You Look Different in Real Life

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 at the camera, then laughs at this stroke of pure, subversive brilliance.
    “Today we start our unit on feature journalism,” announces Mrs. Z when all is finally quiet.
    I thought we weren’t supposed to do this unit until June.
    Lance has the camera pointed at us now. Kenny, behind him, holds the boom mic above his head with both hands, sticking it as far into the room as he can.
    Mrs. Z continues. “Each group is going to produce a newspaper supplement focused on whichever subjectarea you pull from this bowl.” She holds up a Tupperware dish and shakes it; something shuffles around inside. She walks over to the group nearest her and holds the bowl out to one of the kids, who reaches in, pulls out a piece of paper, and unfolds it. “Arts and Entertainment,” he announces, and his islandmates cheer.
    Mrs. Z makes her way around the room as the assignments are drawn. Health and Fitness. Money and Finance. Science and Technology. Finally, she comes to us, and offers the bowl to Nate. Of course, always Nate. Nate makes a show of feeling around for the last slip of paper, making everyone (but me) crack up, then produces the paper and opens it with a flourish. “Travel and Recreation. Boo-yah!”
    Mrs. Z smiles and says, “This edition will focus on local travel. No darting off to Atlantic City on your parents’ credit card and blaming it on your assignment.” Then she turns to the rest of the class. “I’m going to give each group a couple of examples from real newspapers. Your goal for this period is to figure out story assignments or at least a list of what you might want to cover.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lance’s camera and it’s still trained on Nate and me. It takes everything I have not to turn and stare it down.
    “Okay,” Nate says as Mrs. Z plops a couple of news-papers in front of us. “Why don’t we do two stories on travel and two on recreation?”
    “That makes sense,” says Lily. “What about a Top Tenlist of places to visit in the area?”
    “It should have more focus than that,” says Michael. “Like, historic sights, or sights for nature freaks or shopaholics.”
    “We could do the whole section as a collection of Top Ten lists . . .” adds Nate.
    Mrs. Z brushes past us. “Cute idea, but that doesn’t sound like it would require much actual reporting.” And then she’s gone.
    “What do you think, Justine?” asks Lily, like she’s just remembered I’m here.
    What do I think? What do I think? I glance at Nate, who has this Cameras? What cameras? look on his face that makes me want to wrap my hands around his neck, right at the spot where that gigantic Adam’s apple sits.
    “I think I need to be right back.”
    I get up and walk over to Mrs. Z, who has just sat down at her desk with a big sigh. Her hair, a neat black bob with bangs, barely moves as she looks up at me and frowns.
    “Yes, Justine?”
    I hook my finger at Lance to come join us. He turns off the camera, places it gingerly on a bookcase and does as I’ve asked. Leslie follows. Kenny lowers the boom mic and leans against the wall.
    “What’s up?” asks Lance, leaning in for a huddle.
    “You guys arranged for Nate and me to be in the same group.”
    Lance and Mrs. Z exchange a guilty glance.
    “Is that a problem?” asks Mrs. Z. I can tell she was reluctant to do it.
    “It makes it easier for us to shoot you both,” Lance says matter-of-factly.
    I look at Leslie, expecting a comment, but she’s just staring at one of my pink stripes.
    “Well, it feels fake to me and we’ll be self-conscious,” I say, “and that will affect how we do on the actual assignment.”
    For a second I think they get it. Mrs. Z is nodding slightly.
    “I don’t feel self-conscious,” says a voice behind me. Nate steps up and slides into our huddle.
    I turn to him and he’s looking at me. Really looking at me, not just brushing a glance across the space I occupy. His expression is soft and friendly,