Screenshot

by Donna Cooner

Teachers will eventually see it. Maybe even parents. The senator’s office. My brain is spiraling down a deep, bottomless black hole. I feel my muscles tense up even more.

  #IAmAshaMirza stabbing you in the back.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. Our hands and feet are tucked under the driers when I finally turn to Asha and ask, “Did you show anyone that video you took?”

  “What video?” Asha asks.

  “The one of me in the nightie. On your birthday. Did you show it to someone?” I repeat.

  Emma looks up from her phone, and glances back and forth between Asha and me. She doesn’t say anything. Maybe she already knows the answer.

  Now I’m even doubting Emma? What is wrong with me?

  “What do you mean?” Asha asks. “It was live, so yeah, I’m sure some people saw it.” Asha shrugs like she doesn’t even care. “But I deleted it. Remember? It’s gone. No worries.”

  But it isn’t gone.

  * * *

  When we’re paying, I look down at my hands. It’s like they have tiny chains wrapped around each finger, trapping me to the will of some anonymous someone out there.

  As instructed, I take a picture of one hand and both feet, still in the salon paper flip-flops. The black polish is clearly visible. I post the photo to ChitChat. No caption, no hashtag. Let this TellTaleHeart person just see it so this whole thing can be over and done with.

  An alert chimes on my phone and my heart sinks. Is there another text already?

  No. It’s an email. I’m afraid to open it. What’s the next challenge? Dancing naked on a street corner? I finally look down at the screen.

  “What’s up with you?” Emma must have seen something in my face.

  I look up to see both her and Asha staring at me. “It’s an email from Senator Watson’s office,” I whisper.

  “Read it, silly.” Asha is pulling on my arm, but I step away so she can’t read over my shoulder. If it’s bad news, I don’t want Asha seeing it.

  What if it’s a rejection?

  Only one way to find out. I carefully click open the email. Emma and Asha wait. I can feel their stares.

  I try to catch my breath as I read the email. “I have an interview at the job fair,” I say. There is hope after all. I can barely believe it myself, but saying it out loud makes it real.

  “Wait. With Senator Watson?” Emma asks excitedly.

  “Well, not with her, but with her office. They’re sending a representative to the school job fair!”

  “Oh my God. That’s amazing!” Asha grabs me and pulls me in for a tight hug. Pushing me away, she peers into my face. “You’re excited, right?”

  “Of course I am,” I say in a daze of happiness. “This is what I’ve been working for and dreaming about.”

  “We have to celebrate!” Asha is pulling me side to side in a dance. Emma joins in and we all squeal and spin, while the whole nail salon looks on in confusion, a little cranky at the noisy interruption. Then Asha’s phone is in her hand and, before I can stop her, she snaps a photo of Emma and me dancing and sends the news to everyone on the planet. I’m not even annoyed she’s sharing it on social media before I have the chance to. I’m just too happy.

  CONGRATS TO MY BFF, SKYE. SHE JUST GOT AN INTERVIEW WITH SENATOR WATSON’S OFFICE AT THE SCHOOL JOB FAIR! THIS GIRL WILL BE IN THE WHITE HOUSE ONE DAY!

  I don’t care about my stupid nails anymore. The strange text message was an obvious prank that had no real consequences. If that was all there was to it, and I certainly hope it was, then no real harm was done. The paint on my nails, the shimmer on my eyelids, the curl in my hair, the rings I wear. Mascara. Blush. Polish. Why does it matter? At the end of the day, you come home and wash it all off. The person who closes her eyes at night, scrubbed free of all the extra additions, is still the same person who wakes up to do it again the next morning.

  The same person who will soon be headed to Senator Watson’s office this summer and then, who knows?

  On a break from the Kmart stockroom on Sunday, Ryan takes photos of Millie Johnson working in the paint department. He asks her permission and, while she may have thought it was a bit weird, she says yes.

  “Make me look good,” she says, and he promises he will.

  Then he tells her one of his favorite quotes from photographer Dragan Tapshanov: “‘Photography is about capturing souls, not smiles.’”

