by Sarah Price
Now she’s in high school. Her mom couldn’t afford to keep her in Catholic school so off she went to Morristown High. But I’m fairly certain that even high school kids aren’t supposed to use their phones during class. I guess Cassie’s teacher isn’t paying any attention to her.
Opening Cassie’s text, my eyes scan her message in a matter of nanoseconds:
OMG OMG OMG
Check out Aiden’s videos!
He just uploaded a new one!
It takes all of my willpower to not gasp. How is this possible? I just checked his account a few minutes ago!
Making certain that the sound is turned down, I click over to the video app. Sure enough, he must have uploaded it seconds after I left the bathroom. I feel like Aiden and I are on the same wavelength, as if he posted this video just for me. I fight the urge to weep with joy. Then, when I realize that Cassie saw it first, I get mad. How does she know about Aiden? And then it dawns on me: she joined Instagram too, she’s stalking my IG account, and she must have noticed that I liked a bunch of his videos. Now she’s moving in on him? A cowboy? She hardly even rides horses, just hangs out at the barn with me and Jamie!
Furiously, I type at the keyboard:
He’s mine. Totally serious.
Will get ugly. Back off.
Find your own guy to like.
After I hit send, I glare at the wall, still angry at her lack of originality. Why can’t she find her own Instagrammer to like? And a rodeo cowboy to boot! She could have picked anyone else on social media: a singer, a comedian, even that talentless Matthew what’s-his-name. Why did she have to pick Aiden Quinn? Hashtag: Copycat!
My phone vibrates in my hand and I glance down to read her response:
OMG! SHUT UP and
just watch the video!
She has a point. Still, next-door neighbor or not, I see a demise in our friendship over this betrayal.
Trying to be covert, I glance over my shoulder at the nurse who is still preoccupied before I click the play and mute button. He’s with three girls, each riding a horse. They look like they’re on a trail ride, but the girls are singing. Singing loud. And pop music at that. Clearly Aiden is unhappy—everyone knows he loves country music!—as he pans the camera and then looks toward the two girls to his left. He rolls his eyes as his gaze settles on the camera and then he smiles.
Oh, he’s just so adorable!
Since it’s only a six-second video, it keeps automatically replaying. And I let it.
I must have sighed out loud because Nurse Hailey walks up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “What’s that, Cat?”
“Oh, I ... uh ...” I try to hide the phone. My nonchalant move, however, doesn’t escape her.
“Relax, kiddo.” She laughs and gives my shoulder a little squeeze. “What’re you looking at?”
“Aiden Quinn,” I say. “He’s a horse rider. He does videos on Instagram.”
At this, she looks perplexed.
“You know, Instagram? The social media app?” I try to explain it to her, but she doesn’t grasp the idea of sharing photos and videos. Rather than try to explain it again, I show her the horse video that I watched on my birthday. She laughs. Then I show her another video, which makes her smile. But she doesn’t say anything.
“Isn’t he just super ’dorbs? And his horses ... hashtag: swoon.”
“He seems to have quite the sense of humor,” she admits. “And pretty horses, too.”
I give her the stink eye. Do I have to worry about her falling for him too? Like Cassie? But then the coast is clear as she’s already turned her attention to the boy sitting to my right and complaining of a sore throat.
The phone in my hand seems to be on fire, and I have no choice but to obsessively watch all of the videos. With a swipe of my thumb, I try to scroll up, but there are no other recent videos. I should have swiped down instead so I could watch more of the older videos on Instagram. But my misguided swipe shows me something else, a new number under his profile picture: 11,895 followers.
“Oh, no!” I jump down from the stool and stare at the phone. This can’t be happening. This simply can’t! This is a disaster!
“Cat? You okay?”
I hardly hear the nurse. Instead, my head is filled with another noise, the noise of screaming girls—almost twelve thousand of them, to be exact—and all screaming for my Aiden Quinn. How am I supposed to get him to notice me now? A quick scan of their comments and I know that the competition has just increased exponentially.
“Cat?”
