Including, without a doubt, the Fit to Print judges.
But this was Acedia. The Red and Blue’s most-read issue ever featured Cat’s article on the previous year’s senior prank—the one that had turned Principal Schwartz’s normally fake-orange-tanned complexion Hot Tamale red. An unknown group of seniors had somehow reached the roof of the school, which was well above the height for any standard ladder. They’d glued down a lawn chair, and in it, they’d plunked a surprisingly lifelike doppelgänger dummy of the principal holding a sun reflector in one hand and a three-foot-tall sloth in the other. They set up a webcam that live-streamed “Schwartz” and “Slothy,” as he came to be known, on YouTube.
That’s what got Acedia engaged.
Cat leaned against the doorjamb. Down the hall, Ms. Lute carefully pinned a stars-and-stripes streamer around the edges of the bulletin board outside her classroom. She was officially the most committed teacher at Acedia, and she’d barely started. If anyone stood a chance of drumming up interest in student government, it would be her.
Covering the election, with in-depth candidate profiles and extensive campaign-platform analysis, would give The Red and Blue a focus, a purpose, one entirely timely and relevant.
Cat pulled her phone out of her back pocket. The last text she’d received was a dorm-room selfie from Jen the day she’d arrived at NYU, where she’d only just made it in off the wait list despite her internship at The New York Times and a family legacy at the university. Cat had neither.
She searched her contacts and found a number for Ravi. She texted him, asking if he was returning to the paper.
Because if she did this, if she killed it, the Fit to Print award was hers for the taking.
“Please let me kill it,” Cat whispered.
4
When Angeline’s Every Day Becomes Epic
29 DAYS TO THE ELECTION
Angeline stared at the little blue dot at the top of her inbox. A new message. She hadn’t changed the settings on her computer, but she swore the sender’s name was bigger than usual.
She sat up straighter in the nubby tweed chair—the last thing she’d let her sister pick out—behind the desk they shared in their bedroom.
All those hours in front of her laptop studying every YouTube channel from GamerGirlz to Car Builderz DIY to Bette’s Books to Bet On. Every grasshopper-topped sushi roll she ate, every chocolate laxative cleanse, every questionable and disgusting concoction she’d lathered on her body, all came down to this.
Her hand hovered over the mouse, but she couldn’t bring herself to click. Instead, she kicked off the pointy-toed loafers she’d worn to school that day, wincing as the air hit the raw pink welt on the back of her ankle. She’d said they were comfortable.
They weren’t.
But the endorsement had paid for her new laptop so . . . trade-offs.
She pressed her toes into the white carpet she’d freshly steamed before the school year began and fixed her eyes on her computer screen.
“Ask an Angel” leapt from the subject line, the YouTube channel Angeline had grown into a brand over the past two years. Influencer? Please. She was so much more. Part advice giver, part counselor, part confessor, she served her viewers by listening to and answering their daily dilemmas—even if that meant boots-on-the-ground research.
Okay, so truth?
She’d never admit it to Cat, but that elephant dung had nearly made her pass out.
Her sister thought it was easy. But had she ever tried to squeeze herself into the trifecta of compression underwear?
High-waisted capri britches . . .
Tummy cincher . . .
Hip slimmer . . .
After eating two pints of caramel gelato.
Angeline had come this close to dialing 911. But her lack of circulation had surely prevented others from asphyxiation.
Turn blue, and the followers would come.
She hadn’t read that in any influencer guide. But it had worked. As had a modest display of cleavage and pink lipstick. Pink, not red. She’d lost ninety followers before she’d realized that mistake.
Now she had more questions than she could answer, and her ad revenue crushed whatever she’d make working round the clock as a barista. But she was determined to take it to the next level.
Evelyn’s Epic Everyday: Make Every Day an Epic Day.
The pinnacle of lifestyle YouTubers, promoting positivity, following one’s dreams, and making each day an extraordinary one. An extraordinarily profitable one. Evelyn had raked in half a million dollars from her YouTube channel alone last year—a pittance compared to what she’d snagged from endorsements and book deals. Her second book, Girl, Talk like Everyone’s Listening, hit the bestseller list, joining her first, Girl, Match Your Bra and Underwear and Other Life Secrets, which had never dropped off.
And here she was: Evelyn’s Epic Everyday in Angeline’s inbox.
Angeline took a deep breath and clicked.
Her heart stopped.
And jump-started.
“Bring! It!” she screamed, and Tartan, Gramps’s orange-and-white cat, sprang from her lap.
She’d gotten the invite. The, all caps, underlined, circled, highlighted, invite. When Evelyn’s Epic Everyday had given her video on “5 Ways to Know He’s Interested” a thumbs-up over the summer, Angeline had known what it meant.
Evelyn was watching her.
Her.
Ask an Angel.
Which meant she had a shot.
At this.
And she got it.
Hey girl!
Evelyn’s Epic Everyday has her epic eye on you!
As you may have heard (wink, wink), she’s putting together her very first YouTube up-and-comers boot camp.
