“Now, that’s a community that would make Andrew Lloyd Webber proud,” Asad says, then pauses. “It’s stuff like that, isn’t it? That makes them think I’m”—he looks around and whispers—“a Homo sapien.”

I laugh. “And maybe the jazz hands?”

“What? A guy can’t do spirit fingers without having his sexuality questioned anymore? See, this is exactly why I do stage crew instead of cast.”

I nod toward the back.

“To avoid that guy’s ridicule?”

“And my father’s.” Asad wags a finger at me and in a thick Pakistani accent says, “Theater is for girls, Asad. Men go to medical school.”

I sigh. “ ‘It’s the Hard-Knock Life,’ my friend.”

“Too easy—Annie,” he says, then quickly, “I’m not, by the way.”

“Not what?”

“Homo sapien.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Okay, just wanted you to know.”

My pink hair falls slightly in front of my face, just in time to hide my smile.

Piper tries to escort me to the auditorium for my photo, but Vice Principal Lynch busts her for not having a hall pass.

“No special treatment, girls,” he says.

I don’t know why this guy hates me so much. Maybe I remind him of a more scarrific version of his own loser teenage self. Maybe he’s just a jerk whose perpetually tight collar has cut off the oxygen to his frontal lobe. He points for Piper to head back to class. She mock salutes him.

“Ja, Kapitän!” She yells over him to me, “Don’t forget to say cheese!”

“Thanks, Mom!” I holler back. I’m sure I look as surprised as Piper to hear my voice ringing through the hallway.

“The power of the pink!” Piper yells after me with a triumphant smile.

I walk alone, but armed with my wig, I keep my eyes up instead of studying the speckles on the linoleum. In the auditorium, about a dozen students wait for their turn in front of a velvety purple backdrop on the stage with a barstool facing a tripod. I join the throng and await my turn, adjusting my wig the whole time. Picture day was terrible Before, but now, my skin itches beneath my compression garments, spreading little fiery twitches up my arms.

As if being a teenager isn’t harrowing enough, we commemorate it with wallet-size mementos of awkwardness. In middle school, we used to trade our photos like baseball cards. I’d sign mine with my name like I was a celebrity, turning the v into a heart. Back then, how many school photos you collected directly correlated with your cool factor.

I’ll be lucky if even Piper wants this year’s edition.

When my turn comes, I muster a smile that I know looks like I’m either eating rancid fish or trying not to soil myself. I can tell it doesn’t look good by the way the photographer smiles nervously and fiddles with the camera.