Queen of Likes

by Hillary Homzie

  Waiting for Ren to start, I glance around, making sure that the desk-stealer is not eyeing my chair. I’m sitting next to the purple-haired girl in the front row again. Nothing embarrassing will happen to me this time.

  Ren hops up from behind his desk. Today he’s wearing cowboy boots and they thump on the floor as he shuffles to the podium. I guess he thinks he’s a British cowboy.

  Everyone in the class gets quiet.

  “Today, as promised,” he says in his clipped accent, “we’ll be discussing the history of photography.” I give the purple-haired girl a look. Her name is Veena. The whole time? History? I get a lot of that at the historical society.

  Ren pulls down a screen that whizzes over the whiteboard.

  “Can’t we get to the taking photos part?” I whisper, and Veena nods. What is it with history? Why is everyone obsessed with the past? Back then everyone made mistakes.

  Behind me, the desk-stealer calls out, “Hey, you in the pink hoodie. I know you.”

  Heads turn to stare at me.

  “Yeah, I know her too,” says Photo Lens Boy.

  Ren’s voice cuts in. “Save the chitchat for later.”

  I feel the tips of my ears redden. Not sure what they are thinking but these boys definitely don’t know me. What’s their problem?

  “Okay, then. Let’s begin.” Ren grips the podium as if he’s afraid it’s about to topple over any second. “Some people think that photography started in the 1800s.” He leans forward, checking to see if we are those sort of people.

  Um, not me. To be honest, I never really thought about it. Seems like cameras have always been around, like bread or milk or orange juice.

  “Any guesses on when photography actually started?” He drums his fingers. Ren explains how it started in fifth-century China and something about refracting light. I’m not sure I’m totally following. He also explains that a camera is just a box with a little hole.

  Some people laugh at that.

  Then he moves onto the Renaissance and perspective and talks about how everything used to look before that, in terms of paintings.

  Whoa. There was a time, long ago, when everything looked flat? This is blowing my mind.

  Then he goes on about a camera obscura and wet plates and daguerreotypes. Suddenly I’m feeling like I’m in high school, or even college. Some old photos flash up on the screen. They look like the black-and-white ones at the historical society. The girls wear lace-up boots. The high-collared dresses look like curtains with tassels.

  “The world is different because of photography.” Ren claps his hand so loudly that anyone asleep is now definitely awake. “Why?”

  “Before you had to paint a scene or a person if you wanted to remember it or fix it in time,” says Veena.

  “It’s a way to share stuff,” says a boy in the back row.

  Everyone has an opinion.

  “It’s a way to express yourself.”

  “Politicians use images for their campaigns.”

  “And companies use it to get you to buy their stuff.”

  Ren smiles. “Yes, all of that.”

  Next he tells us to get into small groups and talk about how photography has changed us.

  I’m in the group with Erin and Veena. Erin talks more about rotten skinny model photos, and Veena says that she loves photos that take her someplace she’s never been. I’m about to say what I think when Photo Lens Boy yells out, “Hey, Pink Hoodie, I know where I know you from.”

  I whip around to tell him to shut up.

  Photo Lens Boy points at me. “You’re that girl at Merton on Snappypic all the time.”

  “You had a gazillion followers,” adds the desk-stealer.

  My heart is pounding. “That’s me.” How could I forget?

  “How come you don’t post anymore?” asks Photo Lens Boy.

  People are turning around to look.

  “Because”—all of the eyes in the room are now on me—“my parents closed my account.”

  “Too bad,” says the desk-stealer. “But you can still take pictures and share them. Just in a different way.”

  “True,” I say. None of the kids seem to be looking at me funny. In fact, most of the kids are now fiddling with their cameras. They’re not really looking at me. I take a deep breath and try not to think about Snappypic. I try to be here, right now, in this class.

  My Stats:

  2 boys who know me from Snappypic

  2 girls who sit next to me and are cool

  1 pinhole in a box that can capture light

  3 dimensions that can be captured in a photo

  Mood: Kind of happy to be where I am, right here, right now. And looking forward to getting crazy on Crazy Hair Day this coming Monday.

