Brandon’s eyes light up. “Lucky.”
I always used to find him irritating, but only because he was as good as I was—maybe better. His grandfather actually did win a Pulitzer for covering the war in Vietnam, and that connection helped Brandon land an elite internship with the Washington Post last summer. I had asked Mom to pull some strings for me, but she refused, telling me it would mean more if I earned experience based on my own merit.
Now I’m glad there was no internship. I spent the summer avoiding anything to do with a camera, instead crouching over a grave, writing letters.
Without any sense of competition, I realize Brandon is actually a nice guy. “Thanks.” I look up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“He shouldn’t have been hassling you.”
“Why was he so upset?” says Rowan.
I shrug and look at the picture again. There’s nothing about it anyone could find objectionable. It’s not like I set up a trick shot of the locker room. “I don’t know.”
Brandon snorts. “Who knows with him?”
Something in his voice makes me study him. “Do you know him?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Declan Murphy? No. I know of him, like everybody else.” He pauses and shrugs. “Maybe a little more. My dad reads the police reports out loud at the dinner table.”
“Did he really steal a car?” says Rowan. Her voice is a little hushed.
“Yeah. He got loaded, stole a car, and ran it into an office building.”
Wow. None of us say anything after that.
Brandon finally gestures at my camera. “Have you gotten pictures of anything else yet?”
“No,” I admit. I hesitate. “I actually just started.”
“It’s nice to see you guys out again.” His cheeks turn a bit pink, and he looks away. “I mean, I’m glad you haven’t lost your touch.”
“I’m just doing a favor.”
Brandon looks back at me. “If you say so.” He pauses. “Are you covering the dance tomorrow night, too?”
“No, just this.”
“I am.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say.
“Are you going?” he says.
“To the dance?” I squint at him. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” He hesitates and fiddles with his camera for a moment. “You can come hang out with me if you want.”
I swear Rowan stops breathing. She nudges me with her hip.
“Are you asking me out?” I say, frowning.
“Well”—he glances up at me— “sort of. I mean, technically I’d be working. But maybe it could be fun.” His eyes flick to Rowan. “It doesn’t have to be a date. You could both come. If you want.”
I take a step back. I’m so unprepared for this. The emotion of the camera in my hands and the interaction with Declan and then Brandon’s sudden intervention. I don’t know what to say.
No, obviously. He’s not even expecting me to accept his offer, I can tell from the way he’s already framing new shots.
A dance? What on earth would I do with myself at a dance?
I open my mouth to decline, but then I remember The Dark’s email.
I followed your lead and did something unexpected.
You’re right. It was terrifying.
Let’s do it again.
“Sure,” I say.
Brandon lowers the camera and looks at me. “Really?”
“Really.” I swallow. “But only if Rowan comes, too.”
Rowan grabs me around the waist and gives a little squeal.
I point at her. “I guess we’re coming.”
But if I’m honest with myself, I feel like squealing too.
Not much.
Just a little.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
From: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> To: The Dark <[email protected]>
Date: Friday, October 4 10:23:05 AM
Subject: Unexpected
Are you going to Homecoming tonight?
I am.
I hope that’s shocking. It’s shocking to me, and I’m the one who agreed to go. Someone asked me and I said yes.
I blame you. I wouldn’t even have said yes if not for you and your challenge to do something unexpected. Now I have to find a dress after school, and I’m not even sure I like the guy I’m going with. In fact, I’ve spent the last three years thinking he was kind of irritating.
Doing all these unexpected things is leaving me off balance.
When I told my father I was going to Homecoming, he looked like he was going to have a stroke. Then he handed me his credit card and told me to get whatever I want. I think he specifically said “Spare no expense,” and it’s not like we’re made of money.
He seemed relieved to see me having some kind of a normal teen experience. I feel like I’m faking it, though. I’m a balloon, waiting for someone to stick me with a pin so I pop, leaving a torn pile of latex on the ground. I should be excited about the opportunity to go buy a dress and get my hair done, but I don’t really care. My best friend asked if I’m disappointed that my mother isn’t here to go shopping with us (because I’m going out with her and her mom), but that’s not it. This isn’t the kind of thing my mother would ever do—even if she were in town. The first glimpse she got of my junior prom dress was a week later, when she got the picture I’d emailed her. Even then, she never mentioned it.
When I think about her life, my worries about these insignificant things seem so petty. Mom was documenting something real. She was showing the effects of war to people who are content to flip the page to find out what’s going on in Hollywood. She was making a difference.
What am I doing? Buying a dress?
I keep thinking she’d be disappointed in me. I’m worried I’m going to get to the dance and have a nervous breakdown.
Please tell me you’ll be there. I know we don’t know each other, but I’ll feel a little better knowing I’m not the only person on the dance floor who’s completely screwed up inside.
Especially since you’re the one who showed me I could be normal.