“No,” Emmitt says. “I’m here because you promised me a favor in return for my participation.”

So he wants to strike a bargain. “What favor?” I ask carefully.

In response, Emmitt takes out his phone, flicking through his screen with ringed fingers, before holding it out for me to take a look.

5 weeks.

5 photos.

1 winner.

Over the next five weeks, a prompt will be posted across social media every Monday. Applicants will have until Saturday night to upload a photo in accordance to the prompt that will be ranked by a team of confidential judges. Rankings will change week to week, as the previous weeks’ scores are averaged. At the end, one final winner will be chosen to intern alongside Shana Torres.

“Who is Shana Torres?” I ask, frowning at his phone.

Emmitt gives me a deeply unimpressed look. “A famous photographer from Spain. One of the best.”

I raise my eyebrows, turn back to my locker, and put away my English notebook and folder. “Right. What does that have to do with me?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your help. I require it to win this contest.”

“Wait, what?” I glance between him and his phone. “You’re entering a photography contest? For what? You’re already famous.”

Emmitt looks down at me, his gaze icy. “Are we stating the obvious now?”

“Do you get tired of being a condescending prick?” I ask, unable to help myself. I wince internally, already imagining Rosie’s horror if she heard me say that.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Emmitt says, and I just barely resist the urge to flip him off. “Will you help me or not?”

I grimace. “What do you need my help with? I don’t know anything about photography.”

“No, but you know New York, don’t you?” he asks, running a hand through his hair and looking off to the side instead of meeting my eyes.

The hallway is practically empty except for us. Far down, there are two girls sitting beside a set of lockers, commiserating over their English homework. Even farther down, a boy is drinking from the water fountain. Near the bathroom at the end of the hall, a few boys linger, looking at their phones.

At any rate, no one is close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation.

Not that they would understand any of it, since I clearly don’t.

“Yes,” I say slowly, trying—and failing—to make sense of what he’s getting at. “I’ve lived here my whole life. What does that have to do with anything?”

He sighs deeply, as if it pains him to even say the words. “I need five locations for my photographs. The shots have to be perfect and tell a story. I don’t know enough about New York City to do this on my own.”