Just for Clicks

by Kara McDowell

  “I was giving you a chance to tell me yourself.”

  I cringe. Why didn’t I tell him myself? It was obvious he was going to find out sooner or later. “I didn’t know how to bring it up!” I cross my arms over my chest. “Hi Rafael! My name is Claire and I’m a fashion vlogger with an embarrassing viral video. Want to be friends?” I scuff my toe against the ground so I don’t have to look at him.

  “Well . . . There’s more to it than that.”

  My head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”

  Not the blog. Please not the blog.

  Finding my vlog is one thing. It’s a little embarrassing, but whatever. I can even handle him knowing about Mom’s Instagram. But I don’t know what I’ll do if he found the Mommy Blog.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks.

  I cross my arms and stare at him, waiting for the bomb to drop.

  “I know that your mom didn’t know she was having twins until you were born. I also know Santa brought you a puppy when you were seven years old. Poppy wanted to name him Marshmallow because he was white. You wanted to name him Chocolate because it annoyed Poppy. Your mom eventually called him S’more. What else? How about the time you got mono in seventh grade from a game of spin the bottle?” He pauses, a smile in his eyes, like this is all some big joke.

  I turn toward my car, willing myself not to cry. I don’t care that he knows those things. Not really. What I’m most upset about is the fact that the illusion is shattered. I don’t have a blank slate with him anymore.

  “Hey—wait up!” He jogs after me, and when we reach my car I turn to face him.

  He smiles wider and takes a step toward me. Instinctively, I step away until my back is pinned against the car and I hold my breath. The irony is not lost on me. Less than ten minutes ago, I would have jumped at the chance to be this close to him, and now, I want nothing more than to get away from him.

  I try to fight back the tears, but fail spectacularly. To keep him from seeing them, I squeeze my eyes shut. My legs are shaking, and I brace myself for whatever is coming next. How many things about myself Rafael is going to tell me? When he doesn’t say anything and I’m sure I won’t start sobbing into his chest, I open my eyes again. “You cheated.”

  He’s not smiling anymore. In fact, he looks confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Our game. All the questions and answers! We were on a level playing field, and you ruined it. How are we supposed to be friends now, when you have such an advantage?”

  “I—” He shakes his head, looking stunned. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. Honestly. It was a joke.”

  I fish my keys out of the black abyss that is my purse and wrench open my car door. “That’s what all the stalkers say.”

  He recoils like I slapped him. After a pause, he takes a deep breath. “Can I drive you? I don’t want you to—”

  “To what? Have a swooning fit while I’m driving and black out? I’m not that fragile, Rafael, and I don’t need you to save me.” I hop inside the driver’s seat, slam the door shut, and pull out of the parking lot as quickly as I can, heart pounding in my ears. As badly as I want to, I don’t look into the rearview mirror. Not even a glance.

  My hands have stopped shaking and my breathing has slowed by the time I get home. After I turn off the engine, I look into the rearview mirror. Mascara runs down my cheeks, away from my blotchy, red eyes. I don’t want Mom to see me like this, but there’s no way to avoid it. My mind is too busy reeling from my conversation with Rafael to think of an excuse, and the heat forces me out of the car before I can pull myself together. The only option is to keep my head down and make a beeline around several full garment racks.

  “Claire! Is that you?” Mom’s voice reaches me before my feet hit the stairs.

  “Yep.”

  “How was school?”

  A nightmare, actually. Thanks for that.

  “Fine.” I remove the emotion from my voice, hoping she’ll leave me alone.

  “Come here! I need your opinion on these shoes I just bought.”

  “I don’t care!” I yell. And then, even though my brain is ordering my mouth to stop, I keep going. “Can’t you make a decision without me? That’s what you’ve been doing for the last seventeen years.”

  “What is going on with you?” A chair scrapes across the kitchen tile and she walks into the foyer. When she sees me standing on the stairs, all puffy and red and covered in mascara, the look on her face changes from annoyance to worry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Why were you crying? Is this about the video?”

  “No. And yes. It’s about everything in my entire stupid life.” I stomp up to my room, slam the door, open my laptop, and get online.

  The cursor blinks black and white in the rectangle box, waiting for instructions. My fingers wander across the keyboard without my permission until I’m staring at a home page that is familiar and foreign to me at the same time. I’m responsible for the front-end coding and design of the blog, but I never bother to actually read the content anymore. Reading it makes me feel weird and frustrated, and I find I’m happier when I ignore it. But since I’m already angry at Mom and Rafael and life in general, I let my eyes skim the page.

  It’s a thing of beauty. I can’t deny it. Before Mom let me take over the design of the blog, it was cluttered with pictures and text and links. Now it’s simple and streamlined. It’s so user-friendly that even people Mom’s age can navigate it, which I guess is the point. But once I stop admiring my own handiwork, I focus on the most recent post, and I’m not as thrilled about what I see.

