#famous(15)

“Nothing. Someone took a picture of me and it sort of, like . . . I dunno, it blew up.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“He’s telling the truth, Ms. Casey,” Erin Rothstein said in her squeaky-high voice, raising a belated arm over her tight blond curls. “He’s totally famous now.”

“I saw the vans on my way in,” Caleb DeLeon offered to no one in particular.

A couple kids nodded. Ms. Casey frowned, then rolled her eyes and reached for my homework.

“Fine, for now you get a bye,” she said, shooing me toward my seat. “But if I don’t hear your name on the evening news, regular rules apply.”

“All right,” I said, grinning. “You will, though.”





chapter seven


RACHEL

WEDNESDAY, 11:20 A.M.

I should have been angry to see Monique beckoning me toward our usual lunch table near the fro-yo bar, like nothing had even happened, but I was mostly relieved. Jessie must have been in the crowd around my locker; she’d posted a video of me pulling off the pictures on Flit with the caption “Saving them for her scrapbook?”

It already had over three hundred luvs. Seeing anyone who didn’t look like they were half a second from laughing, or ready to drip patronizing pity on me, was a relief.

“Hey, Rach,” she said carefully as I walked up. I nodded at Mark Majors and Britta Goldberg, leaning over a manga together at the end of the table. Mark nodded back, his floppy brown hair falling over his eyes. Britta raised a few fingers before turning back to the comic, absorbed. Neither laughed and pointed, like I was a circus animal that had just done something hilarious with its own poop.

So now I had a solid three people in my corner, which sadly felt like an improvement.

“Hey, Mo.” I slid into a seat across from her.

“Did you see I called last night?” She pushed her vegetable medley around with her fork, glancing at me quickly.

“Not until this morning. I turned off my phone.” I shrugged and took a bite of the apple I’d grabbed in line. It was flavorless and mealy, but I forced myself to swallow. With everyone watching, I’d felt too weird taking any more than the apple, a yogurt, and a vegetable side. I knew I wasn’t a bikini model, but I’d never thought of myself as fat. The fact that all the snippy comments were getting to me almost stung worse than being called fat in the first place.

. . . but I wasn’t going up for seconds.

“Listen, I know you’re probably livid, which I get,” Monique said, holding up one long brown hand and talking fast. “But let me say—”

“I’m not livid, Mo.” I sighed. “I mean, I’m annoyed. But I’m not angry.”

“I never intended— Wait, really?” Monique jerked back a little. She blinked her amber eyes a few times, frowning slightly.

“Really. I know you didn’t think anything would happen any more than I did.”

“Yes. Exactly, I had no idea.” She nodded rapidly, neck held erect so only her chin moved, more up than down. Sometimes her dancer tics looked out of place in normal life. “I honestly didn’t even know what had happened until after dinner; I’d put my phone on silent so I could study. Which wasn’t enough; I totally bombed the test.”

I chose to ignore her fishing.

“Even if I were mad, you’re pretty much the only person left in this school, possibly the entire state, who I can still trust—mostly.” Mo blushed slightly. “So I suppose I have to keep you on my good side.”

“So . . .” Monique looked away toward the far end of the table, scanning the cafeteria slowly. “What are you going to do?”

“Besides invest in radical, identity-disguising plastic surgery?”

“I’m serious, Rachel.” Monique tilted her chin down, looking at me from under her eyebrows. I rolled my eyes.

“I mean, I guess I’ll be more careful about what I flit. Other than that, wait it out? That’s all I really can do.”

“You’re not going to try to . . . you know, take advantage of it?”

She couldn’t be serious.

“Oh my god, Rach, stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m sorry, just . . . take advantage of what? Everyone thinking I’m pathetic? Here, do you wanna see what they’re saying?” I pulled out my phone, clicking Flit open. I could feel my heart beating faster in my chest. The idea of even Mo seeing all of it in one place was terrifying. Would she see me differently? Pity me? I’d see it in her eyes.

Mo held up a hand, shaking her head rapidly. I exhaled, more relieved than I wanted to admit.

“You’re being too sensitive, Rachel.”

Through massive force of will, I managed not to spit hot lava at her. Is there ever a time it’s okay to tell someone that? She didn’t seem to notice all my muscles clenching, though, because she plowed ahead.

“They’re just jealous. Think about it. They’re still nobodies, but they all know who you are. If you played it right, they wouldn’t be the only ones.”

Did she mean Kyle? She couldn’t possibly think there was a chance there . . .

“You could use this to get us into the workshop.”

Mo and I had been planning to apply to the Budding Playwrights summer program together. It was incredibly competitive—you got to live in New York City and work with real actors and directors, and they hand-selected attendees based on tons of “creative response” questions plus a full one-act play. We were planning to enter Twice Removed as a team. The website said they had “limited” spots for playwriting duos, but we figured fewer people would apply for them; all the theater kids we knew were all about their “personal vision.” Plus, if we applied separately and one of us got in and the other didn’t—especially if Mo was the “didn’t”—things could have turned ugly.