Beth Ann says, “Who cares.”
It’s really sweet. I start thinking about all the Vicurious followers who are so hard on themselves, like Marissa is. It’s not always a matter of others being nice and caring, or saying, “You’re special.” It’s about giving themselves a break, too. I’m so absorbed in the idea, thinking of what Vicurious could do about it, that I don’t realize Marissa is talking to me.
Her head is poked out of their little huddle. “Get over here!”
“What?”
“Group hug.” She waves me toward them. “Get your butt over here.”
I rise tentatively and she sighs her impatience. So I hurry over and their arms reach out to pull me in. Then we are head to head to head to head, hugging and swaying and laughing.
Well, the three of them are laughing, at least. I’m just trying not to cry, because they aren’t Jenna, and they’ll never be Jenna, but they’ve given me a place to belong. And it’s such a relief to no longer feel like I’m floating away.
I only wish Jenna was the one who caught me, that she hadn’t cast me off in the first place.
That night, I prepare the image inspired by Marissa’s meltdown. First step is taking a new selfie in front of my computer, this time wearing the swirly X-ray-vision sunglasses and hugging myself. I scribble words of self-love and empowerment and putting yourself first all over it. Because sometimes, you can’t be everything to everybody. You need to be there for yourself.
#Holdon#Behappy#Youarebrave#Fabulous
#Worthy#Wanted#Loved#Bestrong#Staycalm
#Hope#Laugh#Smile#Relax#Beyourself
#Breathe#Findyourjoy#Listentoyourheart
#BethereforYOU
I put that last line, “Be there for YOU,” in a little speech bubble coming out of my mouth. The finished product makes me smile. I hope it does the same for Marissa and Hallie and everyone else who might be crumbling under the weight of expectations. Especially their own. The image looks a lot like the previous one, only with a smile and neatly painted lips instead of the smeary, sad ones. Hope instead of despair. I scan it and get it ready to post. The message is an easy one to write:
It’s good to be there for one another. But don’t forget to be there for yourself!
Instead of posting the image right away, I schedule it for Thanksgiving, two days from now. That way, I won’t have to deal with the reaction until it’s had a few days to diffuse. Tomorrow will be bad enough anyway, with Lipton taking the day off school for the drive to his aunt’s.
I open my Instagram, but not to check on Vicurious. (She was nearing two million followers last time I looked, which makes me anxious, so it’s better if I don’t look.) But I’m worried about Jenna. I want to see if she’s posted anything. It’s weird that she hasn’t been on there at all. At first I thought she went dark just to drive me crazy, knowing I’d be checking. But now, I’m starting to wonder if it’s something else.
Her followers are getting fewer and fewer, too. After she moved, they jumped from about 27 to more than 100. When she started hanging out with Tristan, they climbed even faster . . . 300, 400, 500.
Today, she’s down to 243.
And I just can’t figure out what would make 250 people ditch her that fast.
I could text her a quick “You okay?” if I had my phone, but Mom’s still holding it hostage. So, I open my email.
I write a message and delete it, write and delete and repeat. The messages I come up with are either too long or too complicated or too apologetic or too accusing or too . . . something. Finally, I settle on this:
Worried about you. Even if you hate me, will you let me know you’re okay? —Vicky
I hit the send button before I can change my mind, then wait for a reply. If all she writes is “I’m okay,” then I’ll know we’re really, truly, absolutely done. But maybe she’ll say more. Maybe it’ll be the start of finding our way back to each other.
When my email in-box bleeps a few seconds later, I’m afraid to look. But I’m more afraid not to. So I open it and there it is:
Delivery notification: Delivery has failed
I stare at those five words for a really long time, because Jenna has had the same email address her whole life, and the only reason I can think for her to change it would be to stop someone from finding her where they’ve always found her. Someone like me.
When I get up from the computer, I don’t even log out of email or Instagram or shut it down properly. I just reach around and flip the main power switch off. I crawl into bed and let the words I wrote for my followers swim in my head, over and over again.
Hold on . . . be strong . . . stay calm . . . breathe.
And I wonder if they’ll help anyone out there at all, because they’re not doing that much for me.
29
LIPTON IS WAITING AT MY locker on Monday morning and doing a pretty good job making me believe that he really did miss me. “The weekend is too far away. Can we go out tonight? Please say yes.”
He is wearing the shirt and the new jeans he wore on our date. And his hair looks even better than it did last week.
“I have to work on my history presentation. I wrote the report over break but I still have to figure out—”
“I’ll help you.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I blink at him. “Cheating? Remember, I am a group of one.”
“It’s not fair that you have to do it on your own when everyone else had a group,” he says.
I shrug. “I kind of brought that on myself.”
“Maybe Mr. Braxley will let me help you. I’ll just say I want to work on a second project. He should be happy to find a student so motivated, right?” Lipton crinkles his nose at me uncertainly.
I crinkle back.
So Lipton asks at the end of class.
“You want to do what now?” Mr. Braxley is understandably confused by Lipton’s desire to do a second presentation, after the way he got skewered on the first.
“I’d like to help Vicky with her project. Since she doesn’t have anyone else on her team.”
Mr. Braxley squints at me over the tops of his glasses. “You okay with that, Decker?”
I nod.
“Fine, then,” says Braxley. “You only get credit for one of the presentations, though. I’ll count whichever one scores highest.”
Lipton slides back into his desk next to me. “We are going to ace this thing.”
“Didn’t you ace the Battle of Thermopylae already?”
“Ninety-eight percent. We can do better.” He notices the flash of panic on my face and quickly adds, “Kidding. No pressure.”
It takes a couple of days to figure out how and where to work. Everything I’ve done on the project so far is stored on my computer, which makes my house the logical place to go. But Vicurious is on that computer. And I don’t want Lipton anywhere near her. Even if I scrub my browser history, all the files that created her are there. I’m afraid he’ll stumble upon the evidence.
So I lie and tell him we can’t work at my house, that my mom won’t let me have a boy in my room.