Spring Break Mistake

  For

  Nicole Oddo Smith

  and

  Annie Haskell McGuire, the original residents of the infamous Room 609

  The worst thing about my sister is her smile.

  It’s not that it’s a bad smile—it’s a great smile, actually. One of the best there is. It’s the kind of smile that seems ever-present, even when Arden is scowling. I would think the expression “she can light up a room” was a load of baloney, if it weren’t for Arden’s sparkle of a mouth. And the worst part is she didn’t even do anything to deserve it—not really, anyway. She was gifted with picket fence–straight teeth, with a coat of white shine to match.

  I, however, have the kind of teeth that require four years of braces just for the mere hope that they might someday end up not being an abject disaster. This is the injustice of my life.

  Arden is flashing one of her signature smiles toward me at the moment, all while lounging on my window seat with her feet propped up on the grids of the glass pane.

  Which she knows I hate.

  “Get your hooves off my window,” I tell her, scrolling absentmindedly through the PhotoReady app on my phone. “You’re smudging my view.”

  “I’d hardly call this a view,” Arden argues. “A bunch of trees and a rusty old swing set.” I click out of PhotoReady and open the camera, aiming it in Arden’s direction.

  “Say cheese,” I coo in a singsong voice. I pretend to snap a picture as Arden turns her head in my direction. Her feet fly off the window as she scrambles to stand.

  “Don’t you dare post that.” She leaps across the room and flops onto the bed next to me. I roll in the opposite direction until my feet hit the floor, phone still in my hand, then I walk to the window and make a great display of lifting one of the throw pillows to clean her toe print off the glass. But at the last second, I snap a photo of it instead.

  “Um, what are you doing?” Arden asks.

  “Taking a picture of the mark your man-toes made,” I say. “It could probably be studied in the Museum of Natural History.”

  Arden crosses her arms and stomps her foot against my bedspread. “Delete the photo,” she tells me in her best principal voice. “Now.”

  “Oh, calm down,” I tell her, settling onto the window seat and texting the toe-print shot to my best friend, Celia, with the caption, For your heart collection, before quickly deleting it.

  “Prove you erased it,” Arden says, reaching for my phone. I toss it on the bed beside her and watch her examine my albums. Satisfied, she slides it away from her. “Here’s a rule for Florida—only take good pictures of me.” I snort. “Or better yet, don’t take pictures of me at all. That’s the only way I’ll know I’m safe. I mean, the worst pictures of me ever taken are the ones from spring break.” Arden pulls at the ends of her thick, dark curls, twirling one around her finger. It is true that every single year, the second Arden steps off the plane and into the Florida humidity, her hair frizzes up like a beehive. What is not true is that this frizz results in bad pictures of her—maybe slightly worse than usual, but still not bad.

  After all, she has that smile.

  In contrast to Arden’s mane, my hair only seems to grow limper in the Florida heat. Really, between our teeth and our hair, no one would ever believe Arden and I were sisters. As wild and unruly as Arden’s hair is, mine is equally as fine and straight. “Strawberry blond” is what everyone calls it, though in the wrong light, it tends to look baby pink, like the color of a newborn girl’s nursery.

  And for some reason, the Florida sun is definitely the “wrong light” for my hair.

  “Well, I’m sure the Backgammon Bandits and the Pinochle Posse won’t mind me taking their pictures,” I say.

  Arden sighs. “What’s the point of living in Florida if you don’t live on the beach?” she asks. “Or at least near a beach.”

  “Or near Disney World,” I add. “I’d settle for Disney World.” Our grandparents have managed to pick the only place in Florida that is far from a beach, far from Disney World, and far from anything but their own retirement community. When Arden and I were little, the place seemed like a giant adventure. Our grandparents’ home became our private village for the week, complete with pools and tennis courts and mysterious games like croquet and shuffleboard. But after twelve years of this annual spring break trip, I had had about all I could handle of backgammon and pinochle.

