“What are you wearing?” It’s clear from the shocked look on her face that she’s talking to me.
My gray T-shirt says KEEP CALM AND CODE ON. Only the whole thing is written in HTML, so it actually looks like this:
I think it’s hilarious, but it’s been brought to my attention that I’m the only one who does.
“I told her to change,” Poppy says.
Mom shakes her head. “You cannot be seen on camera like that. Did you at least bring the clothes Allegra sent you?”
“I brought them for her.” Poppy opens her bag to reveal the free clothes that were sent by the designer, who often cites our family as her “muse.” Allegra even warmed up to me eventually after the dress debacle, though not until Mom put me on a diet and Poppy and I once again had similar measurements.
“I don’t want to change.”
Mom shakes her head. “Why do you have to turn everything into a fight?”
The truth is, I have no idea. Life would be so much easier if I was like Poppy. I should just shut my mouth and nod and smile and wear my free clothes, but it’s getting harder and harder to do. Maybe I would feel differently if I was given a choice, but this life was picked for me before I was born. Some days, I want to quit the internet entirely. But most days, it feels like my family is the internet, and I can’t quit one without quitting the other.
Mom and Poppy stare me down, leaving me with no choice but to give in. I sigh as we enter the tent. About half of the seats are filled, and photographers are setting up equipment on both sides of the runway. The show is scheduled to begin in five minutes, but that means we have another half an hour, at least. I duck into an empty corner and change into the Esposito originals while Poppy hides me from view. When I’m done, we find our way to our assigned seats and wait.
My phone beeps, alerting me that I’ve been tagged in a post by SIGNOFTHETIMES. Serge always tags me in his posts, and I assume it’s because he likes me, or doesn’t like me, or maybe because he feels a weird kinship with me because his mom is also a fashion blogger, albeit one who lives in France. I’ll probably never know why he actually tags me, because his posts consist entirely of emojis that are frustratingly hard to decipher.
I log into BITES to see his newest offering.
As usual, I have no idea what he’s trying to say, but I have a hunch I’m not going to one-up him by telling a sob story about my mom flying me to Fashion Week and demanding I wear designer clothes. I decide to wait to post until something more interesting happens. It always does.
The show is a blur of loud music and sparkly sequins. Mom, Poppy, and the rest of the crowd are in heaven. It’s fun to look at, but I can’t get excited about it the way they do. When the show ends, Mom hisses instructions at us as we make our way backstage to greet Allegra.
“Thank her for the gowns. Tell her how much you love them. Compliment the show.” I’m trying to remember a specific piece to talk about when I run smack into a short woman in a seriously over-sized sweater and tottering on six-inch stilettos. A travel coffee mug flies out of her hand onto the ground.
“I’m sorry!” she gasps. We bend over at the same time to pick it up.
“Here you go.” I hand her the mug. When she looks at me she gasps again.
“Claire? Claire Dixon? I can’t believe it!” She throws her arms around me and squeezes. She looks so fragile, I can’t help but feel like she would break in half if I returned the gesture, so I do what comes naturally in these situations. I grimace under her arms and pray for release.
“I love your family!” She gathers Mom and Poppy in for hugs and introduces herself as Lena, a reporter for MyStyle magazine. “Can I buy you drinks? This is empty anyway.” She shakes her travel mug and smiles warmly.
I pull Mom aside. “We don’t even know her.”
She pats my shoulder in what is supposed to be a sympathetic gesture. “She’s wearing a press badge. You don’t have to worry.”
Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a picnic table near a coffee cart and surrounded by trees. The leaves are starting to turn golden, which won’t happen back home for another three months. Lena insists that she absolutely must interview us for the Fashion Week issue of MyStyle, and before I know it, Poppy and I are answering questions about our vlog and all things social media.
“What’s it like growing up in front of the camera?” Lena sets down her paper coffee cup and picks up her tablet.
Poppy and I look at each other. I shrug, telling her she can take this one.
“It took us a long time to understand Mom’s job. When we were little, we just thought we were playing dress up and having our picture taken. We didn’t even realize she had ‘fans’ until we were a lot older,” Poppy says.
I still remember the first time I realized I was working and not just playing. I was eight years old and Mom took Poppy and me on a picnic. It seemed so special and fun, and I felt just like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz in my blue gingham dress. Mom took pictures during lunch, but they must not have been turning out the way she wanted, because she was getting impatient. I was bored, grumpy, and eager to play soccer with some nearby kids, but when I tried to leave, Mom snapped at me that I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t allowed to get the dress dirty, because then nobody would want to buy it and Mom wouldn’t get paid. It was hard to trust any of my memories after that, because I didn’t know what was real and what was an advertisement.
Lena finishes typing on her tablet and looks up at us again. “What’s the best perk of your online fame?”
I cede the floor to Poppy again, because I’m definitely not the right daughter to talk to about industry “perks.”
“The free clothes are amazing, of course. Every day feels like playing dress up. But the best part is meeting our fans.”
Ugh. Poppy is so good at this.
