Page 3 of Mr. Picture Perfect
I stare up at him, eyes wide and blinking. My supervisor has a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten glazed donut in the other. His tired eyes peek out from a curtain of dark brown bangs. Stubble dusts his tanned and weathered face, aging his otherwise youthful appearance. His name’s Burton, and ever since his dad hired him to help out here at the Spruce Press, he’s become a coffee-and-donut-devouring monster. This job isn’t his passion in life. I don’t blame him. No one in the galaxy grows up saying, “You know what I’d love to do with my life? Document everyone else’s!” My dad once said you have to be a total weirdo to love this line of work. He should know; my grandpa used to run the Spruce Press.
I guess I’m one of those weirdoes.
Also, I didn’t realize I was looking at him any particular way. I make an adjustment to my facial expression. “Is the job to, um … go out and take photos of the festival?”
Burton frowns. “Why are you scowling like that? You look like you’re tryin’ to fart.”
I relax my mouth. “Sorry.”
“Now you look mad again.”
I relax my eyes. “Better?”
“Now you look like a Martian. That what these are?” He leans over the box, squinting inside. “Little, uh … jello aliens …?”
My cheeks burn. I decide to go along with it. “Y-Yeah, aliens. They’re aliens. My, uh—I got them at the store. For everyone.”
Burton takes a big bite of his donut, squints at me. “Why?”
I stare blankly back, frozen.
Why didn’t I say my mom made them?
“Don’t matter,” Burton says before I can reply. “No one’s here to eat ‘em anyway.” He slips back into the building.
Confused, I reluctantly follow him inside. Indeed, the three desks are empty. Even the editor’s office is dark. I absently look for a place to set down the box, but every surface is full of junk to the edge, even the coffeemaker table. “Is everyone already at—?”
“Yes,” Burton cuts me off with a sigh, then leans against the side of a nearby desk—mydesk. That draws my attention at once, as his elbow happens to nudge a neatly-stacked tower of folders I just spent yesterday afternoon organizing. I stare with concern at the now-threatening-to-topple pile as he goes on carelessly. “They went straight there. Didn’t you get the group message?”
I blink, then fumble to get my phone out of my pocket, box still awkwardly balanced in my other hand. “Uh … message …?”
“Maybe I forgot to include you in that one. Anyway.” Burton shifts his weight. The stack is nudged even further. “I need you out there with them.”
“O-Okay,” I say to the leaning Tower of Pisa on my desk as I slowly re-pocket my phone. “I’ll grab my camera and—”
“I need you to do more than just snap photos today,” he adds. “You gotta dig for dirt, Noah. Find a story—arealstory.”
I look at him. “Wait, what?”
“The crafts festival is always so boring every year. Who cares about what woodwork so-and-so’s cousin did? I’m already fallin’ asleep. We need somethinggood, Noah. Step it up and actually talk to people. Make friends. Get a story. Capture some big moment.”
Talk to people? Make friends? … Did Burton forget who I am? “Aren’t … Aren’t Patrick and Tamika so much better at all the interviewing and people stuff?”
“Tamika is already there. And Patrick called in. Ate some bad Biggie’s or somethin’. Don’t tell anyone I said that, I’ll have the Tuckersandthe Strongs on my ass for that comment.”
My brain is already buzzing out of control. “When you say … ‘talk to people’ … do you mean—”
“What’s the problem, Noah? Do you need more focus? More direction?Dad warned me ‘bout this,” he mumbles to himself as he shifts on the desk and causes my stack to tilt even more. I hold my breath. “Look at it this way: You’re on a mission. Special mission.”
“Special mission?”
“Go down to the festival, approach anything and anyone that catches your eye—andtalk. Use that mouth you got. Be brave. You gotta conquer your fears, Noah, ain’t no one gonna do it for you.”
I stare at him, box of wiggly jello aliens still gazing up at me.
“And you still gotta take photos, so make sure to get a shot of Mayor Strong,” he goes on. “She’ll be there. Oh, and the reverend, too—Treyorhis dad, don’t make a difference. I sing at the church, so they’ll love bein’ in the paper, and that makesmelook good. Hey,that’syour mission!” he decides at once with a snap. “Make me look good, Noah! My dad has been a dick for over a week now, and somethin’hasto go right around here for me.”
I slowly reach for the stack, hoping to stop it from tipping.
