I take my seat in English and my teacher, Mr. Brooks, begins class. Today we’re working on the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. Fun, fun. I hold my camera on my lap, below my books so that Mr. Brooks can’t see, and look at the picture of Brittany. Something’s wrong with her. Her cheeks are a little sunken in too. Is she sad? Maybe someone in her family died. That would be terrible. I think we should leave her alone this week. I delete the picture of Brittany, turn my camera back off, and stuff it into my bag.
Mr. Brooks is talking animatedly about the life of Mr. Poe. He says Mr. Poe was the first famous American writer to ever try to make his living just off of his writing and that he struggled because it wasn’t a lot of money back then. And isn’t it sad that writers still don’t get paid an awful lot for their writing and still do two, sometimes three jobs to make ends meet? I’m guessing Mr. Brooks must be a writer too, the way he’s talking about the topic with such passion. I pull out my IPC Journal and decide to work on it while he talks.
Livvie’s Reflective Journal: Entry #11
There’s something I’ve been thinking about in my role as a paparazza. Now don’t get me wrong—I’ve been having a great time chasing the celebrities around and getting pictures. It’s much more fun than I thought it would be. I think I’m actually quite good at it, to tell you the truth. Maybe I will be an investigative reporter or private eye someday. Who knows? And getting to work daily with my super-yum tabloid contact is heaven. But there is a part of this job that I do wonder how the real paparazzi handle. And that’s conscience. Is there ever a time where the real paparazzi feel weird or invasive when they’re taking pictures of celebrities? Or is it all a game that everyone agrees to play? Do the celebrities really want their pictures taken, and part of the game is for them to act annoyed and pretend like they don’t? That’s what I’ve always thought. They know that the more people see their pictures, the more famous they become, so it helps their career to have it all out there. Or does it really and truly piss them off? Do they actually feel violated? Is there ever a time where a paparazza or paparazzo says, Hey, this is too intimate of a moment I’m witnessing. Let me back off and not take this picture and give the celebrity some privacy. Or does that make the picture even more valuable to get? Do paparazzi have to have no conscience whatsoever in order to always go for the shot? Maybe that’s the difference between the real paparazzi and being paparazzi for this project. The more scandalous the shot, the more money they make. Though in a sense, I’m getting paid too in the form of a grade. So maybe I should be willing to do anything to get the A.
I close my journal and tuck it back into my bag.
***
I grab my lunch and head for Tessa and our usual lunch table. She’s not there yet so I dig in, setting my camera out in case there’s anyone to take pictures of during lunch. Just as I’m dipping one of my cracker sticks into the square container of orange processed cheese I catch a glimpse of the back of Madison Campbell as she slips into the hallway between the girl’s bathroom and the gym doors. I get up, leaving my lunch on the table, and move toward the hallway, hoping none of the paparazzi see me. I don’t want anyone else to get this shot. I get my camera ready and just as I turn the corner I snap a picture. It’s Madison and Garret all right, and they seem to be in the middle of an argument. I take another picture. Both of them, clearly angry, turn and glare at me. I shrug an apology. I needed a shot of them for this week’s summation report. We don’t say anything to each other, but Garret takes Madison by the elbow and leads her away from me. I suppose I could follow them and take more pictures but I think I’ve got what I need for now. I head back for the table to eat lunch.
A minute or so later, Tessa and Mike come into the cafeteria. He’s got his arm around her shoulder and she’s smiling up at him. They head for our lunch table.
“Text you later, hon?” Tessa says to Mike.
“Sounds good.” He leans down to give her a quick kiss on the lips. He walks away, and Tessa sits down like it’s your average ol’ day.
I wait a moment and then say with a smile, “So everything going okay today, Butter Bear?”
“It’s Bear Bear, and yes, things are just grand. As far as Mike knows anyway,” she adds.
“You’re a good actress,” I tell her. “I don’t know how you let him kiss you without slugging him.”
She raises her eyebrows. “It’s not easy. Trust me.”
“I bet.”
“I need to buy time while I plan his demise. He and Denise are going to both be sorry they messed with me.”
“Cool, can I take pics?” I ask.
Tessa smiles.
Chapter 15
“You’re going to be so happy with me,” I say as I enter the school library and toss my bag on Chas’s table.
“Am I?” he says with a grin, and I realize, uh-oh, he may be thinking I’m talking about something other than my pictures.
I quickly respond, “Yep, got that shot of Garret and Madison you wanted. And you’re right, I do think there’s trouble in paradise. Look, they were fighting.” I hit play on my camera and show him the picture I took of the two arguing in the hallway.
“Wow, yeah. They look like they’re really going at it. I guess that means their relationship was real after all,” he concludes.
I nod. “They weren’t too happy that I took the photo either.”
Chas’s eyes grow big. “Wait. I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“Let’s do a series of pictures,” he says. “You know, like the ones the tabloids always run on Angie and Brad, saying they’re going to break up. They’ll show one shot of them fighting from a certain day, then another of her walking alone somewhere on a different day, then a shot of him scowling maybe a week later. You know, to show a build up to the fall of the relationship. More like an exposé.”
