She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  “I don’t really need another method of advertising. I already have a website, and word of mouth has been getting me plenty of work. I told you, I’ve had to turn customers away.”

  “Yeah, but have you been offered a book deal?”

  A moment of silence, then she said, “Ellie B. got a book deal?”

  “No-Stress Decluttering comes out in June.”

  I heard the distinct tap of fingertips on a computer keyboard and envisioned her sitting at her desk in her immaculate home office, scrolling through what I’m sure were tens of thousands of Google search results for Ellie B.

  She grunted. “Her work is good.”

  “It’s nothing you’re not already doing and can’t do better. You could totally become an Instagram-famous organizer.”

  She grunted again. “How did she even get that many followers?”

  “Maybe she manifested them into existence.”

  “Oh, you read the book?” Her voice was suddenly chipper.

  “From cover to cover.”

  “Isn’t Demi DiPalma a genius?”

  Genius was a strong word, but I went with it anyway. “Totally. I’m following the action plan, just like you asked. This vision board thing—”

  “Wait, Bree, hold on a sec.” A ruckus had broken out on Natasha’s end. Izzy’s giggles echoed in the background, then seemed to multiply, followed by a resonant crash. “I gotta go. Izzy’s got a couple of friends over. They’re decorating cookies and it’s becoming more of a mess than I can handle.”

  “Go, I’ll talk to you later,” I said. “Love you.”

  “Love you. Isabella! I leave you alone for thirty seconds and this is what—” The call ended, cutting her off midscold.

  My screen reverted to Instagram, where a little pink dot in the corner alerted me to a new comment. It was on my selfie, the one I’d taken last night while I was dreaming about kissing Trey, from an account called @kissyfacelips.

  Love the smile, girl. DM us if you’d like to collab.

  I had to read it a few times before it made sense. “DM us if you’d like to collab.” That sounded like something a business would ask an influencer. I pulled up the profile for @kissyfacelips.

  Kissy Face

  The lip gloss everyone’s talking about.

  Soft, sexy, shiny. 24 shades.

  http://kissy-face-lips.co

  There was no blue checkmark, but they did have over a thousand followers. Plus, the website was professionally done and seemed completely aboveboard.

  Surely, though, this comment was a mistake. With my sixty-four followers, Kissy Face couldn’t deem me worthy of professional collaboration.

  Could they?

  There was only one way to find out. I DM’d them.

  Hi!

  Your lip gloss looks amazing.

  I’d love to collab.

  What did you have in mind?

  Hi Bree!

  We’re about to kick off a campaign featuring nano-influencers with unique profiles, and we’d love to have you participate. All you’d have to do is post a pic of you wearing our brand-new shade, Burgundy Wine, while prominently displaying the tube—and don’t forget to hashtag it #kissyfacelipgloss.

  If interested, please DM us your preferred address and we’ll ship it to you—free of charge!

  xo Kissy Face

  Nano-influencer.

  I’d never heard that word before, but apparently, I was one. It sounded completely ridiculous.

  Or did it?

  Either way, I sent Kissy Face my address. Who was I to say no to free lip gloss?

  My stomach growled, obnoxious and insistent, like it had last night in front of Trey. Time to start thinking about dinner. Since all that was left in my kitchenette after The Great Purge were condiments and ice cream, a trip to the grocery store was in order. This would be the perfect opportunity to try out my new bike.

  Outside, I extricated it from its home under the stairs, then pedaled off toward Foodmart. It had been years since I rode a bicycle, but the old saying proved to be true: you never forget. In a matter of minutes, I was zooming down Cass Street with the wind in my hair.

  Whenever I shopped for groceries, I only bought the bare necessities: ramen, coffee, protein bars, whatever brand of ice cream happened to be on sale. But today, I was feeling slightly more indulgent. I don’t know if it was all the purging I’d done, or the fact that I had an extra $267 in my bank account thanks to that scrap-yard check, but I was in the mood to treat myself.

  Instead of ramen, I splurged on organic pasta bowls. Not only did I get the extra-large canister of Folgers, but I also selected a delectable French Vanilla creamer to go with it. I even passed through the produce section and picked up a few Asian pears, which were criminally expensive but insanely delicious.

  On my way to check out, I passed the flower buckets. Right in front of me, there was a huge bouquet of round, pink peonies, exactly like the ones in the photo I’d posted to my vision board.

  It felt like a sign from the universe.

  The blooms looked so pretty sticking out of the top of my grocery bag as it dangled from the handlebars of the bicycle. I smiled the whole ride home, thinking again how lucky I was to live in this neighborhood, to breathe this fresh salty air.

  Sure, my life was far from ideal, but it could definitely be worse, and it was getting better every day. I made this month’s rent money, I was about to start a new job, and I’d manifested a free lip gloss into my life. Not too shabby, if you asked me.

  Turning onto Beryl Street, I passed by the blue bungalow, where Trey was outside hanging his wet suit from the eaves.

  The click of the bike gears caught his attention, and I slowed to a stop in front of his fence. “Sweet ride,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I tucked my hair behind my ear as he approached, his hazel eyes scanning me from head to toe.

