“But he kept it,” I point out. “He’s lived all over the world, packed and unpacked boxes over and over again, and he kept it.”
He closes his eyes again. “Thanks for telling me to say something. You were right.”
“You were right, too, you know, about talking to my mom.” I prop myself up on my elbow and fill him in on the whole story.
“You don’t sound happy,” he says when I’ve finished.
“Should I be?”
“Sure. Your mom and Poppy have forgiven you. The blog is ending. You’re not doing the reality show. What more could you ask for?”
On the surface, it must seem like I’m getting everything I ever wanted. I’m definitely relieved that the online rat race is finally over. No more scrambling for likes and shares and comments and pageviews. I can finally relax. I don’t have to wear makeup or sponsored clothes if I don’t want to. I don’t have to smile if I’m not happy. But it’s all coming at the expense of my family. In the course of one evening, my mom lost her blog, and Poppy lost her reality show.
And then there’s Lena and the MyStyle story, which gives me the sour Warhead feeling in my stomach every time I think about it. It’d be one thing if she was going to tell my story, but she’s going to tell her version of my story, in which Mom will come off looking like fame-obsessed at best, and like a negligent or selfish mother at worst. That may be the truth as Lena sees it, but it’s not my truth.
That’s when I realize why I still feel uneasy. “It’s not her story to tell.”
“Your mom’s?”
“Lena’s. For so long, I said it wasn’t Mom’s story, but I was wrong. It is her story. She’s living it. It’s her life. But I still got mad and I blamed her for writing about me. So what did I do? I turned around and gave my story to someone else. Someone who has not lived it at all. Someone who will use it to tear apart my family.”
“What are you going to do?” Rafael asks.
“What can I do? She’s not going to listen to me.”
Rafael takes my hand and tangles our fingers together. “Maybe not, but other people will.”
“Don’t do it yet!” I run through the front door and into the kitchen, thankful to see my mom at the table with her laptop. “Is the blog gone?”
“I’m archiving it right now. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m great, actually. But I need the blog. I want to write a post.” I have so much energy built up inside me that I’m bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet.
“Whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?”
“I need to write one last post.”
“About what?”
“I need to tell my story before Lena tells it for me. Is that okay?” I ask, suddenly worried that she won’t want me to.
She smiles and looks like she might start crying again. I hope she doesn’t. There have been more than enough tears in our house lately.
“It’s more than okay. I’m really proud of you.” She pushes the laptop in front of an empty chair and I sit down. I click “new post” and watch the cursor blink in the top corner. Suddenly, my mind feels as blank as the screen.
“What do I write? How do I start?” I can’t believe Mom has done this thousands of times.
“Just start typing. The words will come.” She stands up and kisses me on the head.
“Don’t you want to stay and help?”
She shakes her head. “This is something you have to do on your own. You’ll figure it out.”
I stare at the blank screen for five minutes. Check my email. Get a drink of water. Make myself a leftover turkey sandwich. Take off my shoes. Type a sentence and delete it. Lather, rinse, repeat.
After several minutes of complete paralysis, I watch Rafael’s “Happy Birthday” video again to relax. The pressure of this post is too much. I can’t help but imagine the thousands of people who will read this in the morning. Except for schoolwork and the stuff on BITES, I’ve never written anything that was meant to be read by real, live, actual people. Coding is always kept behind the scenes. Except when it’s not, I realize, as pumpkins fall from the sky.
I log into Scratch and spend the next few hours animating my story. When I finally finish, there are no floating birthday cakes, but it’s ridiculous. It’s also one hundred percent me. It’s the way I want to tell my story in the place I want to tell my story. I post it to my YouTube channel and hope for the best.
And even though I’m so tired my eyes are burning, I log into Because They Said So and scroll through the never-ending game of one-up. I’m not going to miss the blog, but I will miss this.
Because, honestly, I need a break from everything. Poppy is not the only addict in the family. Only instead of being addicted to the internet, I’ve been completely obsessed with what other people are saying about me. I need to figure out what it’s like to live away from all of that. I type out my farewell and then send a direct message to SIGNOFTHETIMES.
