A few seconds later, she replies, Seemed like you were busy with your new BFF. And before I can respond, she adds, Actually, make that BFFs. Multiple.
I feel my face flush with warmth, flashing back to Sofia’s caption from earlier in the day. Come on, you know you can’t take that seriously, I assure Celia. So how are you?
You said you were going to text me, Celia replies, ignoring my question. You promised you wouldn’t forget about me.
I HAVEN’T forgotten about you! I’m texting you now, aren’t I?
Celia is quiet, and for a moment I fear she’s ignoring me again. How’s NJ? I prompt her, trying to force our conversation back to normal.
It’s fine, she replies. So you like the retreat?
More than I thought I would, I tell her honestly. But I wish you were here.
Call me tomorrow, Celia requests. Please? I want to know what’s going on, and not just through dumb Sofia’s PhotoReady stream.
I will, I promise.
“Okay, I take it back,” Kensington whisper-yells across the room. “The light doesn’t bother me, but do you need to have the keyboard sound turned on so I hear every single letter you type?”
“Sorry, Sleeping Beauty,” I tease her. I jam my phone underneath my pillow, flip myself over, and lie on my stomach, my face turned toward the wall.
And despite everything, namely my fears that I never would, I eventually fall asleep.
The following morning, the three of us sit in a row in the middle of the PhotoRetreat makeshift classroom in the basement of Dingymist Dorm. Sofia is chomping through the last of a blueberry muffin—I stopped counting after her second pastry and third plate of fruit—while Kensington and I watch her, fascinated.
“Where do you put it all?” Kensington asks. “Seriously, have you ever been checked for parasites?”
Sofia shrugs. “Don’t be a metabolism hater,” she says as Roberto strolls to the front of the room. He hits a few buttons on his tablet until the large screen at the front comes to life, a slew of pictures filling the frame from one end to the other. I recognize a couple of my own shots, and the sight of them in such a large format makes my stomach start to feel as knotty as it did in the car yesterday.
“How long is this supposed to last?” I whisper to Sofia and Kensington.
“Whatever it is, it’s too long,” Kensington answers. “I’m bored already.”
“Isn’t this why we came here?” Sofia asks. “To learn how to take better pictures?”
“I thought we came to photograph New York,” I say. “Which doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” I nudge Kensington’s elbow off her armrest, and she shoves mine back.
“Okay, then,” Roberto begins. I turn and see the counselors assembled in the chairs on the side of the room, waiting. Ella is sitting up straight, her hands folded on the desk ledge in front of her. The model student. Naturally. “Now, last night was a free-form outing, where you could photograph anything that captured your eye, with little direction from us. Earlier today, I went through the shots with the #PhotoRetreatNight tag and chose some for us to discuss. Take a look at the collage on the screen, and make a note of those photos you admire, or are intrigued by, or think could be improved in some way. Feedback doesn’t have to be positive, but it must be constructive. I’ll give you a few moments to peruse them.”
I examine the board, squirming in my seat and hoping that I can make it through the class without my photos—or me—being singled out. “Participation” has never exactly been my strong suit in school—I always preferred to sit back, to stay below the radar, to not be acknowledged, at least not publicly. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in hearing what others had to say—I just wasn’t interested in hearing what they had to say about my pictures. Especially if what they had to say was negative.
“Who would like to begin?” Roberto asks entirely too quickly. “Yes, in the corner.” He points to the far side of the room as I drum my fingers against my thigh, nervous.
The hand raiser requests Roberto to zoom in on a picture in the center of the screen. “The arch from Washington Square Park,” she begins. “From the angle it was shot, you wouldn’t know if it was taken in New York or Paris. But the one person in the corner gives it away with the I Heart NY T-shirt.” It’s definitely a pretty shot, but I never would have noticed the person in the New York shirt if it weren’t pointed out to me. Maybe I’m not observant enough to think like a real photographer. Or even a real wannabe photographer.
