by Donna Cooner
My fingers hesitate on the keyboard. Then, before I can overthink it, I save all the photos to my computer for future use. Except the one where she’s eating the ice-cream cone. That one I use for Sienna’s new profile picture.
I am finally alive.
Suddenly I’m eight years old again, riding a bike down my street with no hands, laughing like crazy, and completely unaware of anyone watching or judging. I can be anyone. Do anything. I knew it. Shape-shifting feels like freedom. My shell of a body is loosening and opening all around me. I’m not trapped inside anymore. I’m in control of how people see me. Freedom tastes like the toasted marshmallows on top of a steaming cup of hot chocolate and it smells like the lilacs that bloom in my backyard every spring. It is welcoming and comforting and … attractive.
Sienna’s picture goes up, but there’s no response from Jesse yet. I do some more research, this time on how best to get someone’s attention online. Apparently, if you want to slide into someone’s DMs, it’s all about making a connection. For example, if the person complains about a test in school, commiserate. Tell them you struggle with that subject, too. If they share a picture of a vacation, tell them you want to go there, too. If they share a new outfit, tell them how amazing it looks. If you notice them posting about a certain band, ask if they attended their recent show. And the advice goes deeper. When someone checks into a place, show up at a time when you’re sure they’ve already left. Tell them they only missed you by a couple of minutes. Show an interest in the things they do.
Even if it’s fake.
If I were really Sienna, I wouldn’t think twice about sending messages to people I didn’t know. I would be confident and completely sure they wanted to talk to me. Why wouldn’t they? I stare at Katy Purry. She stares back, plainly thinking I’m the stupidest human on the planet.
“Jesse won’t reply. There’s no way,” I tell Katy Purry. If cats could roll their eyes, she would.
My good mood and manic energy ebbs. This wild idea of mine isn’t going to make a difference. Not in the big picture. People are classified as soon as possible and sorted according to a wide range of predetermined characteristics—looks, money, brains, friends. All the factors go into this socially acceptable machine and out spits your place in this world. It won’t change. You can’t change into anything different. Superheroes and shape-shifters don’t exist in high school.
I turn away from my laptop. I could distract myself by actually doing some homework. There’s a short story to read and analyze for English and a presentation to prepare for history. Instead, I pull out my sketchbook and work on one of my Froot Loops strips. Instantly, it’s like magic pulsing through my fingers and onto the page.
In this sketch, stick-figure me walks into a crowded gym. It’s a pep rally and the cheerleaders are dancing, pom-poms shaking, hips wagging while the crowd cheers. The chanting is rising over the bleachers—“Go, team!” in a bubble floating over their heads. I capture the elated look on each and every face.
Except mine, of course. Because I don’t have a face. Or a body.
I can’t get the sketch right. It’s an oh-so-familiar problem—the one I have every time I try to draw myself into a story. I can draw me as a dragon or a wolf or a hawk, but I can’t draw me as me.
I don’t want to.
Stick-figure me squeezes into a spot on the bottom bleacher because I desperately don’t want everyone watching me climb the stairs. The music is pulsing, and the cheerleaders are twirling and stepping in perfect synchronization. I draw Jesse Santos sitting on the bench with all the other football players. He watches the dancing cheerleaders in front of him, smiling.
I’m just finishing up the smug look on his face when my phone buzzes. I’m afraid to look. But then I see it’s a ChitChat message. From Jesse. He replied.
My heart stops. I can hardly breathe. The fish has just taken the bait. Now it’s up to me to reel him into shore.
Before I read the message, I finish my drawing. The rest of the strip flies out of my fingers onto the page. SHAZAM. I turn into a huge fire-breathing dragon, my scales the exact same dark blue color as the shiny pom-poms. I swoop down from the rafters and through a basketball hoop just for flair, then let loose a huge belch of fire that torches the GO, TEAM sign to ashes.
The last frame is the faces of the crowd, mouths open in awe. And one cheerleader says, “Now that’s a bonfire.”
CHITCHAT DIRECT MESSAGE
JESSE: HEY TO YOU TOO.