  It’s a picture of the three of us from Labor Day weekend. We’re sitting on the edge of a dock with our feet dangling off the edge. People see it and think they’re looking at a fun family day at the lake, but it’s just a catalogue image meant to sell swimsuits. (Now on clearance!) Below the picture are links to the items we’re wearing, and every click is a paycheck for Mom. But what she’s really capitalizing on is not a desire for cute swimwear. When I look at these pictures all I see is “For Sale: Perfect family. Perfect body. Perfect Mom. Perfect daughters. Perfect life.” Too bad there’s no way to buy what she’s truly selling.

  It’s nothing but a series of pretty images that make other people jealous and resentful. If only there was a way to make people realize the blog is a lie big enough to fill the internet.

  Mom and Poppy would be out of a job.

  But at least I’d finally be free.

  —Four Months of Ignored Voicemail—

  July 24 @ 9:39 AM from 480-555-2718

  “Hi this is Ryan from Arizona Solar Group—”

  Message Deleted

  July 27 @ 7:52 PM from Erica Mitchell

  “Hey Claire. It’s Erica. I’m sorry about everything that’s been going on—”

  Message Deleted

  July 31 @ 9:52 PM from Mom

  “If you would answer my texts I wouldn’t have to—”

  Message Deleted

  August 7 @ 11:03 AM from Poppy

  “Hey. I’m in the checkout line at Target and this creepy guy won’t stop telling me how pretty I look. Gag. So I’m calling you so I look busy and hopefully he’ll get the hint . . . I know you’ll never listen to this so I guess I can say whatever—OMG! Have you seen this month’s cover of MyStyle? Poor Kylie. Oh! My turn to checkout. See ya.”

  Message Deleted

  August 16 @ 8:42 PM from Emily Cavanaugh

  “Erica told me she tried—”

  Message Deleted

  BEEEEEEEP.

  My heart thumps in my chest as a car horn tears me from my sleep. The haunting image of a blue minivan fills my mind, and I shake my head to clear it. I feel fuzzy and disoriented the way I always do after a nap. It’s like my body knows I’m not supposed to be asleep at this hour and reacts by scrambling my brain. The clock next to my bed reads 5:45 p.m
.

  My phone beeps, and my brain struggles to untangle itself. The sound that woke me from my nightmare was my phone, not a car horn. I press my hand to my chest and command my heart to slow down. When it complies, I grab my backpack from the foot of my bed, unzip the front pocket and pull out my phone.

  One voicemail. From “Rafael’s Abuela.”

  He begged me not to save his number that way, but I had to. No phone, no contact. That made him scowl.

  I groan and fall into my pillow, pulling another one over my face. The mere thought of talking to Rafael makes me burn with embarrassment. On the other hand, I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t want to see him, even if I’m still furious over his fake resume. I take a deep breath, pull the pillow off my face, and dial my voicemail. It takes three tries to remember my passcode.

  “You have twelve missed messages.”

  Ugh. I delete them as quickly as it’ll let me, but after the fifth message I get impatient and hang up. Before I have the chance to overanalyze the situation, I press dial on his grandma’s number.

  He answers after one ring. “Thanks for calling me back.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Did you listen to my message?”

  “No. Voicemail is annoying.”

  “Why?” He sounds baffled, and I wish I could see his expression.

  “It’s just . . . it’s a lot of work, trust me.”

  “I want to apologize.”

  I wait for the apology. It doesn’t come. “You’re bad at this.”

  “I want to do it in person. We need a real conversation, and you need to see my puppy dog expression. It’s good, I promise.”

  I allow myself a small smile. It’s a good sign that he’s still joking around with me. Maybe he won’t hate me forever. But there’s still a chance I’ll hate him forever, so. It’s early to get excited.

  “You have my address from my resume?”

  “Yeah. But I can burn it, if it makes you feel better.” He has the good sense to sound embarrassed.

  “Meet me at the park by my house.”

  I wash my face, reapply my makeup, change my clothes, and walk downstairs to face the firing squad. “Feeling better?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah. Sorry I yelled at you. It was a stressful day at school.” This is basically a hostage negotiation, and I’ll say whatever I have to say.

  She smiles. A peace offering. “Dinner is ready.”

  “I’m going to go for a walk. I have a headache and need fresh air.”

  She tilts her head and frowns. “You really should eat something.”

  I glance at Poppy, who is looking at me with her eyebrow raised. I nod slightly and she understands. Sometimes there’s nothing better than having a twin sister.

  She turns to Mom. “Didn’t you want to show me those pictures you were editing today? I still have that video to edit tonight, and homework, so we should probably look at them now.”

  “Oh, right!” Mom gets up and clears a spot at the table for her computer.

  “So, I’m going to go. I’ll eat when I get home.” I walk toward the front door before she can stop me.

  “Be safe. Don’t go far,” she calls, her head already bent over the screen.

  The park is a short walk from my house. The sun is setting, but it’s still warm outside. Rafael is sitting on a picnic table under a ramada when I spot him. We make eye contact, and I see a ghost of a smile. I wave, and then I don’t know what to do. Do I hold eye contact as I close the distance between us? I’m still pretty far away and that seems weird. I look at the ground and pretend I’m intensely interested in the line of ants marching down the sidewalk. When I’m only a few feet away from the ramada, I risk another glance. His eyes are still on me.

  “Hey.” I hope the sun is low enough to mask the heat creeping into my cheeks.