I look at the clock and figure out that it’s already morning in France. He must be eating breakfast.
I smile as I log off. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s after midnight, or maybe I’m getting sentimental, but I think I actually understood that entire conversation.
“You brat!” Poppy bursts into my room and jolts me awake. I sit up and look at her, wondering what I’ve done wrong now. But she’s grinning. “You convince Mom to stop posting pictures of me online and then you go and take all the attention for yourself.” She smiles and shoves me to the side of my bed so she can sit next to me.
“Look at these comments.” She holds up her phone and scrolls through the comment section of my video. “‘You’re so brave!’ ‘You’re amazing!’ ‘Post more videos like this!’” She smiles and hands me the phone. “They love you.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“Trust me, I know. That’s why you’re better than the rest of us. You never cared about keeping up with the Joneses . . . or the Kardashians.” She stands up. “Better get ready for school. I still have to look camera-ready, even if Mom is abandoning the blog.” She winks as she leaves my room.
School is weird, but everyone is nice. Almost everyone, anyway. Olivia conveniently skipped out on lunch and our usual meeting at the drinking fountain. Lots of people tell me they’re sorry about the kidnapping thing. Some people tell me I’m brave. One girl invites me to a PTSD club on campus. I probably needed it last year, or even last month. And maybe I’ll go someday. But right now, I’m feeling better than I have in years.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the attention, but I’m not as nervous when people want to talk to me. I feel strong and in control instead of vulnerable and overexposed.
Lena’s editor calls Mom while we’re at school and tells her that she has decided to cancel the story. Apparently, the magazine isn’t interested in publishing an exposé that doesn’t actually expose anything. Especially when that exposé casts a negative light on one of the internet’s favorite families.
True to her word, Mom makes the blog private, so only our family can see it. I’m grateful for that, so I can learn more about my dad.
Rafael comes over after school to work on homework. As soon as my mom leaves for a photo shoot, however, he pulls me on to the couch and kisses me.
“Get a room,” Poppy says as she passes by the couch. I laugh because I can practically hear her rolling her eyes.
Rafael and I go up to my room where we definitely, positively, will eventually work on homework. He sits next to me on my bed and nuzzles his face in my neck. I’ve never felt so happy.
Our final project for College Prep is to narrow our college choices down to the top three and make a pro-and-con list for each, complete with tuition costs, scholarship opportunities, and information about room and board. We’ve been working quietly for several minutes when Rafael looks over my shoulder.
“U of A, huh?” he asks.
“It’s clos
e. But not too close. And it has a great computer science program.”
“It’s a good school.” He angles his paper so I can see that U of A is at the top of the list.
“Are you serious?”
“They have a great medical school. Plus, my dad says he’s going to stay in Arizona for a while. I could come home on the weekends. Like you said. Close, but not too close. Can’t argue with that.”
“So you’re sticking with the med school plan?”
“I have four years to change my mind. Nothing is carved in stone yet.” He smiles. “There’s still plenty of time for us to write our story.”
My stomach flips in excitement at his choice of words as he nudges me with his foot. “Our story?”
“You heard me. We’ll go to Tucson together. Maybe even start a vlog of our adventures.”
I roll my eyes and flop backwards on my bed. He collapses next to me. “We’ll call it ‘Rafael and Claire Take Tucson.’” He winks and I laugh and shake my head.
“‘Rafael and Claire: Freshman Year.’ ‘Rafael and Claire: Living off Cheez-Its and Vending Machine Burritos.’”
“Catchy. But no.”
“Fine. I get it. You want top billing. You’re the famous one, after all. How about, ‘Claire and Rafael Tell a Story?’” He grins and fixes me with a stare that makes me wonder if he’s still thinking about colleges or if his mind has drifted elsewhere.
“That would never happen in a million years—,” I say, but he tangles his hands in my hair and cuts me off with a kiss, pinning my body under his. A flutter starts in my chest and snakes its way down my body. I thought first kisses were supposed to be the best, but every kiss with Rafael has gotten progressively better than the one before it.