My thoughts are disturbed by my phone buzzing in my pocket, and I reach for it, seeing Celia’s face pop up on my screen, calling me. I quickly press decline and then send her a text: Can’t talk now. When I manage to focus again, I see Roberto has switched to a new image. This one appears to have been taken on a corner, facing the buildings across the street.
“I feel as though this perfectly captures the rule of thirds,” one of the other retreaters is saying. “If you draw four lines across it—two horizontal and two vertical—the main focal points would fall at the intersections.”
“What is he talking about?” I whisper to Kensington.
“Just being pretentious,” Kensington answers. “Trying to show off what he knows. It’s like Photography by Wikipedia.” I have to bite the insides of my mouth to keep from giggling at this, and I turn back to my phone and open PhotoReady, finding a new slew of notifications. A profile with the name @TaterTotter has starred every single one of my photos from last night, including the Forced Socialization one. I look at the pictures in @TaterTotter’s stream, trying to figure out who this person is. There are only three photos from last night, but they are more interesting to me than most of the snapshots I’ve seen Roberto highlight so far. A silhouette of a woman walking her dog—or really, being pulled by her dog, despite its miniature size—up a brownstone stoop. A busy crosswalk as taken through a hole in a broken fence. A police officer gazing down the street in the direction of a horse-drawn carriage, but the angle makes it look like the horse is charging him.
And even though I don’t feel like I know much about photography, other than saying which pictures I like or don’t, I’m drawn to these. They tell a story. There’s life behind them.
I’m so distracted by @TaterTotter’s stream that I don’t notice at first when Roberto clicks on one of my photos, enlarging it across the screen, until Sofia and Kensington begin hitting my knees.
“That’s from the tiny park!” Sofia whispers excitedly. I do a sweep of the room with my eyes, looking for the person who requested it, all without moving my head so that no one can guess the photo belongs to me.
“I like the light in this one,” I hear a voice from across the room, and I turn to see where it’s coming from (which is safe to do only because everyone else is turning as well). “I always have trouble taking pictures at night, and this place somehow seems naturally lit, even though it’s dark outside.” The face of the speaker is blocked by those sitting around him, so all I can tell is that a) it’s a boy, and b) well, that’s about it.
“Nice feedback,” Roberto says. “I agree about the light—it’s almost as if it’s being provided by the moon itself, which is a cool thought. The idea that the moonlight could reach this small, alley-like space, and brighten it.” Kensington and Sofia turn to me with raised eyebrows, seemingly impressed that Roberto, who hasn’t been all that complimentary thus far, likes my shot. For a moment, the jumping jacks inside my stomach cease, and I feel mildly proud of myself. But then Roberto continues, “Who can take credit for this picture?”
And the jumping jacks return, stronger than ever.
I sit absolutely still, as if my arms have been papier-mâchéd against my body.
“Raise your hand!” Sofia hisses, and it feels like it takes every muscle in my body to lift my right arm into the air.
“Name?” Roberto asks me. Has he been doing this to everyone whose photos were highlighted? I really should be paying more attention.
“Avalon Kelly,” I say without
too much stammering.
“No, PhotoReady name,” he corrects me.
“Oh, sorry. @AvalonByTheC. But, like, with the letter C. Instead of the ocean ‘sea,’ ” I explain. I’m babbling.
“Very good,” Roberto says. “Who else sees a photo that struck them in some way?”
Even with the focus off me again, I can’t seem to stop my heart from beating ferociously in the back of my neck, pounding against my throat. When the rest of the room seems otherwise engaged examining a new picture, I turn slowly over my shoulder, searching for the person who singled out my photo. I look in the direction where the voice had come, but the only boy sitting in that corner has a bright green scarf wrapped around his neck, shielding his profile. I lean forward slightly to get a better look, and his face comes into view.
And it is a face I somehow recognize.
He catches my eye before I can place him, and I snap my head back to the front, a deep flush of heat filling my cheeks. Why does he look familiar? Did I see him in the dorm lobby? Or at the pizzeria? That has to be it . . . right?
