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don’t like seeming less talented than I really am. I could be the class star, but my night work is more important than personal glory in a class where we’re all getting As for effort. I’ve learned to live with the tiny bit of honesty DP allows me.
    My parents and Ocie know I want to shoot wildlife for Nat Geo one day, and they’re used to seeing some DSLR magazines or used Craigslist lenses lying around my room. Any questions that arise, I blame on the class. Hiding in plain sight, remember.
    Digital Photography is a good mix of sophomores, juniors, and one senior. Some are here because it’s a better deal than losing a finger in wood shop, others show passing interest and may someday use the skills they pick up to make the best family vacation albums ever.
    Then there’s Marcos Dahmer, who often smells of deep-fried hush puppies thanks to his part-time gig at the über-gross fast-food chain Count of Monte FISHto. There’s a joke around the school: Man’s gotta eat. But not there .
    He brings his own equipment to class, an old Olympus, and pulls some great shots from it, mostly for the yearbook, which he’s editing this year. If I took this class serious enough to be competitive, he’d be the kid to beat.
    When I arrive, the room is buzzing over today’s fresh scandal. A small huddle forms around one of the three communal computers. There are nine of us in DP, but I notice two extra faces in the room and know the kids hoping to access Gray Scales are going to be sorely disappointed.
    I’m disappointed, too. Through my extracurricular activities it seems I’ve inadvertently engineered another run-in with Taylor.
    He’s hunched over a computer in the far corner of the room, typing and talking to a girl I’ve seen around. Rozlynn Petrie, beanpole tall and freshman awkward. Together they are part of the student tech support team, here to ruin everyone’s fun.
    I join my classmates around computer station #1. As I expect, frustrated sighs fill the air when they discover access to Gray Scales has been blocked.
    Marcos Dahmer makes it into the room as the bell rings. The crowd moves to the second computer station, fighting the inevitable. But Marcos rolls his pink-tinted eyes, drops his bags, book, and camera on the floor next to his chair before laying his head on the desktop. He curls an arm around his face to block the light.
    Alyssa Burrell, one of Marcos’s fellow yearbook staffers (but not nearly as talented a photographer), calls to him, “Hey, Marcos, you wanna check Gray Scales with us?”
    â€œScrew Gray,” he says in a foghorn groan, sounding as worn as I feel. Apparently, I’m not the only one who had a late night.
    His disgust/dismissal of Gray is nothing new. Everyone who’s taken DP has been suspected of being Gray. That type of scrutiny has gone better for some than others. Marcos falls into the “other” category.
    Alyssa shrugs off Marcos’s dismissal and joins us at the #2 station. “Can you believe it?” she says to me. “I just shot Coach Pedophile and the football team for the yearbook. Thank God I wasn’t alone with him. Who knows what might’ve happened.”
    A yawn scales my throat. Fatigue makes me cranky, and I think, I know. He’d ignore you, like most boys do .
    Fact: Alyssa’s frizzy blond curls, mud-brown eyes, and freckles don’t exactly have the same draw as Keachin’s almost-a-model looks. Sorry.
    Ms. Marcella, our teacher, reclines in her chair, amused by sighs and teeth-sucking when it’s discovered Gray Scales is blocked on this station, too.
    I glance toward Taylor, who offers his seat to Rozlynn. She takes his place at the station, her spindly elbows protruding from the rolled-up sleeves of multiple baggy shirts like curtain rods from a mound of discarded drapes. She types commands on computer #3, completing the lockout, ensuring my classmates’