The Paparazzi Project

by Kristina Springer

  He nods, still smiling.

  “Okay class,” Mrs. B. says. We get quiet and turn our attention to the front of the room. “I’m sure you’re all curious as to why I passed out a big stack of gossip magazines.”

  Not so much curious as relishing the moment, I think. I wish all of my classes were this cool. Who needs math and physics when there are important things like finding out who gets Botox injections and who doesn’t? Although really, is that much of a mystery anymore?

  “Interpersonal Communications is a study of how we communicate with each other on a multitude of levels: family, friends, workplace, society, and so on,” Mrs. B. begins. “It’s an examination of these relationships we hold and the messages we send each other, both verbally and nonverbally. One such relationship that I find fascinating is the one between those we consider ‘celebrities’ and the people who are paid to stalk them twenty-four seven just to print everything from the most mundane detail to the most outrageous. As you know, Hollywood actress Karlie Kane has been a dear friend to me since her days here at Thompson High when I mentored her.”

  I fake yawn. Here we go again. Karlie Kane. Mrs. B. loves to talk about her and remind us how she was so very influential in Karlie’s life. She practically handed her her fabulous career and millions of dollars to hear her tell it. I never met Karlie myself. She went to school here eight years ago. Back then, Mrs. B. was running an after-school drama club, and Karlie was her shining star. She’s never come back to our little slice of Midwest suburban heaven since she made it big in Hollywood, but people around here talk about her like we all had some part in her success. The pediatrician in town fondly recalls the ear infections he treated for Karlie. Helen, one of the ladies at Cut it Up, still talks about how she used to cut and style Karlie’s hair. “Every eight weeks without fail. Never once used a coupon or forgot to tip.” Even Leroy, the 70-year-old bus driver who’s been working for the school district since the late sixties, announces each time he passes Karlie’s old house, like he’s doing a tour of star homes. When you come driving into town, the sign says, “Welcome to Sugar Hills, home of Karlie Kane.” But Mrs. B.? She’s the worst.

  “You’re also likely aware,” Mrs. B. continues, “that Karlie hasn’t always been treated fairly in the tabloids.”

  Like when they accused of her being a man-stealer? Or when they found drugs in her purse? And what about when she joined that wacky cult? Was none of that stuff true? Please. Like each and every one of her escapades wasn’t carefully crafted by some big Hollywood publicist. She loves the attention.

  “It’s in watching her experiences,” Mrs. B. says, “that I began to think more deeply about these types of relationships and how messages are communicated from the celebrity to the tabloid via the paparazzi, and thus to the reader via the tabloid. How is one’s public persona different from one’s private persona? What is real and what is perceived? And how does this then influence others? I want you to spend some time in class today reading the magazine I’ve given you and journaling about these ideas.”

  I’m about to turn my attention back to my magazine when a girl sitting in the front of the room shoots her hand in the air. “Excuse me, Mrs. B.? Can I ask a question?” she asks excitedly.

  “Yes, Talia, go ahead.”

  “It’s just that I was wondering, well, since you said we needed to come up with three projects to do this semester, if we could maybe turn this into one of our projects instead?”

  Several students groan, annoyed that our easy class of reading tabloids and journaling might be taken away. But Mrs. B. smiles, probably happy someone finally took the initiative to bring up the projects.

  “What?” Talia snaps at the class. “You know we need to come up with three projects. They’re worth fifty percent of our grade. I for one don’t want to be waiting until the last minute to do them.”

  I, and several other students in the class, nod. She’s right.

  “What do you have in mind?” Mrs. B. prompts.

  “Well,” Talia begins, “I was thinking that we could do some extensive role-playing.”

  The whole class is paying closer attention now.

  “Go on,” Mrs. B. says.

  “Okay,” Talia says, sounding more excited now. “Say we take the entire class and split up into three groups.” Talia looks around the room. “There’s, what, twenty-four of us? So three groups of eight.”

  A few of us exchange nervous glances. What is Talia getting us roped into?

