Screenshot

by Donna Cooner

  “I hear you,” I say. “I had to straighten up the wrapping paper aisle yesterday. People are slobs.”

  She groans and nods. “I needed some caffeine after that. Didn’t know you guys would be here.” She pulls a phone out of her pocket and starts tapping away at the screen.

  Ryan looks at me. “Yeah. Skye wanted to meet because she said she had an update.”

  Harmony’s eyes are bright and curious. “About the blackmailer?”

  I sigh. “Yeah. I got a new message today.”

  Harmony nods. “I knew something was going on when I saw you in the bathroom at school.”

  “That’s when the message came in,” I admit.

  Harmony holds up a hand, eyes still glued her phone. “Wait. Don’t say anything yet. I want to check in.”

  I roll my eyes at Ryan, but we wait in silence, drinking our coffee, until she finally clicks off her phone and puts it back in her pocket.

  “Okay. Go ahead,” Harmony says, sipping at her steaming cup.

  “The new demand is …” I don’t want to say it out loud. “I have to break up with Luke.”

  “Or?” Harmony asks.

  “Same as always. They’ll share the screenshot.”

  “Whoa!” Harmony says. “This has taken a seriously dark turn.”

  “You’re not going to do it, are you?” Ryan asks.

  “I don’t want to, but I don’t see a choice.”

  How can I say that with Tocqueville’s words still ringing in my ears? I feel completely gutless.

  Ryan frowns. “You always have a choice. Is the photo really that bad?”

  Yes, of course!

  Is it?

  “And what about Luke?” Harmony asks. “Don’t you care about him?”

  “I love Luke,” I answer quickly, realizing I might sound a little defensive. “Everyone knows that.”

  Ryan shifts a little in his chair and takes a big gulp of his latte.

  Harmony’s eyes narrow. “Why do you love Luke?”

  Who asks that?

  But I find myself searching for the answer. “I feel like somebody special when Luke is by my side. People look at me differently. They treat me differently. They just like me more.”

  Harmony shakes her head like she doesn’t understand. “But how do you feel about him?”

  “Lucky,” I say. “Grateful.”

  “That’s not exactly mad, passionate love,” Harmony says. Without asking, she grabs the scone off Ryan’s plate and takes a huge bite, chewing thoughtfully.

  Is Harmony right? Have I been with Luke all this time only because I’m grateful to be by his side? Did love never come into it at all? Yes, I always found Luke to be gorgeous. But did he ever make my heart flutter? Even when we kissed? I’m not sure.

  I dare a glance at Ryan. He looks just as confused as Harmony does. And there’s something else in his expression, too. Hope? Disappointment? I can’t tell.

  Harmony snaps her fingers like she just had a brilliant idea. “Maybe it’s Luke who’s been blackmailing you?”

  “No.” I shake my head firmly. “Luke would never do something like that to me. Besides, I was with him, at his house, when I got the very first messages.”

  “Yeah, and why would he want you to break up with him?” Ryan argues. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Harmony shrugs. “Maybe it’s a test or something?”

  “It can’t be Luke,” I say.

  “Are you so sure?” Harmony still isn’t convinced.

  “I’m positive.”

  “Instead of breaking up with him, then, tell him what’s happening,” Harmony suggests. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  My shoulders slump. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Ryan shrugs. “Ikaw ang bahala sa buhay mo,” he says.

  “Huh?” Harmony asks.

  “It’s an expression in Tagalog. It basically means do what you want—you’re in charge of your own life.”

  “Exactly.” Harmony nods, and points enthusiastically toward Ryan. “What he said.”

  If only it were that easy.

  “Who would want you to break up with Luke?” Harmony wonders out loud. “What about Asha? Has she ever been with you when any of the messages came in?”

  I shake my head, searching my memories. “I don’t think so. Which sucks.”

  Ryan and Harmony both look at me like they’re feeling sorry for me. I hate that look. It was the same look I got from everyone when they found out my dad left.

