by Donna Cooner
DEZIREA: TOO LATE NOW. HAVEN’T TAKEN LESSONS IN A WHILE. DAD THOUGHT IT WASN’T A GOOD INVESTMENT. NOW I’M TOO OLD AT 16.
SIENNA: MISTY COPELAND DIDN’T START BALLET UNTIL SHE WAS 13.
DEZIREA: HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? *IMPRESSED*
SIENNA: I’M A HUGE FAN.
SIENNA: MAYBE YOUR MOM CAN CONVINCE YOUR DAD ABOUT THE LESSONS.
I cringe, realizing I may have slipped up. Sienna wouldn’t know Dezirea’s mom always talks her dad into spoiling her, but I do. When she turned seven, Dezirea wanted a carnival-themed birthday party. Her mom was the one who finally convinced her father to rent tents, face painters, and even a pony.
DEZIREA: MY MOM LIVES FIVE HOURS AWAY.
When did this happen?
SIENNA: YOUR PARENTS ARE DIVORCED?
DEZIREA: YES. LAST YEAR.
I’m not sure what to say. The pause must make her realize I’m uncomfortable.
DEZIREA: IT’S OKAY. THEY’RE HAPPIER APART. BELIEVE ME.
But are you happier? I want to ask.
DEZIREA: WHAT ABOUT YOUR PARENTS?
SIENNA: THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER.
I can’t imagine them not. They argue, but there is never any doubt they love each other.
DEZIREA: ANY SIBLINGS?
SIENNA: I HAVE A SISTER. SHE WENT TO COLLEGE THIS YEAR.
DEZIREA: YOU MISS HER?
So, so much.
SIENNA: YES, I DO.
It’s the first time I’ve actually told anyone. Only it’s not really me sharing my feelings. Or is it? Where does Sienna stop and I start?
DEZIREA: MY LITTLE BROTHER IS IN MIDDLE SCHOOL. HE’S TAKING THE PARENT SPLIT PRETTY HARD, BUT HE TRIES TO PLAY THE WHOLE TOUGH GUY THING AND KEEPS IT ALL INSIDE.
I blink in surprise. I remember Dezirea’s little brother as a skinny, annoying pest. Most of the time she was trying to get rid of him, but now she worries about him.
DEZIREA: I LIKE THAT I CAN TELL YOU THIS WITHOUT FEELING LIKE A COMPLETE IDIOT ABOUT IT.
SIENNA: IF YOU EVER NEED TO VENT, I’M YOUR GIRL. EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEONE TO TALK TO.
Maybe this is wrong. Maybe I’m wrong.
DEZIREA: IT’D BE GREAT TO MEET YOU IRL.
SIENNA: YOU TOO.
DEZIREA: THEN LET’S DO IT!
SIENNA: WHAT? WHEN?
DEZIREA: TONIGHT! COME HANG OUT WITH ME AND MY CREW.
I can’t believe what I’m reading. The most popular girl in the sophomore class just invited my imaginary shape-shifting self to hang out. My heart aches a little for what could have been. If I looked like Sienna, I could go. And maybe have a great time. I’ll never know. I don’t want to turn Dezirea down, though. Instead, I offer an alternative I’m sure she won’t accept.
SIENNA: I CAN’T TONIGHT. I COULD COME TO TOWN TOMORROW AFTERNOON, BUT I NEED TO PICK UP A DRESS AT H&M AT THE MALL. WHY DON’T YOU MEET ME THERE?
Good. That makes Sienna seem busy and just a little bit elusive. Dezirea expects people to jump at her every request.
DEZIREA: SURE. WHAT TIME?
Oh. My. God. Power rush. I do a fist pump. Yes. This is a horribly dreadful game I’m playing, but I can’t stop now. Because it’s working. She’s actually going to ditch her friends to come meet me … I mean Sienna? I feel like I have superpowers and it is amazing.
The next afternoon, I sit on a bench outside H&M waiting to see if Dezirea actually shows up. Maybe she’s as big a fake as I am. A round old man with an equally elderly corgi stroll past slowly. The corgi stops to sniff at my foot and I reach down to pet his head. They both eventually totter off toward Macy’s and I look up to see Dezirea walking right toward me.
