Queen of Likes (14 page)

Some people laugh at that.

Then he moves onto the Renaissance and perspective and talks about how everything used to look before that, in terms of paintings.

Whoa. There was a time, long ago, when everything looked flat? This is blowing my mind.

Then he goes on about a camera obscura and wet plates and daguerreotypes. Suddenly I'm feeling like I'm in high school, or even college. Some old photos flash up on the screen. They look like the black-and-white ones at the historical society. The girls wear lace-up boots. The high-collared dresses look like curtains with tassels.

“The world is different because of photography.” Ren claps his hand so loudly that anyone asleep is now definitely awake. “Why?”

“Before you had to paint a scene or a person if you wanted to remember it or fix it in time,” says Veena.

“It's a way to share stuff,” says a boy in the back row.

Everyone has an opinion.

“It's a way to express yourself.”

“Politicians use images for their campaigns.”

“And companies use it to get you to buy their stuff.”

Ren smiles. “Yes, all of that.”

Next he tells us to get into small groups and talk about how photography has changed us.

I'm in the group with Erin and Veena. Erin talks more about rotten skinny model photos, and Veena says that she loves photos that take her someplace she's never been. I'm about to say what I think when Photo Lens Boy yells out, “Hey, Pink Hoodie, I know where I know you from.”

I whip around to tell him to shut up.

Photo Lens Boy points at me. “You're that girl at Merton on Snappypic all the time.”

“You had a gazillion followers,” adds the desk-stealer.

My heart is pounding. “That's me.” How could I forget?

“How come you don't post anymore?” asks Photo Lens Boy.

People are turning around to look.

“Because”—all of the eyes in the room are now on me—“my parents closed my account.”

“Too bad,” says the desk-stealer. “But you can still take pictures and share them. Just in a different way.”

“True,” I say. None of the kids seem to be looking at me funny. In fact, most of the kids are now fiddling with their cameras. They're not really looking at me. I take a deep breath and try not to think about Snappypic. I try to be here, right now, in this class.

My Stats:

2 boys who know me from Snappypic

2 girls who sit next to me and are cool

1 pinhole in a box that can capture light

3 dimensions that can be captured in a photo

Mood: Kind of happy to be where I am, right here, right now. And looking forward to getting crazy on Crazy Hair Day this coming Monday.

As I walk downstairs to breakfast, Mom's phone clatters to the counter. She blinks hard like she is trying to blink away the image of my hair. “Karma. What. Have. You. Done?”

“I've spotted my hair like a cheetah. For Crazy Hair Day.”

Dad stands up to inspect and chuckles much too loudly. “Woo-wee. Let's hope it's not permanent.” Even Lucky, who hovers by his dog bowl, backs away like I'm a stranger.

“It's temporary.” At least that's what it said on the box. First I sprayed it white-blond with some Halloween dye, then dotted on black spots with a toothbrush dipped in black hair dye.

“You look crazy,” says Toby.

“That's the point.” I tap my head. “It's Crazy Hair Day today. Remember?”

“Right.” Dad taps his balding head. “Guess it would be harder for me to get crazy with this.”

“Can I make my hair spotty, too?” asks Toby. “Please? Can I, can I, please?”

I shake my head. “You have to wait until middle school to do something like this.”

Toby slumps in his chair. “Not fair. I want crazy hair.”

Mom frowns at Dad's phone, which sits on the kitchen table next to his bowl. “You'd think the school would have given the parents some kind of notification or something.”

Dad picks up his cell and scrolls through. Since we don't have a home phone anymore, all of the messages go to Dad's phone. “Yup. I see. A message from the school here from last Friday, and also one last night.” He shrugs. “No need to read them. Looks like they warned us.”

Mom leans over Dad's shoulder.  “Hal, thirty-six unread messages? How can you not check your messages?”

“Hey, can you guys take a photo of me?” I ask.

“There's no time,” says Mom. “Eat your breakfast quickly. You have five minutes before we have to leave. And Hal”—she turns her head to my dad—“you have fifteen minutes before you take Toby to school.”

Dad takes another sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I'm well aware.” Normally Mom takes me to school and Dad bikes with Toby to his.

“Are you sure it's called Spirit Week?” asks Toby. “Cause it could be Spiritless Week.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get it? Spiritless Week? Where everyone is like this.” He flops out of his chair, drops onto the ground with a thud, then drags himself across the floor, yawning. “See, all bored and stuff.”

“Like a zombie?” Dad jokes.

“There is no such thing as Spiritless Week.” I sigh. Sometimes seven-year-olds can be so silly. I smile. Okay, sometimes silly is good.

As I cross the street on the block before school, I'm suddenly disgusted by how many kids stupidly decided not to do anything for Crazy Hair Day. Volleyball girls pass by me with their long, straight hair pulled into ponytails, and boys with normal crew cuts head into the building.

So much for all of my and Ella's publicity efforts. Well, especially Ella. She was on it all last week. Me, not so much.

