Something Real

Season 17, Episode 1 (The One With The Cameras)

It took me four years, seven shrinks, three different hair colors, one Zen meditation retreat, and over six hundred mochas to get to this moment.

I step up to the blue velvet backdrop and face the camera. When the photographer isn't paying attention, I wipe the back of my hand over my damp forehead, then clutch my fingers behind my back, like I'm a two-year-old with a secret. I shouldn't have worn the sweater- shirt. The wool is itchy, and I'm about two seconds away from break- ing out in hives. God, why won't he just take the damn picture? It's not like this is Seventeen. The last time they shot me, we'd spent four hours on my hair and makeup and another three in front of the cam- era. This is nothing compared to that, but it feels so much worse.

I want to bolt so bad, and this guy's taking forever, longer than he took for anyone who was in line ahead of me. But I have to stick it out. I've been psyching myself up for this all summer. A senior photo is an important pastime for a normal girl. And I'm a normal girl.

Finally.

I can do this. Breathe. It's not even a camera camera . . . it's just a photo. One photo. That's it. And the name that will be under- neath it in the yearbook? Totally unremarkable. Nothing Us Weekly would care about. Chloe Baker's a nobody.

The scruffy photographer crouches down behind the camera, like a sniper looking through a scope. The panic that had started out as a slight queasiness in my stomach is pushing past my ribs, press- ing against my lungs.

The sweater itching. Sweat on my forehead. Nails digging into my skin. Keep it together.Just a few more seconds.

I'm a freaking basket case.

"All right, Chloe," he says. "On three. One, two-"

I smile as the flash goes off, and the photographer gives me a

thumbs-up, then turns to the kid behind him. "Next!"

My first voluntary picture in four years.

I grab my backpack off the floor and throw it over one shoulder as

I walk out of the makeshift photo studio. Giddiness wells up in me, like I mainlined a Pepsi Freeze and got a little too high on caffeine and sugar. I want to do something to commemorate the day-bake a cake or put a sticker on my calendar. Light a candle.

Behind me, a long line of seniors wait their turn for the yearbook photos, but since my last name is at the beginning of the alphabet, I'm among the first to go home on this rare half day. Thank God for long faculty meetings.

"Proud of you, sis."

My brother, Benton™, also a senior, gives me a hug. I knew he'd been waiting for me after he took his photo, which, because he's a well-adjusted person, is no biggie for him.

"Is that relief I see in your eyes?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "Maybe a little."

"Someday, you'll be proud of me for doing something that's

scarier than a yearbook picture."

He gives my ponytail an affectionate tug. "Baby steps."

We walk away from the line together and then he jerks his thumb toward the locker room.

"I'm meeting Matt, so you can take the car, 'kay?"

"Have fun."

He gives me a wicked little grin. "We get his house to ourselves until he has practice at three."