Screenshot

by Donna Cooner

  Her skin is wrong. Her hair is wrong. And now her body is wrong? Megan slams the car door behind her. I roll my window down.

  “Have fun,” I call out, but Megan doesn’t answer back.

  She follows Lulu up the drive, her back stiff. Watching her, my throat tightens. I pick up my phone and open ChitChat to write a new post.

  SO DEPRESSED SEEING MY LITTLE SISTER LEARN ALL ABOUT FACEFIX. DO WE REALLY NEED TO BE FIXED????

  I hit share, then put my phone down and drive on to school.

  * * *

  The gym smells like stale sweat and buzzes with excitement. If I weren’t so nervous, I’d be patting myself on the back for the amazing turnout. Everywhere I look are lines of résumé-carrying kids greeting polite, smiling recruiters.

  Senator Watson’s table is set way back in the far corner of the gym. I made sure it would be in a quiet spot away from the more popular tables recruiting for lifeguards and summer camp counselors.

  I walk toward the table and take a couple of deep breaths to calm my jitters.

  Then I sit down nervously on a gray folding chair positioned in front of the metal table and check my watch. It’s just as bad to be too early as too late. A sign taped to the wall says someone will be with me shortly. My foot taps against the gym floor and I pull my wool coat in tighter around my body even though the heat is blasting through the floor vents.

  Veronica Patterson is at the next table over, handing out flyers for lifeguard classes at the YMCA. The rumor is she’s considering running for student body president senior year, and she would probably be my biggest competition if I decide to throw my hat in the ring. She catches me looking at her, tosses her long blonde braid over one shoulder, and gives me a fake smile. Suspicion nags at my brain.

  Could she be the one threatening me with the screenshot?

  Suddenly, I see a young man walking toward the table with one hand outstretched. I stand and shake his hand firmly, just like I practiced.

  “Good afternoon,” he says. “My name is James Scott. I’m the regional director for Senator Watson’s office. You must be …” He looks down at the pad of paper in his hands. “Skye Matthews?”

  Remember the to-do list. Smile more.

  I give him a smile and nod. But then I blow it when my voice cracks on my hello. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Scott,” I say.

  “Please, call me James.” He is younger than I expected, with brown skin, brown eyes, and a head full of curly black hair. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a loose red tie. “Please. Sit.” He motions to my chair and I sit back down. “Would you like to get comfortable?”

  I know what he means. I can’t sit through the interview with a winter coat on. With great reluctance, I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the back of my chair, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my throat.

  This is it.

  James pauses only slightly, taking in my outfit. I am sitting there, for all the world to see, in my pink prom dress. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something.

  He doesn’t. He pulls out a messy pile of résumés from a leather satchel at his feet. He bundles the papers up into one stack, picks up a notepad underneath, and then pushes his tortoiseshell glasses back up his nose. He says, “If you’ll just give me a minute, then we can chat.”

  I think that he could use some help with his office organization. Maybe I can work that into one of my answers?

  I bite my lip, glancing around the gym while I wait. I see a couple of people looking my way, confused expressions on their faces. Veronica’s BFF, Maria Salazar, is standing by her now. They are both blatantly staring at me. Their mouths are dropped wide open and flyers are frozen outstretched in their hands.

  I look down, then back up. Two boys who are friends with Luke are standing over by the gym door, whispering and laughing. They point my way and pull in another boy walking by to share my humiliation. The one in the middle catches my eye and gives a loud whistle.

  I know what everyone is wondering. Why is Skye at an interview in her winter prom dress? The whispers and stares swirl around me like clouds rolling in over the mountains.

  The heat crawls up my neck. I lean forward to help my hair hide the red blotches on my throat that will surely follow.

  James keeps flipping through the stack of papers, humming softly under his breath, until he finally unearths the one with my name on the top.

  I watch as he scans my life, his eyes moving rapidly down the page.

  How could he possibly know who I am by looking at that paper?