I tap my foot against the ground in bursts of manic staccatos until Kensington slaps my leg down with a thwap. “Sit still. You’re giving me anxiety,” she whispers.
Who is he?
I turn on my phone again, and the last thing I was looking at appears on my screen: @TaterTotter’s PhotoReady page. I’m about to close it and check my newest notifications when I spot it. Well, not so much “it” as “him.”
At the top of @TaterTotter’s page, I see the face in the profile picture—the face from the corner of the room, including the same green scarf. Very carefully, I look over my shoulder to be sure, and @TaterTotter himself is staring back at me. When he sees me turn to face him, he breaks into an enormous grin.
And it’s no exaggeration when I say that it may very well be an even better grin than Arden’s, or Kensington’s, or anyone else who has smiled—ever—in life.
“Who’re you stalking there?” Kensington startles me to the point that I nearly drop my phone on the floor.
I look at Roberto, who is leading a discussion about another photo, and I send her a text instead of replying out loud.
The guy who said he liked my picture, I type, and I watch Kensington read it.
Tate? she writes back.
? I don’t know his name.
It’s Tate, Kensington answers. He was the roommate I was initially assigned to. You know, when they thought I was a boy.
Ha. His PhotoReady name is @TaterTotter.
I’m sure you think that’s adorable. I’ll introduce you after this joy is over.
Nooooooo, so embarrassing! Don’t you dare!
Well, now I’m definitely going to, she says. You pretty much cemented your fate.
I send back an angry face, followed by, I don’t like to meet new people.
That would explain your “welcoming” reaction to me, Kensington writes, and I have to laugh.
He looks much older than us, right? I ask about Tate.
Speak for yourself.
No, but really, I continue. He looks like he’s in high school.
He’s in eighth grade, so a year older? Kensington writes. He lives somewhere near Boston. And that’s all the info I got before they realized I wasn’t a boy.
I sense movement around the room and lift my head to see people rising from their seats. “What’s going on?” I ask Sofia.
“Roberto is giving us a ten-minute break,” she says. “Have you two listened to a single word today?”
“This one blanked out after she realized she had a fan,” Kensington answers. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. You should come too, Short Stack.”
“Am I supposed to be Short Stack?” Sofia asks her.
“Well, you are short, and I assume you can eat multiple pancake stacks in record time, so yes,” Kensington replies.
“Okay, that’s valid,” Sofia says, and she follows as Kensington drags me—truly drags me—across the room.
“Tate!” Kensington calls when we’re still at least ten feet away from him. I immediately stand up straight and try to look normal, rather than like a toddler who is being pulled across the room against her will. And I swear, something about the way he turns makes it look like he’s moving in slow motion, like I have many minutes to prepare myself for the face-to-face encounter instead of the half a second it actually takes. I want to lower my eyes, to not witness his reaction to this all-but-certainly awkward introduction, but I also can’t seem to look away.
“Hey, Kenz,” he says.
Kenz?
“Kenz?” Sofia says out loud, echoing my thoughts. “Didn’t she shoot down all nicknames within moments of meeting us?”
Kensington ignores her. “Hey, roomie,” she greets him, casually friendly, and very unlike the Kensington who was dumped on our doorstep yesterday. How long, exactly, did it take for the PhotoRetreat people to realize Kensington wasn’t a boy before they broke these two up? Because they seem awfully chummy.
“Excuse you, we’re your roomies,” Sofia interjects, followed immediately by, “Hi, I’m Sofia.” She extends her hand to shake Tate’s.
“Charmed,” Tate responds. Charmed? “And I recognize @AvalonByTheC here.”
I open my mouth to speak, but that familiar pounding is back against my throat, rendering my vocal cords useless.
“Yeah, way to make the rest of us look bad by going on and on about her brilliance,” Kensington says, teasing him.
“Sorry, Kenz, but I have to acknowledge greatness when I see it,” Tate says. “And not everyone can convince the moon to shine specifically in the darkest alley of Manhattan, all for the benefit of a single picture.”
