Chapter 3
I got home just in time for dinner, where Mom and Dad spent the whole time talking about a crack in the basement wall.
“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Dad said. “We can repair it ourselves.”
“Uh. It sounds like a big deal?” I wrinkled my nose. “How big a crack are we talking?”
Mom looked at me. “It’s a horizontal crack that goes from one side of the house to the other. I want to get it checked out. By a professional.”
I lowered my fork. “Is our house going to cave in? All my stuff is here. And our cat.”
Everyone looked over to Lady Zooms-a-Lot (Zooms to her friends), who was eating her wet food from a LIVE LOVE MEOW bowl against the nearby wall. She didn’t seem to notice everyone staring at her.
“No,” Dad said, turning back to his plate. “Our house is not going to cave in. Zooms will be fine.”
Mom shook her head. “It is a concern, though. The crack wasn’t there last year. You don’t mess around with foundation issues.”
It sounded to me like our house was about to cave in.
But what did I know? I wasn’t Victoria, the beautiful, brilliant, perfect daughter, who was sitting across the table from me in her new sweatshirt, one with a certain university’s name emblazoned across the front.
Nope, not saying which one—my parents bragged enough for everyone—but let’s just say it’s located in Boston.
After Victoria’s acceptance came, Dad blacked out and ordered one of everything from the online merch shop.
The way they made sure everyone within earshot knew about where she was going to school next year—while saying nothing about me—ugh. Throw me into the basement crack.
They continued talking about the crack the rest of the meal—what might have caused it, what could be done about it—and finally, just when I was about to snap, everyone was finished eating.
I had dish duty, so I started clearing the table, while Victoria sailed out of the dining room. Off to text her boyfriend or play her game or whatever it was she did when she didn’t have work.
Lucky duck.
I was elbow-deep in dishwater when Mom appeared, leaning on the counter while she just … watched me.
“What?” My nose itched, so I rubbed it on my sleeve.
“You look tense. Did Kat say something mean today?”
Pretty sure my mom was psychic. “She’s just being herself. She can’t help it.”
“Why do you think she can’t help it?”
“Low impulse control? I don’t know.” I shrugged, accidentally splashing dishwater.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I just have to grit my teeth and deal with it.
” And somehow make her forget my crush on the boy who’d singlehandedly caused our team to lose every game this year—because he quit the game.
(That sounded like a team problem, not a Grayson problem, but who was I to argue with popular opinion?)
Mom looked at me sideways. “All right. It’s your choice to keep her.”
“She’s my friend.” Why was that so hard to understand?
Mom didn’t say what I knew she was thinking, but she was thinking it really loudly: She didn’t think Kat was a good friend. But she was wrong. Kat was one of my three best friends and had been for years.
Thankfully, Mom just shrugged and left me to scrub in peace.
Finally, the dishwasher was loaded, the pots and pans cleaned up, and the counter and table wiped down. I hurried to my room before Mom or Dad could find anything else for me to do.
I shared a wall with Victoria, so even when I closed my door, I could hear her talking to people on her game. Her “guild,” she called them. Something about getting in formation. Something about staying out of the red. But she gave the orders in such a nice way that it didn’t even sound bossy.
Everyone loved Victoria. And it seemed obvious she was going to do something great.
I mean, the new sweatshirts were basically a sign from above.
In addition to being (apparently) a genius with a scholarship, she had a part-time job at Bread + Cheese (“like fast food, but make it locally owned and sourced”; the “Four Takes” review had been glowing) and tutored in English.
The number of times I’d heard people say how Mom and Dad clearly got it right the first time—right in front of me! —you cannot imagine.
It was annoying. And unfair.
I flopped onto my bed and picked up my phone.
I had homework. And any moment now, Mary Heather would ask me to proofread the review from earlier.
(Usually, I had a whole day, but since we were behind, I’d be doing it at the last minute, just like I hated.) And I should come up with a few ideas for the library’s Jolly-Days booth.
Yep. I had all that to do … but I opened Scrollr. And I scrolled.
There was a funny video with an orange cat sticking his head under a stream of water.
A few romantic fantasy recommendations from one of my favorite book scrolls.
And a bunch of people who’d texted their text-door neighbors—the number one digit off their own numbers.
The interactions seemed amazing. Someone texted the owner of a cat shelter and ended up adopting a cute tuxie.
