“I spend a lot of time on my computer,” I finally say.
She flips through the stapled pages. “How about Computer Programming Club? Wait, no.” She frowns. “They’ve disbanded. Let’s see.”
I watch as her eyes scroll down the page, and flip to the next one. And the next. There are a lot of activities at our school, and even she can see that I’m not suited for any of them.
“Gaming?” Her eyes light up.
I shake my head. I don’t game. “I taught myself how to use Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop,” I offer.
She gives an approving nod, like we’re finally onto something, and flips to the last page of her activity booklet. “The yearbook staff is always looking for help,” she says. “Editing photos, doing page layouts . . . does that sound of interest?”
“I don’t know.” The thought of joining an already-formed group is making me want to vomit.
“How about this,” says Mrs. Greene. “Try it out. I’ll let the editor know you’re joining, that you’re interested in photography.”
“But not taking photos. I can’t take photos.” I also can’t hide the panic that’s crept into my voice.
Mrs. Greene makes a calming gesture with her hands. “Okay, no problem. Photo editing and layout, then. Sound good?”
I nod miserably. “Who’s the editor?”
“Marissa DiMarco. You’ll like her.”
I nod. Of course I will. Marissa is perfect. I’ll be sharing the same space, breathing the same air. Practically best friends! At least, that’s how my mother will look at it. She’ll be fantasizing me into those homecoming pictures in no time. If I tell her, that is. Which I won’t.
I force a smile for Mrs. Greene. “Can’t wait.”
Jenna? Are you there?
Hello?
I guess you’re with your new friends. Out with the old, in with the new, right?
Kidding.
Seriously, I’m kidding. Need to talk to you.
Okay, you’re not there I guess. Call me later?
Jenna?
Mom’s making her signature smoothie in the Cuisinart when I walk into the kitchen, and doesn’t notice me sitting there until she turns it off.
“Oh! You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I watch her pour the frozen-mango-banana-kale-yogurt concoction into a glass. It’s thick like soft ice cream, so she hands me a spoon.
“How was school? Anything interesting happen today?”
“Not really.” I scoop a spoonful of smoothie into my mouth, then pull my phone out to see if Jenna replied to my texts, but her side of the conversation is still blank.
“How’s Jenna?”
“That wasn’t Jenna.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot off the top of her head. “New friend?”
“Hallie Bryce,” I say, surprising myself as much as my mother. Lies beget lies, apparently, and this one fell off my tongue before I even knew it was there. “We’re doing a project together. For world history class. The Siege of Jerusalem.”
“She’s the dancer, right? The ballerina?”
I nod.
Mom beams. “Such a lovely girl. It’s so nice you’ll have a chance to get to know each other. Maybe you can—”
“Mom.” I stop her before she starts fantasizing that Hallie will become my new best friend. “It’s just a project. We’ll probably do the whole thing online.”
“Oh. Well. Anyway. It’s nice.” She’s not grinning quite so exuberantly now, but there’s a twinkle in her eye. She’s happy to see me interacting with someone. Anyone. I guess that’s why I made it up in the first place.
I take my smoothie with me through the dining room and living room and all the way down the hall to my bedroom, which is as far as you can get from the kitchen and still be in the house. I close my door, drop my backpack, pet Kat for a minute, and sit at my computer. I’ve got a dozen or so bookmarked pages I like to visit, some favorite YouTubers like Zoella and Rhyming Rhea, and assorted Instagrams. Some are random interesting people I stumbled across and just like their photos, and others are classmates with whom I have developed a probably unhealthy obsession.
There’s Hallie Bryce, of course. Her pictures are so ethereal and peaceful, the way she bends herself to match the shape of tree limbs or tiptoes delicately through the tulips. Today she’s doing some kind of backbend pose on a park bench, with one leg pointed skyward. I just can’t imagine going out in public, putting on pointe shoes, and contorting myself into these shapes while people walk past. Maybe that’s why I’m so infatuated with her Instagram. She’s like a superhero to me.
I check in on Raj Radhakrishnan, who posts selfies constantly and always from inside his house rather than anywhere interesting. He’s like the anti-Hallie. Yet I can’t look away. Every day he stands in the same corner of his living room, posing the exact same way. His shirt changes; his glossy, black hair grows over time and then is suddenly shorter. The room brightens and dims with the weather. It’s become a puzzle for me, finding what has changed. Today, an intricately patterned pillow rests on the couch at a different angle. A candle on the table is slightly shorter. I keep looking for a new expression on Raj’s face, but it’s always the same. Not happy or sad. Just there.
I flip through some other favorites from my school—a girl who knits, another who walks dogs, one with a nail polish and book fetish, a guy who’s building a race car. They are solitary but fascinating.
Also fascinating, but in a totally different way, are the popular kids. The OMG-look-how-much-fun-we’re-having people. They take selfies with twenty friends crammed into a single picture. They backflip and high-five and tackle-hug and cheesy-grin their way through life. They are confident and fearless and cool.
I end up back on YouTube, at Adrian Ahn’s channel. He’s posted a new video from last night’s East 48 concert. It’s not great—taken on someone’s phone—but the crowd is going nuts. They’re literally bouncing. Jumping up and down like pogo sticks. The music is fast and Adrian is drumming at a frenzied pace, his hair flying. It’s invigorating just watching.
The band’s logo pulses on the front of Adrian’s drum. They got their name from a road near our town. I saw an interview with the lead singer, Rupert, who’s from England, talking about how they couldn’t come up with a band name. So one day, they were driving along, and decided they’d name the band after the next thing they saw out the window. And they saw the sign for Route 48 East. “We came bloody close to being called ‘Lady with a Stroller’ or ‘Gigantic Cemetery,’” he said.
I crank the volume and watch the video again, bouncing along with the crowd. I can almost feel the floor shaking and the beat pulsing through my bones. Adrian is going completely crazy on the drums and the fans are dancing like mad. I pause the video and take a screen grab. As a photo, it’s blurry. But I like the motion of it.
And then I have an idea.