Through My Lens
2106 Words
(Jordan’s POV)
Mornings in our house are like jazz — loud, unpredictable, and somehow still on beat.
My mom swears the Holy Spirit wakes her up before her alarm. I say it’s the espresso machine. Either way, she’s downstairs by six, arguing with the morning news anchor like he owes her back rent.
By the time I drag myself out of bed, the smell of cinnamon toast and Chanel perfume is floating up the stairs. Jada’s already in the mirror, bonnet half off, lashes halfway on.
“Move, I’m late,” she says, smacking on lip gloss like it’s a sport.
“You were born late,” I mumble, dodging the hurricane of hairspray she just unleashed.
She side-eyes me. “Don’t start, Mr. National Geographic. I got places to be.”
“Yeah, me too—school. Same place as you.”
“Then stop actin’ like a background character.”
She struts out humming Beyoncé. I mutter, “Wish I was adopted,” just loud enough for her to hear.
---
Downstairs, sunlight hits the marble counter like it’s auditioning for a skincare ad. Mom’s pacing in heels, Bluetooth in one ear, half yelling at a client, half threatening the toaster.
“Boy, if you don’t iron that shirt.”
“It’s a hoodie, Mom.”
“Then iron the hoodie.”
She points the butter knife at me without missing a word on her call. She’s scary like that — could sue you, feed you, and bless you all before breakfast.
Darius FaceTimes right then, grinning through the desert dust.
“Yo, lil’ bro! Why you look tired?”
“Because I live here,” I say.
Mom leans over the screen. “Darius Carter, you eat yet?”
“Ma, I’m literally in a war zone, not brunch.”
“War zone or not, you better have breakfast.”
Jada slides into frame. “Hey, soldier boy!”
He grins. “Hey, influencer girl! How many followers you buy this week?”
“BOY—!” Mom snaps, and he ends the call before she can finish the sentence.
For a second, silence. Then all three of us c***k up. That’s the thing about this house.
I grab my camera off the counter, adjust the light. Morning gold spills across the cereal box just right. Click.
Mom shakes her head. “You takin’ pictures of cornflakes again?”
“It’s composition, Ma.”
“It’s weird, Jordan.”
She kisses my forehead anyway. “Weird looks good on you. Go be great.”
---
Outside, the driveway’s gleaming like it got polished by angels. Dante’s old BMW pulls up smooth, Colin hanging halfway out the window blasting Lil Baby like it’s a community service announcement.
“Let’s go, Spielberg!” Colin yells.
I jog over, camera strap across my chest. “You tryna wake the HOA?”
He grins. “If they ain’t up by now, that’s on them.”
Dante nods to my mom, who’s at the door giving him her best “I’m trusting you” look.
“Mornin’, Ms. Carter.”
Mom sighs. “Lord, cover them all.”
---
The car smells like cologne and crumbs. Colin’s talking with his hands, Dante’s driving one-handed, and I’m half awake in the back seat wondering why I didn’t fake a stomachache.
Colin: “So apparently the whole school think Jayla’s the girl in that leaked pic.”
Dante: “People love drama. That’s all it is.”
I scroll through my phone, pretending not to care.
Colin keeps going. “Nah, but like, imagine bein’ her. Everybody tryna solve your mystery like you Batman.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s too early for TMZ energy, bro.”
He laughs. “Ain’t my fault your school boring without rumors.”
We stop for gas, sunlight bouncing off the hood. Colin hops out and—of course—bumps a guy’s car. Dude turns slow, tattoos up his neck, face like a red flag in human form.
“Watch my car,” the man says.
Colin throws up his hands. “It’s fine, bruh, barely touched it.”
“It’s not fine.” The guy steps closer.
My chest tightens.
Dante’s out of the car in one smooth motion, calm but firm. “Aye, he said sorry. We good.”
The man glares. Dante doesn’t blink. Silence. Just the click of the gas pump. Then the guy backs off, muttering under his breath.
We pile back in, all quiet for a second.
Colin breaks it first. “Y’all saw that? I handled it.”
Dante snorts. “You handled it by almost crying.”
I laugh, but my hands are still shaking. I grab my camera, snap a photo through the window — cracked pavement, gum wrapper catching sunlight.
Dante glances back. “You good, bro?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… collecting evidence.”
“For what?”
“For the day I grow a backbone.”
They c***k up. I do too, even though my heart’s still pounding.
---
By the time we roll into the school parking lot, the air’s thick with gossip. Cleverly High’s got more rumors than textbooks.
Colin rolls the windows down, nodding toward a group of cheerleaders glued to their phones. “Told y’all, Jayla’s trending again.”
Dante: “Man, she always trending. She built for chaos.”
I keep quiet. I’ve heard it all already — same blurry photo, same fake theories. It’s like watching people eat lies for breakfast.
Then something else catches my eye.
Across the courtyard, near the side gate — Amara.
She’s laughing like the world never told her not to. Oversized denim jacket, curls bouncing, gold hoops catching sunlight like it’s a game. Malik’s beside her, grinning like he said something funny and knew it landed.
And just like that, everything else fades. The noise, the rumors, the world. It’s just her voice — bright, alive, unbothered.
Click.
Dante leans forward. “Yo, who’s that?”
I drop the camera fast. “Nobody.”
“Uh-huh.” He smirks. “Nobody got you lookin’ like you seen heaven.”
