We duck into the auditorium, and Ravi stands in the center aisle, considering the stage. He purses his lips, then bounds down the aisle to vault onto the worn-out stage. He tugs at the heavy velvet curtains flanking the sides.
“If we pulled these taut, we wouldn’t even need to bring in a proper backdrop.”
He tugs on the crimson fabric to demonstrate and unleashes a cascading crash from somewhere in the bowels of backstage. He drops the curtain and leaps back. “I didn’t do it!”
“Evidence says otherwise,” I say with a laugh. “Should we see what it was or pretend it never happened?”
“I vote pretend it never happened.”
I’m prepared to agree when I catch movement rustling the long curtain along the back of the stage. I raise a finger to my lips and point.
“I told you I didn’t do it. Let’s go,” he says, but I’m already ducking behind the curtain.
In the dark, two figures—a boy in a baseball hat and a petite girl—are silhouetted against the light of an open backstage door. The girl rushes ahead, gait rigid and quick, and I catch faint laughter from the boy as the door closes behind them.
For a minute, I consider following them but then realize that might seem creepy. I make my way back to the front of the stage, where Ravi stands waiting. “Way to come in after me,” I say. “What kind of backup are you?”
“The kind that sees movement behind a curtain and assumes it’s either ghosts or someone getting it on, and frankly, I’m okay seeing neither of those things.”
“Ew, in school?” At least I’d only glimpsed retreating backsides and not naked backsides. I sometimes forget how at the forefront sex is for literally everyone who isn’t me. I’m not completely sex-repulsed like some of the aces I’ve talked to online, but I just don’t get the point. I like to think I’m like Sherlock in this regard—I just have better things to do.
Ravi gives me a grandfatherly pat on the shoulder. “Yes, at school. We are teenagers. We have of the hormones, and we partake of the sex. Or at least we try to partake of the sex. We’re not picky about location.”
I shove him away. “Nope, still nasty. It’s school. It’s public. I hope you don’t do things like that.”
He waggles his eyebrows and laughs. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“Ravi Burman, you’re full of shit. You literally always tell. In way, way more detail than I care about.”
“I never said I was a gentleman.” He grabs my hand. “Come on. I want to keep looking. This is a possibility, but it’s obviously not secure enough to leave my lights up.”
I follow him out to the hall, which is shockingly bright after the dimness of the auditorium and pitch-black of backstage, and we nearly collide with Ms. Larson and Henry.
The principal puts a hand to her chest and gives an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, you startled me. What are you two doing?”
I drop to a crouch, and Henry presses his head into my chest for pets. I scratch his floppy ears and give Ms. Larson a rundown of our project.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she says when we finish explaining I Am Maplefield.
“So, we’re just looking for the best place to shoot,” Ravi says. “If we do it somewhere outside of school, I don’t think we’ll get as many people, and we really want to make it a school-wide thing.”
“And you want to leave everything set up somewhere?”
“That’d be best.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Ms. Larson says. “There’s a classroom on the third floor that isn’t being used this year. It’s on a corner, so there are windows along two walls. Would that work?”
“That would be perfect.” Ravi looks so thrilled I think he might hug Ms. Larson.
She smiles. “Okay, then. If you want to come back to my office, I can get the key for you.”
As we walk, we ask Ms. Larson about doing a morning announcement to promote the project, which she says won’t be a problem. We also get permission to post flyers around the building.
She holds the door to her office open for us, and we wait for Henry to trot in first. He goes to his bed in the corner and flops down with a contented sigh. I grab a pair of the strawberry hard candies from the bowl on the conference table. They’re the same kind my grandmother used to keep in her living room candy bowl. I hold one out to Ravi, but he grimaces and shakes his head. He still isn’t over the explosive repercussions of eating an entire bowl of them freshman year. He’d spent a painful day glued to the toilet in the nurse’s private bathroom, and Ms. Larson didn’t even punish him for the theft, just said that sugar-free candies were a valuable lesson in self-control.
