Marissa rolls her chair over to where I’m sitting, and watches from the side of my desk. I quickly find some teeth to whiten, some shadows to brighten. I remove a stop sign that looks like it’s growing out of someone’s head.
“Vicky could do it. Couldn’t you?” She nods toward my monitor. “Photoshop someone into a crowd?”
“What?” I swallow. “I don’t—”
“But you could. If you wanted to. Right?”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Oh my God, Vicky. I didn’t say you would. Just that you could.” She turns to Beth Ann. “I mean, who knows who this girl is? It could be anyone. It could be Vicky. And half a million people are following her like she’s some kind of messiah?”
I’m tempted to correct her on the number of followers. Rhyming Rhea’s fans are still flocking to my site, but I’m only up to about 327,000 at last count.
“I’m not even on Instagram,” I say.
She snaps her head to face me. “I was speaking hypothetically.”
“Dude,” Beth Ann cuts in. “You’re pissed at your boyfriend. Don’t take it out on Vicky.”
Marissa inhales deeply and holds it for a few seconds, then blows it out. She smiles at me. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I just meant that anyone halfway proficient at Photoshop could be Vicurious. You could be Vicurious.”
“Still rude,” says Beth Ann, shaking her head. “You’re suggesting that someone like Vicky couldn’t possibly have a half million followers. That she’d only deserve it if she were famous. Or popular, like you.”
Marissa clenches her teeth. “That’s not what I’m suggesting at all. I just—”
“You totally slammed our girl Vicky here because your boyfriend has the hots for someone on the internet, and you can’t say ‘I’m better than her’ because you don’t know who she is,” says Beth Ann. “And that’s super frustrating because you’re used to being better than everybody.”
Marissa’s face goes red, and she looks like she’s going to cry. “I don’t think I’m better than everybody. Or anybody.” She grabs her book bag and storms out.
We watch her go. Beth Ann groans, then folds her arms across her desk and drops her head into them. “I am such a bitch.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. I know she hates being called a bitch, but does that count when she calls herself one? She was kind of hard on Marissa.
Beth Ann snorts and sits up. “Great. Even the nicest person on the planet thinks I’m a bitch.”
“I don’t . . .”
“Please. At least you’re honest. It’s good to know there’s one person around here who isn’t a total fake.” She grabs her book bag and leaves the room.
I pull my lunch out and eat in the quiet, a new list forming in my head. For once, it’s not the things that terrify me. It’s not about me at all. It’s a list of everybody I know who is suffering, or struggling in their own way.
Hallie
Raj
Lipton
Marissa
Marvo
Beth Ann
They are names I would never have expected to find on the same list, people I’ve always thought were either perfect or happy or didn’t care. It’s a list I can mentally add one more name to:
Vicky
Which makes me happy, I’m ashamed to admit. I don’t mean to revel in anyone else’s pain. But I’ve existed on a list of one for so long. It feels good to have others I can count myself among, even if they have no idea. They’re not alone, and neither am I.
20
AT HOME ON SATURDAY, I pull out my Siege of Jerusalem assignment and try to do some research online. I’m way behind, even with Lipton giving me notes and offering up his presentation slot. I last only about fifteen minutes before switching over to Instagram—just to check how many followers I have this morning.
I note my new total, 349,000, then decide to take a quick peek at some of the comments on my last few posts.
An hour later, I’m in deep, and instead of lifting me up today, Vicurious followers are dragging me down. I should’ve known to expect trolls, but I fooled myself into thinking I had created a place where no one would ridicule me or criticize. Behind the wig and sunglasses and crazy clothes and jewelry, I would be safe.
Silly me.
It seems when you reach a certain level of popularity, the haters come out of the woodwork to take you down. Some even have the word “hater” in their usernames. I can ignore the generic negativity in comments like “I don’t get it” or “This is stupid” or “Why? Just why?”
It’s the ones that hone in on me, on who I am and the decisions I’ve made. Those are the ones that really bother me, make me question and second-guess and worry that I’ve done something terribly wrong.
hipstrh8er that yin yang tat is kinda lame
I lift my shirt to look at the Sharpied symbol on my side. It’s obviously not a real tattoo. Or maybe he takes exception to using the yin-yang symbol at all? Someone else writes:
zzaakkattack yah a little cliché
I start stressing over it, because is it totally not cool? I never heard that before, but where would I hear that? Beth Ann is much cooler than I am and she drew the yin-yang on the toes of her shoes. It’s entirely possible, though, that Richardson High School itself is not the pinnacle of cool.
Then I start worrying that it’s offensive or something, that I’ve accidentally insulted someone. I start Googling and finding all these discussions of whether or not people who aren’t Chinese or Buddhist or Taoist should wear the yin-yang symbol at all, or if it’s cultural appropriation, and I’m not even sure what that means and my head is going to explode.
I take deep breaths. I scan the comments to see if anyone’s saying that, if anyone’s offended. But they’re not. Some chime in to defend me, to say it’s a positive thing, it’s universal. Anyone can use it if it means something to them.
And it does mean something to me. It’s the symbol of my friendship with Jenna, of the balance between us, the strengths and weaknesses, the ups and downs. Seeing it still gives me the tiniest hope that it’s not completely over, that our friendship will right itself in the end. So I try to push the yin-yang haters out of my mind. But that’s not the only thing people are complaining about.
One of my very first followers writes:
tanyazeebee Why don’t you follow anyone back? Only following 8, only 1 woman? That’s bullshit.
I frown. Did I only follow men? It wasn’t on purpose. My first was a girl—Rhyming Rhea. And I would’ve followed Jennifer Lawrence if she had an Instagram. Or Demelza Poldark. Still, the criticism stings. So I find some of my favorite women on social media. There’s Amanda Palmer, singer-songwriter-ukulele player. She’s so cool and different and completely unafraid. She once let a mob of fans autograph her body. I wouldn’t mind living vicariously through her for a day or two.
I click the follow button.