  Millie smiles anyway, smoothing her gray curly hair back from her forehead and pushing her silver glasses up her nose. But it is definitely her kind soul that shimmers in her dark brown eyes.

  Ryan can’t bring his nice Nikon to work, so he uses the camera on his phone. The photos he likes best are not of Millie’s face, but her hands. He loves the way her wrinkled, dark brown hands contrast with the blue, yellow, and green splotches of paint that speckle her skin. Last week he took pictures of puddles of water in the parking lot—shooting from a low level with his iPhone close to the water. And yesterday he took pictures of a well-loved teddy bear left behind on the linoleum floor, between rows of cold medicine and pain relievers.

  The images are always there waiting for him. It isn’t about what he sees, it’s all about how he sees. He can’t turn it off.

  “Why are you always taking pictures in the store?” Skye asked him once when he was walking past the service desk.

  “It’s a hobby,” he told her. But he didn’t tell her he wants to take her picture. Not yet.

  * * *

  That night, Ryan sits at his kitchen table, uploading Millie’s pictures onto his computer. He plays with edits and filters, trying to find the one image to upload to his web portfolio. The Squarespace website isn’t public yet, but maybe someday he’ll be brave enough to share.

  “Who is that?” Ryan’s mother leans over his shoulder to look at the photo on the screen. She is reheating the pork chops for him that the rest of the family ate for dinner hours ago while he was still at Kmart. There is a plate of lumpia on the table for him to eat while he waits.

  “It’s a woman at work. She works in the paint department.” Ryan dips the crispy deep-fried rolls in sweet-and-sour sauce and takes a bite.

  “Ha! Aren’t there kids your age at work?” Mom asks, putting the pork chops on the table while he pushes the computer out of the way. He knows his mom worries about his social life. She feels guilty for making him move so far away from his friends his senior year in high school.

  “Sure there are,” Ryan says, and he thinks about Skye. He thinks about how her long chestnut hair would look in a certain light and he thinks about how he’d like to capture the humor in those intelligent hazel eyes. There is something in her eyes that makes him want to know more.

  Mrs. de la Cruz sits at the table while Ryan eats, asking more questions about his day. Every so often she comments in Tagalog to his dad, who sits over on the couch watching a basketball game.

  His dad yells “Susmariosep!” at the television and his mother rolls her eyes. The game must not be going his way.

  A constant bass pounding sound comes from upstairs. Ryan looks toward the ceiling, then over at his mother. “Is she still at it?”

  His mom frowns, then nods. She seems pretty down lately about their move from California. Ryan knows she misses their big extended Filipino family and Sunday afternoons filled with games of mahjong with the aunties. But at least she has Lola here with her. Even if Lola spends most of her time in her room singing karaoke on her tiny portable player.

  After dinner, Ryan goes upstairs. His room is down at the end of the hall, but before he makes it safely inside, he hears, “Pssst!”

  His grandmother, a microphone in hand, stands at the door to her room. She is a head shorter than him, but it always feels like she is much bigger. “Tomorrow. Yung ano …”

  “Yes,” he says. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  She nods in satisfaction, reaching up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, then says, “Go change into your home clothes.”

  Later, Ryan s
its on his bed, his computer in front of him. His cousin Amy is tagging him in photos again. She lives back in his old neighborhood in San Francisco. She’s determined to give Ryan the best possible online cred to impress all the kids at his new school. Last Thanksgiving, she found out Ryan had never had an actual girlfriend. He’d gone on dates—to school dances and movies—and had even kissed a couple of girls. But there was never anyone special that he wanted to hang out with more than a few times. Ryan wishes he hadn’t confided in Amy, but what’s done is done. Now Amy is posting pictures and videos of all her friends, and tagging Ryan in each one. Amy’s new mission, and crazy idea, is to make Ryan look super popular.

  Amy and her friends dancing at a party in short skirts and high heels. Tag.

  Amy’s friends at the movies, with crazy dog filters on their faces. Tag.

  Amy feeding fries to two of her girlfriends at In-N-Out Burger. Tag.

