The Colossal Camera Calamity

by Theo Baker

  “Hey, Haircut,” a voice said. “Catch!”

  I turned around just in time to see McSmelty launch a fully loaded paintbrush at me.

  Time slowed down. I heard my heart beating. I saw drops of black and red paint flying from the rotating brush as it bore down on my perfect uniform.

  Noooooooooo.

  And I froze, probably wearing the same expression as in last year’s school photo.

  But just then, another shape flashed between me and the incoming brush.

  Frankie!

  In one seamless move, he caught the loaded brush, wrapped it up in his apron, and chucked it across the room to Ashley, who was by the art-class sink. She guided the bundle into the sink and immediately poured water all over it.

  Did I mention that I have the best friends in the universe?

  Unfortunately, now McKelty knew that I was trying to keep my uniform clean. He knew my fear. And now that he knew, and I knew that he knew, I knew he wasn’t going to give up until he got me, totally. But he also knew that I knew that he knew — Hold on, I’m getting a headache in my eye.

  McKelty kept trying to get me. Every time Miss Adolf turned her back, he’d hurl a brush at me, or chase after me with a paint tube, or paint his hands and try to pat me on the back. It wasn’t difficult to avoid him . . . for the time being. But given enough time, I’d let my guard down and then McKelty would be right there, waiting to nail me. Or paint me.

  So I decided to take him down first. While he was pretending to contemplate the inner nature of his sphere, I found his lunch box.

  I couldn’t believe how neat it was inside. Everything was sealed in its own container. No separate food items touched.

  For a minute, I was stumped. There was nothing in there I could use. Then I spotted it, lying nestled between thirty individually wrapped grapes — a can of grape soda.

  I gave it no fewer than 143 vigorous shakes. The next time he was thirsty, he was in for a big surprise.

  From the pages of Emily Zipzer’s field notebook . . .

  March 8, 9:48 a.m.

  I have excelled since birth. I was only seven months old when I spoke my first word: robust. No one heard me. At two years old, I taught myself simple arithmetic with the toy blocks Hank spent his toddler years drooling over. During my fifth year, I became fascinated with falling objects.

  I could often be found tossing a soccer ball up and down and observing its flight. Just as I was on the cusp of piecing together my theory of gravity, the mother told me that you are not allowed to use your hands in soccer. “Kick the ball to your brother,” she said.

  Even though the mother, Hank, and, to a lesser extent, the father have tried to thwart me, I have never stopped in my pursuit of excellence. No matter the obstacle, I have proceeded doggedly because I have always known, deep down, that I am destined for greatness.

  Today I take the next step toward that destiny in the final interview for the “Leg-Up Future Achievers” summer session at the Institute for Scientific Excellence. And nothing will stand in my way. Not even the mother.

  Before leaving for school, I lingered in the shadows of the hall and listened to my parents talk over breakfast. As I had feared, the mother had examined the letter from the institute and learned that parents were supposed to come to school for the interview.

  The mother has, on several occasions, gotten into fights with my teachers over trivial matters. For instance, at the last back-to-school night, she told my home-ec teacher that she was using the “wrong” minestrone recipe.

  Father is coming with me to the interview today, and although he does not like lying to the mother, he does understand why she can’t come. He is no Sir Isaac Newton, but he does have a scientific mind. More importantly, though, he is less prone to emotional and spontaneous outbursts than the mother, although only slightly.

  I fear my dad will not be able to keep his presence at the meeting a secret from the mother. She has a special gift. She knows when the Zipzer men are lying.

  Just before I began this entry, the father called me on my cell phone. “I really don’t feel comfortable lying to her,” he said.

  “Just be at school on time. Alone,” I told him.

  Yes, it is wrong to lie. But my lie serves a higher purpose. My excellence at the institute might alter the course of humanity! Besides, the mother never asks for my opinion about the things in my life. For instance, she never asked me if I wanted to be born.

