I stared at myself in the bathroom mirrors for what felt like the millionth time that morning. Picture day. The two words that had the power to ruin or rescue an entire yearbook. My hair was being the enemy, sticking up like it had been electrocuted. No matter how much gel I used, one piece in the back kept pointing north, like it had dreams of flying away.
“Ariana! You’re going to be late!” my mom called from downstairs.
“I’m coming!” I yelled back, though I was still yanking at my hair. I finally gave up, threw on the sweater I’d picked last night, and prayed the camera wouldn’t capture the chaos sprouting from my head.
The bus ride to school was buzzing. Everyone looked different, shinier somehow. The usual hoodies and messy ponytails had been replaced with button-ups, lip gloss, and stiff collars. Even Trevor, who usually smelled like gym socks, had on a tie. People whispered about how awkward they’d look, or how their moms made them wear stuff they hated.
When we got to the gym, the chaos hit. The bleachers had been folded up, and this giant backdrop with a cloudy blue sky hanging in the middle. A lady with a camera stood next to it, smiling too widely, like she’d had way too much coffee. Kids were lined up, clutching those little cards with their names printed on them.
I tried to act normal, but my stomach was basically doing gymnastics. Picture day always carried a kind of pressure no one admitted it wasn’t just about the photo; it was about how the photo lived forever in the yearbook, how it could either make you look cool or haunt you when people flipped through the pages years later.
“Next!” the camera lady called.
Trevor walked up, his tie already crooked. He gave the most forced smile I’d ever seen. The camera flashed. “Perfect!” the lady chirped. It was not perfect.
I was three kids away from the chair when disaster struck. I felt something sticky on my sleeve and looked down. Great. Someone’s juice box had exploded all over me on the bus, and now my light-brown sweater had a purple blotch the size of Texas.
I panicked, tugging at the stain like I could rub it out with pure willpower. But the line kept moving. Two kids away. One kid away.
Then it was my turn.
I handed the lady my card and sat down on the little stool. My brain screamed at me to smile, but also not to smile too much, to tilt my head but not too far, to hide the stain without looking like I was hiding it.
“Chin up, shoulders back,” the lady said, adjusting the camera.
I pulled every ounce of courage I had and smiled. Flash.
It was over.
The rest of the day, I worried about that photo. Would the stain show?
Would my hair stick out like an antenna? Would I look like a total dork?
Weeks later, when the yearbooks finally came in, I flipped straight to my picture. There I was. My hair wasn’t perfect, and the stain was kind of visible if you looked closely. But the smile—my smile—actually looked real. Like me.
And somehow, that was enough.
