I know exactly how she feels.
I tap on the hashtags to see who else feels this way. Some of the posts are kind of disturbing—nude photos and spam-level weird—which isn’t supposed to be allowed on Instagram, but I guess their porn checkers are too busy to catch it all. I skip around them, and what’s left are people just sharing their pain, hoping that somebody—anybody—is paying attention.
I cringe at the pictures of cut marks, of blood dripping down pale arms or thighs slashed and raw. Of too-thin bodies, and mascara-stained cheeks.
People are liking their photos, which feels wrong. Is that what they want—positive reinforcement of their suffering? Or maybe it’s just the acknowledgment. To be seen. They expose their deepest pain for a handful of little red hearts.
I feel almost guilty that my silly posts are getting so much attention while the people who desperately need it receive so little. It’s not fair that followers flock to Vicurious and flee those who are hurting. But I understand it.
Joy attracts and misery repels.
Isn’t that why Jenna prefers her new friends over me? Heck, that’s why I prefer Vicurious to myself. Aside from that first post, Vicurious is never alone. She’s fun, fearless, energetic . . . happy. She’s everything that I am not. She’s an escape from the misery.
But it’s not enough. They need somebody to care about them, to do more than “like” their pain. I want to wave my arms at Instagram and say, “Hey! Can’t you see? Over there! They need you!” Maybe that’s what we’re all doing—waiting for someone else to step in. Like there’s a magical Instagram fairy who will appear out of nowhere and make it all better.
Then it strikes me. Maybe I’m the magical Instagram fairy.
I let the idea settle for a few minutes, my brain wrapping around it like curls of smoke from a pipe. Can I do that? Can I be that person? I don’t know, so I flip the question. Can I not do that? Can I just look away?
The answer is, I can’t.
So, I take a deep breath, and start clicking in comment windows of these people who are suffering. I write:
I care.
I see you.
I’m here for you.
I understand.
You are not alone.
I do it all the way home on the bus, on their pages, not mine. My follower number ticks up and up anyway. I want to tell them, You don’t have to follow me! It makes me feel dirty, somehow. That there’s a reward attached to caring. But I can’t ignore them. Some start asking me to follow back. I guess that’s how they measure their worth.
Is that how we all measure our worth now?
There are too many, though. And I don’t want to follow anyone if I can’t follow everyone. I don’t want any of them to feel left out or overlooked or not good enough. If they leave a comment, though, I reply. I give hearts and smileys.
It’s not enough, but it’s something.
I continue after dinner and late into the night. Vicurious adds a thousand followers. One in three is #alone or #ignored or #depressed. I try to reach out to them all, but their numbers keep growing and I can’t keep up.
I pay for the effort on Wednesday morning, nearly falling asleep in world history. Lipton whispers to me a couple of times, alerting me to the page number we’re supposed to be on, or that Mr. Braxley has told us to write something down. He smiles and I want to smile back, but it’s taking all my energy to stay awake and balance the extra weight of #loneliness I’m carrying today.
The bell rings and I start to gather my stuff.
Lipton says, “Wait. I, uh, wanted to ask you . . .” He pauses. Swallows. “Just a second.”
He starts digging around in his backpack and I wonder if he’s got another page of Siege of Jerusalem notes, which is nice of him except I should probably do my own research. He glances up at me nervously and keeps searching.
Finally, he produces a small bag of peanut M&M’s. He holds it out to me. “Do you want these? Mr. Patton gave them to everyone in English, but I’m allergic to peanuts, so . . .”
I stare at the yellow bag of M&M’s. It’s kind of random and a little weird. But he’s standing there, hopeful, smiling. “Uh . . .”
“Unless you’re allergic, too?” The smile drops from his face and he starts to draw his hand away.
Suddenly, I want those peanut M&M’s more than anything else in the world. I want the smile back on Lipton’s face. I thrust my hand out. “I’m not allergic.”
“Great.” He presses the bag into my palm. His smile returns.
I realize I haven’t said thank you after he walks away, and then I feel bad about it. But mostly I feel tired.
Mrs. Greene’s office door is open again when I walk past, but I keep going, wishing with every step I take that I had the nerve to go in. Just to rest. She said I could. I could eat my M&M’s in there instead of the bathroom. I could share them with her and we wouldn’t have to talk at all, just sit in her comfy chairs under her twinkly lights and eat Lipton’s peanut M&M’s in the quiet.
I surprise myself by pivoting to walk back toward her office. But someone has beaten me to it. The door is closing, and through the opening I see her slender legs, her perfect bun. Hallie Bryce isn’t gliding, for once. She slumps into the comfy chair, head sagging to her chest. Mrs. Greene slips a “Do Not Disturb” sign over the doorknob and pulls it shut.
I stare at the closed door. Why would Hallie Bryce possibly need to talk to Mrs. Greene?
For the rest of the day, it’s all I can think about. I look for Hallie in the hall, in classes we share. When I spot her, she’s as tall and poised and confident as ever. Not showing the slightest sign of distress, and oblivious to the jealous murmurings of classmates like Mallory and her friend from the bathroom. But always alone.
I never noticed that before.
I end up saving the M&M’s to eat on the bus ride home, and when I finish them I press the empty wrapper flat so I can save it. I don’t know why. Maybe to make sure I didn’t imagine that Lipton really did give me his peanut M&M’s. Sometimes Vicurious feels more real than my real life, and it’s good to know my existence—Vicky’s, that is—has not gone unnoticed.
When I get home, my mother is waiting for me in the driveway. I tuck the M&M’s wrapper into my pocket as I approach the car. She rolls down the window.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
“Hair salon,” she says. “And you’re coming with me. I made you an appointment.”
I groan and get in the car. There’s no use arguing. This is a torment my mother inflicts upon me every few months, usually coinciding with occasions like Marissa’s party that she deems momentous enough for additional grooming. It definitely belongs on the list. Having to sit in a chair and be subjected to random questions by a complete stranger who also happens to be wielding a pair of scissors is not my idea of a good time.
Mom hands me a small pile of torn magazine pages. They’re hairstyles. “I thought you might like to try something new.”