.”

“Okay, but I doubt you’ll really understand what I’m getting at.”

Henri smiled languidly, suddenly acting as if she had nowhere else to be as she picked at the peeling paint of their doorframe. “You underestimate me. I’m sure I’ll understand just fine, and anyway, I believe all ridiculous things.”

Lisa sighed but still didn’t answer, instead leaning over to crack open the window. It was still late summer and the wind that blew in was warm, but at least it stirred the stench of perfume and pot that had settled over everything in their room. They could hear students shouting to each other in the distance, but Lisa looked so nervous that Henri could almost imagine that she could also hear her friend’s pounding heart.

“Honestly, I’m still not sure I understand it, incredible as it is,” Lisa finally said, and Henri was surprised at how bitter her roommate sounded. “I went to Bonnaroo back in June…not something I’d normally do, considering how much I hate camping, let alone camping with a huge crowd of strangers. But you know we artists have to put ourselves out there from time to time, to remind everyone – including ourselves – that we exist.

“I even took your advice and dressed for the occasion, and thank the gods for thrift shops. I don’t know what it was about me that did it, but I wasn’t there more than a few hours when I got that feeling that someone was watching me. That’s when I turned and saw her – Dorienne Jejune, or Dori for short – for the first time.

“You’d guess that I blushed to find someone like her looking at me the way she was, but no, it was like all of the color drained out of me. I was afraid, not because Dori is frightening, but because I knew that I was looking at someone who was so fascinating that, if allowed, she would consume me entirely. My body, my soul, even my art.

“I’ve always been wary of there being too much outside influence in my life. You know my need for independence as well as anyone else, I think. My parents wanted me to be a lawyer; I insisted on coming here and joining the art school. I was my own master, had always been…until I met Dori. I don’t really know how to explain it to you, but in that moment, it was as if I was on the verge of a life-altering breakdown. That if I spoke to her my future would be full of both amazing ecstasy…and misery like I’d never felt before. That if I spoke to her, I would never be able to get her out of my mind, and so I shouldn’t speak to her at all, right? And then I thought that I wasn’t doing this out of some innate sense of having any sort of conscience, but because I was a coward. Always have been, if I’m going to be completely honest.”

“Maybe it’s just me, but I think conscience and cowardice go hand in hand more often than not,” Henri mused.

Lisa rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense, But anyway, I decided that I’d made a terrible mistake, going to a music festival like that, but then as I was leaving I stumbled across Brandon, my friend who got me in. He’s one of their main promoters, and when he asked me where I was going I couldn’t come up with any sort of decent answer.”

“Ugh, promoters,” Henri agreed, shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other but remaining in the doorway. She obviously wanted to hear the end of Lisa’s story, class or no class.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t get rid of him. He dragged me around for hours after that…and I know I shouldn’t complain, because I got to meet performers, their managers, and even a couple of celebrities. He talked about me like I was one of his best friends, even though we’re acquaintances at most…I guess he’d just decided to take me under his wing. He invited me because of a photo of mine that made it into The Tennessean, which is apparently more important than I ever thought it could or would be.

“And then suddenly I was face to face with the girl I’d seen earlier that day, so close that we were practically touching, and when our eyes met it was like…I don’t know, I had to know her. So I asked Brandon to introduce us, and as crazy as it was, I think now that it was really kind of inevitable. Despite the copious number of people who were there, I absolutely believe we would have run into each other again, and that eventually we would have spoken to each other…even without this sort of formal introduction. Dori told me as much, later on – that she also believed we were destined to know each other.”

“Well, how did Brandon describe this amazing girl? I’m guessing that with what he does for a living, he was full of gossip. People are like cattle to promoters; they’re either next to worthless and headed for the slaughterhouse, or they’re practically perfect in every way and ripe for making connections.”

Lisa snorted. “He told me that their mothers were close friends, that Dori doesn’t work, but that she plays an instrument. He thought piano at first, but it turned out it was the violin. Neither of us could help but laugh as he was trying to figure out what instrument it was, and I think it was in that moment that she and I became friends.”

“Laughter is a great way to jump start a friendship. The best way for one to end, too.” Henri was gazing at nothing above Lisa’s head.

“I’m…not sure you understand what friendship is, Henri,” she murmured. “Or, for that matter, what enmity is. You seem to like almost everyone, which really means that you’re completely indifferent.”

That certainly caught Henri’s attention. “That’s not exactly fair,” she grumbled, now leaning against the door frame from which she’d removed a large chunk of faded, dirty white paint. “I don’t treat everyone the same at all! I choose attractive people for my friends, good people for my acquaintances, and smart people for my enemies. Can’t be too careful choosing one’s enemies, and none of mine are stupid. I think it makes them appreciate me more, even if that sounds a bit stuck-up.”