“Wow, you’ve been keeping up with the tabloids huh?”
“Purely for research reasons, but yeah. Anyway,” he continues, “I think we should save this shot for next week’s summation report and you get more over the course of the week. But make sure they don’t look happy in the pictures. We’re going to have to piece the story together showing times that they’re both unhappy.”
“So wait, even if the reason they’re not happy is because of something else—say, Garret stubs his toe or Madison fails a French exam—I should take their picture, and then we’re going to say it’s because of their relationship problems and not because of what it actually is?”
“Exactly,” Chas says.
“That is way shady,” I say. I don’t want Chas to think I’m not on his side so I add, “But I’m up for it.”
“Cool. Maybe Mrs. B. will even throw some extra credit at us for going the extra step. None of the other groups have done this kind of thing yet in their reports.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I bet the Tattler followers will get a kick out of it too. I sit back in my chair and fold my hands on my lap. I glance at the clock. There are still a few minutes before his study group arrives. Suddenly I’m feeling nervous being here alone with Chas. Like, without the project to talk about I have no idea what to say. I hope I get on getting over this because if I feel like this on Saturday then our date is going to suck so badly.
As if he can read my mind, Chas says, “Excited for our date tomorrow?”
Excited? More like panicked. It’s my very first date ever. This is epic! This is the date I’ll still remember when I’m eighty and sitting out in front of the nursing home with an afghan around my shoulders, sipping Milk of Magnesia from my adult sippy cup. It needs to be perfect. But what if I totally suck as a date?
“Oh sure, I love dates,” I say and then instantly regret the words. That sounded ridiculous. I love dates. Argh.
Chas laughs. “So you’re a pro, then?”
“Hmm?” I say, stalling.
“You date a lot?”
“Um…” I bite my lip. I have no idea how to answer. I don’t want him to know he’s m
y very first date but I also don’t want him think I get all around town either. “I mean, dates are nice. Who doesn’t like a good date?” Oh man, now I’m making dates sound like brownies. “I like to go out as much as the next girl,” I say, “but not a lot, a lot. I’m not like that or anything.” Dear Jesus, Please make me stop talking as I sound like an utter moron. Amen. “Um,” I continue, unable to stop myself, “they really just sorta come in waves—” and I’ve been riding this last wave of being dateless for sixteen years, “—so I’m not, like, dating all of the time or anything. But I am looking forward to our date,” I quickly add.
“Me too,” he says simply.
I give a nervous smile. Ugh, why couldn’t I have kept my response short like that? Yes would have worked fine.
I leave Chas in the library to work with his study group and head down the hallway to the main doors to leave. I’m fumbling around in my bag, trying to find my keys, when something catches my eye. Or I should say someone. Two someones. Tessa and Joey Davis. I tuck myself behind the open door to the Social Studies classroom and peek around to get a look. The Social Studies room is the last one before you enter the cafeteria. By this time the cafeteria is pretty much empty, since most have gone home from school for the day. Which is where Tessa usually is. But she’s sitting on top of a lunch table, holding her backpack on her lap and swinging her legs back and forth. Joey is about two feet away from her, leaning against the table. They’re talking, but it’s pretty low and I can’t hear what they’re saying. Tessa looks different too. Not her usual pissed-off, sarcastic, get-them-before-they-get-me look. She looks almost…shy. And sweet. Which is way bizarre. “Sweet” is normally about the very last word I’d ever use to describe Tessa.
I should be on my way home but I’m afraid to interrupt them and whatever it is that’s going on. I decide to take a few photos of the two and pull out my camera. I zoom in and snap. Man, they’re so darn cute together. I know Joey likes Tessa but is she starting to like him too? I put my camera away and lean back against the doorframe, waiting for Tessa and Joey to leave.
While I wait, I tick off what homework assignments I have for tonight in my head. The Edgar Allen Poe story. A Chem lab. And thirty problems in Math. Really, not too bad. Then I can get to the blog. I hear footsteps and look up. Brittany Daniels is coming down the hallway my way but she’s staring at the ground. I don’t think she sees me.
“Hey, Brittany,” I call as she’s about to cross in front of me. Her hair is hanging in front of her face. She briefly looks up, sees me, and then looks back down, never breaking stride. Hmm. I guess she hates me now because of that muffin shot. Oh well, not much I can do about that.
I peek back around the Social Studies door, and Tessa and Joey are gone. Good, I can leave now. I can’t wait to ask Tessa what that was all about.
Chapter 16
Ten minutes. He’s going to be here in ten minutes. Ack! I’ll never make it. I’ll forget something vital, like breathing, and he’ll be all, wow, I’m dating a total dork as he dials 9-1-1. Or worse yet, what if he tries to kiss me? What if I’m allergic to kisses? Is that even possible? What if he kisses me and I have an uncontrollable gag reflex and upchuck all over his mouth? What if he leans in to kiss me for the very first time, smooth song on the car radio, moon shining through the sun roof, and I find out right then and there that I’m allergic. Ick. Do I have time to Google? Where’s a smart phone when a girl needs one? Darn my parents for buying me a cheap cellphone.
