I start crying again, face in my hands, because I can’t stop imagining the worst. Jenna, out there by herself, standing on the edge of a cliff. Thinking she’s alone, that I don’t care about her anymore, that taking one step toward the horizon—into nothingness—will make it all better.
It won’t make it better, Jenna. It will only take away the chance to make it right. We’ll never get to see each other again. I’ll never have a chance to say I’m sorry.
“Don’t take that away, Jenna, please,” I mumble into my hands. “You’re the only one who knows the real me. You’re the only one.”
Mom rubs my back. She keeps saying, “They’ll find her. Everything will be okay.” And then she’s talking to the 911 operator again. “Yes, I’m still here . . . No, we haven’t heard anything more . . . I’m not going anywhere.”
Then this happens:
hikerdude22 He’s got her. Showed her your message. She’s crying, but she’s safe.
My mother starts sobbing and smiling behind me. She says into the phone, “Someone’s reached her. A hiker.”
The 911 operator tells my mom to stay on the line. They’ve got responders heading up the trail.
I put my shaking hands to the keyboard and type:
vicurious Thank you, @hikerdude22. Please thank your friend, and tell Jenna I can’t wait to talk to her, to call me as soon as she can.
hikerdude22 He’s walking her down now.
I want to write more, but all I can do is stare at the screen. She’s safe. But is she okay?
My mother is talking to the 911 operator again. “They’ve reached her? Okay. Yes . . . I appreciate it. Thank you. Yes . . . Thank you.” She hangs up the phone and hugs me. “They said they’d take her to the hospital for evaluation and keep her until one of her parents shows up,” she says. “I should call her parents back. They’ll be in a panic when they get those messages.”
She sits on the edge of my bed to make the calls, and I listen to her for a minute before turning back to my computer. I write down the names of all the followers who helped me find Jenna, so I can thank them, then I erase the Devil’s Rock post. I only used her first name, but I don’t want to draw any more unwanted attention. Part of me was hoping I could slip quietly back into anonymity. But it’s too late.
In the hour or so that post was up, tens of thousands of people saw it. Some of them reposted it, maybe trying to help and maybe to be among the first to reveal my identity. It’s probably on Facebook and Twitter and who knows where else.
Ready or not, I am out.
My mother finishes leaving a third set of messages for Jenna’s parents, then comes to stand behind me, hands on my shoulders.
“You want to tell me about . . .” She gestures toward the screen.
“That’s my Instagram. I’m Vicurious.”
“Yes, I see that now. But when . . .”
I turn and start explaining it to her. How I took the pictures, Photoshopped the images. She nods. She looks from my face to Vicurious’s and back again. “It’s you,” she says. “And that time—”
She’s remembering when I answered my bedroom door wearing the outfit. “How did I not realize it was you?”
“Nobody knew it was me,” I say.
“You have two million followers, Vicky. More than two million.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“I know.” She nods, scrolling through the feed. “I can see that. I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier.”
“It’s okay.”
She walks to my door, stands there for a moment. “I’m proud of you, Vicky. What you’re doing with Vicurious, what you did for Jenna. It’s courageous.”
I try to smile at her. “Then why am I so scared?”
She laughs. “Never confuse courage with fearlessness. When you face your fears to do what’s right, that’s courage.”
“But I started Vicurious to hide from my fears. I made her do all the stuff I’m afraid to do. She’s a total fiction. How is that courageous?”
“Don’t fool yourself, sweetie. Maybe you didn’t fly to outer space or ride a hippogriff, but the important stuff on there?” She points to my computer, to the Instagram image on the screen. “You did that. You should be proud of yourself.”
I flop onto my bed. “I just want it to all go away.”
“Do you really?”
I hug my pillow, thinking of the followers who are counting on me, the ones who went into a panic when I didn’t post for a week. “I guess not,” I say. “But everyone’s going to know who I am now. They’ll be pointing and staring and laughing. It’s like my entire Terror List realized.”
“Your what?”
“Nothing, just . . . everything I’m afraid of at once.”
“We’ll get you through it, your father and I, and Jenna. Lipton, too,” she says. “And we’ll get you in to see that counselor. Okay?”
I squeeze my pillow tighter. “I kind of ruined things with Lipton today.”
She smiles. “Can you un-ruin them?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
She leaves, closing my door behind her. I grab my phone and pull up Lipton’s texts. I try to put into words how sorry I am, but I keep writing and erasing. Then a “. . .” appears on his side of the screen. And it turns into:
Are you there?
Yes.
Can we talk?
. . .
Please.
Okay.
I stare at my phone, waiting for Lipton’s call to come through. But the ring I hear a few seconds later is the doorbell. And then my mom’s calling me from the living room. I open my door and look down the hall and there he is. Lipton. He’s standing right there, in my house.
I don’t walk to him. I run. I crash into his arms. And he holds me and I don’t deserve him at all but I’m so glad he’s here.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble into his neck. “My brain is an asshole.”
He laughs, and my mother makes a tutting sound. I glare at her over Lipton’s shoulder.
“I’ll just be in the other room,” she says, walking backward toward the kitchen.
Lipton pulls away just far enough to see me. “So, it’s okay if I like you? This you.”
“I can’t believe you like any version of me at all,” I say. “But, yes. Please.”
He laughs again and then holds me closer and kisses me like, wow. Really good. I’m a little dizzy when he pulls his lips from mine.
“I should warn you,” I say, “that this me is kind of a mess right now.”
“I saw what happened,” he said. “Are you okay? Is Jenna?”
I nod. “They found her. She’s supposed to call me when she gets home.” I realize my phone is still in my hand, pressed to Lipton’s back. I bring it around to make sure I didn’t miss her call. “She doesn’t hate me, though, so there’s that.”
“Nobody hates you. I don’t know why you would think that.”
I shrug. “My brain is—”
“Not an asshole,” he says. “It’s your brain, and I like it just the way it is.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and we sit in the living room for a while, until Mom comes and asks if we want something to eat. We follow her into the kitchen.
“I called Mrs. Greene,” she says. “I’ll take you to school tomorrow and you’ll go straight to her office. Lipton, would it be okay if I gave you a ride, too? Mrs. Greene thought it might help if Vicky has a friend with her tomorrow.”
“I can do that.” He smiles.