How is this happening? All I did was Photoshop myself into a few images, which takes a certain skill, but not exactly the sort that people on the internet get excited about. I have no special talent. I’m not funny or clever. Why are they following me? I can’t believe I’m not hyperventilating yet. In fact, the feeling seizing my chest is something else entirely. It’s . . . glee?
No, it can’t be that. I’m not even sure what that feels like. Yet I’m having a hard time stopping myself from smiling. Vicurious is a hit! And the fact that I’m more psyched than scared about that is so foreign to me. A burst of laughter—a really loud one—is hovering at the base of my throat, and I’m tempted to get up and skip down the bus aisle. But Vicky doesn’t skip down aisles, or laugh out loud.
Only Vicurious does that.
9
ONCE I’M HOME AND HAVE shared an acceptable amount of information about my day with my mother, I retreat to my room with the cucumber-mango-cilantro-lime smoothie she prepared for me and plop down in front of my computer. I click through all the activity on my Vicurious account, trying to figure out how it blew up so fast. There are hundreds of likes and dozens of comments. I scour my feed for clues. I mean, even if you’re a fan of Neil deGrasse Tyson or Jimmy Fallon, you don’t follow every single person who posts a picture of them.
People seem to be responding to the vicariosity of it, if that’s even a word, which I’m pretty sure it’s not. They’re writing stuff like:
OMG I LOVE THIS! I’m vicurious too.
and
When watching everyone else have fun is not enough.
I open my followers list and start clicking on them one by one. Their posts are mostly the usual stuff. Selfies. Cats. Books. Shoes. Quotes. Drawings. Food. Every now and then there’s a feed that’s filled with nearly naked shots. It makes me uncomfortable, like I’ve just walked in on someone while they’re getting dressed. I click away as fast as I can.
After checking out about forty of my followers’ feeds, I realize there are just too many to study them all. So I scan the list for familiar names. I’m on the lookout for jennaelizabethtanner, of course, but also marvolicious, which is Marvo’s username. If he’s following Vicurious, I’ll know that calling me “Vi” was not a coincidence.
My eyes are bleary by the time I get to the bottom of the list, which thankfully does not contain Marvo. No Jenna, either. New followers have popped up while I was checking, though. I still haven’t figured out why, or how, Vicurious is attracting so many, so I go back to the comments.
Then, I see.
Someone’s tagged my Academy Awards photobomb of Jennifer Lawrence with #jenniferlawrence and then a user whose name is Jennifer Lawrence has written:
Photobombing on the red carpet. Looks like something I would do.
I switch over to her page, and she’s actually reposted my post, and told her 58,472 followers to follow me, too. My heart starts racing at the thought of the actress Jennifer Lawrence following me, but then I notice three other Jennifer Lawrences have commented on my photo, too.
I do a Google search for “Jennifer Lawrence Instagram,” hoping to find an official website or something. A bunch of Jennifer Lawrences show up. But right underneath them is an article titled, “Jennifer Lawrence Scorns Social Media,” and it reports that Jennifer Lawrence has said, “If you ever see a Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter that says it’s me, it most certainly is not me.”
I’m kind of relieved. Also impressed. Jennifer Lawrence may be the only person on the planet not using social media and she couldn’t care in the least. I wonder what it must feel like to be so utterly unconcerned about what anybody else thinks. I guess that’s part of what Vicurious is about—capturing that feeling, that confidence.
I log out, delete my browser history, and push away from my desk. The smoothie Mom made for me after school is still sitting there. All melty. I stir it with the straw and stare into its depths.
“Vicky, are you in there?” A pounding on my door jolts me from my smoothie reverie.
“What?” I run stocking-footed across the room to open the door a crack and peer at my mother.
“I’ve been calling you!” Her face is all exasperated. “Jenna’s on the phone.”
“Jenna?” I glance at my backpack, where my cell phone has been safely tucked away since I got home. “What phone?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “The home phone, silly. Come talk to her.”
“I . . .” My mind freezes for a second. The only thing I can think of is—why are we the only ones with an actual landline? And then, What will I say? “I . . .”
Mom pushes my door open and grabs my arm, dragging me toward the kitchen. “What is wrong with you? You’ve been holed up in your room like a hermit for days. Your best friend wants to talk to you. So talk to her.”
She picks the phone up off the counter and shoves it into my hands.
It feels like I’ve just been pushed onto a stage in front of a thousand people. My mother’s glaring at me, fists on her hips, as I bring the phone to my ear. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
Mom grabs the phone back from me. “Jenna? Just hang on a second, sweetheart. Vicky will be right with you.” She presses the mute button and her voice, which was all sugar with Jenna, turns back to a snarl for me.
“What is the problem? I’m trying to be patient and understanding with you, Vicky. Truly, I am. But now you can’t even talk to your only friend?”
“Not with you staring at me like that,” I say.
“Fine!” She throws her arms in the air. “I’ll leave the room. But you’re going to have to get over this . . . this . . . absurd shyness. Self-consciousness. Whatever it is. If you expect to function in the real world—”
The zombie vacuums start to roar to life in my head. I press my hands to my ears and turn away from her, away from the phone and Jenna, and start walking to my room.
Mom grabs my arm and pulls me back to the kitchen. When we reach the counter she maneuvers me around to sit on a stool. She pries my hands away from my ears and presses them to my lap.
“I will leave you alone now.” Her voice is low and really calm. Too calm. “You will pick up the phone and talk to your friend. You think you can do that?”
I nod slowly.
“Terrific.” She lifts the phone from the counter and hands it to me. “I’ll just be in the living room. And we can talk about this after.”
I wait until she’s gone, take a deep breath, and push the button to unmute the phone. But I’m not ready. I haven’t figured out what to say. Everything that comes to my head is wrong. Does she realize how jealous it makes me to see her hanging out with those girls in their matching outfits? And why is she dressing to please some boy she hardly knows? What’s up with that? The worst, though: How could she have said what she said about me? I can’t bear to hear her deny it, to try to convince me she doesn’t really think I’m pathetic, when she obviously does.
As I slowly lift the phone to my ear, I hear her voice on the other end. “Hello? Vicky? Are you there? I can’t believe you’re not even going to talk to me. You’d rather just sit around in your room and mope? You’re being so . . . aargh. Tristan was right.” There’s a pause. A sigh. “Are you even there?”
I take a deep breath. I say, “I’m here,” just as she hangs up.