  My coffee cup is still half full, but it’s grown cold. “I need to get home,” I say. “Thanks again for the latte,” I tell Ryan.

  I pull my coat off the back of my chair and zip it up over my Fair Isle sweater.

  Ryan asks, “You sure you’re okay?”

  I nod, heading for the door and down the steps to the sidewalk, but I’m not okay. Not at all. My hands are shaking with the buzz building inside me. People don’t notice. Not yet. I can’t focus on anything still. Everything is wavy and moving. My head feels like it might float off my shoulders.

  Why is someone ruining my life?

  I can’t break up with Luke. Not now. Not like this. But if I don’t, that screenshot will be everywhere. I’ll be the laughingstock of the whole school.

  I want my life back.

  “Hey,” Harmony says from behind me.

  I stop and turn around to look at her. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” Harmony asks.

  “No,” I say. “Everything is a disaster.”

  Harmony shrugs. “I get it. I’m not okay either. None of us are.”

  I’m startled. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

  Harmony laughs and rolls her eyes toward the sky. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell me everything’s going to work out. That I’m going to be fine.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Harmony says. “You want to work off some of that crazy?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I know a place. It helps me a lot. Come on.”

  * * *

  The gym is closed, but somehow Harmony knows how to get in past the night custodian, who only nods and smiles.

  Harmony and I take off our coats, boots, and socks and stash them in a corner. Harmony brings out two boxing gloves. Before she puts hers on, she helps me lace up mine.

  Then she positions me in front of the punching bag. “Put your feet hip-width apart. Now bend your knees a bit.”

  I follow her example, putting my hands up on either side of my face.

  “Pull your chin down. You need to protect your face.”

  I do as she says.

  “First a jab. It’s a fast, straight punch with your nondominant hand.” Her left hand shoots out and she pops the bag with a thud. “Now you.”

  I hit the bag, but the sound is much less solid.

  “Keep your feet firmly planted. If your foot comes up, it will weaken the punch. Like this.” She hits the bag again, hard. The sound of the thump echoes in the empty room. “You try.”

  I do, punching out and feeling my hand connect solidly with the bag. It feels great. I do it another time. And another.

  “Good.” Harmony grins at me. “Again. Harder.”

  I do it again. And again. And again. By the time I finally stop, the sweat is running down my forehead and I’m gasping for air. I lean over at my waist and try to catch my breath.

  “Don’t forget to breathe,” Harmony tells me. “Now try a front kick. Like this.”

  She faces the bag, balancing on her back leg. Suddenly, her front leg shoots out, the ball of the foot connecting with the bag.

  I try it. Not nearly as hard, but still a solid thump. It feels good. I do it again. I drop my fists at my side, wiping the sweat off my face with one shoulder and panting hard.

  “Nice,” Harmony says.

  Tears come unexpectedly to my eyes. I blink them away. I didn’t realize how angry I was until now. Maybe I�
��ve been angry for a long time. Everything’s been bottled up, and the lid pushed down on my insides is labeled, “Be reliable. Be acceptable. Be perfect.”

  And everybody knows perfect is a lie.

  “Okay,” Harmony says, stepping up beside me. “Let’s try an uppercut.”

  We don’t talk about Luke or the screenshot. Instead we punch and kick and sweat and breathe. I think of the bag as the blackmailer who is controlling everything. And when I do, I hit the bag harder and harder. It is my enemy—my tormentor—and this is my revenge. Harmony shows me how to do a side kick—and that feels even stronger.

  I pound and punch every thought out of my brain until my hands tremble with the effort. Finally, I don’t think of anything at all. My leg muscles burn, but for now my mind is finally quiet.

  I walk over to the concrete wall and lean back against it, feeling the coolness against my skin. Sliding down the wall, I let my body collapse onto the floor, muscles spent.