I glance up. “Uh yeah, I’m fine. I just ... uh ... just forgot that we have a Spanish test. Can I go back to class now?”
The nurse gives me one of those looks, knowing that Ms. Strayer usually doesn’t let bleeders back into the classroom. But, rather than stop me, Nurse Hailey simply nods her head.
I just need to walk, to pace a little bit so that I can figure this out. Just a few days ago, there were only three thousand, one hundred and thirty-three girls competing with me for Aiden’s attention. Now that number has almost quadrupled! My heart races as I realize that all of those followers are going to get in my way. They might even see themselves as the future Mrs. Aiden Quinn!
The thought of sharing him with so many other girls makes me stop and begin hyperventilating in the middle of the hallway.
After I calm down, I know there is only one thing to do: find a way for Aiden Quinn to follow me. It’s my new life mission. Now, if I could only figure out how to get him to notice me. After all, even though he’s a social media star, he’s also a real cowboy with a real talent and a real personality. From Colorado to boot! I found that fact out just the other day. How on earth can I get him to not only notice me but to follow me on social media?
With my head full of ideas, I start walking again. One little follow, that’s all I want. How hard can it be to get one follow from one guy? I wonder.
Opening the door to Mrs. Strayer’s classroom (which is no longer dark, by the way) I slip inside, more determined than ever that I can do this. I’m going to show those other girls that I, not them, am indeed his biggest fan!
CHAPTER FIVE
The Cafeteria
Ever since I caught Leslie stealing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from Davey Farmer’s lunch box in third grade, we haven’t gotten along. Her mother is neurotic about Leslie’s peanut allergy, to the point that she practically hosed down everyone during Leslie’s third grade birthday party at the Laugh Plex. I caught onto Leslie’s game shortly thereafter and taunted her with my PB&Js in the cafeteria. She’d cry to the lunchroom aide, but I never got in trouble.
Not with the school anyway.
It did create an ongoing rift between us. Between the PB&Js and my mom’s crappy birthday present, our relationship was roadkill.
Big deal.
The line was drawn in the sand over four years ago. It’s Team Leslie versus Team Cat. The only problem is that her posse is an awful lot bigger than mine. In fact, mine contains exactly two people: Cassie, of course, and this Indian girl named Amala Patel. We’re school friends, but we don’t hang out otherwise. She’s been loyal to me ever since two boys made fun of her accent and I punched them. I hate bullies almost as much as I hate Leslie Murphy!
So at lunch a couple days after my visit with the nurse, when I catch Leslie looking over my shoulder to see what I’m watching on my phone, she simply crosses the line.
“Hey!” I flip my phone over, pressing it against my chest, annoyed (as always) at her. My small posse puffs out their chests as if they’re going to protect me, which we all know they’re not. Both of them are smaller than me, and compared to Leslie, I’m a shrimp. Her 120 pounds could take my 99 pounds any day of the week. “Nosy!”
“Are you on Insta?”
I hate the sound of her voice. It’s “uncultivated,” as my mom would say. I can honestly say she has a weird accent, which sounds an awful lot like one of those television women in a sitcom that takes place
in Brooklyn. “That’s classified information!” I say, lifting my hand in the air as if pushing her away. “And you most definitely do not have security clearance!”
My two friends snicker, and I remind myself to comment on their Instagrams later in appreciation of their support.
“O. M. G.”
I cringe. Leslie actually says the letters with long, drawn-out pauses in between each of them, just like my mother does. It’s almost as if she is sounding out the punctuation. How uncool is that? Leslie thinks she’s such a trendsetter. Hashtag: fail.
“D. U. H.” I spell back at her. Two can play at that game. “Just go away.” I flick my hand at her. “Shoo! Go away! Be gone!”
“I saw you looking at Aiden’s videos.” Leslie flips her hair and stares across the cafeteria with a bored look on her face.
