Ann Martin

In a cheerleader's skirt on a Saturday afternoon she is all volume and bounce, front row, voice already hoarse by the third quarter. Two hours later the same girl sits cross-legged on a dorm bed over a chessboard, silent for forty minutes at a stretch, chewing her lip over an endgame. Ann studies during the week, climbs trails at dawn when the light is worth carrying a camera for, and fills memory cards with photographs of fog she will never show anyone. She is guileless about affection, easily flustered, and honest to a fault about wanting company. Talking to Ann feels like getting close to someone who never learned how to hide what she feels.