  Ryan leans back against the pillows and shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. Amy means well, but she doesn’t get it. He’s not into photos that try to make him look popular. He loves photography, but not these silly party shots and dog filters.

  Ryan scans through some of his own photos that he took back in California. Lately, he’s been into portraits. Amy and her friends were only too eager to pose. There were a couple of good ones worthy enough to upload to his portfolio. There’s this one of Amy in silhouette in front of the sunset, staring out at the Bay Bridge. Just looking at it makes him homesick for foggy air and sea smells, but that is the sign of a good photo. It makes you feel something.

  He scrolls through his ChitChat feed and stops on a post from Skye. Her toenails, painted black.

  Just for laughs, he opens her profile and studies some of her older posts. He finds out new things he never knew before. She has a big brown dog named Cassidy and a younger sister named Megan. She’d rather stream episodes of The West Wing than Gossip Girl. There’s her favorite music. There are things that make her laugh. There’s her favorite book—a slightly battered copy of Democracy in America. One click leads to another and then to another, and he sees her life develop in front of his eyes. Each post brings Skye’s personality into clearer and clearer focus.

  Ryan has never watched The West Wing before. But he pulls up the first season on his computer and watches two episodes before drifting off to sleep with thoughts of Skye filling up his mind and spinning around in his head.

  On Monday morning, the high school hallways smell like cafeteria Tater Tots and sound like a crowded freeway. Slower traffic grumbles along next to the lockers. The always rushed, always late plow through the center lane, yelling at everyone else to get out of their way.

  I close my locker and push through the crowd, listening to the chatter around me. The end of the school year is sort of in sight, and a sense of relief and exhaustion is bubbling to the surface.

  Being on the downward slide toward summer should be wonderful, but it seems like every conversation eventually turns to everyone’s exciting, glamorous plans. I’ve been accepted to do blah blah blah. I wonder who I’ll meet when blah blah blah. I’m traveling abroad to blah blah blah. Usually I’m terrified that I’m the biggest loser in this game of Future-ama.

  But today feels different. I have hope. I have an interview with Senator Watson’s office. Then I’ll be able to join the conversations with news of my own. Not even my black-tipped fingers are able to ruin my mood.

  Luke is against the wall by the trophy cases with his soccer team pals, saying hi to every single person who walks by. They all know him.

  Luke couldn’t care less about my nail polish. I give him a wave and a smile, but I don’t go over there. He isn’t one of those guys who thinks he has to drag a girl along by her hand everywhere to prove his undying love. That’s not the kind of relationship Luke and I have. We don’t have to be kissing in the middle of the hallway to be together. Besides, everyone knows we’re a couple and they’re totally over the shock of the überpopular jock guy with the curvy average girl. It’s yesterday’s news.

  Until that screenshot makes it onto everybody’s screens.

  Any one of the hundreds of kids passing back and forth in front of me could be the proud owner of that stupid picture.

  But which one?

  Reese Jackson walks by holding hands with Edward Munoz. She’s a math genius and he’s a drum player in the jazz band. Reese paints her nails black a lot, but I don’t know what she’d have against me. Then there’s Marianne Washington, with her mouth full of braces and her two-kitties-hugging sweatshirt, alone by the door to the library. Marianne’s by herself a lot. I feel a twinge of guilt. We were friends when we were in elementary school. I even spent the night at her house a couple of times. Then we drifted apart when I got close to Asha and Emma. Could Marianne be harboring some long-held grudge?

  The bell rings and I head to class. In each period, I try to focus on what teachers are saying, but it’s hard. Even though there’ve been no new messages from the TellTaleHeart person, I’m on edge. At first, I keep my hands in my pockets or tucked under a book. Then I realize that this mystery person might react in some way if he or she notices my nails. True, I posted a picture of my nails online. But if this person is a classmate, he or she might also be looking for evidence in real life.

  If I can find some random acquaintance to pin this on, I tell myself, then I won’t have to suspect my close friends.

  And then I can ask that person the most important question of all.

  Why me?

