“Uh, hi, Raj.”
“See ya,” he says, and gives me an awkward little wave with his long hand.
I wave back and follow after Adrian, keeping enough distance that I don’t look like one of the groupies, but close enough to observe him noticing kids that nobody else ever seems to notice. He says “I see you” to half a dozen more before the one-minute warning bell rings for the next period.
I hurry to class, stunned by what I just witnessed. I can’t believe Adrian took my Vicurious posts to heart like that. It makes me feel like a superhero. Of kindness. Which has got to be the dorkiest kind of superhero there is.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is happening anywhere else. Are people being nice in high schools all over the country? The world?
Because that’s just crazy.
22
MY INSTAGRAM IS GOING BERSERK after school with thousands of new followers and a steady stream of comments. I see you, I see you, I see you! When I get home, my mother is sitting at the kitchen computer as I walk in. There’s no smoothie waiting. She points to the cupboard and says, “Get yourself a snack if you want.”
I’m not hungry, but I pour myself a glass of juice.
Mom barely looks up from the computer. “That girl with the purple-and-orange hair is really blowing up. She’s on The Ellen Show and everything.”
“That wasn’t real,” I say, trying to keep my voice that of a casual observer. “She just Photoshopped it.”
“Yeah, but now Ellen wants her on the show. Look.”
Mom brings up a YouTube video from The Ellen Show, and leans back so I can see over her shoulder. Ellen’s sitting on the set where she gives interviews. There’s a picture of my Instagram avatar on the screen next to her. She’s saying, “Have you seen this girl? Vicurious? She’s all over the internet. My followers have been talking about her all week, about how she’s reaching out to kids who feel invisible and ignored, and encouraging others to do the same.”
The image switches to the one of me dancing with her. “She posted this picture of herself standing right over there, dancing with me. And I thought, great, now I don’t even remember who I’ve danced with.” The audience laughs. “And my producer said, ‘Ellen, she wasn’t really here. It’s Photoshopped.’ And then I was kind of bummed out, because she looks like a lot of fun.” More laughing. The whole time Ellen’s talking, they’re flashing my Instagram posts. With Neil and Jimmy and Jennifer and the Foo Fighters. “I thought, why don’t we invite her for real? So, Vicurious, if you’re out there, we’d love to have you on the show.”
I stand there staring at the screen, no longer breathing. Mom doesn’t notice.
“I bet they’ll get all kinds of imposters saying they’re her,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Because the real Vicurious would never go on TV in a million years.”
Mom gives me a funny look. “Why not?”
“Because she’s anonymous. Then she wouldn’t be anonymous anymore.”
“She’d be famous,” says Mom.
“She already is famous,” I point out.
“But nobody knows who she is.”
“She’s Vicurious.”
Mom gives an exasperated sigh. “Who she really is. Nobody knows.”
“Maybe she likes it that way.”
Mom turns and studies me for a minute, and I think, This is it. Finally. She sees me. But she just shakes her head and turns away with a sigh.
I retreat to my room, shakily, and rewatch the video a dozen times.
I never thought I’d have to add “Appearing on the Ellen Show” to my Terror List.
Two hours later, Mom calls me for dinner and I grab my phone from the dresser, which is a huge mistake. The notifications are coming in like lightning. I keep the phone in my lap under the table and glance at it once too often.
“Vicky,” Mom says sternly. “Who’s texting you?”
For one panicked second I expect her to ask if it’s Ellen. I shove the phone under my leg. “Nobody.”
“Is it Jenna? Tell her we’re eating, sweetie.”
I pretend to text Jenna but instead open Instagram, turn off the notifications, and log out completely.
“Or is it those friends from the bus?” Mom says. “The ones in that photo you showed me? You never did tell me their names . . .”
“It’s not them.”
Mom finishes chewing the food she just scooped into her mouth and dabs her lips with her napkin. “I’d like to know who you’re communicating with online.”
“Nobody,” I say. “It was just a game. It sends all these notifications. I turned it off.”
“What game?”
“Um . . . I, uh . . . Candy Crush?” I never play games on my phone, and she knows it.
She reaches her hand out. “Give me your phone.”
“What? Why?”
“As your mother, it’s my right. No, it’s my duty to make sure you are using this device responsibly and safely. Let me see the phone.”
I roll my eyes and hand it to her.
She swipes the screen.
“Password?”
I shake my head.
“Give me the password, Vicky.”
She’ll see the text exchange with Jenna. And Lipton. She’ll see my pictures of Vicurious. The one of Jenna and her new friends on the bus. She’ll know I faked them as my own.
“That’s invasion of privacy. I’m not giving you the password.”
She stares at me. “Well, since I pay for the phone, I’ll keep it until you do. Obviously, there’s someone on there you don’t want me to know about. And that concerns me.”
“There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. I just want my privacy.”
“Nora,” Dad says. “Come on . . .”
“No,” Mom snaps at him. “This is exactly how kids get into trouble. Into drugs or . . . or . . . trouble with boys or with friends. They keep it secret. And parents are supposed to ask questions. That’s our job. So don’t tell me—”
“Okay, okay.” Dad shakes his head and turns to me. “Vicky, could you please give your mother your password?”
“I’m not using drugs.” I speak as calmly as possible. “I just don’t want Mom reading my stuff.”
“I won’t read it. I just want to see who you’re corresponding with.”
I clench my jaw and put out my hand so she’ll pass me the phone. But instead of keying in the password, I go to my message settings and turn off “show preview.” That way, if Lipton texts me, it won’t appear on the closed screen for all the world to see. I close my phone and hand it to her.
“I thought you were putting in the password.”
“Nope.”
Dad sighs. “Then it looks like you’ll be losing your phone, kiddo.”
I shrug.
Mom disappears into her bedroom with my phone.
“You really can’t just tell her your password?” says Dad.
“No,” I say. “I really can’t.”
He sighs. “You’ve gotta pick your battles, sweetie. Is this the one you want to fight?”
“She’s the one picking fights,” I say. “I was just trying to eat my dinner.”
Mom walks back in. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I stand to take my plate to the sink. “I’m not hungry.”