  I walk across the room to retrieve my phone, and then I open PhotoReady again. At the very top of my feed is Arden’s toe print—Celia has posted it with the label #CeliaHeartsNYC, courtesy of @AvalonByTheC. I smirk, more grateful than ever that Arden doesn’t have a PhotoReady account. I’m sure she wouldn’t be pleased to know that her enormous feet marks got a featured mention in Celia’s photography project.

  “What’re you smiling at?” Arden asks.

  “Celia’s comment on my picture of Jelly,” I lie.

  Arden rolls her eyes. “You two and your dumb cat photos . . . ,” she says, sliding herself off my bed. “I’ll leave you alone to be weird by yourself.” I climb onto my mattress the second Arden is gone, lying on my back with my knees bent. I hold my phone over my face, flipping through people’s pictures. Without Arden, my room is so quiet that when my phone dings with a new e-mail, I nearly drop it on my nose.

  I sit up to open my inbox, and three words catch my eye instantly: Congratulations from PhotoReady! Suddenly anxious, my fingers seem to move in slow motion as I open the body of the e-mail:

  Dear Avalon Kelly,

  Congratulations! You have been selected to take part in this year’s junior high PhotoReady retreat (the “PhotoRetreat”) in New York City!

  My eyes only land on every third word as I read, the entire e-mail beginning to swim together into a gigantic blur. I start pacing the floor in a semicircle, around my bed, from one wall to the other, and then back. I hold my phone in front of me, hoping that with every lap, I’ll be better able to concentrate on its contents, but I only seem to grow more nervous.

  Celia and I had applied to this PhotoRetreat—a one-week getaway to New York for seventh- and eighth-grade PhotoReady users—a few months ago. For consideration, you had to use the app to create your own photo project, which is how #CeliaHeartsNYC came to be. Celia had made it her mission to photograph hearts she found “in the wild”—those created by the cream in our science teacher’s coffee, or by two perfectly folded book pages, or in the snow or with sidewalk chalk, or from a bent toilet paper roll. Celia was determined for us to both get accepted into the PhotoRetreat, because “how much fun would it be to spend a week in New York City together?” And while the retreat sounded exciting in theory, in practice, the whole thing made me uneasy. A week away from home, in a new city, with new people, and completely foreign routines? As much as I loved PhotoReady, did I really love it enough to justify five full days away from my comfort zone?

  When Celia and I were both wait-listed a few weeks ago, part of me had been relieved. After all, Celia couldn’t say I hadn’t tried—I had created my own photo project just like she had. Mine was called #IfYouJustSmile, and I had taken close-ups of different parts of my face and then posted two pictures side by side: one where I hadn’t been smiling, and another where I had. It showed the squint of my eyes, the crinkles along the sides of my nose, the indentations around my mouth, all of which formed the second I smiled. But in the pictures, I had never actually shown my mouth. Because we already know the problem there.

  I sit down on the window seat, tapping my fingernails against the back of my phone. Arden is right—this view isn’t exciting. It’s sweet, but it’s not exciting. The views in New York City would be exciting. The pictures I could take in New York? They would be amazing. It
would be a huge opportunity. It would be something I’d be stupid to turn down, to ignore, to delete the e-mail.

  It could be fun.

  It could be fun, at least, if Celia were there too.

  I moan out loud to myself, taking my phone out from under my legs and opening the camera. Aiming the lens out the window, to the same backyard I’ve seen nearly every day of my life, I center the abandoned swing set and snap a picture. I then open PhotoReady, load the shot into a frame, choose the black-and-white filter, and type a caption: Old view.

  And as I watch the photo load onto my screen, I wonder if I’m ready to start looking at something new.

  I march across the hall to Arden’s room and head directly to her wicker rocking chair. Collapsing into it, I announce, “I need to tell you something.”

  Arden rotates around to face me, a questioning look in her arched eyebrows.

  “Wait a second,” I begin, dropping my phone on the rocking chair to go shut her door.

