I jump out of my chair, too, though I’m pretty sure I know what she’s screaming about. “What’s the matter?”
“Ohmygod, ohmygod. She did it. Ohmygod. Look.” She shoves her phone in my face. It’s the photo of Vicurious at the East 48 concert. “Look, look! She’s dancing with me!” She points to the caption, which reads:
vicurious Thanks for the invite, @marissadimarco. #supportlocalmusic #East48
“She mentioned me! She answered me!” Marissa stops bouncing long enough to show Marvo. “Can you believe it? I have to tell Adrian! Oh my God.”
She leaves her bag behind and runs out holding her phone up like it’s the holy grail. Marvo and I look after her, then at each other.
“Okay, what just happened?” he says. “I couldn’t even see what it was.”
I scrunch my face up a bit to give the appearance that I’m not entirely sure, either. “I think that girl with purple-and-orange hair posted something about Adrian’s concert on Instagram.”
“Ah.” Marvo nods. “Hmmm.”
I return to the computer. “We should get back to work.”
“Yeah, okay.” He nods, a slow smile coming to his lips. “Will you be attending the concert?”
I swear he knows I’m Vicurious, the way he’s looking at me right now. “Huh?”
“The East 48 concert. You going?”
“I, uh . . . yes. With Lipton. He asked me, so . . .”
“Oooh, big date.” Marvo waggles his eyebrows.
I shove his chair so it rolls him away from the workstation, and turn my attention to the photos again. He scoots himself back, smiling, and points to the Hallie photo with the old lady.
“That’s the one,” he says. “It’s the people in the background you really want to keep your eye on.”
24
I SPEND FRIDAY EVENING TRYING on every item of clothing I own, and concluding that I have nothing to wear. It’s a good thing my mother has confiscated my phone, or I would’ve texted Lipton to cancel. I could email him, and am thinking about it. But Adam’s parting words linger. So I ask my mother if we can go shopping.
“I have a date,” I mutter.
She almost explodes with joy.
We hit all the usual stores on Saturday morning; I hide from all the usual salespeople, and reject all the usual clothes. Finally, at a store that is blessedly understaffed and completely ignoring us, I choose a black turtleneck sweater that hugs my figure enough to satisfy my mother. She insists on a new pair of skinny jeans, too. And in a moment of weakness, I even let her maneuver me to the cosmetics island in Neiman Marcus, where a lady in a white coat applies some eyeliner and mascara. I try to concentrate on my breathing instead of the fact that a strange woman’s face is inches from my own and everyone who walks past stares at what she’s doing to me. When she’s finished, I blink at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes look enormous. Mom buys the makeup.
I’m nervous in the car home, worried the sweater might be too snug to wear a T-shirt underneath, or the jeans fit weird, or the makeup makes me look like a clown. “I don’t have shoes,” I say. “What am I going to wear for shoes?”
“You can wear my black ankle boots,” says Mom calmly.
I try to remember what her black ankle boots look like, if they’re mom-ish. She hands them to me when we get home, and they’re cute. I think. I really have no idea. I am trusting my mother for fashion advice and oh, God, what have I done?
I try everything on again and pull my hair into a ponytail. Mom takes one look at me and starts to cry. “You look beautiful,” she says, fingers pressed to her lips. “I never thought—”
“You never thought I could look beautiful?”
“No, I know you’re beautiful, with or without makeup. I just never thought you’d let anyone else see it. You’re always trying to hide yourself.”
I shoo her out of my room before I start crying, too. Because it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon and I can’t freak out yet. I take the new clothes off and put my usual ones back on. I sit at my computer to open my Instagram, so I don’t have to think about the concert or my outfit or going on a date and what if Lipton tries to kiss me? I quickly click to my home page before that line of thinking goes any further.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Vicurious passed one million followers. I knew it might happen, and am surprisingly calm about this development. It’s because of Ellen, I tell myself. Not me. She tells people to follow, and they follow. Rhyming Rhea started the ball rolling, and Ellen pushed it down a very steep hill.
Now at 1.2 million followers, my Instagram is nearly as big as the population of Dallas, Texas. Or the state of New Hampshire. But it’s spread all over the country and the world. Some of the comments are in languages I don’t even recognize.
I try not to think again about what all those people would look like gathered up together in one place. They come to me one at a time, I remind myself. I read their comments one at a time, respond to them one at a time.
One person isn’t that scary.
I check the East 48 post. It has 98,300 likes and 2,400 comments. I spend the next hour scrolling through them. Marissa must’ve spent all night watching the feed, because about every twentieth comment is her announcing their concert Saturday. It’s their biggest yet, at a venue that usually hosts national acts. If they pack the house, it’ll be their big break.
I should’ve tagged the band. I edit my post to add it. A few minutes later, this happens:
east48rocks Thanks for the support, Vi! Wish you could be at our gig tonight.
vicurious Me too.
raychaelbee Me too!
anonymuskateer Me too.
hatemiselfee Me too!
marissadimarco Me too!!!!
And on and on. I log out, and wipe my browser history. I shouldn’t have written “me too” this time. It takes away from the meaning of those two simple words that has developed among Vicurious followers. Sure, it started with the Foo Fighters post, people saying they were there, too. Me too, me too. But then it turned into something more. It meant “I’m scared, too” or “I’m alone, too” or, more important:
You are not alone.
And I’m not anymore. But it still feels that way, without Jenna. I keep thinking, maybe she didn’t mean it, what she said about wasting all those years on me. Maybe it was all a huge misunderstanding. I could call her, or send her an email.
But that annoying little voice asks, Why would you do that? She’s turned her back on me twice now.
Why would I set myself up for that kind of humiliation again? Especially now, when I think I’m making progress?
I wouldn’t.
I won’t.
I can’t.
I . . .
Oh, God. I can’t go on this date. What was I thinking, saying yes to a concert where I’ll be surrounded? Crowds are the absolute worst. So many people, so many opportunities to humiliate myself.