Screenshot Read online

  To Katy, a brilliant writer and even better friend

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY DONNA COONER

  COPYRIGHT

  The man in front of me has three dead goldfish in a Ziploc baggie. He’s wearing a camouflage T-shirt that doesn’t quite cover his stomach and he’s peering at me over the top of a pair of hot-pink reading glasses, as though I can solve the problem in the bag.

  I can’t. I just work here.

  “The sign says ‘Customer Satisfaction Always,’ right?” he asks. “I bought them on Wednesday morning and they were like this on Thursday night.”

  Well, not quite like that. “Are they frozen?” I ask.

  He nods. “I put them in the freezer. I wanted to preserve them until I could come back in the store.”

  Let’s just get this over with. I ask, “Do you have a receipt?”

  “No. But they cost $4.68 each. They were on sale.”

  “So, $14.04 total,” I say, plugging the number into the service desk refund register.

  “Did you do that in your head?” he asks, blinking at me.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Are you some kind of child genius?”

  “I’m sixteen. Not exactly a child.” I carefully pick up the baggie with just my finger and thumb. “And yes, I’m a genius.”

  Because that’s why I’m working here at the Kmart returns desk.

  He doesn’t get my sarcasm. He smiles, embarrassed by the tears in his eyes over those dead fish. There is no ring on his stubby finger, so maybe the fish are all the company he has, and instantly I feel guilty. At least you could get a cat or something. I think we sell hamsters. Get a hamster. Something with fur.

  “Sign here,” I say, pushing the return slip across the counter. I smile back at him, and that seems to improve his mood.

  “Smile more” is the first thing on my new to-do list. See, I was elected student council vice president this past fall, but next year I want to run for student council president. And just last week, I read online about how important “likability” is in a candidate. But likability is such an intangible quality. What does it even mean? So I did some research. Okay, I did a lot of research. And “smiling more” seemed to be a key ingredient. If I ever want to run for real office someday, I need to learn this kind of stuff now. I’ve always been a hard worker.

  “Thanks,” the fish guy says, signing the slip.

  I notice that the assistant manager, Mr. King, is watching us from over by the magazine racks. Mr. King is only the part-time assistant manager. The rest of the time he is the faux barista and works at the store’s snack bar. He is tall and thin, all elbows and Adam’s apple, and he mostly smells like lettuce with a whiff of coffee when he twirls around, which he does a lot.

  Who knew lettuce had a smell?

  Despite his smell, Mr. King is not a bad guy as managers go. On slow late nights, he used to make extra frozen lattes and pour them into tiny little plastic cups. He’d put them out on a plastic clearance Valentine’s Day heart-shaped tray and say they were samples, but he gave most of them to his staff. Until a cashier told him that was practically stealing. Mr. King is super active in the New Life Baptist Church. So I no longer get free caffeine samples and Mr. King has to pray a little extra for his generosity.

  Thou shalt not give away too many samples of Frappuccinos. I Venti 3:14

  I give Mr. King a confident little nod, to tell him I’m on top of this whole dead fish thing, but he just walks off toward Toys. I figure I’m definitely a contender for employee of the month.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I tell the man across the counter. He gives a big sniff and pushes the pink reading glasses up his nose. I hand him his money back and say, “Have a nice day.”

  I’m supposed to say that after every transaction. I’m good at doing what’s expected—it’s my superpower. Sometimes people are good because they want to be good, and sometimes it’s just because they are afraid of NOT being good. I probably fall into the second group.

  After the fish guy leaves, I glance down at my phone under the counter. This is against the rules, but Mr. King isn’t close by.

  I open ChitChat, everyone’s current social media obsession. The thing that makes ChitChat different from other apps is that you can’t set your profile to private. Whatever you post is up there for all the world to see—unless you choose to delete it, of course. But the other catch? You can’t delete any posts until fifteen minutes have passed. No takedowns, no edits. My best friend, Asha, says it makes you commit to what you post. I think she just loves the edginess of it all. Sort of like truth and dare all rolled into one.

  I go to Asha’s profile. All her posts include her signature hashtag: #IAmAshaMirza. Like people wouldn’t know?

  #IAmAshaMirza running.

  #IAmAshaMirza at my locker.

  #IAmAshaMirza snowboarding.

  The latest is a video, posted right after school today. It’s captioned #IAmAshaMirza eating a taco. And, if you had any doubts, she is taking a big bite. Over and over again. On an endless ChitChat loop.

  Seriously?

  Of course, I am quick to notice the undeniable differences between our lives. Because that is what the internet is for, right?

  First of all, Asha’s not standing under fluorescent lights in an ugly blue smock, next to a stack of too-tight jeans, a pile of sales flyers, and a Ziploc baggie full of three dead goldfish. She is wearing sunglasses and there is a lake sparkling behind her. Not just any lake—it’s the lake she actually lives on. The wind blows her thick black hair off her face to one side, like those photos with models in front of fans. Only this is real. Or at least as real as Asha gets. Her short-sleeved shirt is pink with flowers and shows off her sculpted arms to perfection. Considering it’s March in Colorado, she has to be freezing in that shirt. But it does look good on her. She smiles at the camera in that “I know I’m hot, but if you tell me that in a disrespectful manner, I will beat you to a pulp” kind of way.