I pocket the extra while Ms. Larson unlocks a shallow wooden cabinet on the wall. She plucks a single key from a hook and hands it to Ravi. This he takes far more eagerly.
“Do not lose it,” she says. “This is a privilege and not one given lightly. That key only works for that room, so don’t go getting any ideas.”
“We shall use our powers for good,” Ravi says solemnly.
Ms. Larson laughs. “I’m sure you will.”
Room 331 is exactly what we need. We spend the rest of the afternoon stacking tables and chairs along one wall to make room for the photography equipment. The open windows let in a nice cross breeze, but it’s still hard work, and by the time we have the last chair tucked away, we’re both sweaty and exhausted, but very satisfied.
Ms. Larson clears Ravi and me to use the end-of-the-day Directed Study period for our project, and we spend the first few days setting up the studio, bringing in lights, and hanging the canvas drop cloth that will serve as the background. Ravi wanted a seamless paper one, but buying one is way out of our nonexistent budget.
We have to scrap the poster board idea. Even if we used both sides, we’d still be looking at over $200 before we even bought markers. Instead, we get four whiteboards and a box of dry-erase markers for less than fifty bucks online. The plan is to print the sentence starter and I Am Maplefield in permanent marker and have everyone use the erasable markers to fill in their signs.
While Ravi puts the finishing touches on the setup, I nail down the logistics of getting people photographed as efficiently as possible. I drag a table into the hallway, where we can have everyone sign in. Since we want the people being photographed to be as relaxed as possible, we’re only letting two students into the studio at a time: the one being photographed and the one filling out their sign. We want honesty and a glimpse into the inner world of the average Maplefield student; what we don’t need is people playing to an audience.
The sign station is set up in the corner where the teacher’s desk used to be. There, the person writing can have a bit of privacy and avoid distracting the person posing. The extra whiteboards give us some leeway if there are people who want to fill them out in the hall.
“When you’re done, come stand here so I can get this dialed in,” Ravi says.
I finish writing Maplefield on the last board in careful block letters, then bring it with me to the middle of the room. I strike a series of ridiculous poses in front of the backdrop.
“Farther up,” Ravi says, all business now that he’s behind the tripod.
“You’re no fun.” I step forward and hold the board up to my chest like he’s taking my mug shot.
“But I’m still your favorite human.” He snaps a shot, checks the back of his camera, then fiddles with the settings. “Almost…”
I hold still while he continues to shoot, letting him get the camera dialed in where he wants it and not caring a lick how I look in the pictures. They’re just going to be deleted anyway, and it would take a lot more than an awkward facial expression to embarrass me where Ravi is concerned. He moves behind me to adjust the angle of a reflector and returns to the camera, presses the shutter, and checks the screen.
A huge grin splits his face. “Got it. Don’t move yet.”
He grabs the roll of duct tape we used to anchor the backdrop and brings it to where I st
and. He rips off a length, touches his toe to mine, and tells me to step back. He fastens the tape to the floor and stands, excitement in his eyes. “Okay, come see.”
Even with just the camera’s built-in black-and-white filter applied, the image, while not a great shot of me, is lovely. The background completely disappears, so it looks like I’m standing in a white vacuum. It’s more flattering than any Instagram filter.
“You’re amazing,” I tell him. “I think we’re ready to get started. You want to go first?”
Now that the settings are configured, I can fire the shutter while he poses, but he shakes his head. “I think we go last.”
“As you wish. Cass said she’s more than happy to be our first victim, of course. I swear, it’s a good thing she’s so into horses; otherwise, she’d be trying to go to Hollywood.” I check the time on my phone. Twelve minutes until the bell rings. That should be enough. “Want to get her done now?”
“Let’s do it.”
I take the stairs down one floor and knock lightly on the door of Cassidy’s Directed Study room before opening it. The room is completely silent. I smile at the teacher, who is busy putting the next day’s agenda up on the board. “Would it be possible to excuse my sister? She’s part of a project I’m doing.”