  “I guess your foot’s feeling better.”

  “A lot better. It’s still a little sore to the touch, but compared to last night, it’s nothing. Thanks again for everything.”

  He waved away the gratitude. “Like I said, it was my pleasure.”

  We stood in silence, on opposite sides of the white picket fence, but close enough to touch. There were words trapped in the base of my throat, pinned in place by fear. Fear of failure, fear of judgment, fear of rejection.

  But if I was ever going to make any progress in this life, I would have to pretend those fears didn’t exist.

  “I’d like to take you up on your offer,” I said. “To help me get more comfortable in the water.”

  A smile spread across his face, eyes crinkling. “Awesome! Let’s do it. I’m booked with lessons pretty much all day tomorrow, but what about Monday?”

  I was about to say yes, until I remembered my virtual onboarding session with HandyMinion. “I have a meeting on Monday morning. It’s a new job, so I’m not sure how long it’ll take or what my schedule’s gonna be like.”

  “Okay, no worries.” He pulled his phone from the pocket of his board shorts. “What’s your number? I’ll text you later this week and we can figure something out.”

  He tapped my number into his phone, then I walked my bike back home with what felt like a million fairy wings fluttering in my chest.

  Inside, I put my groceries away, then trimmed the stems off the peonies and arranged them in a vase I’d found while I was cleaning out my cabinets. I removed the aloe plant from the windowsill, and replaced it with the flowers, adjusting the petals against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Then I stepped back and took in the scene.

  It wasn’t quite like the photo on my vision board—not quite Instagram-worthy—but it was a pretty good start.

  Chapter 11

  Monday morning marked the beginning of a brand-new phase of my life: t
he HandyMinion phase.

  The onboarding process began at 9 a.m. and was easily completed from the comfort of my futon. All I had to do was attend a webinar explaining the ground rules of HandyMinion life—Don’t harass your clients! No swearing on the job! Keep your PayPal account active to ensure timely compensation!—and then take a few multiple-choice quizzes with glaringly obvious answers.

  Only sociopaths would’ve failed this test, but I still took pride in my perfect score, doing a little happy dance when the words Welcome Aboard, Minion BREE! splashed across my screen.

  I started out where every other newbie Minion does, on level one. I’d be competing for jobs with more experienced Minions, many of whom had extensive work histories and lots of customer reviews. Needless to say, I was at a disadvantage.

  Oh, how I missed my five-star GrubGetter rating! I’d worked so hard to maintain that Top Grubber badge, rolling through countless stop signs to make sure deliveries were on time and smiling through countless doorstep diatribes.

  Ultimately, it had gotten me nowhere, since my GrubGetter account was now officially “on hiatus.” But there’d been something so satisfying about being Top Grubber. It meant hundreds of people had cast their votes, and the decision was unanimous: Bree Bozeman was not mediocre.

  Determined to achieve Level Ten Minion status quickly, I planned to accept as many jobs as I could and kick ass at every single one. Those bottom-of-the-barrel assignments no one else wanted? I’d revel in them.

  For the next few days, I was up to my eyeballs in busywork. I packed boxes for an impending office move. I pulled weeds in an overgrown garden. I deep-cleaned a Winnebago. I waited for three hours in someone’s home to sign for a furniture delivery.

  No task was too small or too tedious. I completed them all on time and with a smile, and by Thursday, I’d already achieved Level Six Minion status, with a perfect five-star rating. In my humble opinion, that was quite an un-mediocre accomplishment.

  When I arrived home after my final assignment that night, there was a small padded envelope on my doormat, addressed to “Bree Bozeman c/o @breebythesea.” The lip gloss!

  I raced inside and tore it open. Out fell a tube of Burgundy Wine and a note card with the handwritten message, “Thanks for supporting Kissy Face!” Smiling, I unscrewed the top to examine the glob of gloss dripping from the applicator wand.

  Yick.

  This color was...not my favorite. It was more puce than burgundy, and had this weird iridescent sheen. Plus, it seemed kind of thick. More like a nail polish than a lip gloss.

  Maybe it would look better once I put it on.

  First, I’d have to make myself selfie ready. I grabbed my makeup bag from the bathroom and put on a thick coat of foundation, then eyeliner, and a wispy coat of mascara. I blew my hair out so it had kind of a windswept look, too. Far from perfect, but if I angled the photo right, I’d look okay. Plus, I could always retouch it.

  Finally, the lip gloss. I spread a rich layer of Burgundy Wine on my lower lip, then my upper lip, and pressed them together ever so gently before checking my reflection in the mirror.

  Man. This color was really ugly.

  Nothing a filter couldn’t fix, though.

  I snapped about two dozen selfies from varying angles, then selected the best one for fine-tuning in my photo editing app. After applying a filter called “Breezy,” I made some minor adjustments to the saturation, warmth, and contrast of the image.

  Fortunately, once I muted the colors, my lips didn’t appear quite so hideous. Other parts of my face could’ve used a few tweaks, though. So while I was at it, I added virtual contours to my cheekbones and smoothed out some wrinkles under my eyes. I whitened my teeth and brightened my eyes. I deepened my suntan.