  “Group One could be the ‘Paparazzi’ and Group Two the ‘Tabloid.’ And then Group Three would be the ‘Celebrities.’ Say we pick some period of time.” Talia shrugs. “I don’t know, four weeks? And during that time the paparazzi kids follow around the celebrity kids, taking pictures and grabbing any kind of quotes they can. Just like the real paparazzi in Hollywood do. I mean, everyone’s got a camera. Or, they have one on their cellphones, so it shouldn’t be hard to do.” Talia turns toward the class. “And if you don’t have access to a camera, then just be a celebrity.”

  “That’s not going to work,” a tall, lanky guy a few seats up from me says. “The celebrities don’t have to do any work then. Everyone’s going to want to be one.”

  My eyes grow wide. No way, not me. I don’t want people following me around. “I don’t like the sound of this,” I whisper to Chas.

  Chas nods. He looks concerned too.

  “Not true,” Talia insists, holding her index finger up. “The celebrities have to navigate being tailed on a daily basis. And they have to be concerned with their public image and what message they’re sending out, since whatever is captured has a chance of ending up in a tabloid.” She giggles. “Well, a class tabloid, anyway. That’s where group three comes in. The tabloid kids receive all of the information collected by the paparazzi kids and then have to decide what makes the weekly report given to Mrs. B.”

  More groans.

  “That’s too much work,” Billy, this loner guy who usually sits in the back of the room sleeping, whines.

  Mrs. B. tilts her head, considering this. “Hmm.”

  I can tell she wants to say something else, maybe shoot the whole thing down. But she’s not saying anything. Ugh. Probably because it was her bright idea to have us come up with our own projects, so she doesn’t want to kibosh our first attempt.

  Say no, say no, I try to beam at her with my eyes.

  “Well, it’s an interesting idea that’s for sure,” she finally says. “Why don’t we try to make more sense of it?” She takes a seat at her laptop hooked up to the SMART board in the front of the room and opens a new document. Paparazzi/Tabloid/Celebrity (or PTC) she types at the top. She hits enter and then writes, Parameters: 1) Each student will role-play as a Paparazzi, Celebrity, or Tabloid for a period of four weeks. Paparazzi will take pictures and collect quotes. Celebrities will allow themselves to be followed by Paparazzi, and Tabloid will decide what goes into a weekly summation report and create. Mrs. B. looks up at the class. “Now, about this report. What do you have in mind?”

  Anna, a short girl with long, straight brown hair, raises her hand. “Can we have each tabloid student put together a few pages from the pictures their paparazzi contact gives them so that it looks like a mini-tabloid? Like the ones you see in the check-out lanes at the grocery store?”

  “And they have to be turned in once a week,” Talia adds. “And you have to share them with the class on Fridays. It’ll be so fun,” she says with a big smile. “We’ll get to see eight mini-tabloids starring us each week.”

  Mrs. B. continues typing. “It’s a creative project, that’s for sure.” She looks up when she’s finished. “I will need something to grade you on individually also, though. Ideas?”

  “Journaling the experience?” Chas suggests.

  “Great idea.” Mrs. B. adds it to the list.

  “What would we journal about?” Billy asks, still frowning. I can tell he’s not happy with this assignment at all. I’m not sure how I feel ab
out it, other than it makes me nervous.

  “All kinds of things can go in a reflective journal, Billy,” Mrs. B. says. “Think about the messages communicated through behavior and appearance. And not just what is said, but what isn’t. The non-verbal communications. How do the celebrities communicate? What perception do they put off? How do the paparazzi choose what they want to communicate through their picture-taking? What messages do the tabloids send out to society through their structure of story? There are a lot of avenues for you to think about and explore, and I’m sure your journal entries will be fascinating.” Mrs. B. winks at him. She seems to really be getting into this assignment.

  “So is it a go then?” she asks. “Are we all on board?”

  People nod in agreement and start whispering to each other, obviously eager to start the project. I hear one girl say she has to be a celebrity and another one say there’s no way she’d be one and she’d rather do the tabloid.

  “Okay, well, first thing I think we should do is decide who our eight celebrities are,” Mrs. B. says.

