Free Boy Proof by Cecil Castellucci

bucket will be full.”
    “Exactly,” Max says. “I knew you’d get it.”
    I look back at my contact sheet.
    My eye hits an image of Max, magnified and just for me. He looks classic. Out of time. The picture could be from any era. He is looking right at the camera, right into the lens with those smart eyes. Behind Max is the blur of the crowd, moving like a frenzied mob, like an animal. In all that chaos his eyes managed to look right at me.
    I don’t circle the picture.

    Ms. Dicostanzo is speaking too loudly to us. Nelly is whispering something to Max, who is doodling in his sketchbook. She keeps leaning closer and closer to him. Her chair might fall over.
    I will it to fall over. I use my dormant mutant powers to force the chair to fall over. It doesn’t.
    Max has a smile on his face, but he’s not looking at Nelly, just at the paper at the end of his black felt-tip pen.
    “We really do have the most gifted staff this year. Bravo! Again!” Ms. Dicostanzo is clapping. She’s a real positive-energy enforcer. She would be good to have in your army in the
Terminal Earth
future.
    “Egg, this photograph is timeless.”
    She holds up the photograph of the underage girl throwing up in the bathroom with her peace patches on her bomber jacket.
    “Thanks.” I love it when I get compliments.
    “But
this
is the cover.” She holds up Max’s political drawing of the girl throwing up in the bathroom with her bomber jacket full of patches like “Go! Green!” and “Peace on Earth” and “Buns Not Guns.” At her feet is a six-pack of alcohol with labels like “Big Brother” and “Corporate Greed” and “War” and “Environmental Damage,” then the puke coming out of her mouth forms the word “Hope” in perfectly small cursive.
    It is exactly like the photograph I took, only it’s politicized and cartoonified.
    I have other pictures I took in this issue of the school paper, but that roll from the Buns Not Guns show, that roll was my favorite. It was the closest that I ever got to my heart. To my eye. To my voice. With that picture, it was as though I was finally learning how to speak.
    Max looks up at me and mouths the words “I’m sorry.”
    I don’t want to believe him.

    Knock, knock. Catburglar is trying to send you an instant message. Would you like to accept it?
    Catburglar: I really liked those pictures from the Buns Not Guns show, Egg. You’ve really got a great eye.
    Eggtoria: Yeah, so do you. Thanks for stealing my fucking picture, Max.
    Catburglar: I didn’t steal it. I just got so inspired when you showed me the contact sheets. It just summed everything up. Youth. Disillusionment. Despair.
    Eggtoria: Well, that’s the last time I show you anything of mine to get inspired by.
    Catburglar: Don’t do that.
    Eggtoria: I’m mad at you.
    Catburglar: You’re mad at everything.
    I don’t respond. I continue surfing the Web. But Max doesn’t give up.
    Catburglar: Listen. I’m really, really sorry about the drawing I did based on your pic. I can talk to Dicostanzo about it.
    Eggtoria: Whatever.
    Catburgler: No. You have every right to be mad. Think of it as me paying you homage.
    He sounds like he’s being sincere. I still ignore him.
    Catburglar: Don’t stop showing me your contact sheets. Your eye is really inspiring to me.
    Eggtoria: OK! I’m over it.
    Catburglar:
:)
    I log off. Max Carter must be crazy. There is nothing inspiring about me, not even my GPA.

The night of the screening is finally here.
    I head through the courtyard to the guest-list table. Past the mountains of chocolate éclairs and pastry puffs. Past the table of baked Brie and crudités. Past the over-worn red carpet to Eduardo.
    “Doors open in five minutes. I think it’s going to be a madhouse.” He points to the line already forming by the gate.
    “Do you see Saba Greer anywhere?” I say.
    “Oh, Lordy no!” Eduardo says. “Don’t be crude! She’s a whiskey. They don’t wait in line.”
    “Whiskey?” I