  It’s time to bring my A game. My eyes flick up to meet his, straight on, and I plaster on my best customer-service smile. All those hours at Kmart are finally going to be good for something. If I can handle Dead Goldfish Man, I can handle this.

  To-do list. Lead with a compliment.

  “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” I say. “It’s truly an honor. Senator Watson is such an inspiration.”

  James smiles back at me. Then he starts to recite what must be a well-worn spiel. “Our office has a competitive internship program for students, in both Senator Watson’s Washington and Colorado offices. These structured internships provide the opportunity to learn about the role of a senatorial office and to be of service to our local community.” He stops for minute and looks down at my résumé, then back up at me. “Now, tell me why you’d like to intern for Senator Watson.”

  I nod enthusiastically. “I feel like this internship will provide me with a unique opportunity to conduct policy research, attend hearings, write legislative reports, and respond to constituent inquiries at a local level. And everything starts right here in Colorado, at Senator Watson’s home office.”

  That sounds good, even if most of it came right off the internship website.

  “But you understand the job can also include some rather menial tasks, like answering phones, greeting guests, and even making coffee?” James asks.

  “I would love to do menial tasks,” I gush.

  James laughs.

  “I mean …” The heat is now in my face.

  “I knew what you meant,” he says. “So tell me a little about yourself, Skye.” He picks up a pen from the table and writes a quick note on the top of his pad.

  I start talking. I’m nervous, but the words come easily, no stumbling or pauses.

  Just like you practiced.

  “I’m a junior here at Rocky Mountain High School. I’m vice president of our student council. I work at Kmart, and I volunteer at Habitat for Humanity.” I know nothing I’m saying is any different from what’s on my résumé, but he nods and scribbles notes on his paper. His face is steady, his expression bland and unreadable. Unimpressed.

  Talk about the senator’s platform.

  “I know Senator Watson is working hard to secure equal pay for equal work and make college affordable to everyone.”

  James nods, writing. While his eyes are focused on the paper, I glance around again. Then I see them: my besties. Emma and Asha are over by the basketball goals, staring at me with shocked expressions. Asha makes crazy circles at her ear with one finger and Emma’s eyes are huge.

  Quickly, I look back at James, trying to shut out the curious bystanders.

  “Both those causes are extremely important for me, of course. To me.” I fumble with the words, mentally kicking myself. “Because I’m going to college in a few years and I want to be able to make just as much as a man in the same job.”

  Duh. I should have said it more eloquently.

  James glances over my shoulder—behind me is a constant hum of conversation—then back down at his pad. The clock on the wall is ticking down the minutes of my precious opportunity.

  Change it up. Make him notice.

  He’s obviously ignoring the elephant in the room—the big sparkly pink one that I’m wearing. Maybe he thinks I think prom wear is business attire?

  “You might be wondering why
I would wear something like this”—I motion down to my disaster of a dress—“to meet you.”

  James looks up with a quick double blink. That gets his attention. He didn’t expect me to deal with all the lace and ruffles head-on.

  “Since you mentioned it, I was wondering. Your dress is”—he pauses—“nice, but …” His voice trails off.

  “It’s not what you’d expect to see someone wear to an interview,” I say.

  “True,” he says. “We believe the appearance of interns makes a statement about themselves and about Senator Watson. They should conduct themselves in responsible manner, be courteous, dependable … and dress professionally.”

  “And this isn’t exactly what you would call professional. That’s why I wore it.” My chin goes up. This is what I’d planned to do, and there’s no backing down now. “Not because I’m ignorant of Senator Watson’s platform. In fact, it’s just the opposite.”

  He raises his eyebrows in a question.

  “I believe it’s critical we stop judging a strong woman by the clothes she wears,” I say, and I can say it easily, because I mean it. “Girls are given all kinds of mixed messages about how they should look and how they should dress.” I meet his gaze. This could backfire in a spectacular way, but I’m willing to risk it. “You had an instant impression of me when you saw my dress, didn’t you?”

  James’s face goes blank. “Perhaps,” he says slowly.

  “You might have thought I was frivolous? Or not very smart? Or too girly for this kind of work?”