  I made it through art with only a very minor black paint stain on my left pinkie. That was good. No, that was great. Not so great was the line of kids waiting to have their photos taken. It snaked all the way down the hallway.

  School hallways are risky. There are kids coming and going. Kids stopping to tie their shoes and becoming tripping hazards — and have you seen how dirty those floors are? Kids carrying messy science and art projects. Kids carrying messy science and art projects with untied shoelaces. Kids who are just dirty and messy in general. Kids who are mean and say, “Why are you looking at me like that?” and push you into the trash can.

  I started tapping my foot and fidgeting and clenching my jaw. I needed my picture taken immediately.

  By the time we got to the front of the line, my foot was all tapped out, and I could hear this clicking sound in my jaw. But we were there. My hair was neat and flat. My uniform was clean. This year my photo would be perfect. The future was mine.

  “You don’t mind me cutting in?” asked Mr. Love, the principal, stepping in front of me.

  “Aw, come on,” I muttered.

  “Relax, man,” Frankie said. “That frown’s gonna break the lens.”

  “Are you guys sure there’s no paint on me?” I asked as Mr. Love took his position in front of the camera. I guessed I might as well use that extra time to make sure I still looked good.

  “You look perfect,” Ashley said. “Too perfect. Let me just mess up your hair a bit.”

  With ninja speed, I blocked her hand. “No one touches the hair, ’kay?”

  The flash popped in the camera booth. “Actually,” Mr. Love said, “you didn’t get my best side. Try it again, like this.”

  FLASH.

  “No. My chin was too high. Again.”

  FLASH.

  “I think I blinked,” he said.

  “I think you winked,” the photographer said.

  “Either way, take it again. Wait, let me just . . . er . . .” Mr. Love took out his pocket mirror. He wet his fingertip and ran it along his eyebrows really, really slowly. This was taking forever. I couldn’t stay clean and neat much longer.

  “This is so unfair,” I said way too loudly, slamming my back against the lockers, also way too loudly.

  “What’s that, Mr. Zipzer?” Mr. Love asked, still looking into his pocket mirror.

  “How come you,” I said, “get to take as many photos as you want?”

  “Because,” he said.

  “Because why?” the photographer said.

  “Because,” Mr. Love said, putting his mirror away, “I’m the public face of this school.”

  “But I’m the face of the future,” I said, letting my most private thought out into the unforgiving land of public school.

  “Yeah,” said some kid behind us, “with a haircut from Uranus.”

  The hallway erupted with laughter. In the space of one hour, my hairdo had become a schoolwide joke. It’s totally unfair that you can’t ever try something new in school without everyone noticing, and the way they notice is to make fun of you. Maybe I was wrong to try to pass myself off as something I wasn’t.

  Or maybe I was the only one who was right.

  I mean, look at Mr. Love. Was he saying, “It doesn’t matter, it’s only a school photo”? No, he was making the photographer take picture after picture until he got one that was perfect. He clearly knew how important this was for his future. He’s the principal, the top dog around here — if he doesn’t know what he’s doing, who does?

  Mr. Love posed, t
urning this way and that. He shook his head, unsatisfied, and moved his hands around awkwardly. “I feel like I should be holding something,” he said to the photographer.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” the photographer said.

  “I have just the thing,” Mr. Love said, snapping his fingers. “Be back in two.”

  “Next,” the photographer barked.

  “Finally,” I said. There was a folding metal chair in front of the camera, and there was no natural way to sit on it. “Should I sit back or lean forward, Mr. —”

  “Name?” the photographer said.

  “Henry Zippers — I mean, Henry Zipzer,” I said. “But everyone calls me Hank. You’ll mark down my real name as Hank, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hey, Hank!” Frankie shouted. “Don’t forget to smile!” Frankie smiled big and wide, showing off a ridiculous set of goofy fake teeth. I started to laugh, but then I noticed that McKelty was standing next to him.

  What was he doing there? Was he planning something?

