give subtle differences in each picture. My “subtle” at age twelve was switching the hand up on my hip to down by my side and sticking my tongue out.
Not much has changed.
After what I believe is the last picture, I find my muscles and rush for my coat, jamming my arms through the sleeves and defrosting almost instantly.
“Ahh,” I sigh through my teeth chatter. My gloves go back on, and I pluck the phone from its stand.
Oh no. Oh no no no. We have dead fish and constipated. Plus, in every photo, my… my… nipples are to a point. I slap a hand to my face, covering one eye while the other continues to look through photo after photo of nipple mania.
I can’t post these! My dad will see them. My aunts and uncles. My pastor.
I quickly delete, delete, delete, then head back to Gertrude. I’m going for the selfie and the open coat. It’s enough cleavage to say bad girl with enough smarts to say it’s freaking cold and I’m not taking off my coat for a darn picture.
My selfie skills are nearly non-existent. I gave up after scrutinizing every picture I took and have never felt the need to post a selfie when posting my art was so much more fun—and better looking.
I tilt the phone, going for the angle, but that shows way too much boob. I try another angle, but now Gertrude is hidden.
“Ugh!” I scream out into the empty parking lot. “Candace, why are you like this?” A bad girl would just take the darn photo. A bad girl wouldn’t have to use her best friend’s motorcycle to pose against. A bad girl would already have a date with the hot bad boy in her art class. Probably already kissed him, too.
And I just realized I think of Pete as my best friend, and that’s just sad. He thinks of me as a co-worker at the very most, I bet. A pupil maybe. An annoyance most likely.
Tears start to prickle against my eyes. No. I will not let them fall. They’ll freeze to my cheeks and become permanent fixtures of my pathetic personality.
My butt flumps against the seat of Pete’s bike, and I stare at my legs, the ripped jeans showing more skin than I prefer, and I wish I didn’t have such an aversion to something as simple as clothing. I reach down, using my pastel pink gloves to pick at the material. I paid eighty dollars for these, thinking I’d wear them all the time now that I’m such a rebel. Now I wouldn’t mind if I never saw them again.
Maybe I shouldn’t have a party. It’s a less than a week out. Is that even enough time to extend invites? Get RSVPs? Wait… do I request RSVPs? Or is this a show up anytime with anyone they want? Am I supposed to have alcohol there? Because I don’t drink, I don’t know how to get drinks, and will I be responsible if people drive home drunk… Or will there be passed out people on my couch all night? Gosh, I don’t even know how to party right.
The wind picks up, and I shiver against it, grabbing my zipper and pulling it to my chin. I don’t care if there will be no cleavage shot. I don’t care that I’m wearing a baby blue coat with white fur fringe and pink gloves. I’m sitting on a motorcycle, and that should be enough right now, and I’m not leaving without a decent picture.
I hold the camera up, set my jaw, and then force a smile. I click before I overthink it.
“Should I leave you two alone?”
I whip around to Pete’s voice, and my smile is no longer forced. Embarrassed, but not forced.
“Hey, sorry.” I jump up from Gertrude and rush to get his cover. “I was just…”
“Taking selfies on my bike?” he offers. His chin is more scruffy today than usual, his eyes tired but friendly. He hops off the curb and stands next to me. His black coat sleeve presses with my baby blue.
“No,” I answer, even if that’s exactly what I was doing.
“Messing with my brakes?”
I blink, shocked he’d ever think that of me. But his mouth splits open in his usual tease, and I give him a good smack to the upper arm.
“Fine. I was trying to get a ‘bad girl’ picture for my profile. You know, before I start inviting people over for New Year’s Eve.”
“Ah.” His normally playful demeanor