Pretty Lies

This school was smothered in lies.
But what school wasn’t?
The picture on the screen captured Silver Ranch High School’s most darling sweethearts. Smiling at each other, saccharine sweet, like no one would ever understand their secret love, or even existed for that matter. But I knew the truth. Just this morning Bella had been blowing the star basketball player in the girls’ bathroom. How do I know? Because I had a front row stall when they slammed through the door, believing they were alone.
I pulled up my feet, pretending I wasn’t there, and those fucktards never even thought to check the stalls. It was awkward with my pants down, because let’s be real, I had just finished peeing, and I didn’t want to get coined the resident outcast the first week of school for pissing off the in crowd. Did I mention the guy she blew was not the boy in the picture?
My feet squeaked over the course material covering the seat of my bay window.
I should be thankful the jock only lasted about four minutes. I thought teenage boys were supposed to have better stamina than that. I rolled my eyes.
The next picture in my phone was their backs as they left the bathroom, the jock’s hand clutching her ass like it was a pot of gold. Luckily, the guy, Trent I think was his name, definitely had a case of the moans and groans. When he was making his big finish, I was able get on the toilet seat, bring my pants up –which was necessary in case I fell – putting me in a great position to snap a picture over the top of the stall once they were on their way out.
That was my thing. Ever since I could remember, I’d been snapping photos of people when they didn’t realize I was watching. It sounded creepy when I put it like that, but I swear it wasn’t that weird. I found you can make people believe anything you want them to based on how you take the picture. The angle, lighting, expression. All together these things made up something compelling I found addictive.
Gestalt principal, I believe. The whole was greater than the sum of its parts. See, I paid attention in class.
Three days in this hellhole of a school and already I could point out the kids that had it all, the kids that had nothing, and the kids that lied. Not verbally, but with their image. These were the kids who came across as perfect, making everyone jealous of their girlfriend or boyfriend, their grades or popularity. But I saw the truth in their body language, the despair in their eyes. I knew, because I saw it in myself every freaking day.
Swipe left to the next picture. This was of the little girl a few houses down. She was the epitome of childhood innocence, light and bubbly. All sunshine and puppy tails. But everyday she went home to a place that barely had enough food to put on the table.
“Astrid!” A reedy voice bellowed from the first floor.
A trill of dread shot down my spine, because I had to go downstairs.
My bedroom door taunted me with new plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the back. They winked at me, taunting me about how I would go downstairs to see what Mother Dearest needed. My worn, suede boots, clicked against the old wooden floor when they hit the ground as I left the window seat.
Shoving the cell phone in the back pocket of my jean shorts, I tugged my gauzy sweater tighter around my body. I’d rather stab myself in the ear with a fondue fork than spend any time with the woman who bore me, but unfortunately that wasn’t an option.
“Astrid! You have two minutes to be downstairs.” My mother took on a shrill tone.
With the second call, I gained a little more urgency. The door creaked like a squeaky dog toy, signaling to anyone in the house, I was on my way. As I pounded down the steps, I was amazed by how many pictures were hung up on the walls already.
We’d only been in the house two weeks, but my mother wanted to be the best Suzie Homemaker on the block.
If I took her picture right now, she’d be the epitome of a woman with purpose. Clunky velvet heels that were currently the height of mom fashion, paired with a simple, dark blue dress that was mildly form fitting, falling to her knees. She’d be chopping salad for dinner, arranging the greenery in nice little bowls for me, her, and dad. The perfect mom. The perfect wife.
Lies. All of it lies.