Free As Dead as It Gets by Katie Alender Page B

the yearbook in the trash . Because Lydia Small took a bright red Sharpie and wrote on, I don’t know, I never actually counted—fifteen pages? Stuff like, ‘Sorry you had to miss school because of the chlamydia,’ ‘Hope those crabs clear up before bathing suit season!’”
    Now Elliot’s eyes were bright and cold and diamond-hard, and everyone in the room was staring at us.
    “So, yeah,” she said. “Forgive me if I don’t want to devote a two-page spread to your little friend who didn’t give a flying—”
    “Language, Quilimaco,” said a voice from the corner. A teacher was sitting with his feet up on a desk, reading a magazine.
    “A flying foot ,” Elliot said primly, “about what could have ended up being my sister’s dying wish.”
    The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “She’s not my friend. I couldn’t stand her, for the record.”
    Elliot shifted her weight and looked at me with blank curiosity. “Then why are you here?”
    “I promised her mother I’d ask. But whatever.” I turned to go.
    Elliot heaved a mighty put-upon sigh. “Okay, fine.”
    “Wait, really?” To be honest, if I’d been in her shoes, I don’t think anything could have changed my mind.
    “Yes,” Elliot said. “Mostly because you didn’t try to go over my head and ask Mr. Janicke about it.”
    I glanced at the teacher, whose shirt was covered in doughnut crumbs. He gave me a wave. “I have no authority here,” he said. “Carry on.”
    “Thank you so much ,” I said.
    She turned and looked at the board. “We’ll probably put it after the junior class photos. Just try to have it finished by Valentine’s Day, because, no offense, it’s probably going to need some tweaking.”
    “Wait—have it finished? Me?”
    “Yes, you. Who else? We’re understaffed. Here, let me give you the specs.” She reached for a pad of paper. “We’ll need a PSD with all the layers, and include the files of any exotic fonts you use. Eight by ten and a half, three hundred DPI, and obviously nothing with a copyright, please.”
    I stared at her, not even sure where to start. “Um…what’s a PSD?”
    “It’s”—she blinked, momentarily stunned by my ignorance—“a Photoshop document. This isn’t going to work, is it?”
    “Please,” I said. “Isn’t there any way someone who knows about that stuff can do it?”
    Elliot scanned the room. “Of course there’s a way. Chad, want to do this memorial page? Make it glorious.”
    Chad turned to us and shrugged, then went back to his work.
    “He looks like a hoodlum, but he’s brilliant with graphics,” Elliot said.
    “Thank you. Again.” I still couldn’t believe she’d changed her mind.
    Her eyes were lit up, like she was enjoying this. “So. Chad does your layout, you do something for us.”
    “But…I don’t know how to do any of this.”
    “You know how to take pictures.”
    True.
    “Here’s the deal. We devote two pages to making Lydia Small look like a dearly missed pillar of the school community, and you take on some photography work. Chad’s pictures suck, anyway.”
    Without taking his eyes off the monitor, Chad held up his middle finger in our direction.
    I was about to say no…and then I remembered Mrs. Small.
    “Fine,” I said.
    “Great,” Elliot said, looking pleased. “Perfect, in fact.”
    “What am I going to be shooting?”
    “Nothing too exciting,” she said, turning to walk back to her desk. “Clubs, teams, Student Council stuff.”
    I followed her. “Um, I can’t do that.”
    “Okay.” She sat and stuck the end of a pen in her mouth. “Then I can’t do your special project.”
    “You don’t understand,” I said.
    “I’ll bet I do,” she said, not even looking up. “You used to go out with Carter Blume. And now he’s dating Zoe Perry. And they’re both on Student Council. But somehow, you’re going to rise above all that and take really good pictures of them.”
    I glanced at the teacher, hoping