  “Well if it isn’t no-last-name-necessary Just Claire.”

  I lean against the side of the ramada and fold my arms.

  “Bad joke. Sorry.”

  I still don’t say anything.

  “Are you going to sit down? You didn’t come all this way just to turn around and go home, did you?”

  “It’s only, like, a five-minute walk from my house,” I tell him as I move to sit on the second picnic table, across from him. But he’s right. Now that I’m here, we may as well talk about it. We face each other, our legs dangling off the tables.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Go on.”

  “I acted like a stalker and read your entire life story and then threw that information in your face like it would impress you. Not to make excuses, but I have been away from the internet for way too long. I don’t know how to act like a normal person around you.” He shakes his head and runs his hands over his face and through his hair. “And that resume! I can’t believe I did that. Sometimes I try too hard to be funny and totally bomb.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry too, for lying, and hiding the truth. But for what it’s worth, I don’t really think you’re a stalker. Not compared to some others I’ve seen.”

  “The fact that you have to say that means I’ve clearly done something wrong.” He shakes his head and groans.

  “I kind of assume everyone is at least a low-level internet stalker.”

  Rafael’s lips twitch. “At least you’re still humble.”

  I lean back on my palms and try to figure out a way to explain this to him without sounding conceited. “If the information is out there, I have to assume people know it. There’s no way to tell if someone reads the blog just by looking at them, so I have to assume everyone knows everything about me.”

  Rafael nods his head. “What a weird way to live.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “So . . .” He draws out the word, as if he doesn’t want to say whatever comes after it.

  “So . . .?”

  “Is that the reason you lied to me?”

  “Pretty much. It was nice having a friend who would actually give me a blank slate.”

  He rubs his hand over his jaw and looks at me with a confused expression.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It was a pretty rotten way to begin a friendship.”

  His face falls, and I can’t help but think he looks disappointed, although I’m not sure why. That’s when it occurs to me that he might not forgive me. I didn’t realize how much I want him to until now.

  “I get it. It’s fine.” He runs his hand over his face again. “When you put it that way, I understand why you didn’t tell me about the online stuff. What I don’t get is why you lied about the other stuff, like your sister and your hobbies. You had to know I would find out the truth sooner or later.”

  Lying to him seemed like a good idea at the time, but putting my reasons into words isn’t easy. I look down at my feet and give it my best shot. “I almost never meet someone who doesn’t have a preconceived notion about me. With you, I didn’t have to be Ashley’s daughter or Poppy’s sister or the girl whose life revolves around fashion. It was the first time in my life I could write my own story.”

  Rafael goes quiet again. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to fill the silence with awkward rambling. As usual, my self-control fails me. “Just say whatever you’re thinking.”

  “You said it was your first chance to tell your own story. I guess I don’t understand why the story you chose to tell was a lie.”

  “What else was I supposed to say? Everything true about me has already been written.”

  “I don’t buy that for a second.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth. You said it yourself. You want to know what I was like as a baby? What I did for my ninth birthday? How many days of school I missed in the seventh grade because I had mono? It’s all there. Every mundane detail.”

  A look of frustration flits across Rafael’s face. “You’re honestly telling me that everything in that blog is a true picture of you?”
His normally friendly voice has a rough edge I can’t quite place.

  I shrug because I don’t know what to say. As much as I hate the blog and its glossy-magazine feel, I can’t help but think it’s all I am. “I may not want to be seventeen years of pictures and stories all neatly packaged with a bow for the whole world to see, but those stories and pictures are my life.”

  Rafael stands up and walks toward me in two long strides. My legs, which had been swinging back and forth, freeze. In fact, my entire body freezes while my stomach ties itself in knots. He holds his hands out in front of him, like he’s thinking about resting them on my legs, and my throat goes drier than the desert around me. After a fraction of a second that feels like twenty, he stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his jeans. My shoulders deflate in disappointment. I tilt my head back until our eyes meet.

  “You’re completely missing the point.” His quiet voice sends goosebumps scattering across my skin. “As far as I can tell, you didn’t write any of those stories or post any of those pictures. The things your mom wrote about you may feel true to her, but that doesn’t mean they feel true to you. She writes about you swimming for ten years of your life and then, in your senior year of high school, you ‘can’t fit it in your schedule anymore’ and you ‘have other interests.’ I have a feeling your truth would sound different than that.”

  “No one has ever cared what I have to say.” I’ve never said these words out loud before, but they feel right in my mouth. I can’t unsay them, and I can’t unhear them. And I can’t forgive Mom for turning me into a silent prop in her online world.

  “I care.” He leans toward me, just a couple of inches, but it’s enough for the sound of his breath to drown out the cicadas in the surrounding trees.

  If we were in a movie, this would be the part where he kisses me, or I kiss him. But my life has always resembled a boring reality show more than a romantic comedy, and instead of waiting for the kiss, I hear myself asking a question, even though I’m afraid of the answer. “Do you think I’m shallow?”

  “Why would you ask that?” His chest moves slowly in and out, way too close for comfort. I tuck my hands under my thighs so I won’t be tempted to touch him and focus instead on the smell of his spearmint gum.