I stop at the bottom of the stairs and wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand when I finally make it to the ancient brick building that is the Journalism Building. It's off the beaten path of the other academic buildings on campus and sits too close to the football stadium for my liking. As if the two are correlated, connected in some way. I can't help but notice that it's the sole building on campus that isn't named after some scholar or alumni with way too much money to spare. Those two things together should be my sign to turn around and walk straight back to my dorm. No one in the history of journalism at State has deemed it worthy enough of a program to serve as a namesake, but according to Alyssa this is one of the items on the damned list.

Along with the many recreational outings, Taylor thought I needed to get more involved in campus affiliated activities to prove to my dad that I am really trying. To show my dad that I'm doing more than what he expects of me. It's the only reason I've been to an ice cream social at the School of Nursing, joined a study group out of the library, and volunteered at a blood drive in the Student Center. Alyssa was quick to agree with Taylor when she added this to the list. She didn't hide the fact that the paper is in desperate need which means no prior experience is necessary. I've barely had time to stop and eat with all of my adventures, let alone time to stop and argue with either of my friends about a list item.

I climb the three flights of stairs and make a left and then a right before walking to the end of the hall. The glass panel on the door reads "The Daily Scoop'' in a vintage dingy dark and bold lettering. It only solidifies that this building has seen no improvements since the sixties.

I turn the brass knob and push open the heavy, also ancient, wood door. I am immediately inserted into a room that was obviously designed to be an office, and not a newsroom full of people. At least twenty fellow students are seated at tables lining the walls of the room. The layout leaves them staring into a wall, while the middle of the room is practically wide open. I can't see their faces, but I assume most of them are too deep in thought or typing to notice me. The clicking of the keys doesn't falter for one second as the door creates a loud thud as it closes behind me.

I spot Alyssa standing next to one of the tables at the far end of the room, talking to a man who can't be more than five foot three considering he and Alyssa are eye to eye.

I duck my head to remain unnoticed as I walk towards her. It only lasts a few seconds before she spots me too. Her eyebrows raise and her mouth forms the largest smile I've ever seen. I feel nauseous at the idea of being in a room full of people who want to be journalists and have the same personality as her.

"Camryn! You came!" She says a little too loudly. At the exact moment, half of the room stops what they're doing and turns to see who Camryn is, and why she came. Not that I had a choice. I'm only here so I can make sure I'm not here next fall.

"Grey, this is my roommate Camryn Quinn that I told you about." She gestures towards me as if to say, see I didn't make her up. She is flesh and bone, and is a gift for you to manipulate.

"Nice to meet you," I say, but Grey doesn't offer anything in return. He instead crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. A few seconds of silence pass before it's clear he isn't going to speak.

"Uhm, Alyssa tells me you have a need for a photographer?" I ask timidly.

"Where do I know you from?" Grey asks, eyeing me closely. I lean back to create a little more space between us as if at any second he might pull out a magnifying glass to thoroughly inspect me.

When I don't answer, he starts the whole "Let me guess," game. He throws out possible guesses, none of which are close to the truth. I know Alyssa didn't tell him my last name on purpose, but the reaction is always the same. It precipitates another person who will figure out who my father is, and then assume I'm not serious about journalism or confess their love of football and my dad.

Before I can come up with an excuse Alyssa throws me a lifeline. "Camryn has a real eye for catching the details in candid shots. Her ability to focus on an obscure scene and create meaning for the viewer is unbelievable. I think she would be great to cover the field following any of the features," Alyssa offers, and I shift my gaze between her and Grey. I watch him watch me. Her choice of adjectives are so convincing that I start to believe in myself a little more. Still, I shrug, letting Alyssa's depiction of me be the only description Grey gets.

"Does Camryn here have any evidence of her talent or am I just supposed to believe that your sorority sister doesn't just specialize in headshots for LinkedIn and promoting products on social media?" Grey asks

Grey's smugness is so strong that I can almost smell it on him. A scent he proudly puts on every morning before strolling into this hell hole, only to sweat it off in the first hour of no air conditioning, leaving him smelling like BO and hot garbage. I have no real reference to journalists aside from Alyssa, and the many who have attempted to quote me in regards to my father over the years. Which are two very different ends of the same spectrum. I haven't seen Alyssa in action, but I can only assume she doesn't transform into a rat like some of the others. With their only concern being to get their story no matter who or what is jeopardized in the process.

Grey only removes his eyes from me for a second, to tell another staff member to email their story over and leave him alone. I always just assumed the editor stereotype played out in television and movies was a bit, playing them up to be an asshole, the unlikability just a side effect of needing to thicken the plot. I can now see, however, that they modeled every character after Grey.

I could just leave now, say forget it, and keep my photography to myself. After all it is a hobby, one that for the longest time, has been just for me. That has been enough for me. I only agreed to this because Alyssa and Taylor both suggested that I would be good at it. But now, all I want to do is submit every embarrassing photo I've ever taken of them. Including the one of Alyssa asleep with her eyes open. It could quite literally be used as a placeholder for the Boogieman in a child's nightmares.

