“Lots of people who look exactly like you?”
I gesture toward my limp hair and baggy clothes. “I don’t look anything like her.”
He leans to the computer again and zooms in on the image. To my mouth. “That freckle,” he says, pointing to the freckle above my lip. “You don’t think I know that freckle when I see it? I’ve kissed that freckle.”
I touch my finger to the freckle.
“See? You know right where it is.”
I quickly drop my hand and lower myself to the nearest chair.
“You’re Vicurious,” he says.
I nod.
“I don’t understand. How did you . . . why are you . . .” He shakes his head. “I just don’t get it.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.” He sits in Beth Ann’s chair and leans toward me. Waiting.
I pull my knees to my chest. “Jenna was my best friend, and she moved. She found new friends to replace me. I heard her tell them I was pathetic. I was alone. I didn’t have anybody. So I created someone who is everything I’m not, who does things I could never do,” I say. “She’s better.”
“Says who?”
“Says two million, four hundred thousand followers.” I glance up at him. “Give or take.”
“So, she’s popular. Famous, even. And that makes her better?”
I swallow. “She helps people. She’s there for them. Her followers are there for each other, too. It’s, I don’t know. It’s a community of misfits and people who feel alone, like me. They love her.”
“They love you.”
“No! That’s just it. I’m nothing like her. If they found out it was me . . .” I close my eyes. “They love Vicurious, not me.”
“So, there are two million people who know this whole other side of you.”
“She’s not—”
“Can you stop talking about her like she’s a different person? She’s you! You’re her!”
I drop my gaze to the floor.
“You could’ve told me,” he says.
“It would’ve ruined everything.”
“How?”
“I wouldn’t have been just Vicky to you anymore. And you were the only one who liked me.” I drop my head to my knees. “For me.”
“God, Vicky.” He kneels in front of me, puts his head to mine. “That wouldn’t have changed. It won’t.”
I bring my eyes to his. “How do you know? Just look at how you reacted when you found out. You got sick. You had to go to the nurse.”
“That’s not because you’re her. It’s because you lied to me.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t just the lie. You were totally freaked out.”
He rocks back on his heels. “Okay, maybe I was a little freaked out. I thought I knew who you were and suddenly you’re someone else entirely.”
“Exactly.”
“Wait. Exactly what?”
“You think I’m someone else now. You’ll never be able to look at me the same way, and you probably won’t even like who you think I am now. Nobody will be left to like who I was. It’s as if I’ve totally disappeared and you were the only one who saw me anyway and now I’m just . . . I’m gone. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
He stands up and presses his hands to the sides of his head. “Okay, now I’m really confused.”
“I’m sorry. I should go.” I can’t look at him anymore, knowing he’ll never see me the same way again. “I don’t want to be late for class.”
Lipton backs away from me as I gather my things. “So, that’s it? You’re someone else now and I don’t even get a chance to figure out if I like you?”
“I don’t know who this me is,” I say. “I don’t even know if I exist anymore.”
“Vicky, come on. That doesn’t make any sense.”
He tries to block my way but I push past him and out the door. It feels like I’ve been split in two—Lipton’s Vicky is left behind, and I have no idea who the new one is, or where she’s going.
33
I END UP BACK IN my favorite bathroom stall, where old Vicky would’ve gone, and I hide out there for the rest of the day. I could go to Mrs. Greene, but she’d want to know what’s wrong and I’d have to talk and I can’t talk right now.
I can barely breathe.
So I balance my history book across the toilet seat and I sit and wait for the final bell so I can hurry to the bus. I don’t even stop at my locker to get my coat. When I get home, I’m shivering, but not from the cold.
Mom asks how my day was and I start crying.
She immediately wraps me in a hug. “What’s the matter?”
“I miss Jenna,” I blurt out. It doesn’t explain what’s happened at all, or maybe it does. Maybe it all comes back to this.
My mother fusses over me. She tucks me in my bed with a cup of hot cocoa. She smooths her hand over my hair and asks if I want to talk about it.
“Maybe later.”
“Why don’t you call her?” She reaches for the phone on my desk and unplugs it from the charger. “You haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Maybe later,” I say again.
She lays the phone on my nightstand and leaves, closing the door gently. Kat curls up next to me, her purring form vibrating against my leg. I let the mug of hot chocolate warm my hands, but I don’t drink it. When it finally gets cold, I set it on my nightstand and pick up my phone.
It feels strange in my hands; it’s been so long since I held it. I key in my password and the home screen lights up and the little green texting icon shows a red circle with the number 37 in it.
I’m afraid to look, because they’re probably from Lipton. He was the last person I texted before Mom took my phone that day. He was mortified that she might’ve read what he wrote.
Now I know why.
Adam told me what Braxley said. Crazy.
You there? Hellooooo . . .
Okay, I’m just talking to myself here. Dancing with my sel-elf, ooh ooh ooh
Awkward.
Must. Stop. Texting.
Vicky?
Do you like me? Circle one: yes no
. . .
That was a joke, btw.
So, obviously, you are not there, and I am making a complete fool of myself. Feel free to interrupt at any time. “You are not a fool, Lipton!”
Vicky?
Yep, I am totally a fool.
Hey, remember my cat? She misses you. She really likes you.
Seriously. So do I.
I’m going now.
See you at school tomorrow.
I will be the one with a bag over my head.
I read it over and over. He’s so sweet and funny and I HAVE RUINED EVERYTHING. I press my finger to the little text window, and hover there for what seems like forever. But there’s nothing more to say. The girl he liked is gone.
I close the text thread with Lipton, and right below it is Jenna’s name. It says there are 21 new texts. I stare at the little red number.
Jenna texted me?
I click on the window and try to find the beginning, where the new ones started. I scroll back to the last one she sent that horrible day. “Have a nice life.” It was back in October.
The new ones started before Thanksgiving, two weeks ago.
Vicky, I’m sorry. I was angry and upset and I wrote stuff I didn’t mean. I never wanted to be friends with those girls. You are the best friend I ever had, and could ever want. Forgive me?
Please. I take it all back.
I need you.
Vicky?