  More than half of the students in class shoot their hands up in the air. I keep mine down. I’m so not into getting my picture taken. I love taking pictures and always carry my camera in my bag. But being the subject of pictures? Uh-uh. Someone like Tessa, who dresses up every day and never crosses the school doors without a full face of makeup, I can see jumping at the role. But I don’t want to worry about my every move, not to mention every flaw, being captured on film and scrutinized. No, thanks.

  “Now hold on,” Mrs. B. says. “I know this seems like the easiest of the three categories to do, since you’re not documenting or compiling the information into a report. But I want you to really think about this before you agree to be our celebrities. There will be other students following you around, keeping close tabs on your whereabouts and what you’re up to. You’re agreeing to let them do this. In fact, the eight students who are chosen to be the celebrities will need to get permission from their parents this evening and brought back to me in the form of a note tomorrow. All right then. Now, who still wants to be a celebrity?”

  Most of the students who volunteered moments ago raise their hands again this time. But I do notice several girls who had their hands up before are now staring hard at their desk.

  Mrs. B. returns to her laptop and starts typing. “Okay, here are our celebrities for this project. Drew Higgins, Tony Hernandez, Garret Young, Joey Davis, Talia Daniels, Brittany Griffith, Madison Campbell, and Denise Bengston.”

  I gasp. Denise Bengston? As in D.B.? The frizzy blonde chick who ruined Tess’s life? I look in her direction, and she’s high-fiving the girl next to her. Yes! She’s a celebrity! Oh my gosh, I’ve gotta be a paparazza now so I can stalk the crap out of her. I’ll dig up as much dirt as humanly possible on her, put it in a box with a bow, and give it to Tess as a present. That’ll cheer her up.

  “Now for our paparazzi,” Mrs. B. says, turning back around.

  My hand shoots up in the air.

  Chapter 3

  I study the view screen on the back of my digital camera and zoom in 5x. And zoom back out 2x. Nope, going back for the full 5x. Snap. Got it. Tony Hernandez drinks Mountain Dew Code Red. Seriously mind-blowing stuff I’m capturing here.

  “Are you going to be doing that all the time now?” Tessa asks, clearly annoyed. She pushes back from the lunch table, her salad untouched.

  “Sure am. It’s my job.” I toss another handful of strawberry yogurt raisins into my mouth. They’re so good. I discovered them one week in seventh grade when I’d decided to only eat pink foods. Yum. I scan the room for someone else to take pictures of. Three of the eight celebrities from class, Tony, Talia, and Brittany, have lunch this period and all are fair game.

  Tessa rolls her eyes. She picks a small black fuzzy off the skirt of her dress and flicks it onto the floor. She looks more like she’s going to a cocktail party rather than lunch in the school cafeteria, but then again, Tess always dresses like this. She won’t even step foot into Target without primping for a full hour first. Of course, that’s probably because of the rumor that Karlie Kane was discovered there. Tessa thinks I’m a downright slob with my tees and jeans all the time. Even though I did throw a cute vest on over my tee today. But I always tell her, hey, I’m not on an ABC teen drama here. I don’t need to wear $200 dresses and six-inch heels to Spanish class. Not to mention when you dress like that, you’re basically asking for attention. I’m happy to blend in with everyone else.

  “What?” I ask. “It is my job. I’m a paparazza. It’s my IPC assignment to trail the celebrities from class and catch them doing interesting stuff.” Now if only one of them would do something interesting. I know if I just keep an eye out, I’ll eventually grab a great shot. I think I was born for this sort of thing. I always secretly imagined that I could be a big-time photographer for a fancy magazine. Or maybe even one of those photographers who takes pictures of wild animals in an African jungle. That’d be fun. So sneaking around hunting celebrities is giving me good practice. I glance over at Brittany. She’s at a table with her cheerleading friends, daintily eating tofu cubes and asparagus spears. Hmm. Not exactly news. Everyone knows she’s a health nut.

  “Sounds bizarre.” Tessa pops open her compact case and smoothes down an invisible hair on her forehead while gazing at her reflection.

  I shrug. “Whatev. You go ahead, diagramming sentences for class, and I’ll snap pictures of ‘celebs.’”

