Screenshot

by Donna Cooner

  My heart races, but everything else around me moves in slow motion.

  “Are you crying over a cookie?” Megan asks, and I blink the tears quickly away. My mom looks up from her plate with concern.

  “It’s my contacts. They’ve been bothering me all day,” I say, even though I took my contacts out before dinner.

  “We should make an appointment with the eye doctor,” Mom says, and I make a noncommittal sound.

  “Lulu says I need to start wearing eye makeup,” Megan announces. “Mascara, liner, shadow. That kind of stuff.”

  “Do you want to wear makeup?” my mom asks Megan, frowning.

  Megan rolls her eyes. “It seems like a lot of trouble.”

  “Then there’s no rush,” my mom says. “You don’t have to ever wear makeup if you don’t want.”

  Megan sighs. “I don’t want to wear makeup, but I do want to be friends with Lulu.”

  “If Lulu is your true friend, she won’t make you do something you’re not comfortable with,” I say, and I wish someone would have convinced me of this back when I was in middle school.

  Megan shakes her head. “You obviously don’t know Lulu.”

  I shrug, and eat my fortune cookie.

  * * *

  When Luke comes over later, I meet him on the porch before he can even ring the bell. “Let’s go for a drive,” I say.

  He looks down at me, a smile playing around his lips. My heart cracks.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

  I clear my throat. “The park?”

  “Your wish is my command,” he says with a wink.

  The crack in my heart widens.

  I get in the car and Luke goes around the front to get in the driver’s side. He starts the car and backs out of the drive. I glance at his profile out of the corner of my eye. So cute. So familiar.

  How can I break up with one of the most popular boys in school? I’m the luckiest girl on the planet. And I don’t want to hurt him.

  But if I don’t end things, that picture could hurt him, too. Embarrass him in front of all his friends. I can’t let that happen.

  Him or me?

  Guilt crawls around in my stomach. I lean back into my seat, quietly watching the near-empty streets whiz by the window. A train whistle distracts me. It’s far enough away to sound lonely. I remember being in the car with Dad, who always reacted to the trains in town with immediate action. The sound of the whistle was accompanied by a mumbled curse, then quickly judged for proximity. To beat the train crossing, and the long delay that would surely follow, we’d take off across town, turning this way and that, trying to miss any possibility of a blocked intersection. Always listening to see if the train was coming or going, because direction is impossible to detect from just the sound of the horn. It’s funny how a random sound can make you remember something. Or someone.

  After a few minutes, Luke breaks the silence. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Why?”

  “Interesting. Answering a question with a question. You can’t fool me. It’s your classic way of avoiding something,” Luke says.

  “Sorry.” In the darkness of the passenger seat, I bow my head and type on my phone, disengaging from the conversation.

  TO DO:

  SHOW EMPATHY. SAY, “ME TOO.”

  MAKE EYE CONTACT

  LEAD CONVERSATIONS WITH A COMPLIMENT

  SMILE MORE

  Ten minutes later we’re at City Park. Luke parks the car on the street and we get out. The snow is completely gone now, but it’s definitely still cold enough at night for a jacket. I keep my gloved hands deep in the pockets of my down jacket and the bottom half of my face buried in a cozy faux fur scarf. My jeans are tucked into my Madden Girl boots to keep my feet warm and the sound of our footsteps is the only thing keeping my buzzing thoughts company.

  I see Luke’s breath come out in small puffs of air in front of his face. His smile is wide and trusting. He holds out his hand and I take mine out of my pocket to put it in his, fingers entwined. We walk up the grassy hill, hand in hand, toward a moonlit clearing at the top.

  Luke pulls off his jacket and spreads it out on the grass. It’s almost the same exact spot where we had a picnic last fall. It was our first real date and I was completely shocked when he pulled the picnic basket out of the trunk of his car. Inside were individual chicken pot pies, strawberry salad, and homemade cookies. I’ll never forget how his lips tasted like cinnamon-dusted snickerdoodles.

