by Donna Cooner
Ryan says, “I thought you were the experienced one here.”
“Me?” I laugh. “I’ve never been snowshoeing before. Despite being from Colorado.”
He rolls his eyes. “So what good are you, then?” he teases.
“Fake it till you make it.” I playfully punch his shoulder and waddle off in front of him.
“So how did the interview go?” he asks, when he catches up.
“It was almost a big disaster.” We are both panting harder as we head up the hill toward the trees, our breath puffing out in white clouds of exertion. “But I was able to make it out alive.”
I tell him about James’s questions and my answers while we keep walking slowly up the hill and into a grove of bare aspens.
There’s a stack of boulders in the sun and we stop for a moment. I sit on the rock and Ryan joins me, both of us soaking in the warmth.
“That’s smart, how you handled the whole dress thing,” Ryan tells me.
“Thank you,” I say, grateful to have his support. I feel a flash of guilt that I’m not sharing this moment with Luke instead. But he’s at his soccer team meeting. And it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. Ryan’s just a friend.
“So what do you think about snowshoeing?” Ryan asks.
“Awesome,” I say.
“I agree.” He nods, then leans toward me. “You have a little something … here.”
He reaches over, carefully tugging a twig out of my hair, then holding it out for me to see.
“Leftover from our nosedive earlier.” Laughing, I brush my tangled hair back from my face with my fingers and dust the snow off the front of my jacket. I must look like a mess.
I glance up at the sky. The only thing to indicate there are any other people on earth is the white streak of an airplane across the cloudless blue. I think about how the sky, the sun, those mountains are all out of human control. But someone made that airplane. Someone is flying it right now. People are guiding it toward its destination and others will be waiting to lead it into the gate at the airport. Every person in every seat of that airplane is going somewhere, but they are passively waiting in their seats to get there.
I don’t want to be buckled into a seat belt, eating small handfuls of peanuts and drinking from tiny plastic cups, with someone else in control of my destiny. I don’t want my life to streak away under someone else’s direction. That’s exactly how the screenshot makes me feel—out of control. Even out here in the middle of nowhere, everything reminds me.
I pull the almost-forgotten yellow tennis ball out of my pocket. At the sight of it, Cassidy dances around my feet and I throw it out into the field in front of us. Within seconds, she’s back, dropping the ball at my feet and waiting impatiently for the next toss. This time, Ryan picks it up and throws it. The bright yellow of the ball is easy to find, in stark contrast to the snow, but it’s tough going to navigate the drifts. Cassidy leaps in and out of the snow, racing across the field at lightning speed to snatch up the ball. Then she’s back again—waiting—the ball carefully placed at Ryan’s feet.
“I have to warn you,” I tell him. “You’ll wear out before she does.”
He laughs. “It’s okay. I miss my dog. He died a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What kind of dog?”
“He was a rescue. Part pit bull. Part something else. Smartest dog on the planet.” He looks down at Cassidy, who has just placed the ball carefully between his two snowshoes and is waiting hopefully. Smiling, he picks up the ball and throws it again. “Present company excluded, of course.”
I smile. “Of course.”
Eventually, Ryan convinces Cassidy to take a break, but she keeps the tennis ball between her paws just in case. He pulls off his backpack and hands me a water bottle, then takes out one for himself. He carefully pours some of his water into a small cup and puts it on the ground for Cassidy, who laps it up. Then she stretches out in a sunny spot to pant happily.
“You’re her new best friend,” I tell Ryan.
“I think animals know when you’re their kind of people,” he says, and takes a swig from his water bottle. “I volunteered at the animal shelter back in California. I miss it.”
While I drink out of the water bottle, he fumbles around a bit more in his bag until he pulls out a camera. He drapes the strap around his neck and fiddles with the buttons and dials. “I took portraits of the shelter animals to help them get adopted,” he explains.
“You’re a good photographer,” I say, leaning back against the rock behind me with my hands clasped on top of my head. The heat from the sun seeps into my sweatshirt. “I’ve seen some of your pictures online.”
“Thanks. I’m trying to get better at landscapes.” He lifts the camera to his eye and stands up to face the horizon, snapping a few pictures of Cassidy and the mountains beyond. “The rule of thirds.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He pulls his camera down. “The sky should take up a third of the photo, the background the middle third, and the foreground the lower third.”
I look back out at the valley with a new perspective. “So Cassidy is in the foreground?”
He grins. “Yeah. Do you want to be in the photos with her?”
I think about the beautiful girl who is in so many of Ryan’s photos online. Amy. I shake my head. “I’d rather just Cassidy be the model.”
I finish my water and hand Ryan back the bottle, thanking him for it. Then he stands up and takes some shots of Cassidy, and some of just the landscape. When he shows me the photos on his camera, I am impressed. My favorite is the one of a snow-covered pine and the mountains in the distance.
“The rule of thirds,” I say, tapping the screen, and Ryan grins back at me.
“You’re a much better student than my cousin Amy,” he says.
“Cousin?” I repeat. I want to make sure I heard right.
He nods. “She lives in San Francisco. In my old neighborhood. She used to be my model for portraiture work. She was always wanting me to take pictures of her and all her girlfriends.” He packs his water bottle into his backpack and puts the lens cap back on his camera. “But all she really cares about is looking good in the photo.”
Amy is his cousin?
“She’s gorgeous,” I blurt, then feel my face growing hot. Now he knows I’ve been seriously checking him and all his friends out online.
He just smiles. “Believe me, she knows it.”
I play with the zipper on my jacket, feeling self-conscious. “I wish I had her confidence.”
I think of the screenshot and he must, too.
“You have no reason not to be confident,” Ryan tells me.
I feel my face grow warm, and I try to explain. “Look, every time I go online, I’m slammed with hundreds of people who are prettier, smarter, richer … better than me. I can’t help but think, What’s wrong with me? And that screenshot? It brings all that into focus.” My words come out more fervently than I intended.
Ryan frowns. “Well, the whole point of being online is to not to post anything imperfect. Instead everyone shows only the best parts, the edited version, of their life.”
I feel bad because I know he’s right. And then I feel bad about feeling bad. Because I know that’s how social media works.
“So on a scale of one to ten, if you had to guess, who do you think is blackmailing you?” he asks.
I take a breath. It needs saying. “Asha is about a seven, maybe an eight.”
“Why?”
“She always teases me—daring me to do things outside my comfort zone. But it’s not just me. She does it to everyone.”
“Because it’s funny?” His eyebrows draw together like he’s trying to understand.
I shrug. “I guess.” Was Asha being funny, or just being in control?
“Wearing that dress to the interview could have ruined everything for you. That’s not so funny,” he says.
“I know.” I slide back on the roc
k, letting my snowshoes dangle awkwardly above the ground. “When we were kids, Asha was so bossy. Always telling me what to do and where to go. Who to be friends with. What to wear. At the time, her shadow felt comfortable … sort of like a safety net.”
“And now?” Ryan asks quietly.
I shrug. “We aren’t kids anymore.”
He turns toward me, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head so I can see his eyes. “Why are you friends with someone like that?”
For some reason, that gets me. It’s a question I’ve asked myself too many times.
“We’ve been friends forever. People expect us to be together.”
I realize that’s also how I feel about Luke. We’ve been together for a while, so people expect us to stay together. That’s what makes being with him easy. But I realize I could never talk to Luke like I’m talking to Ryan now.
“Don’t you ever do anything completely unexpected?” Ryan asks. “Like hang out with someone new …” He gives me this smile like he’s daring me to do something wildly astonishing. “And different?”
I look at him. There is something between us—it makes my insides dance. I laugh awkwardly. “I thought that’s what I am doing right now.”
“Interesting,” Ryan says, pulling his sunglasses back over his eyes. The grin stays on his face.
I look away from Ryan and back out at the field in front of us. The longer, sideways rays of the sun are softer now, turning the white expanse into crystal halos of light. Our tracks look like a giant rabbit hopped across the valley.
My voice is quieter. “I hope I’m wrong about Asha.”
“For your sake, I hope so, too.” He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear his brain of a problem. “I left some good friends behind when I moved here. I miss seeing them every day, but they’ll always be there for me.”
“I guess not everyone who starts out with you in life will finish with you,” I tell him. “Sometimes you have to let go of things … or people.”
The sudden relaxing of his face could be anything, approval or understanding. I’m not sure. I stand up carefully, balancing on my snowshoes. Cassidy lifts her head, ears perked up and tongue hanging out one side of her mouth.
“We should head back,” I say. “It gets dark quick once the sun starts going down behind the mountains.”
Emma sits nervously in the Lyric Cinema, along with the other contest applicants. They have submitted their proposals for their screenplays, and they’re waiting to get feedback from Alexander, the head judge.
Trying to feel confident, Emma reminds herself that films about difficult situations are always winners. Conflict. Drama. Heartbreak.
Emma glances around. The theater looks different with the lights up. The seats are a little shabbier and the floors a tad bit stickier. Emma counts six other people spread out in the first three rows—her competition. Their ideas might be good, too, but Emma knows there is no one in this room who wants this more than her. And she is willing to do anything. Anything. To win that trip to New York.
To distract herself, she takes out her phone and posts a quote from Rear Window on ChitChat, along with a photo of the empty theater seats in front of her. Someday her movies are going to fill these seats.
At the front of the theater, Alexander takes a folder out of a beat-up backpack and the air goes out of the room. It’s time.
Alexander speaks with a British accent, waves his hands around a lot, and loudly emphasizes key words. He holds up a stack of papers in his right hand and calls out across the room, “We shall begin.”
Emma stares at the back of the seat in front of her, her chest tight with anticipation.
“Remember, film is storytelling. A powerful method for generating empathy and understanding.” Alexander stalks back across the front of the theater, projecting his voice dramatically. “Your personality … views … ideas are going to be in this movie. There will be no difference between you and the movie. They are one.”
He pauses and glances around.
“Okay. Who’s up first?” Alexander asks the group.
A middle-aged woman with pink hair practically jumps out of her seat in the first row, racing up to stand beside Alexander like she is receiving an Academy Award. She gives her pitch: Her script will be a love story and her inspiration is Casablanca. Alexander tells her it has real potential and everyone oohs and ahhs in appreciation. Pink-haired woman practically dances her way back to her seat.
Emma drums her fingers against the armrests. Next up is a guy about Emma’s age whose idea is a sci-fi script inspired by Star Wars. Alexander critiques it a bit, but then gives him a thumbs-up. Then there’s a murder mystery idea, inspired by Dial M for Murder, another Hitchcock movie. Emma hopes nobody else chose Rear Window.
Finally, it’s her turn. She gets up and stands beside Alexander, pitching her concept to him and the other applicants.
“We’re looking for big ideas, Emma,” Alexander tells her when she’s finished. “You have the basic concepts of an amazing plot, but I want to see more. If you want to make this script rise to the top, you need to amp up the internal emotional landscape. Make us feel it! We don’t only want to see creativity in these short films, we want to see real emotion.”
A lump rises in Emma’s throat, but her face remains perfectly still. Real emotion. The last thing she wants to do now is show everyone in the room what her emotions are.
Feelings are something she’s very good at hiding. She’s had years of perfecting the art.
It’s just after seven in the morning, and it’s so warm under my covers I don’t even want to stick my nose out of the blanket. I don’t know why my mother will not turn up the heat! It’s a constant battle between us—me turning it up and her yelling at me about how much money it costs.
I stretch one hand out for my phone on the nightstand and snatch it back quickly under my toasty little cover tent. The phone glows to life in my hand and I quickly search through all the possible windows for bad news. There’s just the usual stuff: people posting about their homework or what they had for dinner or what movie they watched.
I have a text from Luke asking me how the interview went. I’m able to text back and honestly say it went well.
I went to bed last night feeling I’d somehow managed to pull off a good impression at the interview—pink dress and all. I should be happy. And I am. But there is this tiny little voice somewhere behind my ears that tells me this can’t last. When one thing goes well, something else has to happen to balance the karma out. You can’t have wonderful forever. Everyone knows that.
No emails or phone calls from Senator Watson’s office.
There are also no messages from my mysterious blackmailer. I fall back onto the pillow, closing my eyes in relief.
Finally, I drag myself out of bed and step over the pile of pink dress on my floor on the way to the shower. There is a nagging thought still roaming around my brain that I can’t shake. I told James in the interview that women are judged too much on their appearance and image. Yet I’m the one doing everything possible not to jeopardize my image by letting someone share that screenshot with the world.
The truth is I do care what people think of my image.
I’m a hypocrite.
* * *
When I get to school, I find Asha sitting on the floor by my locker, books spread out in front of her Converse sneakers. The steady stream of students flows around her like water going around a boulder in the stream. She’s impossible to ignore.
Today she looks fierce in her Topshop oversized cardigan and shredded Joe’s jeans. Her thick black hair is pulled up in a ponytail.
“Why should I even care about this stupid AP Government test?” she wails when she sees me. “Don’t they know no one can concentrate the week before spring break? I give up.”
“You’re not a quitter,” I say, which is definitely true.
Ignoring me, she pulls her phone out and snaps a selfie—positioning the phone to captur
e the most impressive view of the books in front of her. In typical Asha fashion, she must document every moment of her day—even not studying. It’s like her life depends on her making sure everyone knows she is alive.
#IAmAshaMirza stressed.
“When is your test?” I ask.
She fumbles with selecting the best filters for the photo, her face buried in her phone. “Monday,” she finally answers, then looks up from her phone and begs, “Take it for me.”
That gets a laugh out of me. As if. “No way. I’m getting through next week, then spring break here I come.”
Except I won’t be snowboarding every day like you. My vacation will be spent working. At a Kmart. That’s closing.
I take off my coat and put it in my locker. I dressed carefully this morning. My black jeans, black high-topped Vans, and black striped tee are as far away from pink lace as I can possibly get.
But it doesn’t help.
“Hey, Skye. Don’t you think you’re a little underdressed today?” Will Johnson, one of Luke’s soccer buddies, calls out from the top of the stairs.
His girlfriend, Melanie, leans against him and laughs. Her face is flat and round, with a turned-up nose and bow-shaped lips.
“Haven’t you heard?” she says. “Pink ball gowns are the newest professional wardrobe staple.”
Asha scowls at her threateningly, and Melanie holds her hands up in mock surrender. She says, “Even you have to admit it was weird.”
Will grabs Melanie by the hand and they head back toward the band hall.
“Thanks,” I tell Asha when they’re gone. But she only turns her scowl on me.
“What were you thinking wearing that dress?” Asha demands. “You’re the one who led that whole student council workshop last month on how to dress for your summer internship. Now this?”
I shrug my shoulders, but don’t say anything.
“I don’t think I even know you anymore,” Asha huffs.
The feeling is mutual. All of a sudden I want to cry. I don’t trust her anymore and I hate it.
Emma comes around the corner then, wearing a huge smile. I feel myself relax. Emma always brings a feeling of peace. Today she looks like she just stepped off the pages of an album cover. She’s wearing a felt hat and a short flowered dress with black tights.
