The photographer leans his head toward me like he doesn’t understand.

I repeat myself. “I don’t want it.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, obviously confused. “So just the regular photo, then?”

I gather up my backpack hurriedly. This was so stupid.

“No, just delete everything. I don’t want a picture.”

“Are you sure? I—”

“Erase it!” My voice echoes through the auditorium. I turn to him and lower my voice. “Please.”

He drags the file to the trash icon on his screen.

“I was just trying to help.”

Tears threaten to spill out. I choke them back as I grab my bag and head for the door.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone.”

19

I’d rip the wig right off if Piper hadn’t trashed my only backup bandana, and there’s no way I’m going to drama club totally exposed.

I hang out in a bathroom stall, kicking the door. I’m so stupid—a wig and Photoshop can’t change reality.

I linger in the stall, partly to conveniently miss the circle of trust, but also to give the photo guy enough time to clear out. When I finally go to drama club, Asad is already painting the yellow brick road we started earlier this week, and next to him, Piper paints green skyscrapers in the Emerald City. She’s been rehearsal-crashing all week while the volleyball team is on the road.

“Hey hey! How’d the glamour shot go?” she asks.

I pick up a paintbrush and kneel next to Asad, channeling all my focus into the yellow brick lines up and down the backdrop.

“Imagine the worst scenario possible, and then make it ten times crappier, and you might be getting close.”

“It couldn’t be that—” Piper starts.

“He photoshopped me.” I say it quietly, hoping not to make this a big scene in front of Asad.

Piper pauses, her green-tipped paintbrush in midair.

“Who did what, now?”

I tell her about the nervous photographer and his airbrush-editing package. “I think he was just trying to be nice.”

Piper looks at Asad, who shrugs, and then back at me, her voice high and shrill, echoing across the empty stage.

“Ava! You have to tell people where they can stick their nice.” She shakes me by my shoulders, flicking paint on me in the process. “If we don’t tell them, who will?”

“Tell them what exactly?” I say.

“That you don’t need Photoshop. That his definition of beauty is archaic and ignorant.”

“See, this is why you should have been with me.”

“I can’t fight your battles for you, Ava.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I can’t, either.” I run my fingers through the strands of my new pink hair. “I thought this wig was like some new beginning for me, facing my fears and all that. But I totally crumbled.”