  Tessa rolls her eyes again. She does that a lot. I bet she’s got crazy strong eye muscles.

  “Wait!” I jump from my seat. “There’s Garrison.” I duck down behind a large grey rolling garbage can about ten feet away and peek around. Perfect! They’re holding hands right beside the school trophy case. I snap several pics. The two drop hands and walk in opposite directions. Him toward the gym locker room and her down the senior hallway. It was a brief greeting, but I caught it. Whoo-hoo! That is so the front cover of this week’s report. I can’t wait to show his royal hotness, aka Chas, who’s my tabloid contact.

  I return to my seat by Tess. She’s giving me a strange look.

  “Who the heck is Garrison?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah. You were gone yesterday. It’s Garret Young and Madison Campbell from my IPC class. They’re starting up a relationship. I’m not sure if it’s real or not,” I say, a bit of a skeptic. “Personally I think they’re just trying to get more paparazzi coverage. Or maybe they think it will get them extra credit. They gave themselves the nickname, Garrison. You know, like Brangelina and Speidi?”

  Tessa digs through her purse. “I stand by my previous statement. Bizarre.” She tosses it back on the table, frustrated about something or other.

  “Yeah, but it’s kinda fun,” I reply. “You’re looking much better today, by the way,” I add, changing the subject. “Not green or pasty at all. Really nice color in your cheeks, in fact. Very well rested.”

  “Shut up, Liv.” She lowers her eyes and looks around. “Anyone talking about me today?”

  I laugh. I love teasing her. And she gives it right back. We have such an odd relationship. “Nope. Not that I’ve noticed. Told you no one cares.”

  She frowns and crosses her arms. Sometimes I think Tessa lives like she’s on a reality show. Like cameras are secretly following her and recording her every conversation. And then cut to the other main characters, who take turns weighing in on what she just said. So she’s shocked when people aren’t obsessing over her life. It’s like, hello? People don’t really care that much. I mean, even with this IPC assignment. It’s fun and all, but will people really care that much about what our “celebrities” are doing? Kinda doubt it. But I guess I’ll find out at the first summation report.

  “Um, what?” I say to her. “That’s a good thing.”

  She shrugs.

  “So did you talk to Mike yet? What did he say? Not that it matters,” I add.

  “No, I haven’t talked to him. He left a
bunch of messages yesterday though. He wants to meet after school today.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Did you tell him to blow it out his rear end?”

  “Liv…” Tessa says in a warning voice.

  “Sorry.” Neither of us speaks for a moment. But then I can’t resist.

  “Did you tell him to make like a leaf and blow?” I ask.

  She glares.

  “Okay, okay, sorry, that was the last one. I swear. What did you say?”

  “That I'll meet him,” she replies, nonchalantly.

  “Why? Oh man, maybe you are sick.” I reach out my hand to touch her forehead.

  She swats it away.

  “What? I want to hear what he says,” Tessa answers, obviously defensive.

  “What on earth can he say? I mean, you have photographic evidence. I’d blow him off.”

  Tessa sighs heavily.

  “Oh, no, that one was a slip,” I tell her. “I really meant I’d blow his cheating butt off—as in, stand him up. He doesn’t deserve a chance to explain.”

  “What do you know?” Tessa says, clearly annoyed. “You can't judge me. You don't know the first thing about having a boyfriend. You're sixteen years old and still haven't even kissed a guy, and you want to tell me how to deal with my boyfriend. Please. It's like asking someone who's never seen a stove how to cook.”

  Um, ouch. It's not like I don't want a boyfriend. I’m sure it’d be nice to have a guy to go out with on the weekends, especially when Tessa’s off on her dates. It’s just, boys sorta scare me. Not in the horror film sense, but in the what-on-earth-would-I-do-with-one-if-we-were-alone sense. I am way amateur. What if I kiss like a sheep dog and leave a string of drool hanging off some poor innocent boy's chin? Of course, no boy is innocent, according to my dad. But still, it’s not like they’re exactly lining up around my house to ask me for a date or anything. I'm not delusional. I have mirrors. I know I'm no stunning beauty.