I try to follow J. K. Rowling, but it’s a fake account. So I follow Emma Watson instead. If Hermione had an account, I’d follow her, too. But the only ones I find are fan sites. I follow the Malala Fund and Oprah and Zooey Deschanel. And finally, Ellen. The Ellen Show. She’s got more than forty-two million followers. A single one of her posts gets 350,000 likes.
I haven’t posted a photo today, so I quickly pop Vicurious onto the set of The Ellen Show, making it look like we’re dancing together. I didn’t even have to Photoshop anyone out, because Ellen is always dancing. I post it with #ellen and #keepdancing tags.
It’s comforting to know there’s someone out there with a following so huge, it makes mine seem tiny. She’s got to be bigger than most states, population wise. I look it up. And I’m right. Ellen’s fan base is greater than the population of California, which is the largest state in the country. It makes the target on my back feel slightly smaller.
But not for long.
machomike33 Are you a lesbo?
eeemojijen You only follow famous people. Not nobodies like me.
I block machomike33, then I nod at eeemojijen’s comment because it’s true. I’ve only followed famous people, and it’s not because I think they’re the only ones worthy of my attention. It’s more because I can disappear into their massive numbers of followers. They won’t even notice me there. I realize that doesn’t make sense for someone with 350,000 followers, but making sense is clearly not my strong suit.
If I could start this all over, I’d follow back every single person who followed me. I didn’t do it at the beginning because of my preexisting condition (the irrational fear of following people on social media). Now there are so many, it would take me weeks to click the follow button on them all, and I don’t want to leave anyone out accidentally.
Still, I don’t want anyone to feel like a nobody. Knowing the can of worms I’m about to unleash, I follow eeemojijen. Maybe it’s the “jen” in her name that makes me do it, which gives me an idea. I open my list of followers and search for anyone with “jen” or “jenna” in their username. A little voice inside my head asks me, Why are you doing this? It says, She’s not Jenna and neither is that girl or that one or that one. It tells me to give up already, she doesn’t want you anymore. But I do it anyway. Sometimes I do things without understanding why, and this is one of those times.
I find seventy-eight and follow them all. The last I click on is one of the first who followed me, and the first I ever replied to: justjennafied. When I’m done following Jens and Jennas, I wait.
I watch for new Jennas to show up, and they do. I follow them. Look, I tell my little voice, there are people on social media who follow only Justin Bieber. If I want to follow people named Jen and Jenna, what’s the big deal? It doesn’t have to mean anything.
Yet when none of the Jens or Jennas are jennaelizabethtanner, I’m disappointed, so I guess that means something.
Monday morning is Lipton’s presentation on the Battle of Thermopylae, and I’m nervous for him. You’d think I was the one about to stand in front of the class. Usually, I’m just glad everyone’s attention is focused on someone other than me.
But it’s Lipton. And I’m afraid for him. Or something. At least I anticipated this possibility and put on a second T-shirt beneath my sweater before I left the house, in case I soak through the first.
Mr. Braxley prolongs the agony by teaching through most of the period, saving the presentation for the end of class. Lipton looks like he might vomit. I notice he’s wearing purple socks, so I point to them when no one else is looking and give him a thumbs-up. He barely manages a weak smile, he’s so nervous. And Adam isn’t helping. He’s tapping his foot like he’s seriously overcaffeinated.
For once, I’m not the one trying to hold it together. This could’ve been me, though. And oh, so much worse.
Finally Mr. Braxley tells Adam and Lipton to start. Instead of plugging a thumb drive into the classroom computer, Lipton has brought his own laptop. He was worried his presentation software wouldn’t be compatible with Mr. Braxley’s and didn’t want to risk it. Still, he practically slumps with relief when his “Battle of Thermopylae” title page appears on the Smart Board in really huge letters. Adam starts talking, shuffling through his notecards. He gives an introduction, which is presumably leading us to the battle in question. It’s going fine until the title page dims, goes black, and a screen saver pops up. It’s a photograph of Taylor Swift wearing a bright pink miniskirt and matching crop top with silver sequins.
The class ROARS with laughter.
Lipton lunges for the computer. “It’s not mine! It’s my sister’s. I swear!” He hits the keyboard and the image goes away. “My sister did it. We share the computer!”
The class is absolutely howling. Adam walks away from the podium toward the windows. I’m afraid he’s going to thunk his head against the glass and hurt himself, but he just stands there looking out.
Mr. Braxley, chuckling, tries to calm the class. “All right, all right. Quiet down.” He coaxes Adam back toward the desktop podium to resume his remarks. Mr. Braxley bites his lip, pats Adam on the shoulder, and says, “Shake it off.”
Which starts the uproar all over again.
Mr. Braxley quiets the room a second time. He looks sheepish, having made the joke that set everyone off. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Adam, Lipton, we’re laughing with you, not at you.”
I really, really hate when people say that.
Adam reads the rest of his introduction in a weak monotone. “Now we have a video we created to illustrate the battle.”
Lipton manages to say, “Could someone turn down the lights?”
And the video begins.
They’ve reenacted the Battle of Thermopylae on Minecraft. There’s one huge army (the Persians) and one small one (the Greeks) at the foot of the huge cliffs by the sea—all constructed with bitmappy blocks. The soldiers have cubed, bearded heads with rectangular bodies and limbs. They’re holding shields and swords.
The battle commences with ominous music in the background, dramatically narrated in a deep voice that is clearly Lipton trying to sound intimidating. The soldiers start attacking, their little swords clanking against one another. It sounds like several dozen people clicking their pens. Each time a soldier is struck and killed, red chunks of body parts fall to the ground.
“’Tis but a scratch,” Jeremy says in a high-pitched voice.
His friends start laughing. “It’s just a flesh wound!” They’re shouting out lines from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and Mr. Braxley makes Lipton stop the video until everyone settles down again. “I’ve got a nice stack of detention slips for anyone who talks for the rest of the presentation. Everling? You hear me?”
Jeremy nods, smirking.
I don’t even want to turn around to see Lipton’s face. I’m pretty good at imagining worst-case scenarios, but even I couldn’t have dreamed this nightmare.