SIENNA: HEY.
JESSE: WHERE’D YOU SEE ME?
SIENNA: YOU WERE IN A FRIEND’S POST.
JESSE: WHAT’S YOUR FRIEND’S NAME?
SIENNA: IT WAS A FRIEND OF A FRIEND. YOU KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENS. THEY TAG SOMEONE WHO TAGS SOMEONE WHO TAGS SOMEONE ELSE.
JESSE: SO I’M IT?
SIENNA: HA. *TAG* YOU’RE DEFINITELY IT.
On Monday morning, the fall colors are more vibrant than ever. The leaves on the trees are fierce jagged spots of red and yellow against the bright blue sky. The air tastes as crisp as an apple, biting and tart. As I get into my car, I feel as though I’ve woken up from a long coma. It’s my world now and I no longer need to hide. Thanks to Sienna, I don’t want to disappear.
Mr. Alonzo, our neighbor across the street, looks out his front picture window and waves to me. He’s seen me coming and going since I was ten. He’s retired and lives there by himself since his wife passed away last year. Sometimes, I even dog-sit his Great Pyrenees, Winnie, when he goes out of town to visit his sister in Florida.
“Morning, Mr. Alonzo!” I call cheerfully. He looks surprised. I don’t usually say anything to him. I smile and drive away.
“You okay?” Owen asks when I pick him up in front of his house. He looks at me with curiosity as he gets in the car and adjusts his seat belt. “You seem different.”
“I’m fine. How was your rock climbing trip?” I ask quickly, changing the subject.
“Awesome. I did the South Slabs at Greyrock.” Owen loves climbing. The solitude and preciseness match him perfectly. The kinesiology and physics of each climb calm his busy mind. His lean frame moves fearlessly from hold to hold, the muscles in his back bunching under his skin, the only sign of the difficulty of his movements. I sometimes watch from below, but I’ve never set foot on the rock face.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
“Good. Fine. Nothing special.” I keep my eyes on the road. It feels uncomfortable keeping secrets from Owen. Especially a secret as big as Sienna.
When we get to school, Owen and I walk to our lockers. My thoughts are on Sienna and Jesse, and our last exchange. He sent me a smiley face yesterday but I haven’t written back yet. I’ll leave him wanting more.
I smile to myself. But even this small moment of happiness is tainted. I hear someone behind me say: “Wide load. Beep. Beep. Beep.” As usual, there is no shortage of random people standing around, ready to pass judgment on me. Even when I mind my own business, saying absolutely nothing to anyone, some snarky person is going to comment just loud enough for me to hear it. Like I haven’t heard all of it before.
Something new grabs hold of my body. A fierce, wild rage, like an untamed bucking horse galloping through my veins. Sienna wouldn’t take this from anyone. I turn around and glare at the freshman boys standing beside the water fountain. One of them looks away, guilty. It is such a tiny victory. Almost not worth the effort, but I can’t ignore it. Not anymore. I’m going to take up space, and not just on ChitChat.
Maybe Sienna should send a flirty message to that guilty boy, too. His acne-prone skin and frail build would make him an easy target. She would have him wrapped around her finger in no time.
Wait. I can’t do that.
I know wrong from right, I remind myself. This isn’t about lying to the whole world. This is about Jesse Santos. It’s the only thing that justifies my dishonesty.
Owen and I are getting our books out of our lockers when Grace steps in beside us. She wears jeans,
pink flip-flops, and a purple shirt that says PRAIRIE VIEW BIBLE CAMP in big letters across the front. She links her arm through Owen’s, and that small movement is enough to set my teeth on edge. I want to tell her that Owen doesn’t like being touched like that, but he doesn’t look upset at all.
“Funny shirt.” Grace gives him her most approving smile and Owen actually blushes. I glance over to see what all the fuss is about. Owen’s wearing a T-shirt with a dinosaur drinking out of a cup. The caption reads “Tea Rex.”
Seriously?
Grace links an arm through mine as well. I don’t pull away. “I heard there is going to be a special assembly tomorrow to announce all the exciting homecoming details. Fingers crossed that Lexi Singh is part of the plan.”
