#famous(7)

“Well we were,” she said slowly. “Do you still want to be broken up?”

“I never wanted to be at all,” I said truthfully.

“I never wanted to be broken up, I just needed me-time, you know? It’d be nice to see you. It’s lonely over here.” She sighed. The sound made my heart squeeze tight.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be over in a little.”

Maybe this picture blowing up wasn’t such a bad thing after all.





chapter three


RACHEL

TUESDAY, 5:15 P.M.

It honestly didn’t occur to me that anyone would see the picture.

Sure, Monique had reflitted it, but so what? I was annoyed at first—she had to know I wouldn’t want people to know how drooly I got over Kyle Bonham—but it’s not like it was some big secret that he’s good-looking. People might not even know I’d flitted it. Ever since middle school I’d been working to ensure I was one of Apple Prairie High’s least-known students; better to be nobody than have a target on your back. Besides, Monique barely has more followers than me, and half of them are her cousins.

When I checked my phone as my mom pulled into the driveway, though, it had jumped to ten reflits.

I only recognized one of the profiles, which meant that eight strangers had shared the picture. That was weird. Not bad, but definitely not great.

“Rachel, for goodness’ sake, get out of the car.” Mom looked at me through the driver’s-side door. “Honestly I sometimes think we should never have let you have that thing,” she muttered.

I fumbled at my seat belt with my left hand, refreshing the app with my thumb.





39 reflits


Crap-muffins. Someone from school was going to see this soon, and it wouldn’t be hard for them to put it together, if they hadn’t already. If Kyle found out, I wouldn’t be the strange girl from writing anymore, I’d be pathetic.

A notification lit up my screen.


@DanceQueenErin reflitted your flit:

OMG that’s @YourBoyKyle_B @attackoftherach_

face I’m digging what they’re serving up at

Burger Barn today #idlikefrieswithTHAT

Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT.

Then it really exploded.

It seemed like the entire school was reflitting the picture. First the girls on dance team with Erin, then a handful of athletes, then the names stopped even being familiar (I kind of tried not to know the meatheads). They were multiplying too fast for me to work out who most of them were.

One name I recognized, though.

@jessieflozo mentioned you in a flit: OMG I

should’ve known @attackoftherach_face was

up to something weird I totally saw this happen

#idlikefrieswithTHAT

@jessieflozo replied to a flit you were

mentioned in: Sorry for not saving u from the

stalker, @YourBoyKyle_B, I didn’t even know u

were working

@jessieflozo replied to a flit you were

mentioned in: Don’t feel bad, though,

@attackoftherach_face always liked fries with

that #idlikefrieswithTHAT <img: r-e-burger.jpg>

I would’ve assumed Jessie burned any pictures of us together back in middle school, to destroy all evidence of having been friends with a weirdo. Since then, she’d clawed her way to the top social tier. Making the Wolfettes dance team sophomore year helped.

The picture she chose was from the worst of my awkward phase—I’d put on my puberty weight before having a growth spurt, I had one big caterpillar eyebrow I hadn’t learned to pluck yet, and I was still in braces.

. . . and I was biting through a massive cheeseburger, the poster girl for childhood obesity. I swallowed hard. After this, if Kyle didn’t find me actively repellant, he’d probably just pity me, which was possibly even worse.

I couldn’t believe she’d flitted it. She’d laugh along in middle school when her “cool” friends ragged on my hair, or the plays Monique and I wrote (I used to just write stories, but Monique wanted something she could perform), but she’d never started things.

I should turn off my phone. The smart thing would be to turn off the phone for the next half hour until this went away.

But Mo was the smart one. I compromised and slid it into my shirt pocket.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom, flopped onto my back on the puffy black-and-white zigzag comforter, and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. Think up a new scene for Twice Removed; Mo would be pumped the play was coming along. Just whatever you do, don’t look at your phone again.

What if Jessie posted more pictures? Who else had them? There had to be a dozen just from that awful sleepover at Lorelei Patton’s in the fifth grade, when Mom had called Lorelei’s parents and forced her to invite me.

I ran to the oak bookcase in the corner and started pulling out yearbooks.

“Rachel!” Mom’s voice ricocheted up the stairs. “Dinner!”

I flipped through manically. Here I was with a full-on fro, touching my tongue to my nose. Here I was around the height of my weight gain in a too-short shirt that showed my doughy belly. Jesus, they had me as an “orphan” in the seventh-grade production of Oliver!, tooth blacked out and dirt on my face. And these were just sitting in yearbooks, waiting for anyone to find . . . and flit. I’d always figured hiding in the corner with my handful of arty friends would mean this kind of thing couldn’t happen again. But Jessie’s followers were already piling onto the picture. Being invisible at school was my line of defense. And they were rolling over it like a tidal wave, disintegrating the only protection I had . . .