#famous(12)

“What? It’s not even that good of a picture of you.”

Answer: not a “no.” It might as well have been “obviously.” The idea made me so angry my temples throbbed.

“Awesome. So when I’m just me, you’re over it. Don’t call, don’t need me.”

“Who ever said . . .”

“You. You said exactly that. That you were actually trying ‘not to need anyone.’ I know because it was less than a week ago.” I could feel my hands balling into fists. “But now that my picture is everywhere, you invite me over and throw yourself at me.”

“Kyle, it wasn’t like that at all,” she said softly.

It felt like my stomach was collapsing it was sinking so fast. I forced out a laugh.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re ready to do anything because I’m suddenly, like, pretend famous. For a second. On Flit. Jeez, Emma, do you know how gross that is?”

“You know what? Leave.”

“Am I hitting too close to home?”

“No, you’re being a massive jerk, and I want you to leave,” she spat, her voice stronger. She was looking at me now, eyes narrowed to angry, dark slits. “You know why I asked you over? Because my dad ditched me again, and I wanted someone around who didn’t think of me as just some obligation that they don’t even have to fulfill. Someone who actually wanted to see me.” She blinked rapidly. “But apparently I was wrong, and you think I’m half a step from an actual prostitute, so just . . . go.”

It felt like she’d popped some balloon that had been puffing up in my chest.

“Emma, don’t be like that. I’m not accusing you of anything, but I had to ask—”

“In case I’m some fame whore.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“I didn’t call you that.”

“Right. Just implied it.”

“Emma, don’t be—”

“I asked you to leave. I don’t need you, remember? So leave. Go find someone who cares about you for real. Maybe that Rachel girl. I’m sure she’s deeply available.” Emma sniffed, lips curling in disgust.

I grabbed my phone and backpack. At the bottom of the stairs I turned, but Emma wasn’t in sight. I could hear the blare of the TV turning up. Sighing, I headed upstairs. I’d managed to screw that up pretty fast.

On the way to the car I opened Flit, just to see what had happened. There were too many notifications to sort through, thousands and thousands of mentions, and follows, and reflits.

I clicked to Rachel’s page. She hadn’t flitted since the picture. The last thing before that had been a couple days ago. It was a picture of a cat in space with a cat sweater on. She’d captioned it “meta-sweata.”

Man, she was so weird. But funny. Like, in a way I didn’t quite get.

I luvved the picture and stuffed the phone in my pocket.





chapter five


RACHEL

WEDNESDAY, 7:19 A.M.

“Really, Mom, I don’t feel well. I should stay home in case I’m contagious.”

“Rachel, enough.” Mom plopped a slice of whole-grain toast in front of me, staring until I nibbled a corner. “I understand you’re worried about Flit, but skipping school isn’t going to make it go away. Going will be good for you. You can see firsthand how much of a molehill this really is.”

I knew Mom wouldn’t let me stay home—she never did. But I had only myself to blame. She always said monitoring my social media feeds would be “like reading my diary,” so there was no reason for her to know how ugly things had gotten.

I’d woken up to 23,208 more notifications (besides the luvs and reflits), mostly vicious. I was fat, I was ugly, I was pathetic and deluded. Not like I’d never thought those things, but seeing other people say them almost made me vomit. It made them feel true.

And even without those, almost a million people had reflitted the picture. That’s the population of a major city—or minor country—looking at my stupid picture of Kyle.

But if I told her that, there was no telling what she might do. How much worse she might make things.

“Fine,” I mumbled. I forced another bite of toast in. It felt too dry to even chew, a square of burny sawdust, so I gulped some coffee to help choke it down. “Bye then.”

I grabbed my backpack and coffee tumbler and headed for the front door.

“Rachel, what kind of reaction was that? RACH-el,” Mom called after me.

Usually I would have dashed back to give her a quick hug good-bye.

I slammed the door behind me and ran to the car before she could follow.

Staying home wasn’t worth having every one of my profiles shut down, and a dozen parents called, and whatever else Mom decided was the “appropriate” response to this. It was easier not to explain it at all.

So I was really, completely on my own.

I sat in my beat-up blue Toyota Corolla, hands gripping the plastic steering wheel, molded to look like stitched leather. I’d parked toward the far end of the junior lot, up against the spindly pine “woods” where kids went to smoke pot between classes. The spot had a good vantage point.

Though it’s not really hard to see a couple of news vans parked outside the main entrance to your high school.