I feel a beat of excitement, momentarily forgetting all about Sienna.
“How do you find this stuff out before anyone else?” I ask Grace.
She shrugs. “It’s a gift.”
I shut my locker, and Owen, Grace, and I head down the hall together. Dezirea and Camila are hovering in the doorway to chemistry class. I see Dezirea flash a brilliant smile toward Graham Shannon, a tall baseball superstar with a killer fast pitch. He wasn’t at the party on Friday, or at least, I didn’t see him in the ChitChats. Now he swaggers by, flanked by two of his teammates. Dezirea giggles and blows a big kiss in his direction. He takes off running down the hall, hands outstretched like he’s going to catch a fly ball. The crowd scatters, yelling protests but captivated by the action. Just before crashing into the lockers and a group of wide-eyed freshman girls, Graham claps his hands over the imaginary kiss and then smushes it onto his mouth in a grotesque imaginary lip-lock. The image is hard to shake.
“Wow,” Grace says appreciatively. “He should join the drama team.”
I sigh. There is no way Graham would be caught dead hanging out with the theater crowd. Evidently, there are some things Grace does not know.
The first bell rings. Grace says good-bye and heads to her history class down the hall. Owen and I walk into chemistry. I almost follow Owen to my old seat, but then I remember and stop short. Owen gives me a supportive smile and I smile back at him, grateful for our friendship. Then I turn and make myself walk toward my new seat. Jesse Santos is already in his seat, listening to something loud on his earbuds. My mood darkens instantly.
I slide onto the empty stool beside him, not making eye contact. I can feel myself start to sweat. Oh, God. Why do I have to be here?
But then something occurs to me. Just forget he’s Jesse Santos, überpopular football star, and look closely for the chinks in his armor. I relax slightly. Maybe this is going to work out after all. As long as I’m sitting here next to him, I might as well gain some information for Sienna to use later.
So I watch Jesse, tilting my head and studying him like the elements in a lab assignment. He really isn’t that good-looking. His nose is a little crooked and he has a scar over one dark eyebrow, probably the result of some old football injury. When he’s not smiling, he looks more average. It’s all attitude. Maybe this realization is something Sienna needs to know.
Jesse doesn’t look my way, but I know he’s aware of my furtive glances. I’m sure he thinks I can’t stop looking at him because he’s so hot. It’s what he thinks about every girl. Even the fat ones like me. If only he really knew the truth—that I’m sizing him up for Sienna’s purposes.
More kids stream into the classroom. Jesse’s feet shift restlessly under the lab table, in time to the music coming from his earbuds. He clicks the tip of his pen—a relentless in and out and in and out. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
I lean over and yell in the direction of his closest ear, “Stop.”
He pulls out an earbud and looks at me in confusion. The music is still playing faintly from the earbud in his hand—some kind of instrumental song. I motion to the pen in his hand and he puts it down on the table with a grin. That crooked grin makes me furious. He’s the kind of guy who plays the slow smile card with every girl he meets. And greets every guy with a friendly punch to the arm and a head nod. And it works. People want to do his homework, or go out with him, or give him half their lunch.
Jesse pulls out the other earbud, then reaches for his phone to click off the music. The artist on his screen is someone named Trombone Shorty. I’ve never heard of him.
The silence spreads between Jesse and me like the puddle of dark stain on the ceiling tile above Mr. Vance’s desk—slimy, ugly, and growing. If I looked down, I would see the oily spot creeping over the tops of my shoes. For a minute, I think about sketching and my fingers itch. It would be a welcome distraction. Last night, I started working on a new sketch of Owen, this time as a porcupine. The quills keep people away, but he is still adorably cute if you can just see it. Like I can. And now, apparently, Grace can, too. That thought makes me frown. I don’t want to share Owen. Something so precious should be held close to the heart and protected. Like Thor’s hammer or Wonder Woman’s Lasso of Truth.