When he pulls away, I hold up my phone to snap a picture of us together. “Mind if I post this?” I ask, thinking about Rafael’s ridiculous plan to start our own vlog. It’s certainly not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.
“Seriously?”
“Why not? You, Rafael Luna, are total boyfriend goals.”
He levels me with a gaze that makes my cheeks flush. “I’ll show you boyfriend goals.”
I smile and hug my phone to my chest, changing my mind. This is one moment I want to keep entirely to myself.
Acknowledgments
The idea for this book came to me in a flash of inspiration one Sunday morning. The next day, I hung up my “Mommy Blogger” hat and focused all my energy on telling Claire’s story. I’m still in awe that what started as “what if?” is now a published book, and I have so many people to thank for helping me achieve my lifelong dream of becoming a published author.
To my literary agent, Kristy Hunter, you were the first person willing to take a chance on this story, and for that, I cannot thank you enough. Your passion, excitement, hard work, and endlessly encouraging emails guided me through those hard times when it felt like this book would never see the light of day. I could not have made it this far without you!
A big thank you to my publisher, Dayna Anderson, and to Kayla Church, for your combined enthusiasm in acquiring my book. Thank you, Jenny Miller, for pushing me to make my characters stronger and more nuanced. To my copy editor Elizabeth Mazer, thank you for double-checking every comma and hyphen, and for researching the difference between Boo! At the Zoo and Howl-O-Ween. And to the entire Amberjack team, including my editor Cassandra Farrin and the head of publicity and marketing Joel Bartron, many thanks for all your hard work on this book and helping it find its way into the hands of readers.
To Brenda Drake, you are a fairy godmother of publishing dreams. Thank you for letting me be the Pitch Wars underdog! I’ll forever be grateful! Heather Cashman, thank you for reading this book so many times, for making me a stronger writer, and for celebrating my publishing highs and letting me vent during the lows. Without the two of you and your mentorship, this book would not exist today.
Mom and Dad, thank you for giving me a childhood full of books and learning and magic and lakes and love. I’m the luckiest to have you both. To Sandy Durkin, my sister, my friend, and my first beta reader. Thank you for believing in this book even when it was full of plot holes, and for the countless hours gossiping about bloggers as if we know them in real life. To my brothers, William and Michael and Tommy, I love you. My boys are so lucky to have you as uncles. To my Grandma Carolyn, you always knew that all I ever wanted for Christmases and birthdays was a book. Thank you for filling my shelves.
To the McDowells, thank you for welcoming me into the family, for teaching me how to play 10-to-1, and for being excited to read my book. Sorry I made you wait so long!
Krystal Klei, remember senior year of high school, when I wanted to be an author and you wanted to be a meteorologist? Can you believe we actually accomplished our dreams? Thanks for being my oldest friend and for always believing in me. I’m so proud of you!
To the entire 2016 Pitch Wars Facebook Group, thank you for celebrating and commiserating, for the encouragement in the face of rejection, and for always being there for me when I need a partner for writing sprints. And many thanks to Jennifer, Amaris, and Jeanette for reading my first chapter and providing insightful feedback right when I needed it most.
To everyone in the AZ YA/MG Writer’s Group, I still can’t believe I know so many cool, talented authors. Thanks for letting me hang out with you!
Owen, Graham, and Emmett. My boys. Being your mom is the best, hardest, most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. You make me stronger, braver, sleepier (so sleepy!) and most of all, happier. I love you!
And, finally, Scott. Your support means the most. You always said “When your book is published.” Always when, never if. I love you for that, and for the thousands of other ways you’ve loved me and encouraged me and held me up during our last eight years together. Someday we’ll get that boat.
About the Author
Born in the mountains and raised in the desert, author Kara McDowell spent her childhood swimming, boating, and making up stories in her head. As the middle of five children, she entertained her family on long road trips by reading short mystery stories out loud and forcing everyone to guess the conclusion. After graduating from Arizona State University with a BA in English Literature, Kara worked as a freelance writer. Now she writes young adult novels from her home in Arizona, where she lives with her husband and three young sons.
Just for Clicks is Kara’s debut novel.
Just for Clicks Page 24
