“Since when?”
“Since you make them for me every single day and if I have to drink another one I’m going to scream.”
She jerks her chin back. “Why didn’t you say so? I thought you loved smoothies.”
“I did.”
She glares at me. “But not anymore.”
“Nope.” I realize too late how rude I’m being. I can never seem to find the correct balance between sharing my feelings and keeping them to myself. “Sorry.”
She whisks the offending smoothie away from me and starts scurrying around the kitchen, pulling things out of the fridge and trying to come up with an alternative snack. “I could put some cheese and crackers out, or—”
“I’m really not hungry.” I stand and push the chair in. “I think I’ll just have a nap.”
Her face goes all knotty. My mother has two gears—either she’s totally ignoring me, or she’s obsessing over me. “Are you sick? Is anything the matter?” She reaches to put a hand to my forehead.
I gently push it away. “Just tired.”
“You rest, then,” she says, like it was her idea. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
I get to my room and pet Kat for a while. Nice cat. Lots of people say that, probably. It doesn’t mean justjennafied is Jenna. It just means she likes the photo of my cat. Still, I log in to see if she left another comment. There are so many in my notifications, it’s almost impossible to identify ones sent by a specific person. There’s no way to search by name. I go to the Kat photo and scroll down to the comment I left, and continue from there. Other people like my cat, too. They ask what her name is. They say, “Our cats should totally hang out!” They try to direct me to the link on their profile pages where I can find a photo of their cat.
“You’re famous,” I say to Kat.
She licks my pinkie knuckle with her sandpapery tongue. I poke around my Instagram for a few more minutes. Almost all of my photos now have comments like that. “Come to my concert, Vi!” or “Hang out with us!” or “Seamos amigos, Vicurious!” which I think means they want to be friends. I click on links from a few profile pages to see what sort of fun Vicurious may be missing.
Most of the photos they share are selfies with two or three or ten friends smashed together in a group hug, all grinning their super-cute faces at the camera. These are people who would never be draping their arms over my shoulders in real life. Like the girls in the bathroom. Or the “Friends!” section of the yearbook.
I scan the backgrounds. Every now and then, I notice someone like me, standing alone. Watching from the edges. I save those to a file on my computer. When I have a dozen or so, I set up my little photo studio and get into my Vicurious costume. Then I pose. Arm out from the shoulder, bent a bit at the elbow, and hand hanging from the wrist as if someone’s standing there, and my arm is draped around their shoulders. I do a bunch like that, then try some where my head is tipped to the side, like I’m leaning on someone. I even take a few with my arm hanging close to my side, my fingers cupped as if I’m holding someone’s hand.
Then one by one, I go through the photos people sent me, and I find the person lingering in the background. The girl looking wistfully toward the kids featured in the photo. The boy pretending he’s waiting for friends. The guy with his hands shoved in his pockets, leaning against a fence. The girl peeking around her hair.
All these people deserve to be noticed. But I also know how terrifying it is to receive unwanted attention. Thrusting them into the public eye, in front of almost a half-million Instagram followers? That would be ten times worse than my mother’s attempts to force me into social situations. I can’t do that to them.
But I want to let them know that I see. I want my followers to look for people like them—the unseen and ignored.
So, I drape my arm around them. I hold their hands. I lean my head on their shoulders. Then, to protect their privacy, I turn them into simple silhouettes, each a different solid color but shaded so they seem almost ghostly. Invisible. And completely unrecognizable to anyone but themselves.
I crop the photos so they’re square, but otherwise leave them alone. I don’t zoom in or anything. I want people to have to work a little to find us, like Where’s Waldo.
Then I post them. All twelve photos. I tag them:
#hiding #seeme #sayhi #lookaround #bekind
I quickly turn off my notifications, because the reaction to twelve photos at once might be a little crazy. And the followers who asked me to use their photos might be upset that I’m hugging the wrong person. I take a last look at my page, the ridiculous number of followers, which is now up to 423,000.
I shut off my phone for the night and write a note to Lipton on paper. I tell him how great his presentation was, how sorry I am that everyone laughed, how sure I am that he got an A, how I wanted to stay and talk to him afterward but thought he probably didn’t feel like talking. I tell him his purple socks made me smile.
The next day, I get to world history early so I can leave my note on Lipton’s seat. I’m afraid to place it on his desk, in case someone notices and snatches it up. So I put it on his chair. I side-eye the note as people file into class and the bell rings.
But no Lipton.
Adam comes in and sits down. He looks smaller today. His neck isn’t as long; his arms are shorter. He’s all pulled in on himself, trying to avoid being noticed.
Welcome to the club, Adam.
“We’ll have our presentation first today, and then some time to discuss what we’ve learned,” Mr. Braxley announces, shutting down the snickers that follow with a raised handful of detention slips. “Prusso, Hudson, Fenimore. You’re up.”
Renee Prusso and her friends Maggie and Laura scurry around getting ready for a few minutes. They keep giggling nervously. They’ve brought a USB drive, and Mr. Braxley pops it into his own computer, which is connected to the Smart Board.
I make a mental note to do the same. I don’t use a screen saver, but with my luck, a photo of Vicurious would randomly pop up. For Renee and company, a PowerPoint title page comes on-screen.
It reads “The Black Death.”
In Comic Sans.
That wouldn’t be my first choice of font for a presentation on the most deadly plague known to humankind.
I glance around to see if anyone else noticed, but they’re all just slouching in their seats as usual. Adam turns his head ever so slightly toward Lipton’s desk, as if to commiserate but forgetting that his friend is not there.
The girls begin their presentation. And it is SO boring.
I really wish Lipton were here to exchange notes. And then I remember that he gave me his phone number that day when the projects were assigned. In case you change your mind, he said. I slowly pull my world history textbook from my backpack and find the note neatly pressed between its pages.
Phone in my lap, volume turned off, I type his number into a text window and write my first message.