  18

  MONDAY, MARCH 19: DAY 16 UNLIKED (BUT NOT FOR LONG!)

  That’s the Point

  As I walk downstairs to breakfast, Mom’s phone clatters to the counter. She blinks hard like she is trying to blink away the image of my hair. “Karma. What. Have. You. Done?”

  “I’ve spotted my hair like a cheetah. For Crazy Hair Day.”

  Dad stands up to inspect and chuckles much too loudly. “Woo-wee. Let’s hope it’s not permanent.” Even Lucky, who hovers by his dog bowl, backs away like I’m a stranger.

  “It’s temporary.” At least that’s what it said on the box. First I sprayed it white-blond with some Halloween dye, then dotted on black spots with a toothbrush dipped in black hair dye.

  “You look crazy,” says Toby.

  “That’s the point.” I tap my head. “It’s Crazy Hair Day today. Remember?”

  “Right.” Dad taps his balding head. “Guess it would be harder for me to get crazy with this.”

  “Can I make my hair spotty, too?” asks Toby. “Please? Can I, can I, please?”

  I shake my head. “You have to wait until middle school to do something like this.”

  Toby slumps in his chair. “Not fair. I want crazy hair.”

  Mom frowns at Dad’s phone, which sits on the kitchen table next to his bowl. “You’d think the school would have given the parents some kind of notification or something.”

  Dad picks up his cell and scrolls through. Since we don’t have a home phone anymore, all of the messages go to Dad’s phone. “Yup. I see. A message from the school here from last Friday, and also one last night.” He shrugs. “No need to read them. Looks like they warned us.”

  Mom leans over Dad’s shoulder.  “Hal, thirty-six unread messages? How can you not check your messages?”

  “Hey, can you guys take a photo of me?” I ask.

  “There’s no time,” says Mom. “Eat your breakfast quickly. You have five minutes before we have to leave. And Hal”—she turns her head to my dad—“you have fifteen minutes before you take Toby to school.”

  Dad takes another sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I’m well aware.” Normally Mom takes me to school and Dad bikes with Toby to his.

  “Are you sure it’s called Spirit Week?” asks Toby. “Cause it could be Spiritless Week.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get it? Spiritless Week? Where everyone is like this.” He flops out of his chair, drops onto the ground with a thud, then drags himself across the floor, yawning. “See, all bored and stuff.”

  “Like a zombie?” Dad jokes.

  “There is no such thing as Spiritless Week.” I sigh. Sometimes seven-year-olds can be so silly. I smile. Okay, sometimes silly is good.

  Stressed

  As I cross the street on the block before school, I’m suddenly disgusted by how many kids stupidly decided not to do anything for Crazy Hair Day. Volleyball girls pass by me with their long, straight hair pulled into ponytails, and boys with normal crew cuts head into the building.

  So much for all of my and Ella’s publicity efforts. Well, especially Ella. She was on it all last week. Me, not so much.

  Right in front of the school on a big sign in moveable letters, it says:

  HAPPY SPIRIT WE
EK!

  Ethan Loomis slumps by me holding his sax like it weighs a ton, with his regular old look: unwashed, stringy, greasy hair, which is uncrazy and normal for him. And behind him, a whole gaggle of sixth-grade girls are playing with a Magic Eight Ball and not one of them, not a single, solitary one, has done anything remotely crazy about her hair. One girl has pigtails, but just two as opposed to, say, three, four, or five. Had they not seen the Crazy Hair Day posters? Like the one that says The Eighth Grade Rocks Spirit Week or Ella’s Get Spirit-erized poster. Or that giant sign in front of the school?

  Were they all not on Snappypic?

  Does anybody care?

  Did all of the Merton Middle School spirit get sucked into a black hole, and is it alive and well in another normal hair-day galaxy?

  Really Crazy

  As I shuffle outside the entrance to the school, some boys with regular, mashed-down hair in wool beanies are pointing at me and laughing.

  “It’s called Crazy Hair Day,” I say, pointing to the spots. “So let’s not all stare at once.”