  Maybe it won’t be a sound that reminds me of Luke. It will definitely be a smell—a whiff of vanilla or a hint of cinnamon.

  Luke wraps an arm around my shoulders and I lean in to rest against him, just like I’ve done so many times before. Luke’s eyes don’t leave my face and I know he wants to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Not yet. I look away, up to the sky, hoping for some kind of sign to make this easier.

  The moon is almost full, and surrounded by hazy clouds of glowing light. While I watch, a white streak of fuel from an airplane taking off from Denver makes a perfectly straight line across the starry sky. It appears so suddenly—almost like some kind of message. I suck in air and hold it, waiting to see if there were will be another message. I need to know what’s coming more than I need my breath, but there is only that one long white line and then nothing more. The airplane disappears behind one of the ghostly clouds to somewhere I’ve probably never been before. Nothing is going to make this easier. I start to feel sick to my stomach.

  After a moment, I say, “Luke?”

  He is smiling at me. “Yeah?”

  “It isn’t easy telling you this, but …” I stop and swallow hard, looking away. My eyes are filling up with tears and I can tell that makes him uncomfortable. His smile fades. I have to go ahead with this. I have to be brave. Finally, I say, “Someone is trying to blackmail me.”

  His forehead creases and he pulls away to be able to look at my face more fully. “What are you talking about?”

  Now that I’ve started telling him, I have to keep going. “Asha and Emma and I were goofing around at Asha’s slumber party and I tried on Asha’s nightie. She filmed a video that was live on ChitChat and someone saved a screenshot. They sent it to me. It makes me look really …” My voice trails off. “Bad.”

  He laughs, almost like he’s relieved the news wasn’t worse. “Okay, so some random person sent you a screenshot. How bad can it be?”

  “Bad enough to make me do things to keep them from sharing it.”

  I wait for him to ask to see the screenshot. When he doesn’t, I give an internal sigh of relief.

  Instead, Luke frowns. “What kinds of things?”

  “Painting my nails black. Wearing my winter prom dress to the interview.” My voice is shaky.

  “Who’s been asking you to do this?” Luke demands.

  “I have no idea. I’ve been trying to figure it out.”

  “Well, it’s all just silly stuff,” Luke says, and shrugs, like none of this is a big deal. “Who cares what you wear or what color you paint your nails?”

  “They just asked me to do something else,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  I take a big breath. “Break up with you.”

  His eyes go big and wide. “You weren’t seriously going to do that, were you?”

  I’m too quiet.

  Luke stiffens. “Over a bad picture of yourself?”

  “You don’t understand, Luke. This picture is beyond embarrassing.” I pause. “But listen. I have an idea. Maybe … we could just make it look like we broke up. Just until this whole thing goes away. We could spend less time together in public …”

  I trail off. Luke’s face has turned neutral; his jaw sets. No expression. I know this look well. It’s his game face. The one he wears right before he takes the field in soccer.

  “I’m not letting anyone intimidate us with threats,” he says.

  “Well, we’d still be together,” I say, trying to make him see. “But if we pr
etend we broke up, the person who’s blackmailing me will leave me alone.”

  Luke rolls his eyes. “Just ignore this person.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I snap. Suddenly even through my anxiety, I start to feel a little angry. “You’ve never been made fun of. You’ve always been secure in your social position. And you have all your opportunities ahead of you already. That’s not how it is for me. The screenshot could ruin my life.”

  “This is about the internship, isn’t it?” Luke asks.

  “In part,” I say. “Someone from Senator Watson’s staff is probably checking out my social media accounts right this minute.”

  Silence. He takes a breath. I face him, searching his face for a crack, an expression, an emotion. There is nothing.

  Finally, he says, “Evidently, this internship is more important to you than I am.”

  “That’s not true!” I protest. “Can’t you just be supportive of me? I thought we could get through this together …”

  More silence. I don’t even breathe. Luke drops his head into his hands.

