Page 13 of Smile for the Camera

“That’s what summer is all about.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Right.”

She scrolls through her phone’s calendar to check for her availability. Eventually, we decide that Wednesday early, early morning would be best. It’ll be a tight squeeze since my volunteer shift is also early, but maybe that’s for the best. We’re planning to take my photo during the golden hour, which will be perfect for capturing beautiful golds and sunlight. It feels right for my friendship photo.

“Emilyn Padilla, you owe me for this,” Nora, who prides herself in being a Night Owl, says.

“I know, I know, I do,” I say. “Really, thanks. I owe you a big one.”

She glances at the doors. Through the tinted glass, I can see the hallway, which stretches to the front register in a path of white stamped with blue. Turning right, that path will lead to the realm of doom I’ll have to re-enter once my lunch break is over. Don’t know how I’m going to handle volunteering here for an entire summer.

“So, what makes this place so bad I have to bring these?” Nora holds her half-eaten tostada for reference.

I explain everything that happened earlier. Every now and then, I glance back, making sure no other volunteers or nurses are walking near the door.

“Ugh. Sounds like a pain in the ass,” Nora says.

Even though she’s saying this, I still glimpse back and look through the glass doors. No one. Phew.

I shrug like it’s nothing. “It’ll only be for three months.”

We continue eating. Eventually, the door pushes open and out comes Eliza. She marches down the steps, cellphone clutched in her hand. I must look terrified because Nora watches her as she crosses through the parking lot.

“Is that the girl who snapped at you?” Nora asks.

Even though Eliza is a good distance away, I still watch to make sure she isn’t looking at us. I turn back to Nora and nod. She towers off the step and almost lunges towards her.

I grab her arm. “Let’s not go there.”

Nora sits back down and aims a glare at faraway Eliza. “She better not snap at you again.”

Chapter Five

Upon opening the door to my SAT class, the room floods with noise I always dread—the chatter of voices, mostly from people I don’t know. Ceiling lights paint everything in white. Cinnamon-brown desks line across the room, most of them already occupied, different conversations filling the air. They’re the old-school desks with cracks on the edges, their metal legs chipped and flecked. I like how they look beneath the lights. The cinnamon colors are brighter, and there’s writing scrawled across the wood. In the corner is a longer desk with a leather chair behind it. There’s also a whiteboard divided into three sections, markers lying across its rail. I’m much more relaxed seeing a blank whiteboard. No notes to write, no equations to memorize. Just a board smudged with faded blue and black markers, nothing to force myself to learn and retain just to earn a high score.

The only available seats are at the back, so I make my way there, passing by posters of SAT strategies and motivational quotes. My Converse scrape across the grey floor, the air conditioning breezes against me, and a road of goose bumps trails across my arms. I shiver and hug myself. Once I reach the seat in the back corner, I slide into the blue chair and drop my backpack beside me.

Across the room, I spot a few familiar faces from my AP classes—Chloe Kensington, who’s wearing a green tank top, her red hair hanging right above her shoulders, and Klyde Foster, who’s wearing a white t-shirt, his shaved hair looking browner beneath the lights. The AP (Advanced Power) couple. They’re talking to people I’ve never seen at school. I stay where I am. Chloe and Klyde have always intimidated me. They have brilliant insights, and they can understand and answer everything right away. Not to mention they’re the kind of people who, if they disagree with you, will say so in front of the whole class, then counter with answers so genius they convince you to think their way. I can’t come close to that level of confidence and assertion.

A wave of anxiety surges through me. It’s a whole other world being in a room where almost everyone is a stranger. I can never predict how they’ll talk to me, or if they’re going to raise an eyebrow at everything I say.

I look down at my desk, observing it closely. Penciled hearts are framed around initials, and, in the corners, are doodles of flowers and animals. There’s something special, something extraordinary, about old school desks. They have a history behind them, the memories engraved on them in pencil. I slide my thumb against the heart-framed initials and smile. Whoever wrote this must’ve really been in love, and this desk is letting those special feelings stay forever.

As I pull everything out—my notebook, my pencils, and my flower-printed planner—I hear footsteps slowly shuffle towards me. Twice I blink, just to make sure I’m seeing clearly.

This.

Can’t.

Be.

Happening.

Heading my way is the cute guitarist from Golden Marketplace. He clearly has a signature outfit—black jeans and a plaid button-down shirt with a hole on the front. His hair is more golden underneath the lights. He’s walking with an air that’s effortlessly cool, the kind that skaters and punk rock musicians have, that snags your attention even if they’re doing something as simple as breathing.

Please don’t sit next to me. Please don’t sit next to me.

He sits right beside me.