The teacher nods, and Cassidy quickly gathers her things, hooking her backpack behind her chair even as she spins away from her table. She mouths an exaggerated thank you that the teacher doesn’t see.
When we’re safely in the elevator, Cassidy says, “Oh my god. That class is awful. She doesn’t even let us whisper. We can’t wear headphones or do group work or anything. It’s like prison. Seriously. Can I use Directed Study to help you guys? Please? I’m dying in there.”
“It’s half an hour. I think you can survive being quiet for a half hour.”
“No, I really can’t. It’s awful. And Mrs. Thomas watches us the whole time. It’s creepy.”
The elevator chimes as we reach our floor. “Go left. It’s 331. Mom and Dad would kill me if I kept you out of a study hall. Or they’d make you cut back on riding, so you could use that time for homework.”
Cassidy sighs. “Fine,” she says, dragging the word out before moving on from the subject. “Am I posing today? Am I first?”
“Yes and yes,” Ravi answers, stepping into the hall. He has a whiteboard and marker ready to go.
Cassidy grins up at him, a little more googly-eyed than I’d like. Cassidy once said if I didn’t want Ravi, she’d happily take him, and I had to explain there would be no taking of anyone, for any reason, until she was at least old enough to vote.
I stop Ravi before he can give the board to Cassidy. “We should do a real run-through.” He nods. “Cass, sign in first, then we’ll do the board inside.”
Cassidy fills in her name and grade on the clipboard and maneuvers herself into the room. She parks at the back table and uncaps the dry-erase marker. Ravi takes his place by the camera, and when Cassidy spins around with the board facedown in her lap, I direct her to the strip of tape.
Ravi lets her get positioned and launches into his speech. “Thank you for participating in the I Am Maplefield project. We know it takes a lot of bravery to sit in front of a camera and share something about yourself, and we’re grateful you’ve decided to join us.” He keeps his voice calm and even, inconspicuously firing the shutter as he does. He’ll do this with everyone—shoot when they’re not expecting it—because we’re looking for the unguarded moments as much as the good poses. “When you’re ready, flip your sign up and let me see who you are. Whatever you do, don’t think about Mr. Crawford in his underwear.”
Cassidy giggles—as she’s expected to—and holds up her sign. I Am UNSTOPPABLE. She grins and pulls goofy faces while Ravi clicks away. When she’s exhausted her repertoire, she lets the sign rest on her lap. “Is that good?”
Ravi hits the shutter a few times in quick succession, but his face says it all. It’s more than good.
“Perfect,” he says.
Cassidy beams and doesn’t even notice that he takes one more frame.
“If every picture we get is as good as this, it’s going to be incredible,” Ravi says over FaceTime later that night.
He emailed me the link to the album of Cassidy’s photos, and even though they’re all good, it’s the final picture that’s the clear winner. Cassidy is absolutely radiant in it. Ravi has that effect on people—even people who don’t have unrequited crushes on him. His enthusiasm is so contagious that I don’t begrudge delaying the curse research.
“I sent out a notice on the Monitor announcing that shooting officially starts tomorrow during Directed Study. We’ll have to see how long it takes to get through each person, but I feel like if we just power through, it shouldn’t take that long. I mean, the Picture Day people get through the entire school in a single day. Granted there are like three photographers and the pictures are lame, but still.”
“Plus after school. Enough people stay for sports and clubs that we should be able to get some traffic then too.”
The following day, we’re both stopped multiple times and asked about the project, and by the time Directed Study rolls around, we have more people than we can possibly get through in a single period. Part of it is probably the novelty of getting to ditch study hall, but that’s fine. I don’t care how we get participants, just that we do.