***Invitation only!***
Those she thinks are ready to break out big will make her annual “Top 10 to Get Behind or Be Left Behind” list. And you know what that means! But still, I’m gonna tell youuu! Because it’s that freaking fantastic: every single previous lister has gone on to be a Star of the Super sort. Think: a million subscribers, two, three . . . five?
Not yet, but you could be Evelyn’s first!
So welcome, Ask an Angel, to your every day being an epic one. But remember: keep it hush-hush! We’ll be doing a big reveal in the lead-up.
See you in December!
Don’t forget to send in that deposit!
(Nonrefundable!)
Kiss kiss!
Angeline vaulted out of her chair and pumped her fists in the air.
“Evelyn’s!”
“Epic!”
“Everyday!”
She spun around and snatched her phone off the bed. She had her messages open to her last text with Leo before she remembered.
They were broken up.
He had broken up with her.
Because of all this.
The one person she wanted to share this with was the one person she couldn’t.
Is this what they call irony?
She sunk back into her chair, staring at the pink roses on the plant that Leo had given her freshman year. They’d repotted it together since, four times, always here on the balcony off the living room, its small size still more comfortable than being at Leo’s, where his mom’s scowl awaited around every corner.
Besides, Angeline was the one who knew how to cultivate and trim and fertilize. Her grams had loved gardening. Leo’s contribution had been keeping her company, sharing stories of his family. Like how they always celebrated Christmas on the eve, not the day. How on New Year’s Eve, they’d run around the house outside, in the freezing cold, carrying a suitcase and wearing yellow underwear, traditions passed down from his grandparents to bring travel and fortune in the new year. And how his mom would immediately feel a sense of home when her foot hit the floor of the airport in
Maiquetía. Striped with red, blue, yellow, and black, the floor was famous, with its own Instagram hashtag. As he’d spoken, his eyes had been both happy and sad, for so many of their family traditions had waned as his mom’s career had grown.
Other times, he’d simply entertained her with one little-known fact after another. Like how rose hips were a good source of vitamin C and how one of the oldest fossils of roses discovered in Colorado dated back thirty-four million years.
He always had one ready, his memory for random tidbits fueled initially by his mom’s requirement that he be able to engage with anyone on anything. It had made them a good team on Ask an Angel; she didn’t have his patience for passive research or his speed at typing—his former speed.
She’d seen the sling.
The rumors were true.
No lacrosse.
No leading the team to state.
Leo being Leo, letting down his teammates would be tearing him up more than not playing himself.
One moment of distraction, and good-bye MVP. He’d been biking home from Maxine’s party when he’d flipped over the handlebars.
Guilt crept in, and Angeline elbowed it aside in a move she’d been perfecting since they’d broken up. She’d like to think she’d done a good job of successfully avoiding him, but she was pretty sure that was only because he was the one excelling at avoiding her.
But really, he had been her boyfriend. Who supposedly believed in her. Shouldn’t he have wanted to help her?
And, technically speaking, hadn’t she stayed true to her word?
Semantics.
Whatever, so maybe her literal interpretation didn’t give her a total pass, but how else was she supposed to keep Evelyn on the hook? Leo’s charisma was second only to her own. She’d needed him.
Now she was here.
Here with an invite to Evelyn’s Epic Everyday Boot Camp.
Here without Leo.
“Heard the call,” Gramps said, poking his head into the room. “Though the specifics on what exactly needs to be brought elude me.”
Cat smirked behind him. Sardines had to snuggle to be as close as those two. Same way Angeline had been with the grandmother she was named after. Grams had died a few years ago, about the same time as her dad had flaked, bolted, and his dad had moved in to take his place. A total upgrade.
“What’s up?” Cat said. “Get a new ad from a women’s mustache remover?” She flopped on her bed—or, rather, on the clothes and newspapers and old scrapbooks of Gramps’s articles on her bed.
Angeline cringed.
This was her studio. The backbone of Ask an Angel.
A perfect square, their bedroom was divided as equally as the Ikea furniture in it: two white dressers, two twin beds, two squat nightstands. While Cat’s side got the desk, Angeline’s had the teal faux-fur, bowl-shaped chair, courtesy of an Ask an Angel sponsor. Their mom had mandated that they agree on the common space, so there were no posters on the walls, no flashy paint colors, no constellations on the ceiling, despite how hard Angeline had pushed for that last one.
Angeline’s side was flawless, with her crisp white comforter, pink-and-white diamond curtains, and quirky Edison bulb lamp she’d found on Etsy.
But Cat’s side . . . threadbare comforter with a juvenile print that looked like a newspaper front page, a cheap plastic blind, and three LED lamps clipped to her bed frame. Books were strewn on the floor like a quilted rug, and pens and notebooks and highlighters poked out from under her pillow. Her sister kept her newsroom neat and orderly, yet she couldn’t even be bothered to clear peanut butter cup wrappers off her nightstand. Not passive-aggressive. Aggressive-aggressive. And gross. Not to mention unhealthy.
Gramps sat on the end of Angeline’s bed and let Tartan knead into his side. “Now, granddaughter, enlighten me.”
“I’m in.”
Cat’s head jerked up, and she almost seemed to smile before a look of indifference won out. “Mom’ll never let you go.”