“She’s right.” Mom says. “Our online community is filled with the most amazing people. It’s been life changing. After I lost Jason . . .” She hesitates so long that I begin to wonder if she’s going to finish her thought. “Well, let’s just say I’ve never felt so alone in my entire life. But people from all over the country rallied around me and picked me back up. Having that support system made all the difference in the world.”
Lena shakes her head sympathetically as she types on her tablet. It’s weird to think a stranger might remember that time better than I do. Poppy and I were only six years old when our dad died in a car accident on his way to work. I don’t remember anything about that day, but I’ve read about it on the blog. A few weeks after he died, Mom wrote about the accident and explained that she was going to keep blogging to support her family.
The response was insane. People from all over the world sent donations and flowers. Our house was filled with bouquets for months. I remember thinking there was no way my dad could have known that many people. But they knew him.
Lena’s fingers slow down and she turns to my mom again. “There must be hard things about having such a large online presence. People can be really critical.”
Mom nods. “On the internet, I’ve learned that people are quicker to judge, slower to forgive, and ten times more vocal than they would otherwise be.”
“What do you mean?”
“If someone disagrees with me or doesn’t like me, it’s easy to write an anonymous comment voicing their opinion. I’ve been called ugly, fat, stupid, a bad parent—you name it. Most people don’t have the stomach for that degree of cruelty in real life, but there’s something about the internet that blurs that line.”
“How do you deal with it?”
“It was harder when the girls were younger. I felt like every parenti
ng decision I made was judged, and my words were constantly taken out of context and used against me. But now I try not to focus on negative things.”
“What about you girls? How do you deal with the constant criticism?”
“I used to read the mean things people write about me online, but I stopped when I realized no good can come from it,” Poppy says.
I think about telling Lena that Poppy was reading a critical online forum about the two of us in the taxi on the way here, but I don’t.
“It sounds like you’re a smart girl,” Lena says and Poppy basks in the praise. “Let’s move on to happier subjects. How did you girls get into vlogging?”
I’ve been silent this whole interview, and everyone turns to me. “Um . . . Mom made us a video channel and said ‘start vlogging.’” It’s the stone-cold truth, and I’m hoping to get a laugh. Instead, Mom’s jaw drops as an awkward silence settles over us.
Poppy sits up straighter and smiles. “I think what she meant to say—”
“What I meant to say is that we were always bugging Mom, trying to help her pick outfits or take pictures. I think she finally directed us toward vlogging just to get us out of her hair!” I force a laugh this time, hoping it’s enough to get Mom off my back.
She throws a warning glance in my direction. I’ve salvaged the interview, but she’s still pissed.
“On our walk over here, I sent a tweet to my followers with the hashtag ‘PoppyandClaire,’ telling them to send questions they want me to ask you. Let’s see what they sent.” Her fingers swipe across the screen as she scrolls through her Twitter feed.
“A lot of people are asking about Jackson. Are you two still together?”
I roll my eyes. “No comment.” That’ll play with our audience a lot better than explaining that we never were together.
“Here’s a good one. How do you pick your vlog topics?”
“We like to choose things that interest us, whether that’s tips and tricks for simplifying our morning routine or finding the best hairstyle to beat the summer heat.”
I tune out Poppy’s voice, painfully aware that my contributions are not welcome in this conversation. I’d much rather be at school bantering with Rafael than sitting through this interview. It’s the first time in recent memory that I’ve wanted to be in Gilbert as opposed to, well, anywhere else.
Lena scrolls through more questions with a chuckle. “There are some doozies here.”
“If it’s the perv asking about our underwear, just ignore it.”
“Feel free to ask anything,” Mom says. “There’s nothing we haven’t heard.” She takes a sip of her soda.
“Okay. This one says, ‘Ask them about the time they were kidnapped.’ She laughs again. “I told you, the trolls are out in full force today.”
Poppy stiffens beside me. It’s a busy New York day in the middle of Fashion Week, but I swear I can hear her breath turn shallow and ragged. Or maybe that’s mine.
“Who said that?” I ask, genuinely curious. As far I knew, Mom had this secret on lockdown. She never even talks about it with Poppy or me, let alone anyone else.
Lena’s eyes widen in shock. She looks down at the tablet again. “He says his father was the police officer on the case. It’s true? You were kidnapped?” She leans forward, the amusement on her face replaced with something hungrier. She smells a story.
Poppy grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here.” The message is clear. Lena won’t get any information from us.
I wrench my hand from Poppy’s. “What else does it say?” I know I should follow Poppy, but curiosity keeps me rooted to the spot.
“Claire.” Mom’s tone warns me against saying another word. Panic flashes in her eyes. It’s the same expression she has any time plans go awry. But just as quickly as it came, the look is replaced with one of derision. “There’s no story.” She sounds so convincing even I almost believe her.
Lena turns to me. “Claire, is there anything you want to tell me?” Her voice is soft and sugary, as if she’s speaking to a little child. The implication is insulting. She obviously thinks I’m the weak link, the one who will give up our family secret. Poppy grabs my elbow from behind, another warning.