  Then I watch Harmony. Her body responds perfectly, just as it has been trained. Her hands and feet are so fast, they blur into the noise of the pounding. Strong. Fast. Hard. I can’t help but be impressed. She is incredibly powerful.

  When we’re finally both exhausted, we towel off our sweat and change back into our boots and coats. Harmony thanks the night custodian, and we step out into the dark outside the gym. It’s starting to snow again, the flakes big and slow-falling. My legs are still trembling, but I feel better than I have in days. And I owe it all to Harmony. Who would have thought?

  “You’re really a good teacher,” I tell her.

  “Don’t sound so shocked.” She looks different now—relaxed, happy, approachable.

  “You’re a much better teacher than you are a cashier.”

  “Ha,” Harmony says, then actually laughs. “I don’t like just standing in front of a cash register all day. I like being active.”

  “You should do this for real.”

  “You think so?” Harmony raises a questioning eyebrow.

  I nod. “Fitness trainers make good money. Or you could be a physical education teacher. If you taught me gym, maybe I’d like it more.”

  Harmony smiles at me like I’m the best thing ever, a great big warm smile that completely changes her face into someone I’ve never seen before.

  “How are you feeling now?” she asks, pulling her gray hoodie up over the top of her head.

  “Tired,” I say. I rub my eyes, then see the black smudges of my mascara on my fingers. My face must be a mess, but I don’t care how I look.

  “That’s a good way to feel,” Harmony says, then there is silence for a long time.

  She finally breaks it. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  I shake my head, walking toward my car. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” I ask, my breath frosty in the cold air.

  “No, I’m good. I can walk.”

  But when I drive away, she’s still standing on the sidewalk, her face lit by the glow of the phone in her hand.

  * * *

  The post-workout calm is short-lived. On the way home from the gym I start to unravel again. I don’t want to feel it, but everything starts to bubble back up into my thoughts. Should I follow the blackmailer’s directions and break up with Luke? What will happen if I don’t? What will happen if I do?

  What will people think?

  That question controls my life. I care about pleasing people so much, I am very good at ruling things out by asking that one question—things like what shirt to wear or how to style my hair or what color to paint my nails.

  When we were younger, Emma used to always ask me why I cared so much about what other people thought. One day, in the sixth grade, she wore two different socks—one red, one green—to school. The audacity was shocking.

  What will people think?

  Emma laughed when I said that to her. She just didn’t care. And, when the world didn’t end because of mismatched socks, I wondered what it felt like to be so free of others’ expectations.

  I don’t want to obsess over everyone else’s opinions. It would make things so much easier to not care. But the possibility of rejection is a strong deterrent. The question haunts me.

  What will people think?

  My house is dark when I pull into the driveway. My mother and Megan must have already gone to bed. My body feels like a noodle and my brain is just as tired. I turn the car off and sit there, not willing to go inside yet. The snow is coming down harder now. It blankets the car, cocooning me inside. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat.

  When I open my eyes again, I check my phone. I have a text from Luke saying good night. I don’t reply. Tomorrow, I will have to decide what to do about Luke, and then live with that decision.

  The Middleburgs’ dining room table is at the front of the house and in clear view of everyone driving or walking by. Emma’s mother never shuts the curtains when they eat, but then they are rarely at the table together. When they are, Emma feels like they are on display—the perfect family. Sometimes she wonders if someone out there watches them, making up a story about them. Like the main character in Rear Window.

  Emma thinks of the movie again. Hitchcock’s camera angles were all from the main character’s point of view, so audiences actually saw into people’s windows just as he did. That’s exactly what Emma dreams of doing, once she becomes a filmmaker—showing people a different way of looking at things. And, best of all, Emma thinks, the audience will only end up seeing what she wants them to see—holding back those parts that do not fit into the story.

  Tonight her parents do not fight. Instead, there is silence at the table. Emma picks at the roast chicken and moves the mashed potatoes around on her plate, her mind on the screenplay. She’s been up late the past several nights, working on it on her laptop. It is almost finished. Just a few more edits. A cut here. A scene a little longer there. When it is done, it will be the first thing she feels she completely owns. It is her vision, her voice, and it is what she wants to say.