  “Maybe we’re just too different,” Luke says quietly.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling panic rise in me.

  “You’re so focused on your image.” Then he meets my eyes. “That’s why you’ve been staying with me this whole year, isn’t it? I’ve been good for your image. Until now.”

  Is he right? Maybe a little bit? This is the kind of message I don’t want to hear.

  Suddenly, Luke stands up and starts to walk away. Jumping up to run after him, I feel light-headed. I grab his arm to stop him. “Wait. Listen to me, Luke. That’s not true. I want us to be together. But this situation …”

  “We don’t have to pretend about breaking up, Skye.”

  My hand drops away. His arms are folded and he’s refusing to look at me.

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “So that’s it?” I can barely get the question out because I already know the answer.

  He nods. “You can tell people whatever you want about who broke up with who. I won’t say anything different.”

  It is like the ending of a movie I already saw coming. Luke and I have been existing inside a bubble that was always going to burst. We were never meant to be together. I didn’t know how, but I knew this would eventually happen. And now it has.

  “I’m sorry, Skye.”

  I start to cry.

  Me too.

  Music plays loudly from speakers on Emma’s messy dresser. She puts on bright-pink lipstick and smiles at her reflection in the mirror; then she turns off the music. There is yelling outside the door, but that is not a surprise. It is her father.

  The words are punching bags. “You are such a stupid idiot.”

  “I said I was sorry. Why can’t you just let it go?” Emma’s mother begs. The dent in the Range Rover is something she couldn’t hide. But it isn’t her mother’s fault. When she tries to explain again how it happened, the voices outside Emma’s bedroom door get angrier and louder. And louder. And even louder.

  There is a crash. Something falls over or someone throws something. It sounds like something that can’t be fixed.

  Like her family.

  Like her.

  Emma continues looking in the mirror without a change of expression. Outside her bedroom door, the yelling continues.

  “Why would anyone marry such an ignorant pig? Look at yourself.” Her father.

  “Just calm down. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Her mother.

  Emma isn’t listening. Not really. Even though it is a constant noise, she has become used to it. Usually it is better to be invisible—to keep behind the scenes—than to attract her father’s anger.

  She opens her laptop and checks her email. There’s a new email waiting from her aunt Karen in New York City. Emma scans it quickly:

  If you can get here somehow … you are welcome to stay here anytime … getting your room ready … we’re going to have so much fun … hang in there, sweetie … I know things aren’t easy right now at home …

  Emma smiles. Her plans are coming together. Now all she has to do is win the contest. No matter what.

  The only time I leave my bedroom on Sunday morning is to feed Cassidy and pour myself a big glass of orange juice. Megan is spending the night at Lulu’s and Mom is at work. The empty house is fine with me. I can’t face anyone yet. My eyes are puffy and red from crying myself to sleep last night. After another round of sobbing into my pillow this morning, I think I’m all cried out for now. But I still feel sad.

  Really. Really. Sad.

  When I’m brave enough, I get down on my knees and crawl halfway under my bed to retrieve my phone from where I threw it last night. I look online, but Luke hasn’t posted anything about our breakup. He hasn’t texted me either.

  No more Luke. No more going to his house for dessert tastings in the evenings. No more kisses that taste like vanilla. In school, I will no longer be the girlfriend of one of the most popular boys. I will just be plain old Skye again. I can imagine that it will be everyone’s favorite new topic of conversation.

  What did he see in her in the first place?

  I want to call Emma and Asha. Maybe drown my heartbreak in Blue Bell cookies-and-cream ice cream like we used to do whenever one of us had boy drama.

  But I don’t. I can’t.

  A text pings onto my phone. My pulse races. I want to throw the phone back under the bed and climb under the covers, but I make myself look.

  It’s okay. It’s just Megan. I take a couple of deep breaths.

  MEGAN: CAN YOU PICK ME UP FROM LULU’S HOUSE?

