Queen of Likes (12 page)

I'm suddenly feeling lucky.

Ren clasps his hands together. “You don't need to wait for a special photo trip. You'll start appreciating all the little things around you. You can really enjoy what has become familiar to you. Your camera can shoot whether your eyes are open or closed. It's your choice.”

Then he lets out a big breath and has us get into small groups where we are supposed to talk about what we want to take photos of and our previous experience in photography. I tell the girls in my group that I like taking photos of things that make other people happy. I mentally picture all of the comments that I got when I took a photo of the baby bunny I found in the yard. It was crazy. Everyone loved it. The girl who was too hot says she likes taking candid photos of people when they're singing or talking, and the girl with the purple hair says she loves nests of all kinds.

Then I say, “I bet Ren doesn't do Snappypic. He doesn't seem to care about
LIKES
.”

“I doubt that,” says the girl with purple streaks. “But I think what he means is you want others to enjoy you for you, right? So if I'm into elephants and somebody else is too, then they really might like my elephant photos.”

I nod. I think I get what she means.

The desk-stealer in the back suddenly points at me and says in a loud voice, “I swear I know you.”

“Sorry.” I shake my head.

Photo Lens Boy says, “Yeah, she does look familiar.”

“The guys in this class are weird,” I whisper to my group. “I've never seen any of them before in my life.”

My desk partners give me these looks, like maybe they don't believe me. When we're done, the purple-haired girl asks Ren what we should do next.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “You can leave. You can chitchat. You may ask me questions.”

I glance at the clock. It's supposed to go another fifteen minutes.

“It isn't time to go,” says the too-warm girl.

“Well, aren't you fortunate?” Ren grins. “You get to be rid of me sooner tonight. Because that's all I have to tell you now. Next class, I'm going to go over the history of photography. So go forth and take photos.”

Okay, it's weird. My heart is beating extra fast and I'm excited. I'm excited about going forth and discovering what kinds of pictures I really want to take.

My Stats:

0 notebooks

1 photography teacher who won't tell me what he thinks of my photos

5 things I'm supposed to like but don't know yet

5 weeks in a class that's weird and very cool all at the same time

1 camera that I'm itching to take photos with all weekend!

Mood: Kind of excited to find out what makes my cells sing and to make sure they don't sing totally off-key.

Over the weekend, I was a photo-taking machine. I strolled around our yard shooting close-ups of bark. The rose trellis. The lid of the recycling bin. Over Saturday and Sunday, I must have taken hundreds of photos.

Some of them weren't great. Well, actually, most of them weren't. I couldn't get anything in full sun to come out right, but the ones in the shade of a tree or when the clouds rolled in worked better. I fooled around with using flash and not using flash.

I printed out probably a dozen of my best and put the photos in an accordion file. I'm really proud of them.

During school, I'm also in full photo mode. On Monday between classes, I took a ton of pictures, even during lunch.

After third period on Tuesday, I snap a bunch of shots in the hall and lose track of time, so I hurry to Bailey's table. Now I'll only have fifteen minutes to eat my lunch.

I slide into my seat next to Ella and let out a breath. Famished, I pull food out of my lunch bag.

“Where were you?” asks Ella.

“Oh, just taking photos,” I say. “You know, for my class.”

“Well, I got worried.” Ella wipes her mouth with a napkin. “You didn't let anyone know.”

“Sorry.” I shrug.

“Spirit Week is coming right up,” says Bailey.

“I know,” I say.

“Ella's posting a schedule,” Janel says, crunching a carrot.

“Oh, that's great,” I murmur. “I didn't know about that.”

Bailey glances at her notebook. “We've got to make our final push. I hear that the eighth-grade chair is making a giant banner. It's going to say something like ‘Eighth Grade Rocks Spirit Week!' ”

Megan leans into the group. “You guys, does anyone know what the sixth graders are up to? I've hardly heard anything. Should we be worried?”

I absently play with my straw “I so wouldn't worry. Yesterday I saw that girl with pigtails. Gina. She was having a meeting. Want to know what they were doing?”

Bailey fiddles with her scarf. “What? Tell us.”

“They were having a handstand contest.” I shake my head.

Bailey rolls her eyes. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Auggie and his friends are all going to play ukulele on Crazy Hair Day to get everyone into Spirit Week,” says Megan. I laugh at the idea as I tear into my turkey wrap.

“Graeme and Justin know how to play?” asks Janel.

Megan giggles. “No, but that never stops them.”

Bailey consults her notebook and shakes her head. “One week to get ready. I've still got to get my stuff for Crazy Hair Day.”

“It's going to be
so
much fun,” says Megan. Kids at the next table hide their phones as Mr. Chase patrols around the circular tables with his walkie-talkie squawking.

“I'm going to put wires in my hair so my braids stick right up,” says Janel.

“I'm going for rainbow hair,” says Megan.

“I have this purple wig that's really outrageous,” says Ella. Her voice is definitely less tentative as she talks about her Crazy Hair ideas.

“How about you, Karma?” asks Megan, who munches on some caramel corn.

“Oh, it's going to be a surprise. I plan to out-crazy everyone.” Of course, I've been so busy I have no idea what that will be, but I'll figure it out.

I'm with Dorina up in the stacks of the historical society. She's showing me how to search through the historical research index (HRI). I biked over right after school. Anna is working downstairs with a bunch of volunteers getting ready for a rummage sale over the weekend. They're selling donated items they don't need. Since I brought my camera with me, I snapped shots of everyone setting up the sale items like old hats, typewriters, and stacks of books. I got great candids, including one of Karen in her banana earrings modeling a boa and a volunteer with a bushy mustache in a top hat.