I do my best not to catch my breath. How dare she! How does Leslie Murphy, the meanest girl in school, even know about Aiden Quinn? He is, after all, my secret discovery and cannot, by any means, be tainted by the likes of her! And why on earth would Leslie follow Aiden? She doesn’t ride horses. Well, at least not until last summer when her mother enrolled her in summer camp at my stepfather’s stables.
Immediately, I stop, frozen at the thought. Could she possibly have heard me talking about Aiden Quinn? Is she one his new followers? Perhaps she is #3,135!
I almost feel physically ill at the thought.
When I think about Leslie Murphy watching Aiden’s Instagram videos, laughing at his antics, especially when he makes his horse sit down on a bale of hay, I feel sorry for Aiden.
No. It’s impossible to stomach her watching any one of his videos. It would contaminate Aiden. If I still believed in cooties, this would be a clear-cut transmission! I must protect Aiden’s health and throw her off from the scent of his trail.
“You saw nothing!” Even I don’t believe my own words. My voice sounds forced, and I’m sure she knows that I’m lying. If only I hadn’t gritted my teeth when I said it.
“Oh please!” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she drawls out the words in a lame attempt to sound Southern, something she is clearly not. “I found your silly cowboy, Aiden, on Instagram over six months ago, Cat!”
Now it’s my turn to know that she’s lying. Aiden only began posting on Instagram two months ago. Liar, liar, pants on fire!
But Leslie is living her lie.
“I also saw all of your comments on his other videos. Believe me, Cat, you can tag him in a zillion photos of you on a pony or horse, and he’ll never follow you. You’re insignificant and he is, too!”
The line is crossed. She can talk about me all she wants, but how dare she speak about my Aiden Quinn in such a tone? I jump to my feet, and before I realize what I’m doing, I push her. The cafeteria descend into silence as Leslie does a slow-mo onto her butt, on the icky ketchup-stained floor. Her skirt flies over her knees, and her mousy blond hair actually gets stepped on by an innocent bystander. She tries to yank her head free, but the kid is too terrified to move. Everyone can see her flowered underwear, and I hear a few snickers from the nearest table.
“Cat!”
I can’t even turn around. It just can’t be true. After a long run of being the golden child, the one who never gets in trouble (except for when I refused to tell Mom about having to go potty), am I seriously being called out by Mrs. Rittani? I cringe and shut my eyes. What is it Mom always says? Count your nightmares away? One, two, three ...
“Get over here, young lady.”
Oh, help! Now I’m being called a lady which, clearly, excludes pushing down Leslie and her mean nastiness. I glare at Leslie, but to my further dismay, she smirks at me, which adds insult to injury.
I turn around and face the judges, or, in this case, Mrs. Rittani.
“Did I just see you shove Leslie?”
Everything is silent. How am I supposed to respond to this question? Denial is fruitless and admittance is stupid.
“Why would you do such a thing?” she asks in a very stern voice.
I feel my right butt cheek vibrate. That can mean only one of two things. Either Cassie texted me or Aiden posted another video on Instagram. I don’t even stop and think. My hand snakes around my back and reaches for my phone. I just can’t help myself. After all, who is more important: Mrs. Rittani and her stupid “don’t shove Leslie for being rude” rule or my hot cowboy Aiden?
Duh.
Aiden.
“Catherine Alice Lansing!”
I cringe. Ever since my mother gave an anti-bullying speech at school, everyone thinks they have the right to call me out. Using my full name ... well, no one but my mom has that right. Of course, now that I’m knee-deep in alligators (another fav expression from my try-to-be-cool Mom), I can’t say that out loud. I have to face the firing squad.
As I turn to face Mrs. Rittani, I realize that everyone in the cafeteria is staring at me. Even booger-eating Davie Farmer, which is saying a lot. There’s no way to gracefully get out of this one. So, like my mom always says, honesty is the best policy. I blurt out, “It’s ... it’s Aiden!” I point to my iPhone. “Aiden Quinn just posted another video!” From the corner of my eye, I recognize them ... the dozens of girls who know who he is. They pounce on their phones as if I just announced that tryouts for America’s Got Voice were being held after school in the auditorium.
I roll my eyes.