  I don’t respond right away. Instead, I put the phone facedown on my nightstand and pull the covers up over my head. I close my eyes tight, willing Megan to go away. Another text. I push down the covers, roll over, pick up the phone, and look at the screen.

  MEGAN: R U THERE????? PICK ME UP?

  I sit up with a huge sigh and type back.

  ME: NOW? WHY?

  MEGAN: WE HAD A FIGHT. I WANT TO COME HOME.

  ME: CAN YOU CALL MOM?

  MEGAN: SHE’S AT WORK. NOT ANSWERING.

  ME: FINE. GIVE ME 15 MIN.

  Megan slams the door and sits silent in the passenger seat, her body stiff with anger. She’s wearing a red hoodie, jeans, and Vans. It’s hard for me to believe she’ll be in high school next year. To me she’s still just a kid.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, backing out of Lulu’s driveway. My heart’s not really into solving Megan’s problems. All I can think about is Luke’s face last night when he dropped me off at home.

  Megan doesn’t respond.

  I try again at the end of the street. “Did Lulu say something that upset you?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You have plenty of friends,” Megan mumbles.

  I glance over at her. She has no idea. One of my so-called friends is a traitor. I force a smile. “Nobody has enough friends.”

  After about two blocks, Megan finally talks. “We were playing around with that FaceFix app again.”

  Her voice trails off and I wait for my turn at a four-way stop.

  “And Lulu started telling me all the ways I looked wrong and how I should fix it.”

  “Like what?” I demand.

  “She took off my freckles and made my teeth straighter. I didn’t even look like me anymore.”

  There’s a long silence and I can tell Megan’s still stewing about the whole thing. She’s never been that interested in her appearance before, but she’s thirteen now and the pressures to look a certain way are starting to increase. Finally, she says, “There’s nothing wrong with the gap in the front of my teeth. I like it.”

  “Did you tell Lulu that?” I ask.

  Megan looks sulky and shakes her head. “I just told her I wanted to go home. Then I texted you.”

  “Don’t let her bully you. Stick up for yourself.” The wor
ds bounce around in my brain even as I say them. I need to take my own advice. “Don’t get caught up in the lies on social media. Everyone shows only the best parts of their life. And, if they don’t have anything good going on, they just make it up.”

  Megan’s face crumples. “But you don’t get it. I’m not popular like you, Skye. I only have one friend.”

  Popular? One friend is all it takes to ruin your life.

  “You think it is easy being your sister?” she asks. “You’re, like … perfect.”

  How could anyone think I’m perfect? I can’t even stand up for myself.

  But when I glance at Megan’s face, I see truth. She idolizes me. The thought makes my hands tremble on the steering wheel. “Perfect is a lie.”

  “That’s what Dad used to say,” Megan says quietly.

  I have a flashback to Dad sitting beside me at the kitchen table. I’m working on my algebra homework and frustrated I didn’t get 100 percent on the last test.

  “I just wanted it to be perfect,” I said, sniffling a little.

  He put his arms around me and pulled me into his side. “Perfect is a lie,” he whispered into my hair. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  My mind reels with the memory. “He said it to you, too?” I ask.

  Megan turns her head and looks at me like I’m crazy. “All the time.”

  Then she looks out the window, her face hidden from me. “I think about him a lot,” she says after a minute of silence. “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

  “Do you think he thinks about us, too?”

  I want to tell her he does, but she needs my honesty. I say, “I don’t know.”

  We drive the rest of the way home in silence.

  * * *

  Later that night, after everyone else has gone to bed and I’m sitting on the couch, flipping channels with Cassidy, I can’t stop thinking about the stupid FaceFix app and the power of appearance. I turn off the television and make myself look at the screenshot again, the one the blackmailer texted me what feels like ages ago.

  There are no filters or edits on my screenshot to make it look better. I suppose I could add those edits myself. But who decides what makes someone, or something, look better or worse? I don’t want Megan trapped in the same chains as I am, vulnerable to some online bully.