Gabby was surprised. She’d never been the kind of student teacherssaw things and thought of; she was smart enough and quiet enough, and she never got in trouble, and that was it. “Thanks,” she said slowly, scanning the page:UCLASummer Program for Young Photographers. Six Weeks. California. “What is it?” she asked, a little shiver of anxiety already zinging through her. “Like, a summer camp?”
“It’s a summer intensive,” Mr. Chan explained. “You’d be working with professional photographers, getting feedback, workshopping in a group.”
“Workshopping?” Gabby repeated.
“Yeah, showing your work to your peers and getting critiques.”
“That sounds horrible,” Gabby blurted, then cringed.
But Mr. Chan grinned. “That’s how you get better,” he pointed out. “You’re talented, Gabby. You have a great eye. And if you think you might like to pursue photography after high school, this is a great place to get started.”
Gabby blinked.Didshe want to pursue photography after high school? She’d never really thought about it before. Whenever Gabby tried to think about the future her brain shorted out a little, like the TV at her grandma’s house used to during a thunderstorm. Like a power surge overloading the board.
“It’s in Los Angeles?” she asked finally, still looking at the paper. It might as well have been on the other side of the world. Just the thought of it had her heart pounding, like suddenly there wasn’t quite enough air in the computer lab: all those new people, hundreds of miles from home. A room full of strangers looking at her photos. A room full of strangers looking ather.
“There are scholarship options available,” Mr. Chan offered, as if that might be the source of her hesitation. Right away, Gabby felt like a jerk. Her parents would probably pay for this, she knew, if she said she wanted to do it. Hell, they’d probably be delighted she was considering leaving the house. Since she and Ryan had stopped speaking, she knew she was being even more hermit-y than usual, hardly ever straying farther than school or Shay’s house for a movie night.
Ugh, she did not want to be thinking about Ryan right now.
Mr. Chan was still looking at her, waiting. Gabby offered a weak, treacly smile. She thought of all the excuses she’d made over the years for why she couldn’t go to dances or birthday parties or out with Ryan, back when she and Ryan were still friends:I can’t go because my mom needs me to do something. I can’t go because my stomach hurts.
I can’t go because I’m too afraid.
“I’ll think about it,” Gabby lied finally, sticking the paper in her bookbag and turning back to the computer, hitting Save As and then Quit. “Thanks.”
RYAN
Ryan had a doctor’s appointment after school on Friday, one of the periodic checkups he’d been going in for since January to reassure everybody that his brain wasn’t turning topea soup. “Any double vision?” the doctor asked, shining a penlight into both his eyes as Ryan sat on the exam table, bored, kicking his heels lightly against the medical supply drawers underneath. “Having a hard time remembering stuff in school?”
“Well, always,” Ryan joked. “But no more than usual.”
The doctor ignored him. “Headaches?” he asked.
Ryan shook his head. “Nope,” he lied. “I’m totally good.”
He went for a run afterward—he’d made a point of working out every day for the last four months, wanting to make sure he was in better shape than ever when they finally let him rejoin the hockey team come fall. He’d been benched since last winter thanks to Gabby; he hadn’t played in almost five months and was losing it a little bit, not being out on the ice every day while the other guys were.
He did five miles, then headed home to shower before meeting up with Chelsea and a bunch of her friends at the Applebee’s near the movie theater. They went there almost every weekend; the waitresses hated them because they always ordered one appetizer sampler and fourteen plates and stayed for three hours being noisy.
“You’re here!” Chelsea called when she saw him, sliding out of the massive round booth, her curly hair riotous around her face. They’d been dating since way back in December, which was longer than Ryan had ever managed to stay interested in one girl before; there was a tiny part of him that kept expecting to get tired of her, but so far it hadn’t happened atall. Chelsea was just reallyfun. When it wasn’t swim season, she played Ultimate Frisbee after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays; they went for runs through her neighborhood on Saturday afternoons and wrestled in the ball pit at Arcade World when her boss was out on his smoke break. It was cool, to be with somebody who lived so much in her body. It was cool to be with somebody who lived somuch.
“How was the doc?” she asked now, perching on his lap and scraping her nails lightly through the super-short hair at the back of his neck. Ryan shivered. He’d gotten it all cut off earlier that spring—new guy, fresh start, whatever—and he still wasn’t entirely used to it.
“Good,” Ryan said, then thought a little guiltily of the lie he’d told about getting headaches. He didn’t exactly have a choice—he needed a clean bill of health so they’d let him start playing again—and it wasn’t like he got them all the time or anything. But he still felt kind of weird and unsettled about it. Doctors were like priests, Ryan thought. You were supposed to tell them the truth no matter what. “Although honestly—”
“Chelsea!” screeched Chelsea’s friend Sam from across the restaurant. “Come here! I need you to take a picture with me.”
Chelsea sighed theatrically. “Duty calls,” she said, and pecked him on the temple. “Save me a chicken finger.”
Ryan grinned at her retreating back. Chelsea was quitepossibly the only person he’d ever met who was more social than he was. She was part of a big group of friends who did basically everything together, including using the bathroom. They called themselves the Magnificent Seven, which Ryan secretly thought was a little dorky. He always cringed when he thought about what Gabby would say if she heard it, then scolded himself: First of all, Gabby wasn’t really in a position to judge, seeing as how last time he’d checked she didn’t have seven friends to give a stupid group nickname to. And second of all, there was no reason for Gabby to ever find out about it, because he hadn’t spoken to Gabby at all since the night of their giant fight last winter.
Ryan felt his blood pressure rise remembering it, purposefully pushed it out of his mind; if he thought about it too much he got really angry, and he didn’t like being angry all the time. He’d trusted her. She’d screwed him. There wasn’t really anything to say about it other than that.
Instead of dwelling on it, Ryan made himself comfortable at the table, helping himself to some quesadilla and challenging Sam’s boyfriend, Ben, to a game of tabletop football with a packet of artificial sweetener. He liked Chelsea’s friends, in general; certain people would probably think they were immature, but they were chill and funny and easy to fit in with. Most importantly of all, they’d slipped neatly into the hole left by hockey this year. Not every conversation had to be a deep philosophical unburdening.
“Erin Christopher is having a party tonight,” Chelsea reported when she returned a little while later, swiping the last bit of mozzarella stick off the platter and smiling at him. “You in?”
Ryan hesitated. He’d kind of been hoping they could go back to her house and hang out a little; truth be told, lately he was feeling a little partied out. Every once in a while he missed just hanging out and talking one-on-one with somebody, the way he used to with—with—