  “Perception and image are very important in politics, even if we don’t like it. Femininity is a fine line to walk when …”

  I set my jaw. How DARE he?

  “Women make up only sixteen percent of Congress?” I don’t drop my eyes. Now I’m talking off script, and it feels good. “Almost five times more men than women hold elected office in our country, yet women make up over half the population. That means we have over half of the skills, knowledge, and talents in this country and aren’t able to use them to benefit our communities.”

  I stop talking, but the zeal is still hanging in the air between us.

  “Well.” James pauses, thinking, his long fingers tapping on the tabletop. I shift my weight on the chair. He is impressed. I can tell. “You certainly know how to stand out from the crowd.”

  Relief washes over me. “I’m a very hard worker, Mr. Scott, no matter what I’m wearing. I will do anything. I’ll bring coffee, carry boxes, move furniture, and run errands. Whatever is needed.”

  My relief is changing to hope. I picture myself in the internship. I can almost hear the hustle of the people in suits racing up the steps to important meetings, votes and bills and hearings. And me, running along after senators, weighed down with books and briefcases. Eating takeout at a shared crowded desk in the wee hours of the morning. Debating policy and change with spark-eyed, like-minded dreamers.

  “And all in a prom dress?” James asks.

  I shake my head. “Of course not.”

  My brain is still spinning with ideas about my future. If I get this internship, it is only the beginning. Maybe one day I’ll be in DC—in the shadow of the Washington Monument. At night, I will stand on the top step of the Jefferson Memorial and look out over the lights of the city. Maybe I’ll whisper a secret into the ear of a stone soldier at the Korean War Memorial or toss a lucky penny into the reflecting pool. No matter what, I’ll be there. Where it all happens.

  “You understand, just like all legislative employees and volunteers, interns may be subject to a background check?” James asks.

  “Of course,” I say, beaming with my newfound confidence.

  Then he adds one final thing.

  “While interns keep their rights of expression as citizens, we’re still going to want to check out your social media footprint. Since managing the senator’s online presence will be one of the major responsibilities of the internship, we want to make sure you’re up for the task. Do you have a problem with that?”

  My mental celebration screeches to a halt. As much as I hate this stupid dress, it’s nothing compared to that red nightie. I slide my hands into my lap and clasp them tightly together to stop them from trembling.

  “Absolutely not,” I say.

  Ryan usually spends his break at work in a dark, windowless room across from the public bathrooms, alternately staring at a tattered paper sign on the bulletin board that reads “Human Resources Is Here to Listen” and scrolling on his phone. Tonight, however, he needs a breath of air that isn’t tainted by Lysol air freshener.

  He sits at the $29.99 plastic picnic table just outside the range of the motion-sensored Kmart doors and thinks about Skye. It seems strange to be here without her familiar smile, but he hopes things went well for her at the job fair. He pulls out his phone and his fingers pause for only a minute. Then he sends her a text.

  RYAN: HEY U

  SKYE: WHAT’S UP

  RYAN: HOW DID INTERVIEW GO?

  SKYE: UGH I GOT A NEW CHITCHAT MESSAGE LAST NIGHT. I HAD TO WEAR MY WINTER PROM DRESS.

  RYAN: ???? TO THE INTERVIEW?

  SKYE: YES

  RYAN: SEND ME A PIC OF DRESS

  SKYE: K

  A photo comes through of a pink dress on a hanger. When Ryan looks at the photo, all he thinks about is how beautiful Skye must have looked on the night she wore this dress.

  She is waiting for him to respond. He types something, then deletes it, then types something else and deletes it, too. Finally, he decides on a reply and sends it.

  RYAN: WOW. SO HOW DID IT GO?

  SKYE: LONG STORY. R U WORKING TOMORROW?

  RYAN: NO. WANT TO TALK NOW?

  SKYE: MAYBE

  RYAN: MEET ME AT LORY PARK IN AN HOUR?

  SKYE: ???

