The temperature of my face rises about a thousand degrees. I didn’t even think to knock. I just assumed she’d meet me out here, in the hallway . . . because I am an idiot. I follow her in. She sits in a rolling chair and pushes herself across the room.
“Quick tour. This is my desk. That’s Beth Ann’s and that’s Marvo’s. Everyone else shares those.” She points to the various workstations, some with computers, some without. “I already assigned layout and writing of all the sections, but Mrs. Greene said you could help with photo editing?”
I swallow and nod.
“Great. Our photographers download everything here.” She clicks open a folder on her computer screen. “Then somebody, usually me, has to go through and pick out the best stuff. Most of it needs Photoshopping. Not changing what people look like or anything, but brightening the image, cropping, getting rid of anything inappropriate. Maybe you could help with that?”
I nod again.
She rips a blank page from a notebook and scribbles down a series of letters and numbers. “This is the computer password. You can come in whenever you want. Just choose one of the folders from this file, go through the photos, drag the good ones over here.”
She demonstrates everything and shows me where to leave questions on a group chat that other staff members can access. And in the course of about five minutes, I’m officially a member of the Richardson High School Yearbook staff. I can come and go as I please. I don’t have to talk to anyone or go to meetings or give high fives or even sit in the same room at the same time as anyone else. I can just slip behind a computer in the corner and do what I do best—watch from the sidelines. I don’t even have to do it in a creepy way. It’s actually my job. Or my guidance-counselor-sanctioned activity, at least.
The best part? For the first time all year, I’ll have a place to eat my lunch that doesn’t smell like hair spray and Lysol. The thought of it gets me through my morning classes, and helps me work up the nerve to go back to the yearbook office at lunch period. It is blessedly empty, so I settle in at a computer in the corner, open one of the folders Marissa showed me, and pull out my lunch. Two minutes later, as I’m clicking through images from a field hockey game, the door is flung open and two kids come bursting in. It’s Beth Ann Price and Marvo Jones.
They see me and Marvo says, “Hey.”
My throat feels tight, so rather than risk trying to speak, I give him a small nod and glance at Beth Ann. She’s staring at my . . . feet? I follow her gaze to my shoes, the ones I wear every day, which are tan suede oxfords I found at the thrift store. I hate wearing new shoes, because everyone notices new shoes. Nobody notices a pair that are already a little scuffed.
Except Beth Ann Price, apparently. I tuck my feet under my chair.
“Hey,” she says. “Welcome to yearbook.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. Dammit. Too quiet.
Marvo takes a step toward me to see what I’m working on. “Field hockey?”
I nod.
Beth Ann snorts. “Good luck with that.”
My eyes widen. I have no idea what she means.
“Marissa’s the captain,” Marvo explains. “No pressure.”
I swallow and turn back to the photos. Choosing the best ones was the one thing I wasn’t worried about. I mean, I know a good photo when I see one. I should’ve realized it wouldn’t be that simple. Should I pick all the photos Marissa is in? Will that look like I’m sucking up? Or will it make people think she’s an egomaniac, since everyone knows she’s the editor? I don’t want to piss her off. I have no expectation of becoming friends with her, but I really don’t want to be enemies. She’ll tell Mrs. Greene it isn’t working out. I’ll be forced to join the handbell choir.
Suddenly, Beth Ann’s hand is covering mine, which is shaking as I grip the mouse too tight. I’m rattling the whole table.
“Don’t freak out,” she says. “I was kidding. Pick the best shots. Just make sure there’s one of Marissa, and that she looks halfway decent in it. Treat her like you would any team captain. You’ll be fine.”
I nod. Try to breathe normally.
She releases my hand and goes to her desk. Marvo sits next to her and they pull out their lunches and start working, talking quietly to each other.
I take a few breaths and flip through the photos. There are hundreds from this single game, and there will be hundreds more from other games. I’m supposed to save only a few from each. I pick the best one I can find of Marissa—just one. She’s lunging for the ball with the fiercest expression on her face, lips snarling around her mouth guard. It’s a great shot. I crop it a bit, brighten the color and fix the contrast, and dump it into the “best of” folder.
There are two others I like. One of a girl sitting on the bench, leaning her chin on the end of her stick. And another of the team manager dragging a sack of equipment. I save those, too, and dump the rest in the archives folder.
Then I click once more through the few I’ve selected.
“Good eye,” says Marvo, making me jump. He’s standing right behind me.
My pulse immediately starts throbbing in my neck. “Thanks,” I croak.
“Except you might want to do something about that.” He reaches over my shoulder and points at the photo on the screen, at a guy in the stands who is making one of the inappropriate gestures Marissa warned me about.
“Oh.” I zoom in and hide the offending finger by cloning a bit of nearby background and covering it with that. It looks like a fist now, like the guy is simply cheering.
“Wow. You’re good,” says Marvo. “I’m Marvo, by the way. That’s Beth Ann.” He nods toward where she’s standing by the door.
“I’m Vicky.” My voice comes out clearly this time, and at a normal volume.
Beth Ann throws the door open and gestures for Marvo to go ahead of her. He gives a little bow and skips out, which makes her laugh. She glances back at me and says, “Later, Vic.”
I raise a wobbly hand to wave, but they’re already gone.
I’ve never had a nickname. Vicky isn’t even short for Victoria. My given name is Vicky. Nobody’s ever called me anything but Vicky.
It feels kind of nice to be someone other than Vicky.
I revel in my new identity all afternoon, imagining a much cooler version of myself saying, “Call me Vic” whenever someone asks my name. I’m even looking forward to texting Jenna about it when I get on the bus, until I remember I’m not texting Jenna anymore. Besides, how pathetic is it that I got all excited about someone abbreviating my name? Also, I got the shakes over choosing field hockey photos.
Still, I can’t resist checking her Instagram, at least. There was nothing new when I looked this morning, but now there is. And for the first time, she’s got company for her daily selfie. It’s Tristan, his cheek pressed up against hers, and they’re both making sexy faces now.
Ugh.
I close the Instagram app and swipe it off the screen so their faces are completely gone, not even hiding in the background sucking my battery life. There are phone messages, though, and a dozen new texts since I sent her the Photoshopped concert pic.