It came as a surprise when Alicia asked me to help with a photography project. She has one of these cameras with all the gigs or whatever. My phone takes pictures, of course, but as I don’t know how to delete them, I’m out of space. Her brother’s shown me, but I’ll need to ask again.

Alicia’s taking a photography class at SLCC where the tuition is cheap before she heads off to Wesleyan for what she calls a real degree, if anthropology can be so considered. SLCC also gives real degrees, I’ve pointed out, say to become a dental assistant, for which there’s a demand.

Why she’s taking a photography class is beyond me, but maybe if she does anthropology on some South Pacific island, she can sell it to National Geographic.

Dale still has a year to think about it and is considering computer something-or-other, a smart choice, unlike that of his sister. A year away from me being an empty nester, as Dale has no intention of staying around for the tuition break. Just me, myself and I rattling around the place, them off partying.

“It’s supposed to be a photographic essay about action/interaction,” Alicia explained. “Black and white. You know, arty. Just interact, is all. Just be you and him.”

So Dale and I just have to act like we’re us while she takes pictures, as I wanted to be sure. I can’t see why anybody would want to photograph us being us, but it’s for her class.

Alicia wants us repainting the porch railing where the old coat had chipped off, a task I’d been putting off. Two birds with one stone. Her class. My porch.

The way Alicia bunches us together to fit in her frame, Dale’s arm is across my front back and forth across, as it’s supposed to be an action shot, but no big deal, me being his mother.

Alicia moves in for a close-up that may show nipple — his arm doing what it’s doing — but I’m sure she can Photoshop them away.

We get on the ladder — “Rule #1: Stay safe,” she instructs us — to paint some more, him a rung above and me reaching around to paint a spot that actually doesn’t need it, but Alicia says they won’t know that in the photo exhibition.

“Another rung up, Dale. Mom, you stay where you are,” puts my arm at a lower place around him, my wrist bumping what’s none of my business. I guess it’s OK, though, again me being his mom. I’m not that much against what I’m against, of course, but it doesn’t take much to feel what I’m not much against. Is he a little bit erect? Alicia moves in for another close-up.

Had I realized that in posing, I’d be doing what I was, I’d have said no, but it’s too late. When Alicia checks to say that if I have something else to do, no problem, she can get somebody from the class to finish the shoot, I say there’s no reason. What I don’t say is that I’d hardly want somebody from school being where I am on her brother.

We get off the ladder while Alicia does some sort of camera alteration.

“You’re going to get paint on your shirt,” Alicia notices after a bit, reaching to undo my buttons as she says it and having her brother help get my blouse off me.

I’d of course not want my blouse ruined, but I’d most certainly not paint in just my bra with anybody not family. Dale’s seen me in it lots of times, of course, but not worked with me that way.

“Straps down a little,” she tells me. “Diagonal helps center the composition.”

Had I foreseen it, I’d have worn a nicer bra.

“Maybe lower, even.” which puts them over my shoulders.

“Maybe help her get it off all the way,” she tells Dale, and before I can express my thoughts, he unhooks me and that’s that. “Polynesian, like Gauguin,” Alicia explains, what might help her grade. Doesn’t make sense to me but she’s taken art as a prerequisite. Alicia tells me that my lower bust gives me a look of authenticity.

While I’m not a movie star, or anything, I do enjoy movies, and most often the actress keeps her bra on or is under a sheet. But sometimes not. It’s really no big thing these days.

Back up on the ladder, me this time higher, Alicia had Dale’s reaching around me more than when I’d been shirted to help me shadow better. Maybe so, as I must admit, there’s not more to shadow. Not that I mind his arm — sometimes even his hand — against my nipples, though, me forgetting I’m his mother.

Fortunately the paint’s latex and what gets on them washes off with water.

Finishing that phase of the shoot, we sit on the sofa to take a break. I think I should put my top back on, but Alicia says no reason. Maybe take a few right where you are. “You stretch out, Mom. Dale, behind her for the aspect,” something she’d learned in class.

Dale, though, seems still to be thinking ladder, his holding me being a protective gesture, I appreciate. Actually, he’s mostly holding my breasts, but that’s how Alicia placed me.

“Maybe change places,” making him roll over me, but then she changes her mind and has him roll back, me bumping what I’d bumped had on the ladder, except now we’re lying down. It makes me feel different.

“A better idea,” she decides. “Mom shouldn’t be in that skirt,” and before I can ask why not, Dale rolls me to where she can get it off.

I definitely should have worn nicer panties, them now being in the picture.

“His jeans, Mom.””

“What about them?”

“Makes no sense, him being in them, you two as you are,” which I think she should have thought of before she’d gotten us as we are, but I guess even famous photographers don’t always know what they want until they try.

It’s definitely a bit unnerving, me and my boy lying there in our underpants, but Alicia says SLCC requires gender equality.