(There was a picture!) Another person texted their boss and found out everyone at work was losing their jobs.
(Big yikes!) And someone else texted an old lady who’d lost her son the year before, and they ended up having lunch once a month. (Awww.)
I imagined getting a life-altering text like that. Something that made me feel special. Seen. Unique.
So, even though I could practically hear Mr. Duncan screaming, “Safety first!” I swiped over to my message app and put in my number—one digit up. But as soon as I started to type, a text from Jess came through. Almost like she and imaginary Mr. Duncan were in cahoots.
Jess:
send the pic you took
of grayson
pls
Me:
I’m going to delete it
Jess:
no don’t!
send it
i want to see
I sent it.
Then I tried to unsend it, but it was too late.
While she typed (and typed and typed, the ellipsis was so aggressive!), I enlarged the photo and studied it.
Grayson was off-center, but my phone’s automatic focus had captured him clearly as he bent over the pile of fallen books. Golden-hour light glowed on his outstretched hand. And there were the other people, all of them bending away from him except for the woman with the baby.
I liked the light, I decided. The way the people framed him. The line of the sidewalk leading directly to him. And mostly, I liked his unguarded emotion—embarrassment with a side of gratitude. But … it was creepy to take photos of people without their consent. Right?
I should definitely delete it.
Jess:
my mimi always said that a good photo tells a story and i think this one does. someone who wasn’t there could still see what happened and how it felt. look, you can even see that the bag broke. that hole is GAPING. i’m really impressed that you managed to capture so much
Me:
Really? Wow ty
But it’s not as good as you would do.
Your photos have a mood, PLUS a story PLUS perfect lighting. IDK how you do it. I know I could crop the photo to put him in the middle, but if I use the auto enhance I don’t like the way it looks
Jess:
you have to find your own editing style, buttttt i can tell you what i’d do if it were my photo
Me:
YES!
A minute later, Jess sent links to a beginner-friendly instructional video and an app to download. Then she listed a few areas she would tackle: color grading, enhancing the shadows and brightness, maybe adding a subtle vignette at the edges to direct the focus.
Me:
OMG thank you!
I’m going to work on this!
Jess:
of course of course!
i want to see the finished photo
I downloaded the app, but before I could start watching the video, the Four Takes chat dinged.
Mary Heather:
did everyone read the review???
Jess can you make it sparkle?
Kat can you add something about the way the extra spicy cocoa made you feel like a dragon? did it make you feel powerful? is that a good angle?
Virginia please proofread
Jess:
sorry not yet!
Kat:
i read. it’s good.
Me:
I’ll read when Jess is done
Jess:
going in now!
I opened the video Jessica had sent and watched it. It was overwhelming. I closed the video and tapped the editing app. Also overwhelming. I looked at her text with tips.
“I am not cut out for this,” I whispered. But I opened the app again, imported the photo, and messed around with some of the sliders. Okay. It wasn’t that bad. At least I could see when I was making it worse.
Slowly, I played with all the editing options until I thought the photo looked nice. When I hit the before and after, the after didn’t look too unnatural. Just … better.
I sent the photo to Jess.
Me:
What do you think?
Kat:
OH MY GOD I KNEW IT
Mary Heather:
what is this???
YOU DOOOOO HVAE A CRUSH
ON GRAYSON JENNINGS??
Crap! I locked my phone and slammed it screen-first into my pillow. I’d sent the photo to the group chat, not Jess!
I sucked in a long breath and picked up my phone again. I had to explain. Fast.
Me:
What?? OMG no I was just messing around
Jess gave me some tips
I don’t like Grayson
He’s so tall that he slouches
His clothes don’t even fit right!
Okay, it was true that his clothes didn’t fit right.
I’d clocked that earlier this year. It hadn’t bothered me—they were his clothes, not mine—but it was a little weird that all his jeans were too short and his jacket was too wide, like they were meant for someone with different proportions.
It hadn’t been a big deal, though … not until Derrick and Riley, two guys he used to play football with, started making jokes about Grayson getting dressed in the dark.
I looked at my text again, fighting off a stab of guilt.
Grayson didn’t deserve that dig about his clothes, but I really, really needed Kat off my back.
She could be funny when she was dragging someone else, but I was supposed to be her friend.
And she was more than capable of spreading rumors about me, if she wanted.
Kat: