Bailey fiddles with her scarf. “What? Tell us.”
“They were having a handstand contest.” I shake my head.
Bailey rolls her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Auggie and his friends are all going to play ukulele on Crazy Hair Day to get everyone into Spirit Week,” says Megan. I laugh at the idea as I tear into my turkey wrap.
“Graeme and Justin know how to play?” asks Janel.
Megan giggles. “No, but that never stops them.”
Bailey consults her notebook and shakes her head. “One week to get ready. I’ve still got to get my stuff for Crazy Hair Day.”
“It’s going to be so much fun,” says Megan. Kids at the next table hide their phones as Mr. Chase patrols around the circular tables with his walkie-talkie squawking.
“I’m going to put wires in my hair so my braids stick right up,” says Janel.
“I’m going for rainbow hair,” says Megan.
“I have this purple wig that’s really outrageous,” says Ella. Her voice is definitely less tentative as she talks about her Crazy Hair ideas.
“How about you, Karma?” asks Megan, who munches on some caramel corn.
“Oh, it’s going to be a surprise. I plan to out-crazy everyone.” Of course, I’ve been so busy I have no idea what that will be, but I’ll figure it out.
A Muddy Life
I’m with Dorina up in the stacks of the historical society. She’s showing me how to search through the historical research index (HRI). I biked over right after school. Anna is working downstairs with a bunch of volunteers getting ready for a rummage sale over the weekend. They’re selling donated items they don’t need. Since I brought my camera with me, I snapped shots of everyone setting up the sale items like old hats, typewriters, and stacks of books. I got great candids, including one of Karen in her banana earrings modeling a boa and a volunteer with a bushy mustache in a top hat.
Dorina motions me over from where I’m standing to the corner of the room. Her feather earrings swing back and forth as she flips through a giant binder plunked in the center of a small table. “So now I’ll show you what’s in the PFs.”
“PFs?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“The photo files.” Dorina points to a row of cabinets along the left wall. They are the same shade of gray as her sweater-vest.
The photo files. Cool. That’s what I’ve been waiting for this whole time
I start to sit down at a table when Neda appears. Today she’s wearing a navy blazer and matching skirt. She looks even more official than normal. Her lipstick is as orange as ever.
“I understand you take very good notes,” she says. Through her black frames, she’s peering at my pad of paper. Her eyes look big and extra owly.
“Um. Yes. Thanks,” I say.
Neda adjusts a giant accordion file she’s holding. “I’m glad you’re getting an overview of the photos since I have something in mind for you later.”
I nod. I’m surprised that Neda has anything in mind for me other than leaving her precious historical society. Maybe that’s it. She’s going to show me the door and wave bye-bye.
“So have at it!” Neda says, then clicks down downstairs in her high heels.
“Do you know what she wants me to do later?” I ask Dorina.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Okay, then.” Dorina points to a filing cabinet behind me. “Here’s where we keep the PFs.” She pulls out a blue binder. “This is the index.” She hands it to me. I flip through. Inside there’s a listing of all the contents. “You need gloves for the ephemera boxes too,” I say, remembering what Dorina said last time.
“Exactly.” She pats my shoulder. “You got it!”
I like “getting” things. I walk over to a table. A box of vinyl exam gloves sits on it as if we’re at a hospital. I grab a pair and plop them down on the tabletop. Pulling out my camera, I adjust the focal length and take a close-up of the gloves. It’s a sharp, frame-filling shot. The texture of the rubber looks so cool. And from the light of a nearby lamp, they almost gleam. As Dorina searches for something in the stacks, I take a quick candid, focusing on her profile. I tuck my camera back in my bag before Dorina turns around to face me.
She taps her hand on a shelf filled with fat books. “We have quite a few photographic tomes.”
“Can I look?”
“Of course.” Dorina pulls out a couple of volumes and I stride over to her.
After Dorina sets the heavy books down on a nearby table, I flip through them. It looks like the area right outside of Portland. One is a shot of what’s probably the Hood River, because a snow-capped Mount Hood towers in the background. Dorina stands over my shoulder, looking down at the rest of the images with me.
“I recognize that bridge,” I say excitedly. “It’s that one near the park downtown. Only instead of cars going over it, there are buggies.” And horses. In another photo there’s a steam engine. “The street isn’t exactly a street. It looks sort of—”
“Muddy.” Dorina turns the page to another street scene. “Definitely no pavement back then.”
“Everything must have gotten so messy.”
“Oh my, yes. The mud wrestled its way down the streets in the winter, I can tell you that much.”
I imagine a bunch of people in old-fashioned Western clothes covered in dirt. “My little brother would have loved it. We call him Pigpen.”
Dorina laughs. “So would my little granddaughter. She can’t leave mud alone.”
I try to imagine living back then. “It’s weird, but for some reason I think of the past in black and white.”
“That’s because of photos.” Dorina flips through more pages. “But if you go farther back before photography, all of our documents are paintings or sketches. So if you think of those wonderful Renaissance paintings by Da Vinci, then I bet you think of the past as looking like a colorful oil painting.”
“You’re so right!”
I spend the rest of the time flipping through the old photos in the PFs. I’m starting to see a pattern. There are images of families. And of railroads. Of farms. Street scenes. Businesses. Schools.
“So . . . having fun?” asks a voice.
I turn around. It’s Neda. She has the ability to pop out of nowhere. You’d think I’d hear her in those heels.
Neda takes off her glasses and twirls them. “Ready for your project?”
The mystery project? “Sure,” I say.
“You get to dig into some more photos.” Neda points to the other side of Anna’s desk. “Everyone dumps their stuff here. Someone dies and they figure we want everything. We don’t. Last year we got four pianos and a book on Wyoming history.” She shakes her head and her hair stays perfectly in place. “Oh, and we got four broken mops.”
“I guess they thought the mops were historic?”
She laughs. “Yes, we just usually put up a sign and sell what we can’t use. Or give it away.”
She points to a couple of cardboard boxes that are completely full. “We have no idea what’s in there. We just know they are photos. They were just dropped off yesterday. So are you up for some sorting?”
“Sure,” I say again, even though I’m feeling a little unsure.
“The key thing is we want to keep only what is related to county history.”
Yikes! “I don’t know if I can do this,” I protest. “How am I going to know if it’s county history?”
“Ah, that’s why this job is a good one for you. You’re going to be the first sorter. So one of the things I’m going to want you to do is take out photos that obviously are not county history and put them into a pile. So, for example, if you see someone standing under a palm tree on a sandy white beach . . .”
“Set it aside,” I say.
“Or if they’re standing next to the Statue of Liberty.”
“Set it aside.”
Neda smiles. “You got it.”
“What does the historical society do with the s
tuff you don’t need?”
“Well, Anna belongs to some LISTSERVs and lets other organizations know what we have. And if a museum or historical society wants something, we’ll send them out.”
“So it’s like a big historical online social network.”
“Exactly. So in addition to the obviously not-from-around-here pile, you’re going to make other ones too. You’ll have a pile for family portraits. Farms. Businesses. Landscapes. Basically, you’re going to spread everything out on this table.” She points to a large table on the other side of Anna’s desk. “And if you see something interesting, put it in a separate pile.”
“So I do all of this? By myself?”
Neda folds her arms and nods. “Yes. You.”
Suddenly I feel sort of important, like I’m deciding history. I’m deciding what gets remembered, what stays and what goes, and suddenly it feels like a big responsibility, but maybe one I can handle.
I start sorting the photos. The street scenes are easy, but the family portraits are slower going. Not because it’s hard to figure out, but because I like studying them. In one there’s a girl my age with a big bonnet and a mysterious smile. She looks like someone I’d want to be friends with. Plus, she has a little brother with flipped-up hair and a smudge on his face, like he tried to get his hair to stay down but couldn’t. He reminds me of Toby. These are the ultimate Throwback Thursday pics.