  I imagine posting a selfie—me in my sad blue smock, standing behind the service desk.

  #IamSkyeMatthews stuck at work.

  I smirk. No way. Asha would be furious if I stole her signature line. Besides, ChitChat is all about showing off.

  I close out of ChitChat and check my email. I have one hope of escaping the Kmart service desk this summer. Her name is Senator Ann Watson. She is the youngest member of the United States Congress, and her Colorado office is located right here in town. If she would just read my outstanding application answer to Why You Should Be Our Summer Intern, I’m sure I’d get a response.

  But there is no email from the congresswoman or her staff. I sigh. Things could be worse. I could have only dead fish for friends.

  Since I have a phone in my hand and haven’t been caught yet, I pull up a picture of me, Asha, and our other best friend, Emma. The Three Musketeers. We’ve been together since we were ten. We couldn’t be more different—inside and out. Asha is short and powerful, with brown skin,
jet-black hair that frames her heart-shaped face, and bright-green eyes. The leader of our little group, she loves to do things other people are afraid of. She loves it even more if she can make someone else do these things with her.

  Emma is pale, blonde, tall, and willowy. She can recite a hundred movie scenes from memory, but can’t remember her homework. A little spacey maybe, but she’s the heart of our group. I don’t know who Emma would pick if she had to choose between me and Asha. I don’t ever want to find out.

  Then there’s me in the middle, where I always seem to end up. The mediator. The politician. I have long, light-brown hair and hazel eyes. I’m ordinary. Not striking like my best friends are.

  I decorate our faces on the screen with some silly filters and balloon emojis. Then I text the photo to Asha.

  ME: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  She answers immediately.

  ASHA: THANKS. ANY BLUE LIGHT SPECIALS?

  ME: HA. VERY FUNNY.

  From someone who has never had to work even a part-time job in her life.

  ME: HOW WAS YOUR TACO? ☺

  ASHA: DELISH. WORKED IT OFF. JUST RAN 15 MILES AND READY FOR BDAY CAKE NOW!

  Asha is training for a marathon. One of these days, I have no doubt she’s going to lead some elite special operation to rescue hostages from a dangerous dictator.

  Then I remember. Oh, no. The cake.

  I text my boyfriend, Luke.

  ME: CAKE?

  LUKE: ALMOST DONE. MAKING GANACHE FROSTING. WILL BRING IT WHEN I PICK YOU UP.

  Luke and I are the perfect couple. He likes to cook all the things. I like to eat all the things. Luke is also adorable, with curly dirty-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a soccer-star body. He’s my first real boyfriend. The first guy who ever kissed me in the school hallway—outside the band classroom on September 9. The first guy I ever went to a big dance with—the winter prom, January 27. The first guy everyone linked my name with—Luke and Skye. It has a nice ring to it.

  Everyone says so.

  I glance over my shoulder at the clock on the wall behind me. Two hours and thirty-two more minutes of price checks and broken blenders before Luke picks me up and drives me to Asha’s for her birthday sleepover.

  I’ve been looking forward to and dreading this Friday. It will be great to see my best friends, of course. But I’m worried our conversation will eventually turn to all the fun summer plans in the works. If Senator Watson doesn’t respond to my application soon, my summer is definitely not going to be fun.

  I slide my phone into my pocket. Back to work.

  I watch as a customer in the toothbrush aisle selects a purple one from the top row. She pushes her loaded shopping cart with one squeaky, broken wheel toward the checkout. Harmony Heaven is the only cashier we have on duty right now. With a name like Harmony Heaven, she should be nice.

  She is not.

  Harmony is built like a brick wall, tall and formidable. She’s white, with wide blue eyes and a mouth always set in a scowl. This week her hair is fried blonde on the ends and dark brown at the roots. Last week it was entirely purple. The top of my head comes up to Harmony’s armpit. I’m curvy—some people might even call me fat—but Harmony is solid. No one would ever call her fat. At least not to her face.

  Harmony takes each individual item out of the shopping cart. She glares at the customer, a woman in Lululemon yoga pants and a CrossFit hoodie, as though she has committed the greatest sin on the planet by simply wanting to buy a toothbrush.

  “Hey.” I can hear Harmony yelling at me from the number three counter, but I keep my head down, thinking maybe Mr. King will walk by and have to answer. He doesn’t, and Harmony just gets louder.

  “Hey, Boss Girl,” she yells. Harmony likes to call me that even though she knows my name and I’m not the boss. “I need a price check on this toothbrush. She says they’re on sale.”

  Harmony is a year older than me, but I never really noticed her much at school before we started working together. I’m not sure she’s even at school all that often.

  I look at the flyer in front of me and shout back, “Five dollars and nine cents for two of them.”

  Harmony doesn’t respond, but I know she heard me because now she’s bagging up the toothbrush. The customer gathers up her purchases and practically sprints out the front door. Nobody sticks around long to chat with Harmony.

  Mr. King is still nowhere in sight, so I pull out my phone again and text Asha back.