“I’d say that it was, but according to your categorization I can’t be more than an acquaintance to you,” Lisa said self-deprecatingly.

“Darling, you know better than that – you’re much more than an acquaintance.”

“But I’m not a friend. A sister, maybe?”

Henri laughed. “I don’t think so – I don’t like sisters. My older sister is a mess – the family would be better off if she disappeared. As for my younger sisters, the twins, they’re too perfect for words. Ran off to join some new worldwide volunteer organization the moment they turned eighteen and no one’s heard from them since. Little brats.”

“Henri!”

“C’mon, Lisa, you know I’m not really serious…even if I can’t help disliking my family. Probably because I, along with so many others, can’t stand other people having the same faults as me. My family is all part of that one percent that most of the U.S. population despises, and I sympathize with that other ninety-nine percent. We can screw up all we like and never get into trouble; they get caught doing the same things and they’re fucked. And yet so many of them make the same shitty decisions time and time again, which makes me feel stupid for feeling bad at all.”

“I don’t agree with most of what you’re saying, Henri…and I don’t really believe you do, either.”

Henri ran one hand through her thick blonde hair. “Well, you do always want to see the best in people, but is there any point to thinking about whether what I’m saying is right or wrong? You may not believe it’s true, or fair, and whether or not I’m sincere doesn’t really matter all that much. In fact, the less sincere a person is when they express some idea or opinion, the more likely that it will be a truly intelligent one, because then it isn’t based on what I want or what my prejudices are. Not that we should be talking about politics or anything like that – I prefer to talk about people, anyway. Tell me more about this ‘Dorienne Jejune’. How much have you seen her?”

“Every few days, at least. Sometimes more. And when I don’t see her, we chat. Facebook, texts, sometimes even on the phone. I’m not sure I could be happy if I didn’t at least talk to her every day, even if it’s only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody one worships means a great deal.”

Henri had the good grace to look shocked at that. “You don’t reallly worship her? That’s a damn strong word, Lis.”

“I do.”

“Well call me shocked. I never really believed you would truly care about anything but your art.”

“She is my art, now. I sometimes wonder if there are maybe only two important eras in the history of this fucked-up world. The first is the appearance of a new art medium, and how will anything ever fit that the way photography does?

“But the second is the appearance of a new personality for art. What oil-panting was to the Venetians, what Antinous was to Greek sculpture, Dori will some day be to me. It’s not enough that I’ve photographed her in a hundred or more different ways…and before you ask, yes, I really have. Sometimes by herself, but most often with others, because it’s among other people that her beauty truly shines. But she’s more to me than just that beauty, and while I can’t say that I’m not at all satisfied with what I’ve accomplished with her so far, I also still don’t feel like I’ve truly expressed who and what she is. There shouldn’t be anything out there that art can’t express, and I know that since I met Dori, my photos have been good, the best ones I’ve ever taken, really. But somehow she as a whole suggests to me that new manner in art, that new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently, and in a way, I can re-create life in a way that was previously hidden from me. Her presence alone causes something like…I don’t know how to describe it so that you can truly understand. The harmony between soul and body, I guess.”

Lisa paused, drew a deep breath, and shook her head. “I wish I could explain it in a way that would make you know what Dori is to me. I’ve taken some great photos before, I know I have, and I’ve even taken ones that I refused to let go of, refused to even post in my online portfolio. But all of those have been taken since I met Dori, and she was there for every one of them.”

“Well now I kind of have to meet this Dori of yours,” Henri insisted.

Lisa stood and paced back and forth in their little room, hugging herself tight in a way that made Henri more than a little bit nervous. Finally she stopped and turned to her friend, who was still waiting expectantly in the doorway. “You don’t understand,” she said. “Dori is nothing more than a motive in art. It’s almost like…like she’s more present in my photographs when she isn’t even in them. I see her in the curves of certain lines, in the brightness or the depth of certain colors.”

“Then that brings me back to the question about why you won’t put the damn photo in the exhibit!” Henri exclaimed, exasperated.

“Because it holds the sort of romance that I’ve never mentioned to her. She doesn’t know anything about it, and never will. But if I put the photo out there, who knows what other people will see of that romance…who knows what they would guess about it…and I won’t bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes, or put my heart under a microscope like that. I’ve said it again and again – there is too much of myself in the photo.”

“If only you were a poet…they use their passion to get published. Everyone wants to see and read and learn more about broken hearts.”

“I hate that. Artists should create things, but not put too much of their own lives in them – or anything of their lives at all, really. For too long people have treated art like some form of autobiography and ignored the abstract sense of beauty. Maybe that’s lost forever, maybe not, but I’m sure as hell going to try to show the world what it is…and if I’m going to do that, then I can’t show anyone else this photo of Dorienne Jejune.”