But then, I sadly realize that they’re all going to see the video before I am!
Argh. Why did I announce that?
“You, my dear, need to give me that phone,” Mrs. Rittani says without really meaning the my dear part. Her crablike hand reaches out for my dearest possession. “Now!”
I stare at her hand and then lift my eyes to her face. She’s old, too old to handle the precious portal that keeps me connected to ... him. Despite knowing that the entire student body is staring at me, waiting for me to back down like a good seventh grader, I simply cannot. Aiden, of all people, would understand.
“No.”
In my mind, I can hear two hundred thousand other fangirls applaud. I have just taken the first step at unionizing our movement. No one, not Leslie the Weasel Murphy nor Mrs. Rat-ti-poopy-head-tani nor anyone else, can stop this movement.
But sadly, there is no real applause. The collective gasp from the other students tells me that, perhaps, I may have stepped over the line.
“What. Did. You. Say?” Her words are like breathless puffs of air. She’s mad and I’m doomed. In the history of our middle school, no one has ever stood up to Mrs. Rittani. My mom told me so because, thirty bazillion years ago, my mom actually had her as a teacher! That’s how old Mrs. Rittani is! And right now, her face is beet red, and for a moment, I think her head might just explode. Instead, she narrows her eyes at me and lowers her voice. “You go down to the principal, young lady.”
Hmm. I’m being called a young lady again. That might be worse than her shouting out my middle name. I’m doomed. There’s simply no escaping this situation. Apparently saying “No” to wretched Rittani eliminates the layer of protection from punishment that I usually claim, thanks to my mom being so involved in the school. I’m flying solo now so I don’t risk any more mouthiness. Still, I let my insolence be known by stomping through the cafeteria on my way to the principal.
Except I don’t continue on my path.
As soon as I’m out of sight of the lunch aide police, I dart into an empty classroom and slide my finger across the bottom of my phone’s screen. I must see whether it’s a text or a new video. Aiden is making me break all of the rules. I wonder what my stepdad Marcus will have to say about that!
But I don’t care. Right now, I have to see Aiden.
My heart pitter pats when I see it’s a video. One of his friends is carrying a red plastic tray from the lunchroom. What a coincidence, I think to myself. Our school’s trays are red, too! Just one more similarity between us!
Aiden is wearing one of those white netted hats that the
lunch ladies always wear. He has a funny expression on his face as he mimics a cranky food server. I laugh because I know the type. Every school has one serving food at the lunch counter. With an exaggerated motion, Aiden pretends to scoop slop onto the other kid’s white plate. The kid looks down, his eyes widening at the gross mystery meal, and then looks back at Aiden, who gives him a sinister grin, one that accentuates his adorable dimples.
Sigh.
I let the video loop about ten times before I snap out of my Aiden Quinn–induced coma. How is it possible for someone to be so cute and funny? In my school, the boys are either one or the other ... or neither! I just know that if Aiden knew about how much I idolize him, he would follow me too.
A lightbulb goes off in my head.
Immediately, I click the smiley face icon before commenting on the video:
Got sent to principal today for watching IG. Worth it to see @AidenQuinn video! #Aidenfangirl
I wonder if he’ll see it. It’s cryptic enough that maybe, just maybe, he’ll direct-message me. A girl can dream, can’t she? I shut my eyes and hug my phone to my chest. I would do just about anything for a direct message. The thought of him actually following me on Twitter—actually seeing the words FOLLOWS YOU after his name—is enough to make me forget that I still have to deal with the principal.
Almost forget, anyway.
My vision of Aiden, with his dark eyes and adorable smile, vanishes.
My mother will be furious. There’s no doubt she’ll take away my phone. Not my phone! I can’t be separated from Aiden. Inside, I’m screaming, trying to figure out a way to get out of this. My options are limited. I could walk around the hallways for a while and hope that Rittani forgets the whole incident (unlikely), or I can take my chances that the principal will laugh and think it’s funny (doubtful) or maybe Mom won’t make a big deal of it (unimaginable).
