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chapter 2



When I first started my vlog, it was just another way to pass the time. Back then, I vlogged about high school relationships and also really whatever popped into my head, because let’s face it, I am the farthest thing from experienced in the field of relationships. I was bored and I needed a hobby, so I took a deep breath and started filming, thinking I’d just make a few videos and be done with it. But 135,789 subscribers later, it’s become a part of me. Vlogging is something I can’t not to do, and I never feel more at peace than when I’m talking in front of the camera, filming my next vlog. Some nights I stay up thinking about what to vlog about next, while on other nights, I lie awake smiling at the fact that I have, like, real subscribers—the one constant in my life nowadays.

I wish I could say vlogging is my whole life, but it’s not. It’s my safe zone, though—the one thing I can escape to when everything else seems to be falling apart.

As far as I know, no one from my tiny high school, not even Cat Davenport, my best friend, knows about my vlog At least, I have yet to be approached or made fun of for my “loser vlog series,” so that’s a plus. I vlog under the pseudonym Sam Green for a reason, as this vlog is where I open myself up, and I want it to remain a secret. The only ones who know about it are my mom and me—and that’s it. It’s weird, how I’m more comfortable being who I really am to complete strangers than to the people I’ve known all my life. But all the same, it’s the truth.

I film my vlogs with the same ritual over and over: I drink a glass of water, take a deep breath, and stare straight into the camera. You’re just talking to Mom, I remind myself, because I know I can’t talk to her any more outside of this, because this vlog is the only way I can feel close to her again. Then, I click play, smile, and begin.

Mom died six months ago, far enough into the past that I should be able to talk about her with a smile, with the months of pain turned to fond memories and rainbows, and her death just another memory.

Keyword: should.

But every morning when I wake to find her gone from the house, it feels like I’m reliving that first day without her over and over again, like I’m trapped in this sub-reality of tears and death and so, so much emptiness. The worst part is I’m not sure I want to leave it, leave her.

I’m not sure I want to let go.

The therapists say it’s because of Dad. After all, her whole death was his fault. He was wasted one night and decided it was a brilliant idea to drive her home and then… nope. According to the police he was speeding and ran a red light when another car slammed into the passenger door, killing Mom instantly. Dad survived it, even though I wish he hadn’t. I mean, I’ve always hated him, but now? Now he’s dead to me. The way I see it, if I can’t have Mom, then he can’t have me, either.

“West.” Cat puts a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“I…” I look up. Her blue eyes lock with mine. “Yeah. I’m okay, I guess,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

I force a laugh, but it’s weighted down by sadness. “Dude, I know.”

It’s Saturday, and we stand in front of the shopping mall Cat dragged me to (she bribed me with ice cream, naturally) so she could buy what she calls her “new Hogwarts wardrobe,” an idea I was immediately intrigued by. I only saw her pick out a wizarding cape of some sort, though, because I was busy hiding in the back of the building behind the sports bras so I wouldn’t be seen in a girly clothing store, in a valiant attempt to defend my manhood.

People rush all around here, gossiping and laughing and swinging their shopping bags like weapons in a game of Shopper vs. Shopper. Others shove past us, giving us annoyed looks like we’re somehow the cause of their own recklessness. The sun is out, and it’s times like these where I’m reminded why a) I hate shopping and b) shopping on a sunny Saturday is the worst idea in the history of ever.

God, that ice cream bribe better be worth it.

“We going?” Cat asks me.

“To get the ice cream?”

Cat nods.

“Hell yes,” I say, grinning. “I call a vanilla ice cream with whipped-cream, rainbow sprinkles, chocolate fudge, and a cherry on top.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh god, you’re such a four-year-old.”

“I believe the appropriate term here is ‘hipster.’”

“No. No it isn’t.”

“Hater.”

“Freak.”

“Alien child.”

She stifles a laugh. “You are also so weird.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant it as a compliment!”

“Oh,” I say, waggling my eyebrow at her. “I know.”

She just shakes her head and smiles.

We start walking down the sidewalk, Cat holding her shopping bag full of Harry Potter nerdness and me with my short sleeves and supreme hankering for ice cream. The ice cream shop, of course, is located in the outdoor “kid section” of the shopping mall, wedged right in between the Toys R Us and the tiny Lego store. The crowd quickly thins and soon, parents excluded, we’re the only ones older than twelve walking down the sidewalk. I glance at Cat, who only shrugs. We are not ones to fear the judgment of small children.

I met Cat for the first time when I was six. Back then she was still infested with a life-threatening case of cooties and I was familiar enough with the virus to know to keep a safe distance away from her, but even so, I remember finding myself thinking that she was kind of cool, even if being with her could put me at risk for the disease as well. So one day when she was on the swings, I walked up to her, blushing hard. I said hi, and she said hi back, and the next thing I knew I was on the swing next to hers and we were talking about how Nemo and Dory would be so cool to own as fish. I remember us giggling and blushing and smiling our six-year-old smiles that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. I get her and she gets me and that was always that. Cat is my only real friend, and she’s always been there for me when I needed it most. Even after Mom’s death, even with Dad’s drunken tirades and my total emptiness, she was always there to touch my shoulder and remind me that everything was going to be okay.