Colin laughs so hard he almost spills his drink. “Boy said ‘nobody.’ You lyin’ like a pastor’s kid.”
“Mind your business,” I mutter.
Colin grins. “You are my business. Your crush is my crush by association.”
“Then you need therapy.”
Dante whistles. “She is kinda fine though.”
“See!” Colin yells. “Even Dante agrees!”
“Dante agrees with gravity,” I shoot back. “He don’t count.”
They laugh. I pretend not to. But the truth is — she’s still glowing in my mind, pixel-perfect and impossible to ignore.
---
Later, I’m in the gym behind the bleachers, setting up for yearbook shots. The basketball team’s wrapping practice, sneakers squeaking like percussion.
Then I see him.
Ethan.
We used to be inseparable — now we’re strangers with shared memories. He’s laughing with his team, towel slung over his shoulder, looking like the gym lights chose him on purpose.
He catches me watching. For half a second, eye contact. Then he looks away.
Fine. I’m used to watching people from behind the lens.
Still, I lift the camera. Click. Ethan, frozen mid-laugh — another ghost of something that used to matter.
Dante and Colin show up smelling like fries. Colin peers at the screen. “Damn, you makin’ him look like he on a Gatorade commercial.”
“He already think he is one,” Dante says.
I grin. “Guess I’m just giving him proof.”
---
When the bell rings, the crowd floods out. I stay behind, packing up slow, letting the noise fade. Everything about today feels heavy — the gas station, Amara, Ethan, that photo still spreading like wildfire.
The darkroom’s my only quiet place.
Inside, the air hums with that sharp chemical scent. Red light dripping over everything like it’s half dream, half memory. I hang the film, watch my day appear piece by piece — the cracked pavement, Colin’s grin, Dante’s calm, Ethan mid-laugh… and then her.
Amara.
Captured light. Stillness that breathes.
“You ever meet someone who look like a moment you ain’t supposed to touch?” I whisper.
The photo doesn’t answer. It just glows.
---
My phone buzzes. Group chat.
Colin: yo remember when that gas station dude almost folded me 😂
Dante: “almost” doin’ a lotta work there
Me: I’m blockin both y’all.
I’m still smirking when another notification slides in — Amara’s post. Festival photo. Malik in frame. She’s laughing so hard it’s like the world forgot to be cruel.
“Damn,” I murmur. “She’s really glowing.”
I pocket my phone, grab my camera, and head outside. Sunset dripping gold all over the neighborhood.
Click.
“Jordan?”
I turn.
Jayla.
She looks like a headline walking — perfect hair, perfect shoes, expression tight enough to cut glass.
“We need to talk,” she says.
“That’s… specific.”
“Can I come in or what?”
She steps inside, eyes scanning the family photos — Mom in her scrubs, Jada with her trophies, me holding a camera twice my size. For a second, something soft flickers behind her walls.
“So,” I say, leaning on the counter. “What brings the queen of Cleverly to my humble palace?”
She ignores that. “It’s about the photo.”
My stomach drops. “What about it?”
“I think some guy named Malik took it.”
Static hits my chest. “Malik? You sure?”
She shakes her head. “No. But he was acting weird when it got posted. Like he knew something.”
Before I can answer, Mom walks in, drying her hands.
“Jordan, who—oh my God. Jayla Robinson? It’s been ages!”
Jayla’s whole vibe shifts. “Hi, Mrs. Carter. Nice to see you.”
“You too, sweetheart! Haven’t seen you since you and Jordan used to play in the sprinklers.”
Jayla forces a polite laugh. “Feels like forever ago.”
Mom grins. “Still bossin’ him around?”
“Trying not to,” Jayla says.
“Good luck with that.” Mom chuckles and disappears upstairs.
Silence. But not awkward. Just thick. Familiar.
I drop onto the couch. She stays standing — posture stiff, eyes scanning the room like she’s allergic to comfort.
“Why come to me, Jay?” I ask finally.
She exhales. “Because you’re the only one who’ll tell me the truth.”
That makes me laugh, low. “Nah. You came here ’cause you ain’t got anyone else to ask.”
Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
“C’mon. You’ve been treating people like background noise. Now you’re shocked they turned down the volume?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But it’s real.”
She looks away, eyes landing on a photo of me and Jada as kids. “You always think you know everything.”
“I don’t,” I say quietly. “But I know lonely when I see it.”
Something in her face cracks for just a second — then she straightens again. “Whatever. I just need your help figuring this out. After that, we go back to pretending we don’t talk.”
“Deal,” I say. “But for the record, I’d never post that picture. Even if I hated you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know what it’s like to have everybody waiting for you to mess up.”
Her eyes soften, just barely. Then her phone buzzes. She doesn’t check it.
“I’ll help you,” I say. “But stop pretending you’re made of glass and fire. You’re just tired, Jay.”
She doesn’t reply — just exhales, slow and shaky.
“Thanks,” she says finally, almost a whisper.
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t mention it.”
She’s halfway out when Mom calls from upstairs: “Jayla, tell your mama I said hi!”
Jayla forces a small smile. “Sure thing, Mrs. Carter.”
The door shuts. The quiet stretches long.
I look at the photo of me holding my first camera.
Whatever I’d just agreed to — it felt like the start of something bigger.
Something dangerous.
Maybe even something worth capturing.
Because if Malik really was behind that post...
the story wasn’t over.
It was just getting focused.
---
- Writer
