“Shame,” she says, stabbing a tortellini with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “Just let me know when you want your phone back.”
I go to my room and turn on my computer. When I open Instagram, I nearly pass out. I have 827,000 followers. And growing fast. I sit there staring at it long enough to see the number tick up to 828,000.
At this rate, I could reach a million by morning. One. Million. Followers. It’s too many to fathom. What does that many people even look like? I search, “What does one million people look like?” Images come up. Outdoor events where the masses have gathered. A million people meditating with the Dalai Lama. The mall in Washington, DC, transformed into a sea of humanity.
I imagine them all turning to look at me . . . and stare . . . and . . . breathe, Vicky.
My pulse pounds in my ears. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I never meant for Vicurious to get this big. All I really wanted was to show Jenna that I wasn’t a nobody. That I could be fun and daring and interesting. To Jenna, not a million total strangers.
I’ll just delete the account. Simple as that. I’ll put this all behind me, and nobody will ever know. I frantically search the Instagram menu on my computer for a delete button. But there isn’t one. There’s only “temporarily disable my account.”
Click it, Vicky.
I move the cursor over the link, my hand trembling on the mouse. Everything will be so much easier if I just step away, go back to my simple, quiet existence. Be myself again, just Vicky. All by myself.
But I can’t stop thinking of the soon-to-be-a-million people who’ve come to me, and not because I wear a crazy wig and sunglasses and Photoshop myself into stupid pictures. It’s because they want to be seen. And because I saw them, people like Adrian Ahn and Ellen are seeing them, too.
What message would it send if I erased them, even temporarily? That I don’t want to see them anymore? That I never really cared in the first place?
I know how that feels.
I don’t want anyone else to feel it.
I move my cursor up to the corner instead, and click on the icon that takes me out to my home page. I toggle through my images. I stop to read comments, and reply to my followers.
I tag them, I thank them, I let them know that I see them. And I’m not leaving.
23
AT LUNCH PERIOD ON FRIDAY I’m relieved, as usual, that the weekend is near and I can get away from everything that makes me nervous. But I’m also realizing I’m going to miss Lipton, and the yearbook staff, too. I haven’t missed anyone since Jenna, or before, so it feels strange.
Beth Ann and Marvo and I are sitting there working and eating our lunches when Marissa bursts through the door crying. At first we all just stare at her, completely shocked and not sure what to do. Then Marvo holds his hands up like he’s under arrest, in case anybody was planning to blame him.
I try to work up the nerve to say something comforting. Beth Ann sighs and spins her chair to face Marissa’s. “What’s the matter? Adrian still ignoring you to save the world from all the lonely people?”
“Where do they all come from?” Marvo mutters.
Beth Ann tips her chin toward the door. “Beat it. It’s females-only day.”
“Since when?”
“Since I said so.” She glares at him, and he is gone in about three seconds.
Marissa sniffles. “We always eat lunch together on Fridays. It’s the one day, the only day.”
“And he blew you off.”
She nods. “He’s completely ignoring me, and if I get upset about it I’m being selfish and uncaring because he’s hanging out with some kid who doesn’t have any friends.”
“Yeah. Sucks that your boyfriend is a super-nice guy.”
Marissa scowls at Beth Ann. “Does he have to do it every single day? Can’t one day be for me?”
“There are lots of kids with no friends, I guess.”
“I just want him back,” says Marissa. “Preferably without Raj Radhakrishnan attached to his hip.”
Beth Ann laughs. “Hey, Raj is not so bad. And soon to be featured in the yearbook!” She points to the list on the wall.
Marissa moans.
“Gotta love it when the loners win the day though, am I right?” Beth Ann rolls her chair over to where I sit and puts a hand up to high-five me.
I can’t remember the last time I was high-fived, if ever. I lift my hand to meet hers. She slaps it hard, and I wasn’t holding it firm enough. Our hands bang against my forehead.
“Ow.”
“Oh, shit.” Beth Ann has a concerned look on her face, but is also giggling. Because who can’t high-five without getting bonked in the head?
“My bad,” I say.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m prone to high-fiving accidents, apparently.”
“You are so weird,” she says.
I blanch. What was I thinking, trying to act like I fit in here?
Beth Ann nudges my shoulder. “I meant that in a good way. You know that, right?”
I swallow. “Right. I knew that.”
Marissa watches the whole thing, pouting. Then starts crying again. Or is she laughing? “I should be having lunch with my boyfriend but instead I’m here, watching you two idiots.”
“What?” Beth Ann puts a hand to her hip. “And miss our stellar display of manual dexterity?” She tries to get me to high-five again and we keep missing each other.
Then Marissa joins in and we’re all laughing, slapping our hands together clumsily, purposely missing and stumbling around. I can hardly believe it, and I’m not delusional enough to expect it to last. But I’m here in the moment, I’m part of the action. It’s real, not vicarious.
And I am breathing just fine.
Mom keeps my phone all weekend. And I don’t really miss it, because the only person I ever called was Jenna. Lipton knows to email instead of text, and I can check Vicurious from my computer. But it still feels weird to be without it.
When I ask my mother if I can have the phone back on Monday morning, she just replies, “Password?” And I say, “Never mind.”
Same conversation on Tuesday. I try with Dad on Wednesday morning but he just shakes his head.
By Thursday, I stop asking.
Instead, I live in the moment. I exchange notes and smiles and awkward attempts at conversation with Lipton. I slip into Mrs. Greene’s office when I’m feeling overwhelmed, like when Beth Ann tries to high-five me in the hall and everyone sees me fumble it and starts laughing.
Marissa mopes around the yearbook office, and Adrian forms a lunch table with kids who usually sit by themselves. I want to make her feel better, but I don’t want him to stop.
“I could walk through the cafeteria naked and he probably wouldn’t notice,” she says on Thursday. “I even messaged Vicurious to see if she’d post a photo of East 48 for their gig this weekend.”
“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em?” says Beth Ann.
“Yeah.” Marissa flops into her chair. “Something like that.”
When I get home from school, I see that Marissa has put up some new photos on the East 48 website. She’s dancing right out front in most of them, the center of attention. But there’s one where she’s in the background, by herself. Nobody’s watching her. It’s perfect.