Queen of Likes (11 page)

“It was a joke. Seriously. I didn't think he'd”—Auggie glances at Justin—“actually do it.”

Of course he would. He'll do anything Auggie says. He's just a follower. I look up at a clock in the hall. The final bell to end break is about to ring. I seriously have one minute to get to class.

I race around the corner to try to catch up with Milton P. I call out to him. He went in the opposite direction of where I need to go. I could just zip to class and barely make it on time. Or go see if Milton P. is okay.

I decide to go after Milton P., but he's long gone.

Only a few stragglers hurry past in the hallway now. The bell rings and I feel three things at once. First, I feel terror at getting a tardy on a test day. Second, I feel bad for Milton P. because tears, actual tears, had been sliding down his apple-red cheeks under his fogged-up glasses.

And third, I'm curious because I'm dying—
dying
—to know what is actually in that shoe box.

We're sitting at the table next to the Quick Cart discussing Spirit Week with Bailey and the Bees. Nobody is saying anything about me missing the meeting at Bailey's house. But honestly, I'm still feeling superbad about it. Then Megan asks if I'm going to have to miss more meetings, and I tell her definitely not, but I'm not sure she believes me.

Megan waves a pretzel stick. She's smiling at everyone, including Ella. But she never makes eye contact with me. “You guys, I've gotten even more volunteers to help set up and decorate before the dance.”

“I'm getting lots of parents to bring snacks and drinks,” says Janel. “I'll make a store run with Mrs. Grayson for ice and paper goods on Wednesday before the dance. And we'll pick up the hot dogs for the contest then too.”

“Perfect,” says Bailey. She stirs her yogurt and shakes her head. Some of her hair has escaped her ponytail and forms a glistening halo. I'd love to whip out my dad's camera and take a photo of it, but I'd feel too embarrassed.

“Did you see the canned food pyramids by the front office?” asks Bailey.

“Oh yeah,” says Megan. “The eighth grade one is scary big.”

Ella's shoulders slump. My shoulders slump. “Don't worry.” I dip my carrots in some hummus. “I have a plan. Ella and I—”

“You mean tracking your old followers and telling them to mail in cans?” snaps Ella. She is obviously mad about something.

“Well, I was mostly joking about that,” I say. “But listen to this idea. I thought it'd be better and more dramatic if the seventh grade brought our cans all at once, so the eighth grade can't see it coming.”

“I get you,” says Janel. “Like a surprise attack of cans.”

“Exactly.” I take another bite of my carrot.

“What day?” Bailey sips her water.

“The last day to bring in cans is Wednesday, March twenty-first,” I say. “That's twelve days from now, right in the middle of Spirit Week. So I think we should bring in a massive amount of cans on Wednesday morning and spread the word. The Great Canned Food Sneak Attack.”

Bailey claps. “I'm loving it, people. It's supersneaky!”

“And!” I say, raising my hand like we're in class. “Maybe you could do a survey. Like, what does Spirit Week mean to you? And then we could get quotes from people and have them read at the Spirit Rally.” Suddenly I think about taking photos of the kids.

Bailey squints her eyes. “Sounds good. The bell's about to ring.”

And then I realize something. I really do want to take that photography class. Because if I took that class, I'd probably take the best photos ever, even better than I do now. I'm going to sign up after school.

I text in my mind:
Don't let anything stop you!
Maybe that's what Moses was thinking out there in the desert.

My Stats:

111 followers on seventh-grade Spirit Week page

800ish followers on eighth-grade Spirit Week page—I can't bear to look to see if it's gone up more

233
LIKES
on Auggie's canned food shot

1 mystery of what was in the shoe box

1 camera in my backpack that I'm dying to use

1 photography class I'm going to sign up for!

Mood: Scared about the seventh grade's chances, but excited about my photography class!

I'm ten minutes early for the photography class and almost all of the seats are already filled. The instructor is a tall, skinny dude with a long blond ponytail and a tiny bit of hair on his chin that looks like a fuzzy caterpillar. I think it's called a soul patch. But I don't know why. It doesn't seem that soulful to me. The teacher stands in front, tapping on the podium as if it's a drum. He looks as though he should be teaching a class on rock and roll.

Everyone has their notebook and pencils out on their desks. Whoops, I forgot to bring a notebook. Everyone looks a little older than me, except for a girl with one long braid. She looks my age, and a kid fiddling with a huge telephoto lens looks like he knows things. He's probably our age too. I scoot past him and can feel his eyes on me. Probably wondering about the portfolio that I'm clutching. I sit down in one of the few vacant desks toward the back. My camera, slung around my shoulder, rests on my lap, and I put my portfolio on the desk. Last night I had spent an hour putting it together, choosing the best photos. Most of my photos that I took with Floyd are gone, but I do have some on my photostream on the family computer.

I glance up at the clock above the whiteboard. There are still seven minutes before class starts. I have time to ask the teacher what he thinks of my work.

Maybe I should wait until after class, when everyone is gone.

No, I can't let Mom wait in the car like that.

I steal another glance at the instructor. He's a real photographer. Right here, now, standing in front of me. This proves my uncle Eric, the very successful dentist who lives in Florida, is wrong. You can make a living taking pictures. This guy proves it.

It's now or never.
Go for it
, a little voice in my head cries. I sidle around the desks, then whiz up to my teacher. “I wanted to show you my photos,” I say all in a rush, my heart beating fast.

The real, live-in-person photographer peers down at me. I'm tall for my age, but this guy is taller. Up close I see his hair isn't blond at all, but white and gray. He's actually kind of old-looking, but in an aging rock star way.