  “This sounds serious,” Arden says.

  “It is.”

  “Did Jelly side-swipe a vase again? Mom can’t keep claiming that every vase is her favorite. This is getting ridic—”

  “Not about Jelly. About me,” I say, returning to the rocker.

  “Go on,” Arden says, crossing her arms against her chest and leaning back in her seat. Arden is a year younger than me, but we’ve always acted more like twins—twins who look nothing alike, but twins nonetheless. As if I’m only three minutes older than her, instead of thirteen months. She is mostly my best friend, even more than Celia is—which means she can also drive me battier than anyone else in the world.

  But for times like these, she’s exactly who I need.

  “So . . . ,” I begin. “I told you how Celia and I applied for that PhotoReady retreat a few months ago? The one they’re doing in New York the week of our spring break?”

  “Weren’t you wait-listed? Which you decided was their nice way of rejecting you?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Only we were actually wait-listed. And now, I’m . . . not wait-listed.”

  Arden’s eyes widen. “You got in?”

  I nod my head slowly. “They just sent me an e-mail.”

  “No way!” Arden shouts, leaping up from her chair.

  “Shhhh.” I shush her. “I don’t want Mom or Dad to hear.”

  “Why? That’s awesome! I guess you’re more talented with that silly camera than I give you credit for.” She says this last part with a smirk.

  “I’m not sure I’m going to go,” I confess.

  “Why? A whole week in New York with your camera? Sounds right up your alley.”

  “Maybe if Celia were going,” I say. “But I haven’t heard from her, which makes me think she didn’t get an e-mail. And I would never go to New York by myself.”

  Arden stares at me blankly, as if I’m speaking a foreign language. “Um, you have to go. This is, like, a big deal.”

  “No, I’m not going,” I say matter-of-factly. “Unless Celia ends up going too, but otherwise, no way.” The skin on my arms begins crawling with goose bumps at the thought of spending a week with a bunch of strangers, away from everything—and everyone—I know.

  “Seriously? We were just complaining about having to spend another spring break at the Retirement Ranch. This is your chance to finally do something different.”

  “You’d want to suffer alone with the Pinochle Posse?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Arden answers. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go to New York.”

  It’s my turn to be surprised. “That’s awfully generous of you,” I tell her.

  “Oh yes, that’s my middle name: Generosity,” Arden retorts. “Arden Generosity Kelly.”

  “Okay, you’re no help to me.” I stand up to leave, but Arden blocks my path.

  “You have to do it,” she says in her most serious voice. “You love taking pictures. You love New York.”

  “We’ve only been there twice,” I point out.

  “Yes, and both were over the holiday break,” Arden says. “You know what they say—if you can love New York during tourist season, you can love it anytime.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Everyone. Now promise me you’ll go. Whether Celia does or not. You will go.”

  “I can’t promise that,” I say. “What am I supposed to do—sneak off to New York and hope Celia shows up too? I can’t go without her, but I also can’t ask her if she got in.”

  “But you can tell her that you did,” Arden says. “Let me see that e-mail.” I hand her my phone with the letter displayed across the screen.

  “ ‘Dear Avalon Kelly,’ ” Arden reads out loud. “Sounds so official.”

  “Please don’t read it to me,” I beg, and Arden scans the rest in silence before fiddling with my phone. When she gives it back to me, Celia’s face is on the screen—the picture that pops up whenever I call her, or she calls me.

  “Here,” Arden says. “Talk to her. She’s your best friend. She should be happy for you.” Before I can protest, I hear a faint “Hello?” coming from the phone. Celia’s voice. I mouth a silent I hate you to Arden before darting out of her room and back to my own.

  “Hello?” Celia repeats.

  “Hey, sorry,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “I was running out of Arden’s room.”

  “No problem,” Celia says. “What’s up?”

  I think about how to answer. I suppose Arden is right—I can’t keep this news from Celia forever. Especially not now that I’ve told Arden, who is never going to let me keep it a secret.