Angeline squeezed her phone as if the Evelyn in her inbox could give her an encouraging hug back. “She has to.”
“She won’t,” Cat said.
“Unless . . .” Angeline ignored the eye roll Cat directed at their grandfather and focused on him. “Just hear me out. She trusts no one more than you. So you could maybe sorta help convince her?”
Gramps scratched Tartan behind his ears. “Flattery appreciated but not necessary. Because for you, my angel, I’ll do my best. Now go ask, and I’ll provide backup.”
Angeline frowned, but it was entirely fake, and they both knew it. He had a pass for life for stepping in to help her mom—his daughter-in-law—raise her and Cat. Especially since all her own father had managed to raise was a spoiled cockapoo with his new wife. He’d been remarried for four years, but she would always be new thanks to the Botox she infused by IV.
Botox Wife subscribed to her channel. Seriously? She was into barre and hashtagged half her spoken words and wore headbands with daisies on them to match her purse-sized pup. It was like having a unicorn for a stepmom. Not that Angeline saw her much. Or her dad. They’d moved to Los Angeles not long after the wedding to pursue his lifelong dream of being a famous musician and hers of being a famous musician’s wife.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” Angeline said, and her heart sank at channeling Leo. It was natural that they’d pick up a thing or two from each other after three years.
Three years, gone in one night.
All she had now was her future.
She squared her shoulders and headed down the hall toward her mom’s bedroom.
Bedroom slash law library slash PTA headquarters slash booster club mission control. Which, right now, was buried in glitter.
Her mom had thrown herself into two things after Angeline’s dad left: her paralegal job by day, and everything and anything associated with Angeline and Cat by night. She’d hand-sewn their Toy Story Halloween costumes even though they’d preferred something store-bought like everyone else. She’d belted out off-key “sun’ll come out tomorrow”s with Angeline to help her rehearse Annie Jr. And she still sat beside Cat, reading all three Sunday papers her sister had delivered every week.
It was as endearing as it was suffocating.
Angeline watched her mom glue a photo of last year’s casino night onto a piece of cardboard. Her bedroom door was always open—literally, her mom wanting to be available at a moment’s holler. Not that anyone needed to shout to be heard, what with the thin walls of this apartment they’d downsized to after her dad left.
Angeline prepared herself and said breezily, “Hey, hey, Mom.”
Her mom’s head popped up. “Well, hey there, yourself.” She propped the cardboard on its end. “How’s it looking? Brag board for back-to-school night.” The center photo was of Angeline and Leo, both modeling the new uniforms—her cheer, him lacrosse—that her mom’s fundraising had secured the previous year. Her mom followed Angeline’s gaze and smiled softly. “You know . . . it’s okay to admit you miss him, Ang.”
Her mom thought this would help. Getting Angeline to open up about Leo.
It wouldn’t.
As her mom tucked the board under one arm, Angeline considered the best strategy for asking about Evelyn’s Epic Everyday. The previous conversations, though hypothetical, had all ended in a real no.
“So,” Angeline started. “Want to grab dinner? Just the two of us?”
“Sorry, honey, but I can’t. Booster meeting.” She shouldered her grubby canvas messenger bag and made her way through the combination living room–dining room and into the galley kitchen, where she grabbed a protein bar. “This is all I have time for. I’ll split it with you, if you want.”
“I’m good,” Angeline said. “Actually . . . I’m great. You know that boot camp I was talking about?”
“No.”
“
The one with Evelyn’s Epic—”
“That’s not what my ‘no’ means.”
“But it’s over winter break and—”
“No.”
Angeline laced her long fingers together in front of her stomach and regrouped. “It’s totally safe. Lots of kids my age.”
“Well, lucky for them I’m not their mom.”
“But it’ll make me skyrocket!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“But . . . wait, what?”
“Angeline, is this really what you want your life to be?”
Angeline eyed the sequin border of the brag board and the gray streaking her mom’s dark brown bob.
Is this yours?
“Look, sweetheart,” her mom said, “you’re smart. Talented, obviously. But you need a real future. Not one you define by how many people click a thumbs-up symbol next to your picture.”
“This is a real future, Mom. Do you have any idea how much I could be earning?”
“And what do you have to give of yourself for it?”
“Don’t.” Angeline shook her head.
“I’m just saying . . . Leo—”
“No, Mom, just, no.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay then I can go?”
“No.”
Gramps cleared his throat from behind Angeline. “Might an ole fella have a say?”
Her mom sighed. “And he trots out the Irish accent. Why do I feel a gang-up coming on?”
Gramps winked. “I prefer ‘mediation.’ Now, Marie, is there something you’d like from Angeline in exchange?”
Her mom eyed the two of them and finally said, “In all the ways you’ve talked about this boot camp—”
“So, so, so many ways.” Cat slunk past Angeline and Gramps and entered the kitchen.
Her mom flattened one of Cat’s persistent cowlicks and said to Angeline, “One thing’s been missing. How much?”
“I’ve got it covered,” Angeline said. “I’ve been saving.”
“You’ve got enough?”
Sources Say Page 3
