half my time at school worrying if I have anything in my teeth or if I smell. Or if my hair looks dumb or if anyone can tell I’m wearing “husky” jeans. I’m always worried about screwing something up. For just that one minute tonight, nothing mattered. It was just the music and me moving to it the way it told me to.
Ryan and Sam are both snoring steadily now. I breathe again, smelling that smell that will always remind me of “Stairway to Heaven,” that dance, and Sadie, smiling at me.
Ryan is still moody in the morning. Before we even get out of our sleeping bags, he tells us he has to go home right after breakfast because he has a lot of homework. Usually we lounge around for a while and play video games before we stuff our faces with whatever food we can find in Sam’s cupboards. We make weird bagel toppings and see who can come up with the best names for them. But today, we just have boring old cream cheese. I love visiting Sam and Ryan, because Emma isn’t around to yell at me for eating stuff I’m not “supposed” to. I don’t remind Ryan about his vegan promise to Emma, since I’m sure that would only make his foul mood worse.
“Good luck with that homework,” I tell him when his mom comes to pick him up.
He nods and doesn’t even say thanks to Sam’s parents.
To be honest, it’s kind of a relief to see him go.
“We have
got
to find him a girlfriend,” Sam says as we roll up the sleeping bags.
“Definitely.”
I follow him to his bedroom, where he opens his closet and starts pulling out some button-up shirts on hangers. “What are you wearing for Picture Day on Monday? I can’t decide.”
“I wasn’t really planning on anything special,” I say.
“Well, you should. They put our pictures on our student IDs. You’ll be stuck with it all year, so you better try to look good.”
“No one looks at our IDs, do they? What do we even need them for?”
“Museum discounts.”
I roll my eyes.
Sam sets out a bunch of shirts on his bed, then steps back and studies them.
“I hate Picture Day,” I tell him. “This is middle school. Aren’t we too old for this?”
He ignores me and picks up an orange plaid shirt and holds it under his chin in front of the mirror. “You need to embrace the inevitable, Noah. Picture Day is happening. Make sure you look good for it.”
At school on Monday morning, everything feels off. Half the boys have overcombed their hair, so it looks like their moms did it. Most of the girls show up with extra makeup, stiffly sprayed hair, and too much perfume. I don’t know why they wear perfume, since you can’t smell it in the picture. I guess it’s all just part of the getting-dressed-up package.
When Jem Thomas walks in, everyone stops and stares. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and black dress pants. Normally he has pretty messy bedhead hair, but today it’s plastered against his skull and he has a part. I know Emma would say it’s sexist of me, but I really don’t think guys should have parts. Jem looks miserable. After an awkward moment of silence, we all go back to worrying about our own weird hair.
The Tank ushers us down the hall where the photographers are waiting. There’s a big screen against the wall and a light with one of those umbrellas to help with the glare. We line up in the hallway and take turns peering toward the front. A lady with long blond hair walks up and down the line, inspecting us.
“Do you want a comb?” she asks me.
I blush. I don’t know why I get embarrassed when strangers talk to me.
“No, thank you. I’m OK,” I mumble.
“I think you want a comb,” she says, handing me one anyway. It’s one of those cheap tiny black combs that are basically useless. I don’t even know why they exist. Maybe solely for Picture Day.
I turn to Ryan, who’s standing behind me. “Do I need this?” I ask, holding up the comb.
He shrugs. “You look fine.” But he doesn’t even check when he says it.
Ryan has been acting
Ryan and Sam are both snoring steadily now. I breathe again, smelling that smell that will always remind me of “Stairway to Heaven,” that dance, and Sadie, smiling at me.
Ryan is still moody in the morning. Before we even get out of our sleeping bags, he tells us he has to go home right after breakfast because he has a lot of homework. Usually we lounge around for a while and play video games before we stuff our faces with whatever food we can find in Sam’s cupboards. We make weird bagel toppings and see who can come up with the best names for them. But today, we just have boring old cream cheese. I love visiting Sam and Ryan, because Emma isn’t around to yell at me for eating stuff I’m not “supposed” to. I don’t remind Ryan about his vegan promise to Emma, since I’m sure that would only make his foul mood worse.
“Good luck with that homework,” I tell him when his mom comes to pick him up.
He nods and doesn’t even say thanks to Sam’s parents.
To be honest, it’s kind of a relief to see him go.
“We have
got
to find him a girlfriend,” Sam says as we roll up the sleeping bags.
“Definitely.”
I follow him to his bedroom, where he opens his closet and starts pulling out some button-up shirts on hangers. “What are you wearing for Picture Day on Monday? I can’t decide.”
“I wasn’t really planning on anything special,” I say.
“Well, you should. They put our pictures on our student IDs. You’ll be stuck with it all year, so you better try to look good.”
“No one looks at our IDs, do they? What do we even need them for?”
“Museum discounts.”
I roll my eyes.
Sam sets out a bunch of shirts on his bed, then steps back and studies them.
“I hate Picture Day,” I tell him. “This is middle school. Aren’t we too old for this?”
He ignores me and picks up an orange plaid shirt and holds it under his chin in front of the mirror. “You need to embrace the inevitable, Noah. Picture Day is happening. Make sure you look good for it.”
At school on Monday morning, everything feels off. Half the boys have overcombed their hair, so it looks like their moms did it. Most of the girls show up with extra makeup, stiffly sprayed hair, and too much perfume. I don’t know why they wear perfume, since you can’t smell it in the picture. I guess it’s all just part of the getting-dressed-up package.
When Jem Thomas walks in, everyone stops and stares. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and black dress pants. Normally he has pretty messy bedhead hair, but today it’s plastered against his skull and he has a part. I know Emma would say it’s sexist of me, but I really don’t think guys should have parts. Jem looks miserable. After an awkward moment of silence, we all go back to worrying about our own weird hair.
The Tank ushers us down the hall where the photographers are waiting. There’s a big screen against the wall and a light with one of those umbrellas to help with the glare. We line up in the hallway and take turns peering toward the front. A lady with long blond hair walks up and down the line, inspecting us.
“Do you want a comb?” she asks me.
I blush. I don’t know why I get embarrassed when strangers talk to me.
“No, thank you. I’m OK,” I mumble.
“I think you want a comb,” she says, handing me one anyway. It’s one of those cheap tiny black combs that are basically useless. I don’t even know why they exist. Maybe solely for Picture Day.
I turn to Ryan, who’s standing behind me. “Do I need this?” I ask, holding up the comb.
He shrugs. “You look fine.” But he doesn’t even check when he says it.
Ryan has been acting
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