  “So I got an e-mail,” I begin.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Celia says, sounding distracted.

  “From PhotoReady,” I continue.

  “Oh, yeah?” Celia asks, a little more interested.

  “About the retreat. Did . . . did you get one?”

  “No,” Celia answers. “What about the retreat?”

  I sit on my bed stiffly, as if bracing for impact. “I got in.”

  There are a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, and then a few more. The quiet goes on for so long that I’m convinced the connection must have failed.

  “Celia?” I finally ask.

  “I’m here,” she says. “Wow. That’s . . . great.”

  “But listen . . .” I begin talking quickly. “You should totally be the one to go—you’re the one who found out about the retreat. I’ll tell them I want to transfer my invitation to you.”

  “No.” Celia stops me. “You can’t do that. It said all over the application that invitations were nontransferable.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Then I’ll decline it, and maybe they’ll let you in instead. Maybe they only want one person per town, so if I say I’m not going—”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Celia interrupts me. “You should go if you want to.”

  “But I don’t, not without you,” I tell her. “Promise.”

  “You shouldn’t give up your spot. That would be a waste.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll still get in.” I try to say this hopefully.

  “Maybe,” Celia says, sounding about as confident as I do.

  “And if you do, we can still go together,” I say. “You know, if our parents agree and everything. But if you don’t, I won’t go either. I don’t even want to go—it wouldn’t be fun without you.”

  “ ’Kay,” Celia says absentmindedly. “Listen, I’ve got to have dinner. I’ll talk to—”

  “I’m not going on the retreat,” I insist before she can hang up. “I’m going to write back and say no, thank you. Plus, it’s next week—it’s not like they gave me much warning. I already have plans.”

  “Don’t do that. Not yet,” Celia says. “Going to your grandparents’ lame retirement home doesn’t count as ‘plans.’ No offense. And like you said, maybe I’ll still get in. And then we really can go together. Give it a few more days.”

  “But I don’t even wa
nt to go,” I say.

  “You’re scared to go,” Celia tells me. “But I think you want to. That’s different. Hey, now I really do have to hang up. Just please don’t say no yet. Let’s see what happens.” The line goes silent.

  I toss my phone onto the pillow next to me and trace the pattern on my bedspread with the tip of my finger. I had thought keeping the news to myself would be harder than sharing it, but now, the more people that find out, the more nervous I feel.

  And the more I wish I had never applied to the PhotoRetreat in the first place.

  By the next morning, I have completely talked myself out of even considering going to New York. A whole night of being woken up by my own carousel of thoughts—spinning round and round without an off switch—convinced me that if I’m this anxious about the retreat now, then the only solution is to avoid it entirely.

  I open PhotoReady out of habit while walking toward the stairs. A flurry of notifications greets me in the corner of the screen, along with a bright red private message icon. Every single notification is from the username @SofiaNoPH—and she seems to have starred at least half of my pictures overnight. I stand at the top of the steps to open the message, confused.

  Hi there!

  This is superawkward, but it looks like I’m your roommate for the PhotoRetreat in New York! I’m soooooo excited to get there, and to meet you! Your pictures are beyond star-worthy—you have a really great eye (sorry if that sounds like I think I’m a big shot. I promise I don’t usually talk like that. What I mean is YOUR PICTURES ARE AWESOME).

  Anyway, hope you write me back so I don’t feel like a big loser.

  PS: How do you say your name? Like AYVA with a LON on the end? I don’t want to call you the wrong thing when I meet you—talk about superawkward.

  xoxo, Sofia (@SofiaNoPH) from Arizona

  I hightail it back to my room and begin pacing, the same jitters from yesterday having returned even more intensely.

  “Arden!” I yell. Arden appears in my doorway seconds later.

  “What’s with the shouting?”

  “Look,” I say in a hushed voice, holding out my phone for her to see. “The retreat already paired me with a roommate. And the roommate sent me a note. What do I do now?”