I check my outfit one more time in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I have on a soft wine-colored sweater and dark jeans tucked into brown boots. I bought the boots just for this date. I’m not even a boots kind of girl. I feel like I should grab a crop and mount a horse in this outfit. But Tessa says boys love boots on girls. I have no idea why but I don’t have the knowledge or experience to know any different, so I bought the boots.
I examine both ears in the mirror, trying to decide which earrings to wear. Tiny studs or hoops. I’m suddenly popped in the face with my door.
“Ow,” I say, rubbing my nose.
“Sorry, Livvie,” a little voice says. Emma comes barreling into my room. “Ooh, you look pretty!”
“Really? You think?” I ask then add, “Hey! You’re supposed to be hiding. Chas will be here soon and he can’t see you.”
I paid Emma five dollars to stay out of sight when Chas came to pick me up. I’d told him she was in Kansas this weekend and I don’t want to look like a big liar on our first date.
“I know,” Emma says. “I just wanted to see how you look. Are you nervous?”
I decide on the studs and cross the room to put the hoops back in my jewelry box. “Well, if you call that feeling you get when you’re next in line for the massive roller coaster that plummets one hundred yards straight down and then twists into a dozen turns and flips ‘nervous,’ then yeah, I’m nervous.”
The doorbell rings.
“Ahh! He’s here early. Run. Run to your room. Go Em!” I look one more time in the mirror and wave frantically at my face. Man, I’m sweating like a WWE wrestler.
I hear my mom’s voice and a whole new panic sets in. Oh no, she’s talking to Chas! Not a good time to start paying attention to my extracurricular activities, Mother. I race out of my room and reach the front hallway in 3.4 seconds.
“Chas!” I say a little too loudly. “You’re here.”
My mom is standing maybe a foot away from Chas and has a huge grin on her face. “And he comes bearing gifts,” she sings, and I’m completely mortified. At her, not the gifts. The gifts are totally sweet.
I look at Chas. He grins and hands me a mixed bouquet of flowers. “For you.”
“Say thank you, Olivia,” Mom says before I even have the chance to speak.
“Mother…” I warn. To Chas, I soften my voice. “Thank you,” I say and take the flowers from him. “They’re so pretty.”
Chas nods, and there’s an awkward silence. I think we’re both hoping my mom will go away but she hasn’t budged. I don’t know where the sudden interest in my plans is coming from. Doesn’t she have a piano lesson she can schedule or a recital dress she needs to buy for Em right now?
“Well, Chas, is that your real name?” Mom asks, and he nods. “Let’s get some ground rules down here. Olivia must be home by ten o’clock. There is to be no drinking, smoking, or drugs of any kind. That includes cough syrup, glue, paint chips, or prescription medication. Oh,” she adds, waving an index finger at us, “and no whipped cream. I know all about whip-its.”
Chas’s eyes widen and he gives me a look.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’m not one of those moms with her head in the sand. I teach at the university. I know how kids are,” she adds. “And I’m going to need your cellphone number, your mother’s cellphone number, and the name and location of the theater playing the movie you’re going to see. And I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”
Chas looks at me again then slowly pulls out his wallet and hands my mom his license.
Mom pulls out her cellphone and takes a picture of his license. I’m not even kidding. How Chas doesn’t run from my house screaming is beyond me.
“Mother,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster. “Can we please go now?”
Mom hands Chas back his license. “Of course,” she says cheerily. “Here, I’ll put those in water for you.” She takes the flowers from my hands and smells them. “You two kids have fun now.” She turns and leaves the room.
As soon as the door closes behind us I turn to Chas. “I’m so, so sorry,” I say. “That was…horrifying.”
Chas shrugs. “Nah, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it,” he says as we walk toward his car.
But I do anyway. Worry about it. He’s got to think I’m an absolute idiot—or at least the daughter of one.
He opens the passenger door of his little blue Mazda and I slide into my seat. As he walks back around to the driver’s side, I try to calm
down by taking several deep breaths. I refuse to ruin our date by acting like a dork, even though I’m furious with my mother for deciding to start giving a crap on the night of my first ever date. I need to just act like myself. Chas likes me for who I am or he never would have asked me out in the first place, right?
Chas gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. “I meant to tell you,” he says, buckling his seat belt, “you look very pretty tonight.”
I feel my cheeks get a touch warm. “Gee, thanks, Chas. You’re looking rather nifty yourself,” I kid.
He laughs. “Okay, okay, so movie first? There’s a comedy, action, and horror film all starting around the same time at the Cineplex. What’s your pleasure?”
“Horror, for sure,” I reply.
“Awesome. I knew I liked you for a reason.”
After the movie gets out we head for a nearby hamburger joint. Chas had passed my popcorn test with flying colors. I’d always thought if a guy takes me to a movie and buys popcorn for us to eat then he’s a good guy. If he skips the popcorn and instead orders one of those weird fruity, rubbery candy bits things, then he’s a psychotic killer likely to drive me down a dead-end road post-movie and hack me into little pieces to feed to the squirrels. But Chas bought us popcorn, so he’s cool.
The Paparazzi Project Page 8