I blink rapidly and clear my throat, willing my voice to work again so as to not look like a moron. But Sofia beats me to the punch.
“It was us, you know,” she says. “Kensington and I lit the space with our phones—she held hers at the top, and I—”
“Way to steal the thunder, Short Stack,” Kensington interrupts her. It’s again in her teasing tone, but there’s slightly more harshness to it. “I’m going to run to the restroom—do you know where it is?”
“Oh yeah, I saw it when we came in. I can show . . . ,” I begin, my voice suddenly recovered, and I start to push toward the door.
“I was talking to Shortie Aronzo,” Kensington interrupts me. She takes Sofia by the elbow and yanks her toward the door. Right before they step into the hall, she calls over her shoulder, “By the way, she already stalked your PhotoReady page!”
And I swear, if I could locate a fire extinguisher right now, I would use it to put out the blaze on my face. But Tate, to his great credit, only laughs at this news, retrieving his phone from his back pocket. “I assume you found me after I was stalking you?” he asks. “Which would make me the primary stalker.”
“Um, yeah,” I say, grateful that my voice sounds fairly normal. “I saw you had starred my photos, so I went snooping on your profile.” I decide to be honest. “Your pictures are pretty awesome. Not pretty awesome, actually—definitely awesome.”
“Thank you,” Tate replies. “And your Forced Socialization picture made me laugh.”
“That was Kensington’s idea,” I tell him. “I mean, I took the picture, but she’s the one who told me to post it.”
“It was great, even if it was a group effort,” Tate says. “So where’re you from?”
“New Jersey,” I answer, waiting for a Kensington-like dismissive response. After all, if Tate is also from a city, then I’m sure the suburbs of South Jersey seem as boring to him as they do to my loudmouth roommate. He’ll probably lose interest in this entire conversation immediately, and my pictures won’t seem so “interesting” anymore.
“Oh, excellent,” Tate responds. “I assume that explains your name?”
“You know Avalon?” I ask. “Kensington told me you were from Boston.”
“So you already asked about me, huh?” Tate says, a slig
ht smile appearing on his lips. “I’m kidding you,” he continues before I can answer. “I’m from the suburbs of Boston, but my grandparents had a place on the Jersey Shore for most of my childhood. I mean, I guess we’re technically still in our childhoods, but you know what I mean.”
I nod. “My grandparents mostly live in Florida,” I tell him. “But, like, dull Florida.”
“Not near the beach and not near Disney World?” he asks.
“Exactly,” I say, and I feel a grin spread across my face despite myself. I quickly pull my lips over my teeth, hiding my braces, and I try to change the subject. “So have you been to New York before?”
“I have,” Tate answers as my phone begins to vibrate incessantly. I look down and see Celia’s face on my screen, calling me again.
“Sorry,” I tell him, silencing Celia’s call. “So you have been here before?”
“Yeah, my family comes down quite a bit,” he answers. “How about you?”
“Only twice,” I tell him as, yet again, my phone begins going to town. I hit decline and shove the phone deep into my pocket.
“Is everything okay?” Tate asks.
“Yeah, sorry, just my best friend,” I explain. “I told her I couldn’t talk now, but she’s insistent.” I see Sofia and Kensington enter the room as Roberto asks us to return to our seats so he can give us our photo quest for the day.
“See you later, @AvalonByTheC,” Tate says as I follow my roommates down our row.
“Bye, @Tater . . . ,” I begin. “You know, I can’t take you seriously with that PhotoReady name.”
“It’s pretty great, right? Who doesn’t like tater tots?”
I find myself smiling as we plop down into our seats, and Sofia says, much more loudly than I would like, “He is cute with a capital Q.”
“Shhhh,” I shush her. “Seriously, do you have to be so loud?”
“See, he is cute,” Sofia persists at the same volume as before. “You wouldn’t be getting so huffy about it if you didn’t think so.”
“It’s not that,” I begin, but thankfully, Roberto saves me with three booming claps to get our attention.
Spring Break Mistake Page 7