“Well. You’ll just have to live with the fact that I think you’re wrong, because I think I’m done arguing with you. Those of us who are truly enlightened know better than to waste too much time arguing. Instead I’m going to make you tell me whether Dorienne Jejune is passionate about you, as well.”

Lisa collapsed back into her chair and thought about this for a few moments. “She likes me,” she finally answered. “I know she likes me. Of course I compliment her constantly, and honestly, I flirt a bit as well. I say things I know I shouldn’t say, things I’m often sorry for saying the second I’ve put them out there, and yet I get a strange sort of pleasure out of that. I’m obvious, so damn obvious, yet she remains her charming self so much of the time. We’ll walk home from a late night out arm in arm, or sit somewhere and talk about any and everything while I take as many photos as I can. But sometimes…sometimes she’s outright careless, and even seems to take delight in hurting me. When that happens, I feel like I’ve given myself, my whole self, to someone who treats me as if I was nothing more than a flower she tucks into her hair at a festival, a bit of decoration to highlight her beauty, an ornament for a summer day.”

“And summer days are long. Who knows, Lisa – maybe you’ll get bored of this whole thing sooner than she will. I know you don’t want to think about that, but you know that genius lasts longer than beauty. Why else would we be in college, over-educating ourselves? It’s a struggle to exist, let alone truly live. And we want something that endures, so we force ourselves to learn shit we’ll never use, hoping that doing so will allow us to keep our place, maybe even earn one higher than we had before. We’re supposed to know something about almost everything, but that turns our minds into, I don’t know, consignment shops, full of shit so many people owned and threw away, because it was as useless to them as it is to us. So yeah, I think you’ll walk away before she does. Some day you’ll look at this Dori, and she’ll seem off to you. You’ll think that she’s treated you badly, and the next time she comes around, you’ll be cold and indifferent. And it will suck, because it will change you. Once a person has experienced a romance, it leaves them completely unromantic.”

“Jesus, Henri, don’t talk like that. Trust me, as long as I live, everything about Dori will dominate me. But I know I’m probably talking to a brick wall here; you can’t feel what I feel, because you’re constantly changing.”

Henri chuckled. “Oh, Lis. That’s exactly why I can feel it. ‘Faithful fools might know love’s pleasures, but it’s the faithless who know love’s tragedies’.” Having given up on the idea of attending her class, she stepped back into the room, closing the door behind her, and reached for her joint, lighting it and taking a drag with a self-satisfied air that caused Lisa to scoff and look away from her. The thick smoke drifted toward the open window but dissipated entirely before reaching it; Henri folded herself back into her chair and watched the smoke intently, frustrated with Lisa and frustrated with herself, wishing she could just give up on all of this and go wandering around campus in hopes of experiencing something better, something more.

And yet she’d managed to skip one of her most boring classes by remaining here with her roommate; shouldn’t that be pleasant enough? Other people’s emotions amused her (certainly more than their ideas ever did). Her passions, and those of her friends, these were the fascinating things in life. If she’d gone to class, she would have had to listen to her professor drone on and on about economics – the only distraction to be had in that room was her friend Edie. Henri knew that the only reason her grades were barely average in Econ was because she and Edie spent most of the time messaging each other on their laptops

And then suddenly it came to her. She sat up again and said, “Lis! I just remembered.”

“Remembered what?” Lis asked wearily.

“I’ve absolutely heard the name Dorienne Jejune before!”

Lisa frowned. “Where was it?”

“Oh, don’t look so annoyed. It was in my Econ class. Edie told me that she’d met this amazing girl who was going to help her hone her musical abilities, and that her name was Dorienne, Dori for short. Granted, Edie never said the girl was good-looking, but then, Edie is straight, so maybe she doesn’t appreciate Dori’s attributes as much as you or I. She did say that this Dorienne was very earnest and friendly, which led me to picture someone with glasses and a bad haircut, stomping about clumsily…I wish I’d known she was talking about your friend there.”

“Well…to be honest, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to meet her, Henri.”

Just then their door buzzer sounded and a voice came over the awful little speaker. “There’s a Dorienne Jejune down here for you, Lisa,” the RA announced.

“Ha!” Henri cried, grinning. “Now you have to introduce me.”

Lisa practically threw herself across the room and pressed the call button. “Tell her I’ll be down in a few.”

“Will do.”

Lisa then turned to Henri, placing her hands on her hips. “Dori is my best friend,” she said. “She’s simple and beautiful. Edie was right in saying what she did. Don’t spoil her for me. Don’t try to influence her – you’d be a bad influence. There’s a huge world out there, and so many people in it. Don’t take away the one person who makes life truly lovely to me, the one person who gives more wonder and charm to my art than it’s ever had before. Please, Henri. I want to trust you.” She spoke very slowly, as if she was being forced to say these things.

“God, you are so full of crap sometimes,” Henri said, but she was smiling as she stood, linked her arm through Lisa’s, and led her out of their room and down the stairs.