"I have proof!" Alyssa interjects. "I can email you the file right now!" She moves quickly over to her computer, shaking the mouse to make the screen come to life.

"Have you ever been published? Local papers, submitted freelance work, anything?" Grey continues to press.

"Uhm, I, no–not really?" I stumble over my words as he insists I explain what I could possibly mean. He's acting like I just suggested that I have tasteful nudes that were accidently published on the internet.

"I mean I...I guess I've kind of kept my pictures to myself?" I say, cursing myself for my inability to make a normal statement around this half man.

"Then why now? Why should I take the chance and publish you in our paper? You do know that some of our pieces get picked up by the Times? We were even featured in the Wall Street Journal last year for a piece submitted about State's business school. All articles that I have worked my ass off to edit over the last two years."

I'm in an interrogation room with walls that keep closing in on me. Sweltering under the pressure, I'm about to confess to a crime I didn't commit. Why should Grey allow me to work for him? I eye Alyssa curiously, wondering why she hasn't jumped in again to protect me the same way she did when I arrived only five minutes ago? How is that even possible? I've been trapped here for at least three hours at this point. Alyssa just nods her head and gives two thumbs up, a "Keep it up you're doing great!" As if I'm not currently on fire.

"I, uhm." I clear my throat and adjust my stance, as if finding solid footing will somehow boost my confidence about sixty expert points. I think of my mom, what she would have said if she ever had the chance to share her art with the world. If she ever even wanted to. I was too young to even consider it as a possibility for her. The question never even crossed my immature mind. To me creating was always just something she did when she wasn't at work. I didn't understand until recently that maybe it was so much more to her. The details added, the time spent on each piece. She poured her heart into her so-called hobby as if her blood and sweat were the very paint she needed to distribute onto the canvas. I take a deep breath and imagine I am her. That I'm pitching her work for the first time.

"I take pictures to capture beautiful things, but as I see them. I've always used photography as a way to write a story without the words. Turning a still frame into something that speaks for itself is my passion...but I also like the challenge of creating something parallel. I want to be able to nail the essence of someone else's art through my own. I want my pictures to not only match up perfectly with the words that are written below to explain them, but to tell the story all on their own."

I look Grey directly in his eyes, which for me, means physically looking down on him. They haven't changed. He either doesn't buy what I just spewed or he has a hell of a poker face. Regardless of whatever this asshole is about to say to me, I let out a steady breath. Just like Alyssa upselling me when I first walked in, I'm proud of the way I just sold myself. I've actually talked myself into the idea of actually photographing for something other than myself.

Grey looks away from me and over to Alyssa's computer screen, "Give her Homecoming," he says before walking away. I look to Alyssa for interpretation for what giving me Homecoming means.

"It means he wants you to cover the game this weekend!" She squeals.

"Cover?" I ask for a more in depth answer, reminding her I don't speak journalese.

"He wants you to take pictures of the ceremony and game this weekend to be featured with the write up on the front page! This is huge. If you kill this, he will assign you on every single week!" She begins hopping up and down, giving enough excitement for the two of us.

"I didn't sign up for sports," I say flatly. Alyssa suddenly stops her jumping and won't meet my eyes. "What did you do?" I ask in the quietest yell I can muster without stirring the robots working on autopilot behind me.

"Our opening was sort of for a sports photographer so I submitted some of your pictures from one of the games earlier this season." She's now chewing her lip, waiting for my impending explosion. I only just showed her those photos recently, even though they were from the first game of the season. And the only reason I did was because I was under the impression that the four walls of our dorm had become a safe space. I had taken a few great shots of her that day and I wanted her to see. I no longer felt too vulnerable to show her. I was apparently mistaken though, because I feel exposed, like she's using this knowledge to her advantage and not mine.

"Alyssa, that means I will have to be on the field... with my dad and my brother," I say in a whisper. The last thing I need is for Grey to make the Quinn connection now that I know the truth.

"And Taylor!" She adds, "It's his first game back, he will love having you down there with him!"

Taylor has already texted me a picture of the active roster this morning. It's the final indication that he will indeed be playing this weekend. It's something he has been working on the entire time I have known him. My stomach fluttered for him, but it was the second image that sent it into double time. Taylor extended the camera with one hand to capture himself smiling big, pointing to his name on the board of starters in the team locker room. The idea that he wanted to share the news with me had made me feel, I don't know, like maybe he wants me to be a part of the biggest moments in his life. But then again, maybe he sent it to everyone if Alyssa already knows too. It could have just been a mass text out to all of his friends. After all that is what my role is in his life, a friend helping nurse him back to health. As a friend though, I should be overjoyed for him. I should be jumping on the chance to be closer to him, to have the chance to capture something so monumental to him on camera.

"Fine. But you're right there with me." I point a finger in her face. I need it to convey that anything bad that comes out of this, which is inevitable with my father involved, is indeed her fault.

"Girl, I already have us set up in the WAG section," she says, as if I knew what the fuck that means.