My arms get jittery and my throat goes dry. “I want to know what you think of my work. Whether you like it.”

“Put it away,” he says in a clipped British accent. His eyes skim my portfolio.

“But—”

“You'll understand in a minute.” He glances up at the clock.

My heart sinks. I thought that was the point of being here. I don't get it. Burrowing into my hoodie, I slink back to my seat.

Only someone else is sitting in it, a stocky guy with one earring in his left ear. “That's my desk,” I say, my voice coming out high and whiny like a little kid. “I sat here first.” The stocky guy looks at me blankly as if I'm not fully formed. “Didn't see your stuff,” he says after a long pause.

And then he doesn't move. My desk. My chair. I got here earlier than him.

A girl in the front row with streaks of purple in her hair whips around. She wears lots of black rubberlike rings around her arms. “There's a space next to me.”

“Thanks,” I say. But I'm not feeling so happy about it. The seat is right in front of the teacher who does not want to see my photos.

I take in a huge breath. I blink extra hard so I will not cry. This class is not off to a good start for me. I sit down in my new seat and fiddle around with my camera. Behind me, I can hear the desk-stealer saying, “Hey you, with the pink hoodie. Don't I know you?”

Okay, I'm wearing a pink hoodie. He's definitely speaking to me, but I decide to ignore him.

A round-faced girl on my other side fans herself with a magazine. “It's like a sauna in here.”

“Too warm,” says someone else from the back row.

The teacher who does not want to look at my photos says, “You have two choices. Either too hot or too cold. Like life.” Some kids laugh. I don't. “So.” He points to the whiteboard. “My name is Ren Litman and this is going to be a dedicated month of photography. It's going to be quite a bit of fun and we're going to cover miles of ground.”

Yeah, and stomp all over me while doing it.

“But I want to make something clear.” He glances in my direction. “I will not tell you if I like your photos, or whether I detest your photos, or whether I think they're extremely mediocre. Essentially, it doesn't matter whether I like something or not. It only matters whether you like it. Not me. Not the mail carrier. Not your mother. Or your friends.”

My face flushes. Yes. He is talking right to me. Ugh.

“However, if you ask me a question about the depth of field or different framing options or proportions, I'll tell you more than you'll want to hear. But I will not give you my opinion on the quality of your work.”

There are murmurs of surprise and my cheeks grow warm. He's definitely saying this because of me. “You will see why I feel strongly about this in a moment,” says Ren. “But first, I want you to write down five activities you enjoy doing.”

Pencil and pens scratch on paper.

Well, I know what I don't enjoy doing. Right now I'm not enjoying being in this class. The pens and pencils continue to scrawl on notepads. But I'm not going to do this. This is dumb. This has nothing—
nothing
—to do with photography. I fold my arms in front of me so he'll see how dumb this question is. Suddenly I'm happy, thrilled that I forgot my little spiral notebook.

“And the second thing I want you to write about is your background in photography. What you have done, and what you'd like to know.”

Well, the thousands of comments and
LIKES
on my photos on Snappypic are gone. In a black hole somewhere. That's what I know. My skin prickles so much it hurts.

“So we're going to keep it simple.” He steeples his fingers and pauses dramatically. “I've got three basic rules of photography. The first rule.” He pauses again. “If you take a photo and you like it, it's a good photo. That's it. A fun memory at the seashore? Brilliant!” He rolls the pen in his hand and taps the whiteboard. “Next rule. Oh, I hate the word
rule
. Next
concept
I'm going to tell you. You don't need to wait for a special occasion to take a photo. Tap into your interests and bring your camera to it. If you have a thing for monster trucks, start shooting away at them. If you like cookies and candy bars, then start taking pictures of that.”

He pauses again, almost daring us to speak. Nobody does. Nobody.

I think about taking pictures of cookies. Would I like that? Maybe. I do like cookies, especially white chocolate chip with macadamia nuts.

“This isn't going to be a class where I'm going to bring in a vase and a bunch of oranges and apples and you're going to snap away. You're going to practice on your own. You're going to go out there and find out what makes you sing, at a cellular level.”

I thought we were going to be learning stuff like the best kind of zoom to buy, not a talk on making my cells sing. That's crazy-talk. And yet cool.

Someone's hand shoots up. “What if you don't know what you like?”

“Then figure it out.” Suddenly there is something so familiar about the teacher. And then I remember why. He's the photographer from Milton P.'s bar mitzvah.

Ren strolls between the aisles. “This is the best time in the history of photography to be taking pictures. Period. The
very
best time. Does anybody know why?”

Once again his eyes dare us to speak. But I know, and so does everybody else, that we are not supposed to. I gaze up at a poster on the wall of a guy snowboarding. It says:
SUCCESS IS GETTING UP JUST ONE MORE TIME THAN YOU FALL DOWN.
Somehow it's a funny thought, because I'm picturing a bunch of photographers falling down, cracking their lenses.

But I try not to laugh because Ren has a very serious look on his face.

He taps his chin. “I'm going to show you why this is the best time in the history of photography to take pictures. Look. And listen.”

He points his camera to the ceiling. And
click
.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
It continues clicking about a bazillion times. Ren shoots and shoots and shoots. Maybe a hundred shots right there of the ceiling.

Finally he stops and puts the camera on the podium. A huge smile stretches across his face. “To develop what I just shot? It'd cost a massive amount of money. So go out and practice as much as you like. What is it going to cost you? A new memory card?”