Perfect Couple (Superlatives 2)

A waterspout—a tornado over the water rather than the land—snaked down from black clouds to dip its toe in the water elegantly, like a dancer. It glowed white against the sky.

I was glad I had lots of practice setting up my tripod, attaching the camera, and adjusting the settings. In seconds I was snapping photos, then switching the settings and snapping again, so I was sure to get at least one perfect photo out of hundreds.

Several minutes passed before it occurred to me that if there was one tornado, there might be more. We didn’t have tornado sirens in Pinellas County, so I wouldn’t know until it hit me, unless I saw it coming. But as I looked behind me at the landward side of town, I didn’t see another twister. All I noticed was Brody standing way down at the stadium entrance.

“Lightning!” He pointed at the blinking southern sky.

I glanced back at my waterspout and snapped one more rapid-fire set of shots as it twisted up into the sky and disappeared. Then I swept up my tripod without pausing to detach the camera and hauled ass down the stairs.

“There’s a tornado warning,” he said, following me with his hand on my back as we hurried toward the school. “The rotation is close enough that everybody’s crouched in the halls with their heads down, but I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to get in because the doors are locked. Ms. Patel said I could come look . . . for . . . What are you doing?”

I sat down in Granddad’s car. “Get in so we’re not struck by lightning.” I opened my laptop and plugged in my camera.

“You’re getting online?” he asked, astonished.

“I photographed the tornado, and I’m about to sell the picture to the Tampa newspaper.”

“Harper,” he said as I typed. “Harper, remember when I told you that you should take risks only when you can get away with them? If that picture is published, the school will figure out you were on top of the stadium during a tornado. You might get suspended. Save it for your portfolio, maybe—”

“I hadn’t checked in yet, so the school wasn’t in charge of me.” I finished composing my e-mail to the Tampa newspaper editor and attached the photo.

“You’re not just trying to prove how daring you are to get me back, are you?”

“Hold on for a minute.” The photo loaded, and I hit send. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” he said, eyeing me across the car.

“I would love to date you again,” I burst, riding the adrenaline high I hadn’t even registered until now. “We had so much fun, and I don’t want to throw that away. The school is on crack for not pairing us together.”

He grabbed me in a hug across the seat. I settled my head against his shoulder. He squeezed me gently and ran his fingertips through my hair.

Then he released me and sat up. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “Now let’s go back, before we get in trouble.”

We dashed across the parking lot. Inside the school, students lined the walls three people deep. As we were about to sit down too, the bell rang to cancel the warning. Everyone got up as one body and stretched.

“While we have a minute,” I said, putting one hand on Brody’s chest, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe if I told Mr. Oakley I would sign back on as yearbook photographer, he would make a few concessions. The Superlatives section isn’t due to the publisher until Friday. I could ask to redesign Kennedy’s ugly Superlatives pages and replace our Perfect Couple photo.”

“Do you have an idea for it?”

I pulled my camera off the tripod, adjusted the settings, and handed it to Brody. “You take a selfie because your arm is longer. The camera’s set to take five in a row, so just grin through it.” We put our heads close together. “One, two—”

I smiled, and the camera flashed. By now we were getting pushed from all directions by the traffic in the hall. We moved over to the lockers and peered at the view screen. Both of us laughed. Brody looked happy and satisfied. I looked excited. Behind us, the hallway was filled with people, some photobombing us with their tongues sticking out, some ignoring us and absorbed in their own lives.

“I like this concept,” I said. “See? The whole school is behind us.”

“I like your glasses,” he said. “You look sexy as hell. Come here.” He looped the camera strap over my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me.

“This is against school rules,” I said. “Talk about being in danger of getting caught—”

“I don’t care,” he whispered in my ear. “I was worried about you in the storm. I’m just glad you’re safe.” He squeezed me once more and let me go.

*   *   *

At the football game the following Friday night, the photographer for the local newspaper approached me on the sidelines with his hand out for me to shake. I was thrilled. I knew exactly who he was. I’d seen him snapping pictures of the games for years. I’d wanted to be him for years.

He asked, “You’re Harper Davis, right?”

“That’s right.”

He introduced himself, then said, “Great shot of the waterspout in the Tampa paper.”

“Thanks. That was just luck. And a tripod.”

He shook his head. “You’re a photographer. You make your own luck. Even now, look at you. Your eyes haven’t left the game. You’re scouting for a photo.”

I smiled, because it was true. As we’d talked, I’d kept watching the field, determined not to miss a key play.