  For once she has the power to make the world the way she wants it to look—not this horrible stillness, broken only by the clink of silverware against plates and ice rearranging in glasses. Finally, her father will realize she is serious about filmmaking and stop hounding her about her schoolwork. Finally, she will have an escape route from this house.

  “Pass the mashed potatoes,” her father says, breaking the silence. Then he holds up his water glass and shakes it to show it is empty.

  Emma’s mother jumps up, passing the bowl to Emma’s father on the way to the kitchen to refill the glass.

  For a moment, Emma thinks her father is a bit like Asha—entitled, bossy, and domineering. And her mother? A bit like Skye—always rushing to keep Asha happy, hidden in her shadow. So where does that leave Emma?

  Invisible.

  But not for long.

  The next evening, for the first time in a long time, we sit down for dinner as a family. Mom has brought home Chinese takeout and she opens cartons of kung pao chicken, beef with broccoli, and pork lo mein. Megan and I hurry over with plates and forks. Everything smells delicious.

  On the table is a bouquet of fresh flowers, sprigs of baby’s breath tucked into an arrangement of exotic mini-callas, daisy chrysanthemums, and yellow roses—my mom’s favorite. The arrangement arrived earlier with a note that made my mom smile when she saw it, but all she said was that it was from a friend.

  “Let me see the card,” Megan begs now, but my mom slides it into the pocket of her jeans and quickly asks us to get extra napkins for the table. Megan shoots me a glance. I know we’re both thinking the same thing, though.

  Mom’s blushing? Seriously?

  I don’t press it, though. I’m meeting Luke after dinner, and I want this evening to be as relaxed as possible.

  After the three of us are done eating, we all reach for the fortune cookies. I rip off the plastic, hoping for some good luck for a change.

  There’s loud
crunching from under the table and Mom says, “Megan, don’t feed the dog from the table.”

  Megan doesn’t try to deny it, but asks, “Want to know Cassidy’s fortune?”

  “Fine,” Mom says, “but no more cookies. You’ll make her sick.”

  Megan unfolds the slip of paper in her hand and reads aloud: “Someone is looking up to you.” Then she giggles. “It’s true!”

  Megan nods toward Cassidy, who rolls her pleading brown eyes up to gaze adoringly at both of us. Or the cookies. It’s hard to tell.

  “No,” I say. “She’s the one looking up.”

  “So maybe she got your fortune by mistake,” Megan says, glancing over at me with an exaggerated worshipful expression. “We’re all looking up to you.”

  I study her freckled face and bright eyes. Guilt taps on my insides, reminding me of the screenshot, and what I’m about to do to Luke.

  I don’t deserve anyone looking up to me. Not even Cassidy.

  “Open yours now,” Megan urges me, pointing to the cookie in my hand.

  I break open my cookie and read silently.

  “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

  “What does it say?” Megan asks, popping the last half of an egg roll into her mouth.

  “It’s silly,” I say, crumpling it up in my fist and shoving it into my pocket. First of all, it’s not a fortune. Fortunes are supposed to say something like, “A mysterious stranger will bring you a million dollars” or “You will be going on a long trip.” Second, it makes me cry because all I can think of is Luke and how people shouldn’t put things in cookies that make you cry, just like they shouldn’t put people in categories based on how they look.

  I do love Luke. Or at least, I did. Maybe I loved the idea of him: this popular, handsome boy wanting to be with me. I think about how distant I’ve felt from him in the past few weeks, ever since I started getting the anonymous messages. Ever since I realized I didn’t want to confide in him.

  But is my love for Luke enough? I’m not sure. Luke is going to France next year. We may not even last anyway. Once that screenshot is posted online, it will be there on the internet for anyone to see. Forever. There is no taking it back.