  He’d been much farther down the line before. He seemed deep in conversation with Stu Williams — they were probably talking about hair products — but you could never be too careful with McKelty. I kept an eye on him.

  “You ready, son?” the photographer asked.

  I turned to face the camera and tried to put McKelty out of my mind. I wasn’t going to mess up this year’s photo by looking at him.

  Everything happened so fast. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of blond hair. McKelty wasn’t talking to Stu anymore. He was pulling something from his lunch box. A can of grape soda — a can of grape soda that I had turned into a military-grade explosive!

  I held my breath as he popped the top. The juice foamed a little, then a little bit more, and then it fizzled out and settled. It was a dud.

  I exhaled.

  But as McKelty brought the can to his lips for his first sip, it got a second life and grape soda started spraying out everywhere in waves so powerful that McKelty lost control of the can. He yelled as the can spun around wildly, and I saw a spray of purple liquid heading right for me.

  Time slowed down again. I could see every drop of dark liquid in the air and hear every popping bubble.

  I froze, mouth open in an O, eyes crossed, as the wave of grape crashed over me.

  FLASH.

  “Next,” the photographer said.

  “No!” I said.

  “Ha ha,” McKelty said.

  “Ha ha ha,” the hall chanted.

  “No!” I said. “Take it again. Take it again!”

  “Move it along there, Mr. Zipzer,” Mr. Love said, reappearing at that very moment. He was holding a skull from science class. “Now, young man. We’ve got to wrap this up by three.”

  I slunk out of the chair, dragged myself over to my friends, and sank down on the floor, my wet head in my sticky hands.

  “Forget it, dude,” Frankie said. “It’s only a photo.” He smiled at me with his fake teeth.

  “Why’s the seat all wet?” Mr. Love was saying. “Oh well, I think it’s better to stand anyway. More powerful — bolder.” He held the skull out in front of him and gazed at it as though he was lost in thought. “No, no, no. It’s not right. It all feels too . . . Hamlet. I want to strike a more historical pose — get across the sense of great leadership. Hamlet was too . . . too . . .”

  “Indecisive?” the photographer offered.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Love said. “I’ll be right back.” He jogged from the photographer’s booth, handing me the skull as he passed. I wondered if he knew it had come from a baboon. “Return this to the science lab.”

  I was too miserable to move. I’d ruined my school photo again. I could almost hear my future self laughing at me. I could certainly hear McKelty laughing at me. He was so clean he was practically glowing.

  I gazed at the baboon skull. Even it seemed to be laughing at me. And why not? I was wet and sticky and covered in grape soda. I stuck my tongue out and licked some from my face. It tasted bitter.

  “I guess I’m just a loser again,” I said as we walked to math class. The grape soda had mostly dried, but boy was it sticky.

  “You’re not a loser,” Ashley said. “Your photo will look . . .”

  “Rugged? Ruggish?” I said.

  “Unique,” she said.

  I sighed.

  “Who cares?” Frankie said. “All of our school photos are boring. Yours will stand out.”

  “Because I’m purple.”

  “There’s always next year,” Ashley said.

  “Why will next year be any different?” I asked. “Don’t you guys get it? This happens every year. Every year I do something stupid, or something stupid happens to me. And it doesn’t matter if it only lasts a fraction of a second. It’s always the same fraction of a second that my photo is taken. It keeps happening. I guess I’ve got to just accept that I won’t be the first kid to walk on Mars and try to live my sad loser life with dignity.”

  I looked at all the kids in the hall. They were so happy and normal. I didn’t want to be like them all the time. I didn’t even want to be like them for a whole day — just for a fraction of a second. All I wanted was not to do something weird or stupid for the fraction of a second in which my photo was taken. With slumped shoulders, I took another step and fell flat on my face.

  An untied shoelace.

  “Hey, look, everyone!” McKelty yelled from the other end of the hall. “Hank fell! Ha ha ha.” Then he chucked orange peels at me. I didn’t even try to block them.

  “Come on, dude,” Frankie said, crouching down in front of me. “Get up.”