  ME: DON’T WORRY. THERE WILL BE CAKE.

  ASHA: AND CANDLES?

  Seriously? Nothing is ever enough for you. Of course I’d never say that to her. I start to send her a pile of poop emojis to tell her exactly how amusing she is, but then I’m interrupted.

  “You better put that away.”

  I almost drop my phone. “Oh, God, Ryan. You scared me.” I clutch my hand to my chest to stop my heart from pounding.

  Ryan de la Cruz is one year ahead of me at school. He moved to Colorado from California this fall and has only been at Kmart for a couple of months. Ryan restocks shelves and usually works in the back, in Receiving. He has broad shoulders, high cheekbones, brown skin, and thick black hair. I know that both Jeanette in Women’s Clothing and Bridget in Paint and Hardware think he’s a “dreamboat” (their word). Even though they are both probably old enough to be his grandmothers.

  Now Ryan stands before me, holding the hand of a little girl who is grinning widely and wearing several red clearance stickers on the front of her sweater.

  “I need the intercom,” Ryan says, nodding to the girl. I pick up the phone and key in the number for the loudspeaker before handing the phone to Ryan.

  “Attention, shoppers,” Ryan says, his voice echoing through the store. “We have a young lady here at our service desk, and evidently her father is lost. If you see a black-haired man named Desmond wearing a Denver Broncos T-shirt, please bring him to the service desk. His daughter is waiting for him.”

  Ryan looks down at the girl and she nods confidently up at him.

  “That should do it,” she says.

  I can’t help but grin at this exchange. A few minutes later, a man matching Ryan’s description appears at the service desk and whisks the girl off, thanking Ryan over his shoulder.

  “That was nice of you,” I tell Ryan. I’m still holding my cell phone and he glances at it.

  “What if I were Mr. King?” he asks, shaking his head with a small smirk. “Skye Matthews’s perfect reputation would have its first black mark.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “I’m not perfect,” I say. But I get a small thrill out of hearing that I seem that way.

  “True,” Ryan says, looking thoughtful. Then he turns and heads back down the aisle.

  I text Asha back: SORRY, AM AT WORK. SEE YOU SOON. I stuff the phone into the back pocket of my jeans, where I won’t be as easily tempted to respond to any more texts.

  * * *

  I never want to be one of those girls who has to have a boyfriend to be someone. And I’m not that girl. I just like myself better when I’m filtered through Luke’s eyes. His popularity is contagious. Everything is easier with him. Walking into a school cafeteria is easier. Going to class is easier. Even standing outside Kmart in the cool night air is easier, because soon Luke will be here to whisk me away.

  When he pulls up, cake sitting carefully on the back seat of his Nissan Altima, I can’t help but feel that familiar shiver of pride. I slide into the passenger seat and lean over the console to give him a quick kiss on the lips. Then I look out of the corner of my eye to see Harmony, Ryan, and everybody else walking past Luke’s car to employee parking. I kind of hope they can see us. Let them be impressed by Skye’s cute boyfriend.

  “Everything okay?” Luke asks.

  I glance at him, smiling at the white flour handprints on the front of his blue soccer jersey.

  “Definitely better now,” I say, buckling my seat belt.

  As Luke drives off, I throw a shoppi
ng bag in the back seat.

  “What’s that?”

  “I bought you a shirt,” I say. “It was on clearance.”

  “What?”

  Ha. I knew that would get him. Luke refuses to even set foot in Kmart. Definitely not his style. “Calm down. I’m only kidding. It’s a gift card for Asha and candles for the cake.”

  Luke shudders. “I don’t know why you don’t just quit that place.”

  I shrug. “It’s a job. I need the money.”

  We’ve had this conversation before. Many. Times.

  “My dad could use another receptionist at his office in the afternoons. Then you wouldn’t have to work weekends or nights,” Luke says. “I could talk to him?”

  I shake my head. Luke’s dad is a dentist. I don’t want to deal with the sound of dental drills whining and people calling to complain about their molars. I’d rather stick with what I know at Kmart.

  I have big plans and am willing to work hard to make them happen.

  “Thanks, but I’m going to get this internship,” I say, hoping saying it will make it so.

  Luke nods, but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic.

  I feel a twinge of irritation. I don’t say anything, though. Luke and I have been together since the start of our junior year, and things between us were great in the beginning. But ever since the winter prom in January, something small in our relationship has shifted. I can’t deny that I feel the slightest distance from him now.

  I push the thought away. I pull my phone out and lean across the console to film a ChitChat video of the two of us.

  “Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Asha,” I tell Luke, and we ham it up at the stoplight, singing loudly. The light turns green and Luke’s attention goes back to driving.

  I caption the video #happybirthdayAsha and post it to ChitChat. It gets a few likes right away, and I rewatch it. My hair looks weird and I wish I could reshoot it, but that’s not how ChitChat works. No takebacks.

  Asha holds up her phone and shoots a video of herself wearing a silly striped paper hat and blowing a party horn. Then she captions it #IAmAshaMirza celebrating, and posts it to ChitChat. It instantly starts garnering likes and complimentary comments.