Dorina motions me over from where I'm standing to the corner of the room. Her feather earrings swing back and forth as she flips through a giant binder plunked in the center of a small table. “So now I'll show you what's in the PFs.”

“PFs?” I ask. “What's that?”

“The photo files.” Dorina points to a row of cabinets along the left wall. They are the same shade of gray as her sweater-vest.

The photo files. Cool. That's what I've been waiting for this whole time

I start to sit down at a table when Neda appears. Today she's wearing a navy blazer and matching skirt. She looks even more official than normal. Her lipstick is as orange as ever.

“I understand you take very good notes,” she says. Through her black frames, she's peering at my pad of paper. Her eyes look big and extra owly.

“Um. Yes. Thanks,” I say.

Neda adjusts a giant accordion file she's holding. “I'm glad you're getting an overview of the photos since I have something in mind for you later.”

I nod. I'm surprised that Neda has anything in mind for me other than leaving her precious historical society. Maybe that's it. She's going to show me the door and wave bye-bye.

“So have at it!” Neda says, then clicks down downstairs in her high heels.

“Do you know what she wants me to do later?” I ask Dorina.

“I don't know.” She shrugs. “Okay, then.” Dorina points to a filing cabinet behind me. “Here's where we keep the PFs.” She pulls out a blue binder. “This is the index.” She hands it to me. I flip through. Inside there's a listing of all the contents. “You need gloves for the ephemera boxes too,” I say, remembering what Dorina said last time.

“Exactly.” She pats my shoulder. “You got it!”

I like “getting” things. I walk over to a table. A box of vinyl exam gloves sits on it as if we're at a hospital. I grab a pair and plop them down on the tabletop. Pulling out my camera, I adjust the focal length and take a close-up of the gloves. It's a sharp, frame-filling shot. The texture of the rubber looks so cool. And from the light of a nearby lamp, they almost gleam. As Dorina searches for something in the stacks, I take a quick candid, focusing on her profile. I tuck my camera back in my bag before Dorina turns around to face me.

She taps her hand on a shelf filled with fat books. “We have quite a few photographic tomes.”

“Can I look?”

“Of course.” Dorina pulls out a couple of volumes and I stride over to her.

After Dorina sets the heavy books down on a nearby table, I flip through them. It looks like the area right outside of Portland. One is a shot of what's probably the Hood River, because a snow-capped Mount Hood towers in the background. Dorina stands over my shoulder, looking down at the rest of the images with me.

“I recognize that bridge,” I say excitedly. “It's that one near the park downtown. Only instead of cars going over it, there are buggies.” And horses. In another photo there's a steam engine. “The street isn't exactly a street. It looks sort of—”

“Muddy.” Dorina turns the page to another street scene. “Definitely no pavement back then.”

“Everything must have gotten so messy.”

“Oh my, yes. The mud wrestled its way down the streets in the winter, I can tell you that much.”

I imagine a bunch of people in old-fashioned Western clothes covered in dirt. “My little brother would have loved it. We call him Pigpen.”

Dorina laughs. “So would my little granddaughter. She can't leave mud alone.”

I try to imagine living back then. “It's weird, but for some reason I think of the past in black and white.”

“That's because of photos.” Dorina flips through more pages. “But if you go farther back before photography, all of our documents are paintings or sketches. So if you think of those wonderful Renaissance paintings by Da Vinci, then I bet you think of the past as looking like a colorful oil painting.”

“You're so right!”

I spend the rest of the time flipping through the old photos in the PFs. I'm starting to see a pattern. There are images of families. And of railroads. Of farms. Street scenes. Businesses. Schools.

“So . . . having fun?” asks a voice.

I turn around. It's Neda. She has the ability to pop out of nowhere. You'd think I'd hear her in those heels.

Neda takes off her glasses and twirls them. “Ready for your project?”

The mystery project? “Sure,” I say.

“You get to dig into some more photos.” Neda points to the other side of Anna's desk. “Everyone dumps their stuff here. Someone dies and they figure we want everything. We don't. Last year we got four pianos and a book on Wyoming history.” She shakes her head and her hair stays perfectly in place. “Oh, and we got four broken mops.”

“I guess they thought the mops were historic?”

She laughs. “Yes, we just usually put up a sign and sell what we can't use. Or give it away.”

She points to a couple of cardboard boxes that are completely full. “We have no idea what's in there. We just know they are photos. They were just dropped off yesterday. So are you up for some sorting?”

“Sure,” I say again, even though I'm feeling a little unsure.

“The key thing is we want to keep only what is related to county history.”

Yikes! “I don't know if I can do this,” I protest. “How am I going to know if it's county history?”

“Ah, that's why this job is a good one for you. You're going to be the first sorter. So one of the things I'm going to want you to do is take out photos that obviously are not county history and put them into a pile. So, for example, if you see someone standing under a palm tree on a sandy white beach . . .”

“Set it aside,” I say.

“Or if they're standing next to the Statue of Liberty.”

“Set it aside.”

Neda smiles. “You got it.”

“What does the historical society do with the stuff you don't need?”

“Well, Anna belongs to some LISTSERVs and lets other organizations know what we have. And if a museum or historical society wants something, we'll send them out.”