Dorina puts on a pair of gloves and inspects my piles. “You like those, don’t you.”
“Yes,” I say. “I really do. I even signed up for that photography class!”
She tilts her head and her feather earrings swing. “You did? Why, that’s wonderful, sweetie.”
Someone hurries up the stairs. It’s Neda. She clicks up to us in her high heels. “What’s wonderful?”
Dorina neatens a stack of photos. “Oh, Karma signed up for a photography class.”
“Aha, that’s why she was photographing everyone downstairs getting ready for the rummage sale.”
I feel my ears warm. “Yes,” I admit.
Neda folds her arms in front of her neatly pressed suit. She peers up at the clock. “It’s almost five. I can’t believe how fast time flies around here.” Pivoting to face me, she smiles. Actually smiles. No trout pucker. “So, Karma, how was your first official day?”
“Good.” Then I stand up. “Wait? Did you say official?”
Neda clasps her hands together and makes a steeple with her fingers. “Normally, as I mentioned, we don’t like to take in very young students. But when they are mature, we’re happy to make an exception.”
Then she clicks away.
I turn to Dorina. “I think I’m in.”
“Of course you are, dear.” She pats my shoulder. “Of course you are.”
My Stats:
4 mops left at the historical society
Gazillions of old photos
1 pair of gloves worn to look at the photos
1 volunteer named Dorina who loves purple
1 girl who’s a little nervous about all of this responsibility
Mood: Mostly superhappy that I’m now an official person
16
FRIDAY, MARCH 16: DAY 13 UNLIKED
Overwhelmed
I suddenly feel a little guilty. All week I’ve been spending so much time at the historical society and reading books on cameras and learning about my camera and taking photos that I don’t have too much time to think about Spirit Week stuff, like the seventh-grade Snappypic page. During lunch today and yesterday, I spent time in the library getting more photography books.
Ella and the Bees have been giving me worried looks.
But I can tell most kids are getting excited about Spirit Week. The different grade committees are plastering the school with posters. Kids are jabbering away about who they are going to be twins with on Twin Day and how crazy they’re going to make their hair on Crazy Hair Day.
What’s really crazy is that I’m looking forward to working at the historical society again next week. Also, Dorina asked me if I wanted to help work at the annual rummage sale this weekend. She’s expecting a ton of people to show up since the newspaper listed it in their events section. I said yes immediately. Even crazier? I haven’t really thought about Floyd.
Milton P. Approaches
I’m over at the taco bar, reaching for the shredded cheese. Lunch started about ten minutes ago, and over at our table, Bailey, Megan, Ella, and Janel huddle together, laughing hysterically about a joke that I don’t get. It’s one of those you-had-to-be-there moments.
And the problem was, I wasn’t there. Yesterday after volunteering at the historical society, I forgot to go to the meeting at Bailey’s house. Again. It definitely looks bad. I just got caught up in what I was doing.
I feel terrible about it, but at least Ella posted the whole Spirit Week schedule to all of the seventh-grade followers and designed some new Crazy Hair posters, which she has since put up.
Mr. Chase’s walkie-talkie crackles as he parades around the perimeter of the lunchroom.
As I edge around the taco bar, Milton P. trudges up to me with his shoe box. His glasses are smudged, but that doesn’t stop him from locking eyes with me. He points over to his table, where Owen Matthews is chewing with his mouth open. “You can sit with us.”
“Oh.” I reposition my backpack. “Uh, thanks. I’m sitting over there.” I point to the Quick Cart. “I was just doing . . . something else.” I pat my camera bag.
Milton P.’s lips pull into a real smile. “Too bad. We could have talked about what to do with irregular pieces and parts.”
“Parts?” I drop my backpack carefully on the ground.
“I’ve got lots of LEGO pieces that are one of a kind,” says Milton P. Kids weave around us as they head toward the double doors.
