Free You Look Different in Real Life by Jennifer Castle

Leslie finds this fascinating. She and Lance spend so much time trying to get some good shots of the little black-and-white faces that we get behind schedule and I’m going to be late for school.
    “It’s okay,” says Mom, “I’ll write you a note.” She needs this attention and frankly, I’m happy to share it. I pretendto be anxious to get going, and she pretends she doesn’t know I’m pretending. So far, we are playing ourselves just right.
    I pull open the heavy door to the school lobby and hold it for a moment, so Lance, who’s got the camera rolling, then Kenny, then Leslie, can follow close behind me.
    At the office, the front desk aide hands me my late pass and is much friendlier about this than she normally is about everything. On my way out, I catch sight of the bright green notice on a bulletin board. It’s the one that went home with every student two weeks ago, notifying them and their families of Lance and Leslie’s imminent presence at the school, along with a release letter that every parent had to sign if they were okay with their kid ending up in the film. I’m sure a few parents weren’t and didn’t, like the last two times. It was fun to see people’s faces blurred out in the finished product. I wonder who it will be this year.
    But we are on the move and I have to stay focused and aware, with the camera watching like this. I’ve missed homeroom, so our first stop is Journalism class, which starts in a few minutes. I can see Lance exclaiming over a latte: Journalism! The irony! Also, the class features not just me but Nate too, so that’s a whole lot of bang for their shooting buck.
    Here’s some information for the record. Length of timesince this class began: twelve weeks. Number of times Nate has lowered himself to talk to me during said class: zero.
    Inside the classroom, our teacher, Mrs. Zandhoffer, is pushing four desks together so they make a little island of metal and Formica. There are several other islands like it throughout the room. She looks up and nods at Lance and Leslie, and I can tell they’ve already met. The crew quickly moves to a corner to get situated.
    Mrs. Z notices me scanning the desks and indicates one near her, saying, “Justine, you sit over here. I’m putting everyone in groups for a new project.”
    The bell rings and within seconds, the doorway has filled up with students. Everyone freezes when they notice the reconfigured desks and the camera and the boom mic, causing a bottleneck in the hallway. Within minutes, Mrs. Z has everyone assigned to their desk islands. Sharing mine are Lily and Michael, who are cool. There’s an empty seat.
    I notice that at the same time I notice Nate hasn’t arrived yet.
    On cue, he bursts in and does the same freeze everyone else did. But when he sees Lance and Leslie, he smiles. Waves with one hand, brushes his cowlick—a little chunk of blond hair that’s always sticking out to one side—with the other. Nate somehow makes this cheesy move seem natural, like something you’ve been hoping to see all day.
    Mrs. Z points at our table. Nate just nods and falls into the empty desk, then scans the three of us. His gaze catches on mine for a second, and one corner of his mouth twitches up like he knows he should smile at me, but just can’t make himself do it.
    Lily steals a look at the crew, then pulls out some lip gloss and begins to apply it. Heavily.
    “Act normal,” I say to her. “Remember, they’re just observing .”
    I realize I’ve just spit out one of the things Lance and Leslie kept telling us when we were six, and then again at eleven. We like to pretend we’re in kindergarten too , Lance would say with a wink, and our whole class would giggle. I look around to see who’s buying that line now. Most of the students in the class are busy getting settled, but a few keep glancing toward the camera. One kid, known jackass Marco Marretti, waits until Mrs. Z’s back is turned and waves both middle fingers