I stare at her like an idiot, mouth open. No way.
Way.
She holds her phone in her hand and her head is bowed, eyes glued to the screen. I sink down into the bench, trying to make myself smaller and less conspicuous. The air tastes thick and I’m having a hard time breathing. But then I remember that even if she sees me, she won’t know I’m Sienna. She walks past and into the store without once looking up from her phone. I am invisible. My shoulders relax into the new reality.
I just made Dezirea Davis come to the Foothills Mall. How could this happen? How could I do this? Me? The lowest person in the whole social strata of high school has somehow manipulated the most popular person on the planet to do exactly what I want. In this instant, I am no more. New skin. New face. New life. New friends.
The moment feels so right, so perfect. The sparkly wonder of it all is only slightly tainted with guilt. Everyone knows the best superheroes have a dark side.
I walk out to my car in the parking lot. When I get behind the wheel and close the door, I can’t help but think what it would be like to meet Dezirea at the mall as me—as the friends we once were. Without lies or pretend faces. I stare out the window and think about how much better that would feel. It takes me a full minute and it makes my heart hurt a little. I exhale shakily, then start the car.
At home, I open the front door and walk inside, slipping off my sneakers and placing them beside my mom’s shoes. The custom of removing our shoes when entering the house is one of my father’s Filipino influences we all abide by. When I glance up, there is a girl about my age standing in the hallway. I blink. She looks familiar, but I don’t know her.
Or do I?
She turns to face me and smiles, tucking her dark blonde hair behind one ear. Her dress is the color of lime sherbet—a pale, bright color I would never wear—and shows off her slim body to perfection.
Wait. No. It can’t be.
My breath is coming short.
She wears strappy sandals that perfectly match the shade of her dress, her toenails bright pink and newly pedicured.
No. This can’t be happening.
“Maisie,” my mom says, coming into the hallway with a woman about her age, who has graying blonde hair. I barely see either of them. “You remember my colleague, Professor Zimmerman? Beth, you remember my daughter, Maisie?”
The woman beside Mom smiles. “You’re so grown up! Last time I saw you, you were a little kid.”
I can’t answer.
“We’re working on that Department of Education grant that needs to go out next week,” Mom tells me.
I hear my mom speaking, but nothing is really sinking in. All I can do is stare at the girl in front of me.
“And this is her daughter, Claire,” Mom goes on. “You guys are the same age, so I told Beth to bring Claire along today since they were driving up from Denver. I thought you two could hang out together while Beth and I work.”
Beth beams at me. “Isn’t that a terrific idea?” she asks.
It is a horrible idea.
Because Claire is THE Claire. The girl I found on ChitChat. The girl I thought I had no connection to. The girl I chose to be the face of Sienna.
She’s here, in my house.
“So it’s okay with you?” Claire asks me, looking utterly unimpressed.
Sienna is here. In the flesh. Real. I glance around, as if someone from school might somehow see her. As if I need to hide her away.
“Why don’t you take Claire up to your room?” My mom waves us toward the stairs, making me feel like I’m about six years old and having a playdate. Claire’s mother, Beth, is already spreading papers across our dining room and pulling out a laptop from her briefcase.
I want to scream, but instead take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts.
“Follow me,” I tell Sienna—or rather, Claire.
I lead the way up the stairs, hearing Claire walking behind me, but not wanting to look back over my shoulder.
This isn’t happening. Think. Think. Think.
When we walk into my room, Claire does a quick assessment, then immediately goes to my desk. She looks at the pictures on the wall, then down at the sketches spread out over the desk.
“So what is all this … stuff?” Her hands are on her perfectly normal-sized hips, and she leans in to look closer
like she’s peering at some animal in a zoo.
I take a deep gulp of air, my words fast and tight before I need to take another breath. “They’re just some of my drawings.”
She waits for me to say more, but I can’t stop staring at her. She is taller than I thought she’d be from her photos. The top of my head only reaches her eye level. I can’t help but notice the differences between her and me. I’m short; she’s tall. I have dark hair; she is blonde. I am fat. She’s … not.
She looks back at me over her shoulder, shocked. “You did these?”
I nod. The strange sensation of watching her mouth move and actual words coming out of her face is mesmerizing. She isn’t supposed to be real.
“Seriously?”
She’s so interested in the drawings, she has no idea I’m staring at her like she’s suddenly morphed into a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. I nod again.
“Wow. This is amazeballs,” she exclaims. She picks up a few of my Froot Loops sketches from the desk, scrutinizing them carefully. “So you’re like an artist?”
I notice Claire starts almost every sentence with the word so. Sienna would never do that. It’s annoying. “Something like that,” I say.
Claire carefully lays the pictures back on the desk, then points at my bulletin board full of Lexi Singh prints. “What’s this?”
“Lexi Singh? She’s a famous graphic artist. The television show Nosy Parker is based on her comics. Do you know it?”
“Of course I watch that show. Everyone does. It’s lit.” Her blue eyes get huge, staring back at me. “Do you know her?”
“No, but she went to my high school. She’s coming back for homecoming next week. I’m going to try to meet her.”
Claire fake hits me on the shoulder. “Get out!”
I like the fact that I’m impressing her, but she’s so different from the cool, calm Sienna I created. She plops down on my bed, not waiting for an invitation. I sit at my desk across the room from her.
“So where do you go to school?” I watch Claire/Sienna’s mouth move, but there is a delay in my comprehension. This must be what Dr. Frankenstein felt like when he saw his monster come to life. Only Claire looks nothing like a monster.
“I’m a sophomore at Fort Collins High School,” I finally say. “You?”
“I go to Denver West High School, for now,” she says, lying back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “But we might be moving here.”
My heart stops. “Why?” I blurt out.
“My mom might get transferred.” She shrugs. “Do you like it here?”
No. It’s horrible. And you would hate it. I swallow hard to keep from blurting everything out in a panic. Instead I say, “It’s a pretty small town compared to Denver. Not nearly as much to do.”
She nods, sitting back up to look at me. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mom keeps trying to convince me, but I’m totally against it.”
Within seconds her phone is in her hand and she’s scrolling, head down, like I’m not even here. I wait, feeling like I’ve been emptied out and filled with helium.
“What’s your ChitChat account?” Claire asks me, her eyes still glued to her screen.
“I don’t have one,” I lie. It’s an automatic response. I have to keep Claire as far away as I can from everyone who might recognize her as Sienna.
She glances up from her phone and rolls her eyes. “Everyone has one.”
“Not me.” I chew on my lower lip, thinking. This needs to be believable so she won’t go searching for me online. I say, “I want to spend all my extra time on my art.”
“That makes sense. You know … for you.” She gives me an I-feel-sorry-for-you look, then buries her head back in her phone.
I stare at her, transfixed, and chew on a nail.
Suddenly, Claire snaps to, holding one hand over her mouth and waving the other wildly in my direction. “Oh. My. God. So I have the most absolutely brilliant idea.”
I’m nervous. “What?”
“Do you think you could draw me as one of your comic book characters? Like Nosy Parker.” Claire claps her hands together like a two-year-old. “My friends would die.”
She stretches out the word die into about ten syllables.
I blink, an idea slowly starting to form in my buzzy mind. A perfectly awful idea. I push it away, but it comes back stronger and more defined. My brain feels like it’s on fire.
I open my mouth, but my throat closes up on the words. I swallow, then say, “I’d need to take some photos. You know, to refer back to when I’m drawing you.”
She nods, her eyes wide. “Totally.”
I look at the floor, acting like I’m thinking it over, but I know my mind is already made up. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Claire squeals, rolls over, and buries her head in my Wonder Woman pillow. She flutter-kicks her feet excitedly against my comforter. When she finally pulls the pillow off her head, she says, “I can’t believe I’m going to be superhuman!”
I know how you feel.
I can’t believe you’re human.
“This is so cool. I might even make it my profile pic.”
“Cool,” I echo, grabbing my phone. “Can I start taking pictures?”
“Sure.” Claire giggles. “Like I’ve ever turned down a photo op.”
Why should you?
Claire poses while I snap tons of pictures. I figure I’ll filter out anything identifying in the background, but for now I just enjoy the feeling of breaking through my hopelessness. In one picture, Claire sits cross-legged on my black checked throw rug smiling up at the camera. In another, she reads at my desk, looking super studious. In still another, she looks pensively out the window at the fall leaves. That’s my favorite so far, but the view gives me more ideas.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I say. “The perfect backdrop. How about we take some pics outside?”
Luckily, Owen and Grace, who live nearest to me, are not around today; Owen is helping Grace out at the Humanity house. So neither of them would have any reason to drive past. Plus, I know Jesse is at football practice. And Dezirea is probably still at the mall.
Claire nods.
I look at her, eyes squinting. “Can you take your hair down?”
Clair doesn’t question my choice. She immediately pulls out a mirror from her bag and goes to work on restyling her hair.
“Maybe a little eyeliner?” I suggest, and she nods enthusiastically, pulling out a makeup bag from her Kate Spade straw purse. I feel like a creative director, watching her apply eye shadow and helping select the right shade of gloss.
On the way out the door, she asks, “Coat or no coat?”
“Definitely coat,” I say. It’s time to mix up the outfits for the pictures.
I take more photos outside. Claire leaning against a tree. Claire sitting on a picnic table. Then I film some short action videos of Claire laughing and throwing leaves toward the camera. I even give her some lines to say.
“This time say Wish you were here,” I call out from behind my phone.
Claire doesn’t even ask why. “Wish you were here,” she calls out as she tosses the leaves above her head.
Later, we hang out in my bedroom eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I’ve now gotten more used to Sienna’s—Claire’s—presence. It feels almost normal that she’s here.
Almost.
“So there’s a school dance next weekend,” she says.
“Sounds like fun,” I say, trying to seem interested. All I want to do is look at the photos and select the perfect ones for Sienna to post.
“The football players may not be there. It’s just not cool enough for them.”
“Okay,” I say, because I’m not sure what she wants from me.
“So I’m thinking I won’t go.” Claire meets my gaze over a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She sits up on one elbow.
“Why?” I ask.
Claire looks disappointed and sighs heavily, as if just having a polit
e conversation with someone like me is a major triumph. Now that the camera is no longer focused on her, we don’t have much in common. She shrugs. “What would be the point?”
To dance. To have fun. To listen to music.
Claire’s phone buzzes and she reads a text. “Ashley wants me to send a picture of you. She doesn’t believe I’m really going to be a comic book star.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t like pictures.”
Claire eyes me, her brows furrowed. “Because … you know … you’re plus-sized?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Because of that.”
“So I read this article last week on Bustle and it was all about body positivity. You should read it.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, picking up my phone and scrolling through the photos I took earlier. Claire looks beautiful in every one, even when she’s not posing. She is the perfect Sienna in every way.
“So there were pictures of this really fat … I mean big … girl doing all these yoga poses and she was great just the way she was.” Claire smiles at me. “You just have to realize you are beautiful on the inside. Looks don’t matter.”
Pretty girls are allowed to say that. Maybe they even believe it.
I stop scrolling and look up from my phone. Trying my best not to lose it, I close my eyes and exhale. Unfortunately, when I open them I see Claire polishing off her last bite of sandwich and I go off. I can’t control the tone of my voice.
“Looks matter, Claire,” I say bitterly. “If someone posts a photo of me online, I immediately get random comments that I’m fat or ugly. Sometimes that I’m fat and ugly. Sometimes the comments are from complete strangers who just need to share their opinion with the world, and sometimes they are from the people I pass in the hallway at school every day.”
Claire seems surprised at my response, but she manages to interrupt me. “So I get comments on my photos, too. Not everybody likes them.”
“You still don’t get it. I know I’m not supposed to care. I know I should shake it off. But they make memes of me.” I put my hands down on the desk and lean into Claire’s face. “How would you like to be someone’s worst insult?”
Claire meets my outburst with confused silence. She honestly has no idea what I’m talking about. And she never will.