  RYAN: WE CAN WALK AND TALK

  SKYE: I KNOW YOU’RE FROM CALIFORNIA, BUT THERE IS SNOW ON THE GROUND UP THERE

  RYAN: I HAVE SNOWSHOES ☺

  It is a beautiful afternoon for a walk, even with the big dinner platters—a.k.a. snowshoes—strapped to my feet. The air is crisp, but not cold.

  I meet Ryan in the parking lot. He’s wearing a red knit hat pulled low over his thick black hair and a long-sleeved soft gray T-shirt tucked into black snow pants. He stands up from buckling his snowshoe to his foot.

  Cassidy is running circles around us both, excited to be included.

  “Thanks for letting me bring her,” I say, snapping her leash to her collar. I’d grabbed a tennis ball from my car. Now I slide it into my pocket to save for later.

  “Are you kidding? I love dogs.” Ryan reaches down to pet Cassidy’s glossy brown head and her tail goes windshield-wiper crazy at the attention.

  Cassidy looks up at Ryan, then back to me, smiling her panting, happy-dog smile. She knows she is the center of attention and she loves it.

  From the parking lot, the snow-packed trail stretches out across the valley and then up the other side into a group of aspens, their white trunks speckled with black eyelike knobs. Beyond the trees are some of the highest peaks in the Rocky Mountains, stark jags of white ripping across the cloudless sky.

  The intense sun is unexpected after the cold spell, but a Colorado spring can be surprisingly warm. Today is one of those surprises. Sunshine reflects off the snow, creating a sparkling wonderland. I blink, enjoying the warmth on my face, like a cat finding a sunny spot on the carpet.

  All of a sudden, I feel strangely optimistic. The screenshot business has been frustrating, but what real harm has it done? If anything, I’ve managed to turn it around in my favor. That stupid pink prom dress, now lying in a ball on the floor of my bedroom, holds no power over me anymore. It’s just a shell.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  Ryan nods. “Let’s do this.”

  I start off slowly on the trail, and I can hear Ryan crunching along beside me. Walking is awkward at first, until we adjust to the unfamiliar weights on our feet. There is no wind and no sound except fo
r our breathing and footsteps.

  There is not another human in sight. I let Cassidy off her leash and she runs ahead, circling back to check on us periodically, then running ahead again to sniff the ground and gallop about in snowy puffs of doggy delight. Every so often, she leaps off the trail and into the drifts, popping in and out of the snow like a seal. This time, when she comes back to us, her dark brown nose is covered with a dust of powder. I laugh.

  “What in the world gave you the idea to do this?” I ask Ryan.

  “I always thought it looked like fun in the movies.”

  “Doesn’t California have snow somewhere? Tahoe?” I ask.

  “Sure. I guess we just weren’t much for winter sports in my family. I snowboarded a few times, but was never very good at it,” he says. “This is much easier. All you have to do is walk.”

  “Yeah, it just takes a little while to get used to it.” I look over at him and smile.

  The sudden movement throws me off balance. I catch the tip of my snowshoe on the soft powder on the edge of the trail, and fall toward Ryan’s shoulder. I twist my body, desperately seeking balance, and throw my hands out to keep the solid wall of white from rushing up toward my face. For a second, I think I might save it all at the last minute, reaching out to grab on to the one solid thing in reach—Ryan. But then we both go down in a tangled mess of snowshoes, arms, and legs.

  When we finally get untangled, I can’t stop laughing. Ryan is laughing at me laughing. So we lie there on our backs, snowshoes pointed toward the sky, laughing and laughing and laughing. Cassidy noses her way in between us, sniffing at our faces to make sure we’re okay. The laughter slowly dies down, but we still lie there on our backs like spent snow angels, faces up to the sun. I look over at Ryan. He’s just smiling up at the sky.

  Ryan finally sits up, then stands—carefully negotiating his balance. He offers his hand, palm up, and I grab it, pulling myself to my feet. He helps set me upright, keeping one arm around my waist until he’s sure I’m stable, and then we keep walking. I realize that in this moment, I’m not self-conscious about my size, or the way my breath comes hard when I walk, and that feels good.