GABBY
Gabby was camped out in the computer lab after school on Thursday putting the finishing touches on a photo series she was working on for the spring art show. It was of all the women in her family, and she was oddly pleased with the shots she’d gotten: a close-up of the nape of Celia’s neck, the fall of her long yellow braid over her shoulder; one of her mom and her aunt Liz from back at Christmas reading magazines side by side on the living room sofa, their faces tilted at the exact same angle; Kristina standing up on her bike in an oversized hoodie, laughing at something Gabby had said. Since everything that had happened with Ryan back in the winter, her life was extra girl-heavy lately, a blur of pore strips and fleece-lined leggings and Sandra Bullock movies on cable. Gabby told herself she didn’t miss him at all.
She chewed her bottom lip now, twirling the ends of her ponytail around two fingers as she concentrated. She loved photography: the chance to frame a shot exactly how you wanted, to crop out what didn’t belong. To keep on clicking over and over until you got things right, subject and light and composition. She wished actual life was more like that.
“Oh!” said Mr. Chan, coming into the lab with his jacket slung over his arm, messenger bag hanging off one shoulder. “You’re still here.”
Gabby looked up. “Sorry,” she said. “I can leave if you need to lock up. I’m just finishing.”
“Take your time,” he said, coming into the lab and peering over her shoulder for a moment. “Looking good.”
“Thanks.” Gabby felt herself grin. She liked Mr. Chan, who taught web design and ran the yearbook: he was cool in that he was interesting and knew stuff, but not in that I too am a young person! way she found so grating in some of her other teachers. He had a four-year-old son named Garth who he was always talking about.
“Oh, hey, Gabby, while I have you here.” Mr. Chan set his bag down on a chair and rummaged through it for a moment before coming up with a wrinkled computer printout and handing it over. “I wanted you to take a look at this. They emailed it to me and I thought of you.”
Gabby was surprised. She’d never been the kind of student teachers saw 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: UCLA Summer 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. Did she 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 at her.
“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.”