  That’s when Ella appears next to our usual meeting spot. She cups her mouth so hard it makes a popping sound. Her eyes widen as she winces. “Did you not get the message?”

  “What message?” My heart is starting to pound way too loudly. Because I’m noticing something truly crazy.

  “The school changed it,” she says. “They made a huge announcement about it on Friday.”

  “Friday afternoon? That’s when I had my orthodontist appointment. How could you not tell me?”

  “Well, there were robo calls to parents. My mom got two. I’m sooo sorry, Karma. I should have called you, but I just thought you knew.”

  “Great. My dad never looks at his messages.” Behind me I can hear some gasps and giggles.

  Ella tilts her head. “Wow. I’m so, so sorry. And of all the days, it had to be picture day.”

  “Picture day?!!!” Not only am I the one person with polka-dot hair, but it’s also the day they take the photos that will be in the yearbook for posterity—and for all time. “This is for real?”

  Ella points to the posters taped onto the cinderblock wall. The posters I hadn’t noticed until today. It’s a photo of a smiling girl and its says:

  WEAR YOUR BEST SMILE TODAY IS PICTURE DAY!

  Other kids nearby nudge their friends and point and gawk at me.

  “I can’t believe this.” My heart is pounding. “I’m actually standing around with polka-dot hair. And less than three minutes ago, I thought there was something wrong with everyone else.”

  Ella’s face stretches into a hesitant smile. That’s when Auggie Elson and his posse pop up right next to me. He jerks his head around to stare at my polka-dot hair. “Talk about confused. Wow!”

  Then he holds up his phone.

  A flash fills the hallway and I’m screaming, “Go away!” But it’s too late, because Auggie has taken my photo for all of his followers to see.

  At this point I consider turning around and running home. My parents would understand.

  But no, I can’t. Nobody will be there.

  “You can borrow my hoodie,” says Ella. Then she pulls her phone out of her backpack and glances at it. She gulps hard. “He’s already posted it.”

  I stare at her screen. Then I take a deep breath. “Okay, okay, fine. Someone posted a photo of me. Fine. And that somebody happens to be Auggie. Fine. I can make this better.”

  Ella bites her lip. “It’s pretty bad.”

  “We can fix this. I just need a phone.”

  “We should go. So we’re not late for advisory.” Ella grabs my hand and we rush through the front entranceway into the school.

  “One phone. That’s all I need.” I stare at Ella pleadingly. Desperately.

  Ella peers down the hallway. “The bell’s about to ring.”

  “I dyed my hair to look like a cheetah. It looks pretty awesome, right?”

  “It does,” admits Ella hesitantly as kids streaming past do a double take.

  “And Crazy Hair Day is Tuesday, so with one phone”—I glance at Ella’s pocket—“with your phone, I could recoup. My life could get awesome again. Just give me two minutes.”

  Ella sighs, looks both ways, and quickly hands me her phone.

  I hold it up and take a selfie. “I’m going to make it look like I did it on purpose. A living advertisement for Crazy Hair Day.” I hunch over to caption the photo: I sacrificed my head so the seventh grade could get inspired! “Tomorrow everyone’s going to come to school with spotted hair and it’ll be great.” I wave Ella’s phone. “Woo-hoo! I posted it!”

  “Keep it down, Karma.”

  My eyes glance down at Ella’s phone. She has six apps that need updating. “You can set your phone to do this automatically, you know.”

  “No. Stop, Karma,” Ella begs.

  My fingers dance on the keyboard. “See, it’s already done!”

  A walkie-talkie crackles. An official-sounding voice snaps, “Is that a phone, Karma Cooper?”

  My Stats:

  8 black dots in my hair today

  2 bottles of hair dye to color my hair

  1 supposed best friend who forgot to tell me crucial information

  2 parents who failed to check messages

  ? number of Auggie’s followers who will see me during the moment of my supreme humiliation. I don’t know how many, exactly, but it will be huge.

  ? About to have my best friend’s phone put into cell phone jail

  Mood: Extremely flippin’ freaked out

  19

  MONDAY, MARCH 19: DAY 16 UNLIKED

  Bad Hair Day

  From the other end of the hall, Mrs. Wallace, the principal, marches right toward me. Students part like the Red Sea. She stares at my polka-dot hair. She stares at my phone. “What’s going on here?”

  “Um, I’m advertising Crazy Hair Day.”

  Mrs. Wallace crinkles her face as if she’s about to laugh but quickly catches herself. “So you know about the little school rule, right? No phones on campus when school is in session. You heard about that?”

  “Um, yeah.” My ribs squeeze all the air out of my chest. I’m not sure I’m breathing when I say, “I know about it. But it’s not advisory yet, and I was helping people.”

  Mrs. Wallace furrows her forehead. She runs her hands through her nonspotted blond updo. “I want to hear more about this.”

  Ella’s jaw drops.

  And that’s when Bailey, Megan, and Janel swish over toward me as I stand there with my polka-dot hair, being drilled by the principal. They’re blinking and squinting in confusion.

  “I’m—I’m just helping people,” I stammer. “I’m advertising Spirit Week. And then I was just . . .”

  “You were on your phone,” states Mrs. Wallace.

  Bailey elbows Megan and Janel.

  The warning bell rings.

  “Hand it to me,” commands Mrs. Wallace in a calm voice.

  With my heart pounding, I give her Ella’s phone.

  Mrs. Wallace sighs deeply. “You’ve had several warnings, Karma Cooper. You’ve already had three detentions. You know what this means.”

  I gasp.

  Then Mrs. Wallace examines the phone. A funny look crosses her face. “Hold on. I understand that these days you don’t really have a phone.” She peers at me intently. “Did you take someone else’s?”

  “No! I didn’t take anybody’s. Ella gave me hers. It’s very different.” And then I clamp my hands over my mouth. Oh, I shouldn’t have said that either. Bad Karma. Bad, bad Karma.

  Ella’s jaw drops farther. Bailey winces.

  Mrs. Wallace closes her eyes and shakes her head. She whips out a pink pad and pen from her pocket. “I’m writing you both up.”  Writing both of us up?

  “What’s going to happen?” asks Ella. Her face turns pale.

  “Well, Ms. Fuentes, your phone will be locked up in the office and you will get a detention.” Then she locks eyes with
me. “And you, Karma Cooper, will get an in-school suspension.”

  What?! My parents are going to kill me. “But it was all for a good cause,” I protest in one last-ditch effort.

  “I appreciate you wanting to be helpful, Karma. But you know the rules and you broke them.”

  Her usually friendly voice now sounds very official and extremely principal-y. Some kids turn to watch.

  I peer over at Ella as Mrs. Wallace clutches her aqua phone with its manga stickers.

  Ella blinks so rapidly her mascara smudges. Her eyes are getting red and wet-looking.

  “Please don’t lock up Ella’s phone,” I beg. “It’s all my fault.”

  “I’m sorry, but your friend will not get her phone back until she comes to school with her parents and gets a signature to have it released.”

  Ella gasps loudly. I groan. Ella’s mom is going to be sooo mad, not to mention my mom, too. And my dad. My cheeks burn. My arms are shaking.

  Mrs. Wallace motions for me to follow her down the hall. “Come with me to the office.”

  I’m so tremble-y, I’m not sure I can walk.

  “We’re going to have a little talk with your parents.”

  This does not get a LIKE at all.

  Can It Get Any Worse?

  “Dad, I was helping people. Seriously. That’s it.” We’re upstairs in the office atrium next to my parents’ bedroom. Earlier we had spent twenty minutes in the principal’s office with Mrs. Wallace going over what I had done wrong. I still can’t believe she “locked up” Ella’s phone and that Ella has detention.

  Ella’s mom is so strict. She’ll be ridiculously mad. And now my parents are more than a little bit upset. In-school suspension, the Merton Middle School version of prison, will start tomorrow. I have to do it for two days. Mom sits down next to me on the couch, and Dad leans against the built-in desk across from her. There’s no wall behind him since the office is on a mezzanine looking out over the living room.