And she was right.

Mostly.

We turn the corner, walk a few more steps, and stop in front of a small ice cream shop, The Icecreamery, which is filled with flailing children and their grimacing parents. No one even remotely our age is inside, but it’s not like we care. The shop is an entirely manly place to eat between its pink exterior, its purple-painted chimney, and the fact that there are crayon drawings all over the inside wall.

Cat turns to me. “Are you ready for the experience of a lifetime?” she says, nodding at the front door.

I grin. “Is Abraham Lincoln dead?”

“Well… there are theories…”

I shoot her a look.

“All right, all right fine…” she murmurs. “We can get your ice cream.”

“Good! You ready?”

“Of course.”

Then I grab her hand, bellow “ICE CREAM!” and we charge, laughing, into the store. A small bell rings as soon as we enter, as if to say “welcome to heaven,” and proceeds to blast us with cool air and the squeals of small children all around. The door shuts behind us, and Cat and I pant, grinning at each other. I try to ignore the weird looks of parents as I approach the glowing ice cream freezer.

The cashier gives a little smile, clearly recognizing us from the hundreds of other times we’ve been there. “You again,” she says as I place my hands on the counter like I own the place.

“Us again,” I reply. “Good to see you, Sharon.”

She rolls her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me that?”

“You did.”

“I could kick you out for disrespecting me.”

“But you won’t for the simple reasons that I am your favorite customer and also, that I am just wonderful.”

Sharon turns to Cat, who gives her a sympathizing look. “I’ll serve you first, this time,” Sharon says to Cat. “I like you better anyway.”

I feign a horrified gasp, and Cat elbows me in the side. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I’d like a scoop of your finest vanilla ice cream,” she says way too seriously, holding her head up high. “In a kiddy cone, preferably. Also with rainbow sprinkles.”

Then Sharon turns to me, a smile flickering across her lips, enjoying torturing me. Neither of them seems to understand just how intimate my relationship with ice cream is.

“I’ll have the same,” I say.

Sharon nods, turns to the freezer, and when she brings us back our ice cream we pay her and sit down in the corner of the ice cream shop, our cones in hand. For a long moment, Cat and I just stare, eyes flickering between each other and our respective ice creams.

“Are you ready, Cat Davenport?” I say.

“Wait…” Cat scoots in her chair and leans forward into her ice cream. Then she gives a slight nod, and the ritual has begun. “Ready,” she says.

I lean forward. “Goooood. Race to see who finishes their ice cream first?”

“Of course.”

“Winner buys the other ice cream next time?”

“Again, of course.” She takes a breath. “On your mark,” Cat says and smiles.

“Get set,” I say and smile along with her.

“GO!” we shout at once.

Then, we both jump forward and shove our ice creams into our mouths. I attack mine one giant bite at a time, ripping the cone in half and ignoring the rainbow sprinkle casualties. I eat way too fast, vanilla ice cream flying everywhere (and let me tell you: it is one hell of an ice cream.) I glance up at Cat, whose cone is down to about half. I rush to eat more but before I can, she devours the entire thing in a bite. I stare at her in horror.

She just shrugs. “I win,” she says.

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“You heard me, Davenport,” I say, and finish my ice cream. The “loser’s bite,” we call it.

When I’m done eating, Cat and I move on to laughing about random things and, of course, trash talking each other in preparation for the next ice cream contest. Cat has vanilla all over her mouth and I’m sure I do too, but I don’t think either of us even cares.

“I change my mind,” Cat says. “We are so weird.”

“It’s pretttty freaking awesome. You know, being weird,” I say.

“It is.”

I wipe my mouth with the napkin. “So are you going to tell me about your Harry Potter apparel?”

“You mean my Hogwarts wardrobe?”

“Sure?”

“Oh, well, it’s nothing vital. Just a new line of nerd fashion that’s going to alter the lives of Harry Potter fans across the globe. NBD.” She says it all so blankly that I can’t help but laugh.

“Wow. That sounds bleak.”

“Also, with these new clothes, I’m probably going to attract some paparazzi and everyone is going to want to be me because of how incredibly hot I look. So, the usual. You wouldn’t understand,” she adds.

“I wouldn’t?”

“Oh yeah. You just don’t know what it’s like to be awesome.”

I toss my hair. “Bitch, I’m fabulous.”

I catch her stifling a giggle, which makes me smile, too.

“Sure thing, West. Sure thing. All the girls flock around you on your way to your kiddy ice cream shop, too, am I right?”

“Yep. They cling to my killer biceps the whole time.”

“I can’t even picture that.”

I shrug. “It’s only the natural reaction when you see a hot guy walking down the street.”

“No, I mean I can’t picture you having biceps.”