  So I start putting my hands in front of everyone, trying to get a glimpse of some reaction. Kids talk to me in class, ask me about my weekend, sit at my table in my lunch, along with Luke and Emma and Asha. A couple of times over the course of the day, I almost open my mouth to ask some random passerby, “Are you the one?” But then I end up shutting my mouth again and swallowing down my questions.

  Surprisingly, there is not one mention of my black fingernails by anyone.

  So what was the point? This one small change didn’t cause a ripple in anyone’s opinion of me. Does my fingernail polish or what I wear cause anyone to like me more or less? Of course not. The anger in my chest lessens a bit. It was a stupid joke and now it’s over.

  On my way to English class, I’m surprised to see Ryan de la Cruz hanging out near my locker. Since he’s a senior, we don’t usually run into each other much at school. Work is our world.

  “Hey,” he says. “Can you remind the manager on duty that I’m going to be late tonight?”

  “Sure. Anything wrong?” I open my locker door and glance over to see if he’s looking at my hands. He’s not.

  Ryan shakes his head. “No. I just told my lola I would take her to look at some new apartments.”

  “Who’s Lola?” I can’t help but ask, putting in two books and taking out one. I wonder if he has a girlfriend.

  “My grandmother.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling silly.

  Ryan smiles. “Lola means grandmother in Tagalog. We’re Filipino,” he explains.

  “Were you born in the Philippines?” I ask him. I realize I don’t know too much about Ryan, and I’m a little curious now.

  “Yeah, but my family moved to California when I was three. I’ve only been back to visit there a couple times.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. I’ve never left the state of Colorado, much less the country. I stash my copy of Beowulf for English into my bag. “So why does your grandmother want a new apartment?” I ask.

  “She is living with us now, but she isn’t happy. She says there’s an old white woman ghost that hangs out in the hallway near the bathroom.”

  I laugh.

  Ryan shrugs. “Ghosts aren’t a laughing matter to my lola. That’s why she wants new construction. No ghosts.”

  “Do your parents know about this?” I ask.

  “They definitely know about the ghost. She tells them every time she has to go to the bathroom. Sometimes she even makes
my mom stand outside the door,” Ryan says, leaning against the wall beside the row of lockers. “But they don’t know about her plans for a new apartment. She wants to keep it between us until she finds the perfect place. Then she’s going to spring it on my mom.”

  I smile, enjoying this peek into Ryan’s family. They sound nice.

  “Good luck. Sounds like you’re going to need it,” I tell him.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  I close my locker, leaving my hand—palm down, fingers spread—on the outside of the door a beat longer than usual. My black nails stand out against the light-blue metal like rust stains. It seems like Ryan is looking at my nails now. I frown at him. Suddenly, all the uncertainty rushes back.

  As I turn to go, Marianne Washington wanders down the hall past us. She gives me a metallic grin. Quickly, I spin back to face my locker, blinking rapidly.

  Is it her?

  “Are you okay?” Ryan asks.

  Or is it him?

  I nod frantically. “I just need to get to class.”

  * * *

  I slide into my desk a few minutes before class starts and watch the mad rush to beat the tardy bell. While I wait, I pick at the polish on my thumb. It chips off in a chunk, leaving my nail even uglier than before.

  Asha makes it into the chair beside me with seconds to spare. Emma comes through the door as the late bell is actually ringing, so she has to sit in the front row. World Literature is the only class we all have together this semester.

  From her desk at the front of the classroom, Mrs. Drager is asking about last night’s assigned reading of Beowulf. Her voice trembles with excitement, like these 3,182 alliterative lines are the best things ever written. Mrs. Drager needs to get a life.

  I can’t concentrate. All I can think of is the screenshot. Even worse is the thought that someone I know may be threatening to share it. My black-tipped hands tremble. I wish I didn’t care so much about looking stupid.

  But I do.

  I can’t be exposed. That picture is everything I’ve tried to push down. If that photo leaks, nobody will see me beyond the image of a girl in a very tight, incredibly skimpy nightie. It will change people’s opinions of me. Maybe I’m not as smart as they once thought. Maybe I’m fatter. Maybe I’m stupider. Maybe I’m shallower. Maybe I’m all of those things.