The tardy bell rings, and everyone settles into their seats. Mr. Vance takes attendance, then dims the lights and puts on a safety video about using Bunsen burners. The video features some cheesy song and stock photos of SpongeBob SquarePants and Britney Spears with lab goggles photoshopped onto their faces. Thinking the video will keep the class riveted, Mr. Vance uses the opportunity to go outside in the hall and talk with Mrs. Palley, the physics teacher, leaving the door cracked just a bit in case things get too far out of hand.
Immediately, Dezirea laughs loudly from two desks over, then looks over her shoulder at Jesse and me. She turns back to Camila, and they giggle some more, looking down at their phones. I try to convince myself they aren’t talking about me. It doesn’t work. I remember that stupid meme, and I clench my fists.
Distraction. I pull out a pencil and my notebook, drawing quickly across a crisp blank page. A round outline of a figure. Just a big blob. I know it’s me, but I can’t draw in any detail to actually make it human. Instead, I put all my energy into drawing an intricate zipper that covers the place where the face should be. In the next frame, I show a close-up of the zipper pulled partway down, revealing part of Sienna’s face underneath—her hair dipping over one beautiful green eye. I have no problem drawing her broad forehead and thick eyebrows.
Jesse glances at my sketchbook. I quickly drape my arm over the top so he can’t see my drawing. His eyes narrow with curiosity, but I don’t give him the chance to ask anything about what he might have seen. What if he recognized Sienna? I snap the book closed and slide it into my backpack, staring blankly back at him. My world will never be an open book for his eyes. Jesse smiles and winks at me like he knows something about me. I don’t break eye contact, my face motionless, and his smile wavers just a bit. Ha. He looks away.
You have no idea how good I am at hiding things, Jesse Santos.
Mr. Vance is still chuckling as he comes back in and turns on the lights, like the video is the coolest thing he’s ever seen. It actually might be. He calls one person up from each table to get the lab materials. Jesse goes without even looking at me for confirmation. Dezirea goes up to the front from her table, and when they meet, she smiles at Jesse and hands him the material basket like he’s just won an Academy Award.
When he’s back, Jesse sets the box of equipment on the table and turns to face me.
“You’re going to have to get over this … thing of yours about me,” he says. “We have to work together, whether you like it or not.” He rubs the corners of his eyes like he’s trying to wake up.
“What thing?” I snap. Is he insinuating some kind of crush?
“I get it. You don’t like me,” he mumbles under his breath. He sits back down on his stool, crossing his arms over his chest. “But then, you don’t like anybody.” He turns his head to look at me, studying my eyes.
Has he seen more than I want him to? That thought is more unsettling than anything else. “I like plenty of people,” I say, feeling uncomfortab
le from his scrutiny. “When they deserve it.”
“Ouch,” he says. He grimaces. “Nobody gets past that chip on your shoulder.”
I bite back a groan. Who does Jesse Santos think he is? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about me. Any doubt I might have about creating my lie online burns away like a dragon belching fire on an unsuspecting village. He deserves everything he gets.
He leans forward, filling up the space between us; I stare at him, not bothering to change my expression.
“Look,” he says. “I have to make a passing grade to play in the game next week.”
My cheeks flush with anger. “Glad to know I’m good for something.”
“Not yet.” He smiles like it’s a joke.
I don’t smile back. “Are we doing this or not?” I ask, slapping the lab assignment on the table in between us.
He squints down at the paper, frowning. “Do you understand what we’re supposed to do?”
Does he need glasses?
He picks up the chemistry goggles, pulling them on carefully over his eyes and tightening the straps.
“Don’t worry about your hair,” I say in my most patient voice. “You don’t need goggles for this part.”
He quickly pulls the goggles back off, the tips of his ears turning red.
Is he embarrassed? Ha. I knew that would get to him. He’s so conceited.
He frowns at me like I spend my spare time beating up small children for their lunch money. “Are you always so mean or just when I’m around?”
I feel a twinge of guilt and almost apologize. Almost. Then I remember the locker full of Froot Loops. The meme.
And, just like that, my resolve is back. I’m doing the right thing.
“Okay. What’s the plan?” Jesse asks, and I can tell he’s trying to remember something, anything, from our reading assignment.