Right in front of the school on a big sign in moveable letters, it says:

HAPPY SPIRIT WEEK!

Ethan Loomis slumps by me holding his sax like it weighs a ton, with his regular old look: unwashed, stringy, greasy hair, which is uncrazy and normal for him. And behind him, a whole gaggle of sixth-grade girls are playing with a Magic Eight Ball and not one of them, not a single, solitary one, has done anything remotely crazy about her hair. One girl has pigtails, but just two as opposed to, say, three, four, or five. Had they not seen the Crazy Hair Day posters? Like the one that says
The Eighth Grade Rocks Spirit Week
or Ella's
Get Spirit-erized
poster. Or that giant sign in front of the school?

Were they all not on Snappypic?

Does anybody care?

Did all of the Merton Middle School spirit get sucked into a black hole, and is it alive and well in another normal hair-day galaxy?

As I shuffle outside the entrance to the school, some boys with regular, mashed-down hair in wool beanies are pointing at me and laughing.

“It's called Crazy Hair Day,” I say, pointing to the spots. “So let's not all stare at once.”

That's when Ella appears next to our usual meeting spot. She cups her mouth so hard it makes a popping sound. Her eyes widen as she winces. “Did you not get the message?”

“What message?” My heart is starting to pound way too loudly. Because I'm noticing something truly crazy.

“The school changed it,” she says. “They made a huge announcement about it on Friday.”

“Friday afternoon? That's when I had my orthodontist appointment. How could you not tell me?”

“Well, there were robo calls to parents. My mom got two. I'm
sooo
sorry, Karma. I should have called you, but I just thought you knew.”

“Great. My dad never looks at his messages.” Behind me I can hear some gasps and giggles.

Ella tilts her head. “Wow. I'm so, so sorry. And of all the days, it had to be picture day.”

“Picture day?!!!” Not only am I the one person with polka-dot hair, but it's also the day they take the photos that will be in the yearbook for posterity—and for all time. “This is for real?”

Ella points to the posters taped onto the cinderblock wall. The posters I hadn't noticed until today. It's a photo of a smiling girl and its says:

WEAR YOUR BEST SMILE
TODAY IS PICTURE DAY!

Other kids nearby nudge their friends and point and gawk at me.

“I can't believe this.” My heart is pounding. “I'm actually standing around with polka-dot hair. And less than three minutes ago, I thought there was something wrong with everyone else.”

Ella's face stretches into a hesitant smile. That's when Auggie Elson and his posse pop up right next to me. He jerks his head around to stare at my polka-dot hair. “Talk about confused. Wow!”

Then he holds up his phone.

A flash fills the hallway and I'm screaming, “Go away!” But it's too late, because Auggie has taken my photo for all of his followers to see.

At this point I consider turning around and running home. My parents would understand.

But no, I can't. Nobody will be there.

“You can borrow my hoodie,” says Ella. Then she pulls her phone out of her backpack and glances at it. She gulps hard. “He's already posted it.”

I stare at her screen. Then I take a deep breath. “Okay, okay, fine. Someone posted a photo of me. Fine. And that somebody happens to be Auggie. Fine. I can make this better.”

Ella bites her lip. “It's pretty bad.”

“We can fix this. I just need a phone.”

“We should go. So we're not late for advisory.” Ella grabs my hand and we rush through the front entranceway into the school.

“One phone. That's all I need.” I stare at Ella pleadingly. Desperately.

Ella peers down the hallway. “The bell's about to ring.”

“I dyed my hair to look like a cheetah. It looks pretty awesome, right?”

“It does,” admits Ella hesitantly as kids streaming past do a double take.

“And Crazy Hair Day is Tuesday, so with one phone”—I glance at Ella's pocket—“with your phone, I could recoup. My life could get awesome again. Just give me two minutes.”

Ella sighs, looks both ways, and quickly hands me her phone.

I hold it up and take a selfie. “I'm going to make it look like I did it on purpose. A living advertisement for Crazy Hair Day.” I hunch over to caption the photo:
I sacrificed my head so the seventh grade could get inspired!
“Tomorrow everyone's going to come to school with spotted hair and it'll be great.” I wave Ella's phone. “Woo-hoo! I posted it!”

“Keep it down, Karma.”

My eyes glance down at Ella's phone. She has six apps that need updating. “You can set your phone to do this automatically, you know.”

“No. Stop, Karma,” Ella begs.

My fingers dance on the keyboard. “See, it's already done!”

A walkie-talkie crackles. An official-sounding voice snaps, “Is that a phone, Karma Cooper?”

My Stats:

8 black dots in my hair today

2 bottles of hair dye to color my hair

1 supposed best friend who forgot to tell me
crucial
information

2 parents who failed to check messages

? number of Auggie's followers who will see me during the moment of my supreme humiliation. I don't know how many, exactly, but it will be huge.

? About to have my best friend's phone put into cell phone jail