I climb up on the sign-in table and hold up a whiteboard. “Listen up!” I shout, although most of the crowd has already turned to watch me tower over them. “Thank you all for showing up today. I doubt we’re going to get through everyone here, but we’re going to try. If you can stay after school, try to let those who can’t go first. These are the boards you’ll be writing your messages on. As you’ve probably heard, this is the I Am Maplefield project, and we’re not necessarily looking for your deepest, darkest secrets—though you’re welcome to share them—we just want to know who you are. It can be one word; it can be a sentence; it can be anything you want. This is about you. The only thing it can’t be is wildly inappropriate.”
“What counts as inappropriate?” someone asks.
“How about anything that would get you arrested,” I say. “You’ll be photographed in private and will be able to fill in your boards without an audience, but you are being photographed. Be honest, but don’t be stupid. Show of hands, who already knows what they want to say?”
Several hands go up, and I move them to the front of the line. Up first is a bespectacled freshman named Anita Graves, whose board reads I Am A Whovian and has a drawing of a TARDIS.
Ravi gives his intro and starts shooting. I tell junior Jeremiah I Am The Next Paul Pierce Wiggins that he’s on deck while I wave the next one in. We make it through six more before the bell rings. Most of the crowd in the hall clears out, but a few remain, including—much to my disappointment—Emma Morgan, along with her two best friends, Lily Caruthers and Victoria Melendez. Owen White, Emma’s boyfriend, trails behind the trio.
“Can we do our boards together?” Lily asks. “We have soccer practice to get to.”
I agree, just to get them in and out. I pass out boards and markers and join Ravi at the camera. His hair is disheveled. He bounces between his camera and the laptop tethered to it, completely in his element. “This is bloody great,” he says. “They’re killing it. Look at this one of Mariella.” The senior’s sign says I Am The First Person In My Family Going To College. Mariella is studious and shy, but she glows with pride in the photo.
“I stand here?” Lily asks before I have a chance to comment.
“Yup, perfect.” Ravi returns to the camera.
I watch as he clicks away, capturing the girl’s slightly horsey smile and a sign that says I Am Studying ASL.
Victoria goes next, with an I Am So Excited To Become A Doula sign, complete with a smiling baby face. I force myself not to roll my eyes. I can’t imagine a worse job.
When Emma takes her spot on the tape, she pastes a practic
ed smile on her face and poses with the automatic ease of a model, angling her body just so, bending a knee and leaning into a hip. Her sign declares I Am Going To Be Famous.
“I want to pick the one you use,” she demands when Ravi’s done.
“They’re all very flattering,” he assures her. “You won’t be embarrassed.”
“Of course I won’t be embarrassed,” she snaps. “But I still want to choose.”
“Em, we gotta go.”
Emma waves Victoria away. “Let me see them.” She reaches for Ravi’s camera, but I shoot forward to grab her arm.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Let go of me.” She tries twisting away.
I don’t let go. “They’re not even processed yet.” No way in hell am I letting this girl dictate how things get done. “And if you put your hands on that camera, not only will your pictures magically vanish, but I’ll break every last one of your fingers.” I smile sweetly and release her grip.
“You’re fucking crazy,” she says. “This is exactly why I’m working at BayStateNews and you’re not.”
Ravi steps between us like a boxing ref. “Emma, soccer practice, remember?”
“Whatever.” She jabs a finger at him. “I still want to approve my picture. It doesn’t have to be today, but it will happen.” She storms out, throwing her whiteboard onto the table as she goes.
Ravi squeezes my shoulder and returns to his spot behind the camera.
Owen White stands in the doorway, looking bewildered with a whiteboard at his side. I acknowledge and swallow the urge to murder his girlfriend. We have work to do.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who was cursed from birth, who was ripped from the womb blue and silent and far too small. He grew slowly, always skinnier and weaker than his sister, who was pulled two minutes before him with the same poisoned blood but none of the curse. Where the girl had wavy auburn locks, his own hair sprouted in carrot-colored coils that would mark him as different, even when he finally shaved them off. He was narrow like a carrot too, easy to snap in half, which was what they started doing to him even before he reached middle school.
Bury the Lead Page 3