Pressure builds inside my chest, pulling me in two directions. I want to tell Lena to go to hell and get out of here as quickly as possible. But I also want to tell my family to back off. Everyone is making decisions about something that happened to me, and I’m not allowed to say anything?
“You must be under a lot of pressure,” Lena’s spun-sugar voice is full of sympathy. “The pressure to have perfect hair and a revolving door of new outfits and a thigh gap—which, let’s be honest, is a ridiculous, dangerous, unattainable goal. Not to mention the pressure to crank out content and engage with fans and ignore the trolls. It can’t be easy.”
“It’s not.” The words tumble from my mouth without permission.
“And the pressure to keep a secret like this? It must be eating away at you.”
“It is,” I whisper as I thread my fingers anxiously together. “I get panicky and nervous all the time. I don’t trust anyone.”
Poppy’s fingers dig harder into my elbow.
“It might be a relief to finally tell the story,” Lena says.
Is she right? All I know for sure is that nine years of holding this information in has shredded my nerves in a serious way. I’m so badly damaged, and so deeply screwed up, that I can’t have a normal conversation with a cute boy without lying about myself. I take a deep breath, and nod my head. It’s time to talk about it.
Lena’s Twitter Feed
Lena Bristow @mystylelena
About to sit down with teen fashion YouTubers Poppy & Claire Dixon. Send questions my way using #poppyandclaire
Alex Cox @alexcox03
How much money do they make? #poppyandclaire
Heidi @heidiho16
Do #poppyandclaire get all their makeup for free?
Carli @fashionismylife
#poppyandclaire have any tips for new fashion vloggers?
Chad @chadslife
What color is your underwear? #poppyandclaire
Alyssa @ababy14
What’s your favorite trend for fall? #poppyandclaire
Darcy Girl @darcygirl2002
I’m a YouTuber! Follow me and I’ll follow back! #poppyandclaire
Blaine Butler @blainebutler
Poppy will you go to prom with me? (If she says no, ask Claire.) #poppyandclaire
Chad @chaddddddd
Ask them about the time they were kidnapped
“It’s not a big deal,” Mom insists. “They were almost kidnapped, which means you almost have a story.”
Lena frowns. “Sure, some of your fans will feel that way. I bet others will wonder why you didn’t shield Poppy and Claire from the public eye. They’ll assume you put yourself and your blog above the safety of your daughters.”
Mom takes a deep breath, and I’m genuinely curious what she’s going to say. If she denies the story now, she’ll make me look like a liar. But if she finally admits the truth, well . . . I think Lena just gave us a pretty clear picture of what that would look like.
“Fine,” she snaps. “I’ll give you the story, which we all know is worth more than wild speculation, but you can’t spin it.”
“Give me something interesting to write and I won’t have to.”
“Okay.” Mom closes her eyes and sighs. I’m still frozen next to Poppy, scared, confused, and a little excited for what will come next. Mom sits on a bench and motions for Poppy and me to sit next to her. “Where do I start?” This time, her words aren’t an act. This is not a story she’s used to telling.
“Nine years ago, I almost lost my girls. An unstable woman tried to take them while they were walking home from school. She parked on the side of the road, rolled down her window, and called their names. Poppy, my trusting and caring little gir
l, walked up to the van. The woman said she had lost her dog and needed help finding it. She opened the back door and asked them to get in.”
Lena types furiously while Mom talks. Poppy has tears running down her face. I feel hollow inside, like a pumpkin ready for carving. I thought talking about this would help, but I should have known that Mom would never actually let me talk about it. I’m furious with myself for saying anything. I consider tattooing the words “Keep Your Mouth Shut” on the back of my hand so I’ll never forget.
“Poppy was about to climb into the van, but Claire ran up to her and pulled her away. She pushed her toward home and told her to run and yell for help. When Poppy took off, the woman picked up Claire and was trying to force her into the van, but Claire was fighting and kicking and screaming for help.” She looks at me with an unreadable expression. “Claire has always been my fighter. A car stopped, and a man got out to help. That’s when the woman dropped Claire on the sidewalk and took off.”
Lena looks stunned. I can’t tell if she’s shocked by the story or by the fact that she gets to be the one to tell the story to the world. “What happened after that?”
“The man took down the van’s plates and called the police. They picked the woman up later that night. She was an addict and a stalker who was obsessed with the blog and my girls. The police say she was trying to live my life. She went to prison.”
Silence is thick in the air as Lena finishes her notes. When she’s done, she looks my mom straight in the eye. “Why didn’t you shut down the blog?”
And there it is.
We never talk about the kidnapping. Poppy and I were both sent to a few counseling sessions right after it happened, but when those ended it felt like Mom wanted to pretend the whole thing never happened. Other than installing a state-of-the-art security system in our home, she continued on with life and work and the website as if nothing ever happened.
So when Lena asks The Question, the one I have wondered about for so long, I sit up a little straighter because I need to know the answer.
“I did shut it down for about a week,” Mom says.
Just for Clicks Page 6