At that, I stick out my tongue at her like a true adult. “Okay. Fine. You got me there, Davenport.”

“I totally did.”

There’s a pause, and my gaze wanders to the scribbled-on white wall in front of me as I listen to the squeals of the kids and the methodic shushing of their parents. Surrounded by the smell of ice cream and the cool air of The Icecreamery, I realize once again how glad I am to have Cat and these Ice Cream Saturdays. Anything to keep me from being cooped up at home with my dad, with only my camera to escape to, is more than welcome.

I turn to Cat after another minute, opening my mouth to say something about her Harry Potter wardrobe, but I close it when I notice a sliver of vanilla ice cream still on her lips. “Oh,” I say, and I reach for my napkin. “I think you got something there…”Without even thinking, I grab the napkin, lean forward, press it to her lips, and gently dab the ice cream off. “There,” I murmur, and sit back down, the warmth of her lips seeping through the napkin and tickling, almost tempting, my fingers. “All better.”

It takes me a moment to realize how tense Cat’s body suddenly is, how she’s staring at me with those wide blue eyes of hers, a mix of alarm and a faint hint of curiosity on her face. My stomach drops, and I feel my muscles freeze, too. Shit. Did I do something wrong? Shit shit shit.

My whole face flushes when I realize she’s tensing over the napkin. Oh god, was that wrong? Too far? Too overfriendly? I wasn’t even thinking when I did it, I just assumed it would help and then… boom.

“I… um… am sorry,” I mutter and snap my gaze back down to my feet. I can’t help but notice how the warmth of her lips lingers on my fingertips. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just wanted to help…”

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “I was just surprised… is all. Yeah,” she says, nodding to herself. “Surprised. That’s it.”

“So, how was the ice cream?” I say after another instant of us both blushing and not meeting each other’s gazes, changing the subject immediately.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and her face goes back to normal like nothing ever happened. She proceeds to look at me like I’m an idiot. “West,” Cat says. “It’s ice cream. What do you think my answer is going to be?”

“Along the lines of ‘badass’ and ‘best thing ever.’”

“You know it.”

“Dude, I totally do.”

We keep talking until the conversation slowly devolves into pulling out our phones and checking random memes. I sift through my vlog page without thinking and glance at some of the comments when an email pops up. It’s from Harper. Immediately, I click it.



from: Harper Knight <[email protected]>

to: Sam Green <[email protected]>

subject: OMG

I just saw an ad for a box-set of Stars Wars and Harry Potter mugs. Do you know what this means for my life?????? Awesome things, Sam Green. AWESOME THINGS.



I glance up at Cat, who is busy checking her phone, careful to make sure she doesn’t see what I’m doing. Like with my vlog, I’d rather her not know about Harper. I’m not sure why, but I almost feel like I’m somehow cheating on her with Harper. I mean, yeah, it’s stupid because Cat is strictly my best friend and Harper is, well… she is the girl I want, but I still feel like it.

That’s not a weird feeling to have, right?

I close my eyes. Oh who am I kidding? That’s totally weird. I have no idea why I feel that way, either.

Finally, I type my response.



from: Sam Green <[email protected]>

to: Harper Knight <[email protected]>

subject: RE: OMG

OMG is right. This is groundbreaking! Revolutionary! But when you buy it, promise to a) order a Harry Potter one for me and b) when you get it, put your feet on a table, get a Chewbacca glass, and drink orange soda from it like a boss.



from: Harper Knight <[email protected]>

to: Sam Green <[email protected]>

subject: RE: RE: OMG

OF COURSE I’ll get you one and OF COURSE I’ll drink from the Chewbacca glass like a boss. But it won’t be orange soda. I will, being the class girl I am, drink root beer instead.

Because let’s be honest here, root beer is a total turn-on.



from: Sam Green <[email protected]>

to: Harper Knight <[email protected]>

subject: WHAAAAT

I am now picturing you sitting on a beach chair and getting fanned with giant green leaves by servants on either side of you while you drink your root beer out of a Chewbacca glass (like a boss) and stare at a hot guy by the pool. (The hot guy being me, obviously, with ripped abs and biceps and perfectly tanned skin because that’s just how I look.)

Also: is this your screwed-up way of wooing me, Harper Knight?



from: Harper Knight <[email protected]>

to: Sam Green <[email protected]>

subject: RE: WHAAAAT

That’s exactly how it is. Then you get out of the pool and shake the water off your hair and perfectly chiseled stomach in slow motion with romantic music playing in the background. And after that you approach me equally slowly and we flirt via Chewbacca glass root beer because we are the cliché.

Also: yes, yes it is.



I grin, because Harper just has that effect on me. I’m about to type my response when Cat looks up from her phone and says, “You ready to go?”

“Um.” I glance down at the unanswered email. “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I guess. Let’s go.”

“Cool.” She smiles at me, grabs her shopping bags, and we march out of The Icecreamery, leaving a tired-looking Sharon and several weirded-out parents in our wake.