“Finally!” He walks toward his bus, grinning like crazy. “I’ll text you later.”
After homework and dinner, I log in to Instagram on my computer. Vicurious is up to 2.4 million followers. I try not to think of them as numbers. They are not my first and eight hundredth and two millionth followers. They are lonelyyygirlll and dumbledorefanatic and tanyazeebee and kookiest-kimberly and ambivalentlessly. They are radhakrishnanraj and halliebrycedances and justjennafied.
I open the last photo I posted and scroll through the comments. Half of them are still exchanges between the helpers and those in need of help. But the others are panicked expressions of worry . . . about me. My followers have noticed my absence and they aren’t happy about it.
Where are you, @vicurious? We miss you.
Are you okay?
Please come back. I can’t do this without you.
Oh, God, if something happened to her I don’t think I can take it.
And on and on. Some of them make it sound like I’ve abandoned them personally, and now I’m the one causing them pain instead of healing it. I lock my door and put on my Vicurious costume. The neon skirt is wrinkled from being balled up in a bag for so long. I smooth it out and get dressed, choosing the white cat-eyed sunglasses from my very first post. I open the Photo Booth camera on my computer and hang the white sheet behind me. I smile and wave.
Instead of pasting myself into another scene, I simply make a cheerful yellow background using a water-paint filter. I write:
Took a few days off and missed you all so much! Thank you for always being there for me, and one another. Please know: If I’m hiding, it’s not from you!
I allow myself one hour to reply to comments, zipping through as fast as I can to reach out to as many as I can. It’s a high, I can’t deny it. As soon as my followers see me on there, they go a little crazy for my attention. When my hour is up, I can’t stop. “Just one more . . . ,” I keep saying. Until another hour has passed, and another.
Finally my eyes are bleary. I can’t see the screen anymore. I write my last message and fall into bed.
In the morning, I find my charger wedged behind my dresser and plug my phone in before leaving for school. I can’t wait to tell Lipton that we’ll be able to talk and text soon, but he’s not waiting at my locker as usual. I walk to his locker, uncomfortable breaking my usual routine and venturing beyond my safe route to find him. He’s not there, either. I worry I’ve now missed him at my locker, but it’ll take too long to go back to see if he’s there and still get to class on time, so I head for Mr. Braxley’s room. He’s not there, either.
I sit nervously at my desk, glancing at his empty one. The bell rings and two seconds later the door opens. Lipton walks in, glances at Mr. Braxley, and mumbles, “Sorry.” He crosses the room with his head down and scoots into his seat.
I wait for his smile, a note . . . anything. He doesn’t acknowledge me. My stomach falls and my heart pounds. Lipton always looks at me when he comes in. Why isn’t he looking at me?
Mr. Braxley starts teaching and my ears start roaring. Something’s wrong. I try to think what could possibly have happened since I last saw him. We were getting on the bus, he said . . . oh, shoot. He said he’d text me. Maybe he tried and now he thinks I’m ignoring him because I didn’t respond.
I tear off a piece of paper and scribble a note:
I didn’t find my phone charger until this morning, if you tried to text. Sorry! ?
I toss the note to his desk when Mr. Braxley’s back is turned, and Lipton covers it with his hand. But he doesn’t read it! He slides it into his notebook.
I clear my throat.
He finally glances at me. I mouth, “Are you okay?”
He nods, curtly, but still doesn’t read the note. He looks like he’s going to be sick.
Mr. Braxley hands us the grade on our Siege of Jerusalem presentation—a perfect score. I had expected Lipton to break into the hokey-pokey, as promised, but all he manages is a feeble thumbs-up and half a smile. The way he’s looking at me is really strange.
Adam notices, too. He punches Lipton in the arm. “What’s wrong with you?”
Lipton mumbles, “Not feeling great.”
I try to talk to him after class, but he leaves in a hurry. “I think I’ll go to the nurse” is all he says.
Adam stands next to me and shrugs. “Guess he’s sick or something.”
I nod. It’s the “or something” I’m worried about. I kick myself for spending so much time on Instagram last night instead of searching for my charger before bed. Then I’d have my phone and be able to text him right now, find out what’s going on. Or I would’ve been texting him last night, instead, and he wouldn’t be mad at me at all.
He doesn’t turn up at my locker between classes, either, so I go to his. I see Adam in the hall and approach him, my stomach in knots. “I haven’t seen him,” he says, before I can even ask. “Maybe he went home?”
I head to the yearbook office at lunch. Marissa, Beth Ann, and Marvo are there, but they all have exams, so they’re studying rather than doing any yearbook work. I try to retouch some photos but can’t concentrate. Even if Lipton were sick, he wouldn’t ignore me like that.
Something’s definitely wrong.
There’s a knock at the door then, which is unusual since people generally just barge in. Nobody moves to open it.
“Come in!” Marissa shouts.
There’s another knock, a bit louder.
“Jesus.” Marvo takes the four burdensome strides to the door and swings it open.
It’s Lipton.
“What?” Marvo barks. He’s teasing, but Lipton doesn’t know that and flinches backward.
“I, uh, was looking for Vicky.”
I peer around from my workstation.
“Can we talk privately?” His voice breaks as he says it.
Marvo and Beth Ann and Marissa exchange looks.
I reach for my backpack. “Sure, I—”
“We were just going,” Marissa blurts. “Weren’t we?” She nudges Marvo and Beth Ann. “You can talk here.”
They grab their stuff and scurry past Lipton as he steps inside. Beth Ann says, “See ya, Vic!” and closes the door.
I wait for Lipton to say something, but he just stares at me. He’s breathing really hard, shoulders heaving upward and falling back down. “You said you weren’t her. You said you weren’t on Instagram.”
Oh.
I shake my head.
“I can’t believe, all this time . . .” He rakes his fingers through his hair.
“It’s not me,” I say, knowing there’s no use denying it but desperate for Lipton to stop looking at me the way he is right now.
He leans over Beth Ann’s computer and quickly pulls up Instagram on the browser. He types out my account name on the keyboard with a single finger, and with another click, the image I posted last night fills the screen.
“Then tell me why she’s wearing the necklace I gave you.”
My hand goes to my throat. The tiny sword is hidden under my sweater, at the hollow of my neck. But in the photo, Vicurious wears a lower-cut top. It’s right there for all the world to see.
“Lots of people have that necklace, I bet.”