  “Yeah, let us help you,” Ashley said, putting out her hand.

  “You need to think positively, Hank,” Frankie said.

  “Think positively!” I exclaimed. “Think positively?” And then I stopped speaking because I’d seen something that made me smile.

  “Wow, you cheer up fast,” Ashley said as she helped me up.

  “Look!” I pointed. “Look!”

  Frankie glanced over at the lost-and-found office. “You lose your keys . . . again?”

  “No!” I gasped. “Lost-and-found. It’s genius. The perfect solution. Don’t you see?”

  “We see it, Hank,” Ashley said, shrugging at Frankie. “But why don’t you tell us what you see?”

  “I can find another school uniform, get back in line, and have my photo taken again. There’s still hope!”

  The sweater was too tight and it was cutting off the blood flow to my brain. The bottom of it didn’t even reach my belly button, but I didn’t care. Properly sized sweaters were so last year.

  “Work it, baby,” Ashley said as I strutted around the lost-and-found office. “Now sashay!”

  “How do I do that?” I asked.

  “I think you make your lips pouty,” she said.

  I put my hand on my hip and puffed out my lips. “Like this?”

  “Ooh-ooh-aah-aah!” said Ashley. She was almost crying with laughter, but Frankie was not impressed.

  “Focus, Hank,” he said. “You are trying to make your photo better. Is this the look you want to be remembered by?”

  “Fashion is my life, Frankie,” I said, but he only folded his arms. “OK, I’ll focus.”

  I tried to pull the sweater off, but the stupid thing wouldn’t go over my head because it was too tight. I grunted and yelled and hopped up and down and did about twenty other useless things until I ended up crashing into some shelves and falling on my bottom.

  Then something — a very large ball, I think, or at least something spherical and bouncy — fell off a shelf and knocked me on the head. Three more things fell off the shelf and hit me, too. I’m not sure what they were because I was seeing stars from that spherical object and also blinded by the sweater.

  Ashley and Frankie tried to pull the sweater off, but it felt as though my head was about to go with it. I howled until finally it slid off.

  When we’
d all recovered, Frankie said, “Dude, this place is a bust. You’re not going to find anything in here.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” I said, noticing a blue backpack on the floor beside me. It must have fallen off the shelf. “My old bag!”

  “And what about that red one?” Ashley pointed to one between my legs.

  “Mine, too! And look, there’s Old Yellow.” My favorite-ever bag was sitting beside my other leg. When my grandfather, Papa Pete, had given it to me, he had put a chocolate bar in one of the pockets. I, of course, lost the backpack the first day I took it to school. I unzipped the small pocket now and, wonder of wonders, the chocolate was still in there — a little smashed and flattened, but probably still edible. There was only one way to find out.

  “It’s good,” I said after the first bite. “You guys want some?”

  “Pass,” Ashley said.

  “Nah,” Frankie said. “Let’s go. There’s nothing in here that will fit you.”

  “There is one uniform that would fit,” I said, eyeing Frankie and his sweater and his shirt and tie.

  “Forget it, man. I don’t give up my threads for anyone.”

  “Come on,” said Ashley. “He’s your best friend.”

  “I’ve never seen him before in my entire life,” Frankie said.

  I took another bite of delicious chocolate, peanuts, caramel, and nougat. Which made me think, what exactly was nougat? Was it a type of nut that I didn’t know about? Or maybe it was one of those weird exotic fruits my mom went crazy for, like persimmons. I shook my head to get rid of the thought. Now was not the time to think about persimmons. Focus, Hank.

  “Can I interest you in a trade, then, Frankie?” I asked, waving the half-eaten chocolate bar at him.

  “I don’t want an old-backpack-mystery bar.”

  “No, but guess what my mom made me for lunch?”

  “My favorite dessert?” he asked.

  “Your favorite dessert,” I said.

  “You know, Hank, you’ve always been my best friend,” Frankie said, pulling his sweater over his head.