Nothing happens. No likes or follows or comments. Neil deGrasse Tyson is apparently not that popular with the #alone crowd. I look at the post again. Is there something wrong with it? Not cool or interesting or fun enough? How stupid is it that I care if the internet likes my photo? I’m the one living vicariously here, so it should only matter whether I like it or not, if it makes me feel good.
Yet here I am, feeling bad that people aren’t liking my photo. They lifted me up last night, those twelve followers and seventeen likes—the fact that they related to me, to my photo. Now they’ve let me right back down.
As if real-life rejection isn’t bad enough, I’ve got to inflict this alternate universe of scrutiny and neglect upon myself?
My phone beeps then. I perk up, and check the notifications.
sadgirldreaming Love your hair. Can’t wait to see where you go next.
And I’m smiling again. With that one kind comment, just one expression of interest, my mood swings back up. Maybe other people need lots of friends, or hordes of fans, but all I really need is one.
I put Vicurious away and pull out my homework for Monday. All the while, I’m thinking about sadgirldreaming’s comment. Where will I go next? It’s got to be Hogwarts. Because, obviously. That’s been my dream since I was nine. I lost count of the number of times I checked the mailbox for my letter of admission. And I’ve always wanted to ride a hippogriff.
I finish my precalc and make half an effort at studying for my bio exam, then start searching for Buckbeak. I quickly find the iconic movie image of Harry Potter soaring over the Great Lake on the creature’s back.
Scanning through the Vicurious photos I took yesterday, I find one where my hands are thrown in the air like I’m riding a roller coaster. I zoom in to make a cutout of myself and blend it into the movie shot. When I finish, it looks like I’m seated right behind Harry, grinning as Buckbeak’s hooves skim the surface of the lake.
I can almost feel the hippogriff’s feathers beneath my legs. The wind in my hair. Laughing and hooting along with Harry, on top of the world. I haven’t posted it yet when Mom calls me for dinner, so I wait. I want to see the reaction. I rush through my meal and excuse myself with claims of more heaping piles of homework. As soon as I get back to my room, I post the image and stare at the screen for a while, waiting again to see if anyone notices.
Nobody does.
So I post another photo, and another. Vicurious chatting with Jimmy Fallon on the Tonight Show. Hanging out on the red carpet at various award ceremonies. I’m terribly underdressed in the shredded neon skirt, so I make them photobombs. Those are relatively easy to Photoshop so I do a bunch. Jennifer Lawrence. Will Smith. Gina Rodriguez. Neil Patrick Harris. Eddie Redmayne. Chris Rock. Gael García Bernal.
It’s the height of living vicariously, for me at least. Vicurious can go anywhere, do anything, without ever leaving my room.
“Vicky?” Mom knocks on my door at eleven p.m. “Honey, you’ve been working hard. Time to get to sleep.”
I dim my computer screen and turn off the light so she’ll think I’ve gone to bed. “Good night,” I call out.
“Can I get a hug? I’ve hardly seen you all day,” she says through my door.
“I’m already in bed, Mom.” I try to sound as if I’m simply too sleepy to get up to unlock the door, rather than sitting at my desk fully clothed staring at my computer.
“Well, okay then.” There’s a pause, no retreating footsteps. She’s still standing out there, and I hear her sigh.
I start to call out “Love you,” but she says “Sleep well” and shuffles off.
I should be tired, but it feels like I’ve actually spent the past two hours leaping in front of cameras on the red carpet. It’s as if I’m meant to exist in a vicarious state. It makes me feel alive.
I flip through the dozen photos I’ve posted today. Aside from sadgirldreaming, only one or two other followers have liked a photo. Otherwise they’ve gone unnoticed. And I shouldn’t care, except that Vicurious is fabulous and daring and full of life. She deserves to be noticed! I click around to some of the more popular Instagrams and quickly realize what I’ve done wrong. I haven’t hashtagged anything except the first photo.
That’s why only the lonely have found me.
And I’m just about to add #space #neildegrassetyson #science #harrypotter #prisonerofazkaban #tonightshow #redcarpet #photobomb and anything else I can think of, when I realize . . . no. That’s not me, and it’s not Vicurious, either.
I leave them all the way they are, the way I am. Alone and unseen. I turn off my computer, slip on my pajamas, and crawl into bed. The phone on my nightstand won’t be bothering me tonight.
7
I FUMBLE TO TURN OFF the alarm on my phone Monday morning and immediately wonder what Jenna posted for me, out of habit. I see an Instagram notification and assume that’s her as well, until I wake up to the reality. No Jenna here, but Vicurious has a whole bunch of new followers. They found me, somehow, without any hashtags at all.
On the Cosmos image, one of my original #alone users has left a comment tagging people, and those people have left comments tagging others with spacey identities. Someone left a comment on the Buckbeak image and tagged someone named dumbledorefanatic, who then left a comment tagging five other people. They’re talking to each other in the comments, throwing hashtags around like crazy.
But even more unbelievable is how many new followers there are: seventy-three, who appeared overnight and . . . wait, make that seventy-four. I haven’t counted the comments on all of the images, but Cosmos has twenty-seven, and Buckbeak has eighteen.
I start hyperventilating a little, excited but also a bit terrified. People are actually watching my account, interested in what I’m doing. I swing my legs to the floor and bend forward, head between my knees. Breathe, Vicky. Breathe. I hold my phone in front of my upside-down face, staring at the screen in disbelief. Another follower pops up. And another. I scroll through them to make sure I don’t recognize any names from school. As far as I can tell, they’re complete strangers. Still, it takes a while for my breathing to calm. I watch my follower number tick up as the morning light slowly brightens my room.
Seventy-six . . . seventy-seven . . . seventy-eight . . .
It’s unbelievable. I can’t help wondering: Would Jenna like me better if she knew I was this girl?
I get ready for school and head out to the bus, my phone turned off and shoved in the bottom of my book bag. Knowing it’s there, that Vicurious is out in the world making “friends,” puts my heart in an unnerving state of hiccup. I head to class, worrying someone has seen her and will recognize me.
Lipton smiles at me as I walk into world history and I can’t help thinking, he knows. Why else would he be smiling at me? As I sit down, about to launch into a full-on panic attack, he leans over and says, “How’s the Siege of Jerusalem coming?”
“Great!” I blurt. “Very siege-y.”