“Oh, LEGOs.” Toby would actually love to talk to Milton P. Dad always helps Toby with his complicated LEGO sets. Now that Milton P.’s dad is gone, I wonder who helps him. I get a hollow feeling thinking about it. But really, Milton P. probably doesn’t need help with LEGOs anymore. From across the cafeteria, Ella glances over at me. Her eyebrows arch as if she’s trying to figure something out. She’s probably thinking, Karma disappeared for most of lunch taking photos, only to spend her time talking to Milton P.?
“Okay, good-bye,” says Milton P. “You can sit with us. Any time. It is a very nice table.”
“Got it.” I hike my bags back onto my shoulders and trudge to our table. But as I do, Bailey and the Bees get up to leave and wander over to another table. Ella is still sitting down. “Where did they all go?” I ask.
“They’re reminding people about Spirit Week,” Ella explains.
I swallow hard. That should have been my job.
“Karma, lunch is almost over,” Ella says. “What happened to you?”
“I was taking photos. You know, for my class.” I slump into my seat and pull my sandwich out of my bag.
“Must have been lots of them.” Ella glances up at the clock on the opposite wall. “You better eat. The bell’s going to ring soon.”
“Ow.” I tap my shoulder blades. “My back hurts.”
“Probably from carrying too many books in your backpack,” says Ella.
“They’re on photography. I need them right now. So how’s the seventh-grade Snappypic going?”
“Pretty good. I started posting a ton. I just reminded people that Crazy Hair Day is on Monday.”
“Sorry,” I say. “That was my job. I’ve just been so busy.”
“It’s okay,” says Ella. “I got it done.”
As Bailey and the Bees sit back down at our table, they are deep in conversation. “Some people are just flakes,” Bailey is saying. Are they talking about me? The girls immediately stop talking when they see me. The back of my neck heats up.
Janel balls up her napkin. “I heard Auggie’s posting a ukulele song on YouTube this afternoon,” says Janel. “It’s an eighth-grade Spirit Week song.”<
br />
“It’ll probably be silly.” I wipe my mouth with my napkin.
“But funny.” Megan frowns as she pushes breadcrumbs into a tiny pile on her tray.
“Megan and I started a Crazy Hair Day video. Karma, could you post that?” Janel asks.
“Maybe,” I say, “but I’m not so sure I can get onto Snappypic this weekend.”
Bailey glances at her Spirit Week clipboard. “On Monday, Karma, could you at least take pictures of everyone’s crazy hair?”
“Sure,” I say, thumping my camera case. “Now that’s something I can definitely do.”
Posting
I stand by the front office waiting for Mom to pick me up for my orthodontist appointment. With my camera, I’m focusing in on the seventh-grade tower of cans. Okay, it’s more like a stack. Click. Click. I snap a couple of shots. Mom should be here any second. Putting down my camera, I can’t help staring at the giant tower of cans that the eighth grade collected.
Okay, relax, Karma.
Seriously. Let it go.
My Stats:
1 more Spirit Week meeting missed
5 weird looks that Ella gave me
1 small stack of seventh-grade cans
1 medium stack of sixth-grade cans
1 giant tower of eighth-grade cans
1 backpack full of books and my camera
Mood: Can’t wait until Monday. Spirit Week! Or am I kind of losing interest???
17
SATURDAY, MARCH 17: DAY 14 UNLIKED
The History of Seeing
This time I get to my photography class fifteen minutes early and do not leave my seat. Already it’s been a photography sort of day. This morning I went to the historical society and helped out with the rummage sale. It was drizzling but the sun peeked out, so it was a warm rain. A dozen volunteers laid everything for the sale under blue tents in the parking lot. My family came by for a bit but I was too busy to really chat with them. My job was to ask potential customers if they needed help finding anything, but mostly I snapped photos. I ended up shooting more than a hundred images of things and people. To compose the pictures, I moved around, trying different positions and camera angles. I got some really fun candids of Dorina and Karen, the other volunteers, and even a few customers. I even got one of Neda smiling broadly as she sold a stack of musty and ripped-up books. It’s amazing how much people will pay for old stuff.
Queen of Likes Page 9