  Satisfied with the final result, I uploaded it to Instagram with a caption.

  Feeling fine in Burgundy Wine.

  (#collab with #kissyfacelipgloss)

  Tapping the “Share” button sent a little thrill through me. I was officially collaborating with a brand on Instagram. Me! A week ago, I’d been daydreaming about crafting a life that resembled the carefully curated feed of an Instagram influencer. And now, I actually was one.

  Sort of.

  The point is, change was happening. Slowly, but surely, I was moving forward. Maybe I’d been wrong to doubt the power of Demi DiPalma’s four-step manifesting process.

  With the photo session now complete, I washed off all my makeup. The lip gloss didn’t budge, though. I scrubbed it hard with a washcloth, and when that didn’t work, I smeared it in Vaseline, but neither method removed the color. Instead, it left the skin around my lips all red and raw.

  Maybe Kissy Face was one of those long-lasting lip glosses, although I didn’t remember reading anything about that on their website. Either way, I figured I’d give it some time, hoping it would wear off while I ate my dinner—a sumptuous organic pasta bowl.

  As I popped it in the microwave, my phone pinged with a text from Trey. Squee!

  Hey. Hope your new job is going well.

  Things have been crazy here but tomorrow

  morning looks free. Up for a swim around 10?

  Absolutely! What should I bring?

  Just your swimsuit and yourself.

  Meet you at the lifeguard tower.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was excited. But there was an undercurrent of fear, the nagging feeling that I was about to walk into something dangerous. Possibly even deadly.

  On top of that, I was also nervous about making a fool of myself in front of Trey, which would quite possibly be worse than a swift, watery death.

  The very thought gave me stress hives.

  In fact, I couldn’t stop scratching the lower half of my face. My lips and chin felt like they were on fire. I walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light, then shrieked at my reflection in the mirror.

  Everything south of my nostrils was red and raw and swollen. As though I’d been attacked by a swarm of bees. You could barely tell where my skin began and the Burgundy Wine ended.

  Oh, no. The lip gloss.

  Obviously, I was having an allergic reaction of epic proportions.

  Panicked, I reached for the Kissy Face tube, searching for any sort of ingredient list or warning label, but there was nothing printed on it anywhere. Actually, now that I took a closer look, it seemed like this lip gloss may have been homemade. Was Kissy Face even a legitimate brand or was this some sort of amateur experiment?

  What the hell did I just put on my face?

  I riffled through my medicine cabinet for anything that might’ve brought relief, but found only expired Tylenol and empty boxes of Band-Aids. Meanwhile, my lips continued to swell and itch, like a couple of puce-colored balloons. I needed to do something, fast.

  There was no way I could be seen in public like this, so I yanked a towel off the back of the bathroom door and wrapped it around my face like an oversize scarf. With my mouth concealed, I ran outside, hopped on my bike, and pedaled to CVS as fast as my legs could carry me.

  Once there, I realized I had no idea what I came for. Some sort of ointment, maybe, or an antihistamine? I wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, reading labels, resisting the urge to claw at my lips.

  Soon, the whispers and wide-eyed stares from fellow shoppers made it clear the girl with the bath towel around her face was not to be trusted. Before security could be summoned to my side, I approached the pharmacy counter to ask for some expert advice.

  The woman in the white lab coat eyed me suspiciously until I lowered the towel beneath my chin. She grimaced and said, “What happened?”

  “I think I’m having an allergic reaction to some lip gloss.”

  “Did you buy it here?”

  “No. I got it online.”

  She clucked her tongue, as if she saw this kind of thing all the tim
e. “You can never trust the stuff you buy off the internet.”

  I didn’t actually buy it, but that was neither here nor there.

  The pharmacist pointed me toward a bottle of Claritin and a tube of hydrocortisone cream—as well as makeup remover to get all the gloss off—then sent me on my way with instructions to see a doctor if the swelling didn’t go down by morning.

  After plonking down an exorbitant amount of money, I biked home feeling like a fool. The life of a nano-influencer wasn’t exactly the glamorous one I had dreamed of. I’m sure Trey’s ex-girlfriend, the legit Instagram model, never found herself wandering the aisles of a CVS with a towel wrapped around her face.

  She probably didn’t have to add fake contours to her cheeks or artificially brighten her eyes, either. She was probably naturally perfect.

  Eager to slather my face in anti-itch cream, I turned onto Beryl Street and headed for home. As I passed by the blue bungalow, I spotted Trey standing outside, wearing board shorts, hanging his wet suit from the eaves. Since he was fully engrossed in the task at hand, I hoped he wouldn’t see me.

  Except he did.

  And then he waved.

  And then I panicked.

  Instead of waving back, I gripped the handlebars even harder and kept right on pedaling, faster, straight across the lawn of the triplex. I’d almost made it to the alleyway, where I could duck behind the building and pretend I’d never seen him. But my front tire hitched on something—that damn surf leash again!—and the bike wobbled precariously before toppling over on its side.

  Humiliating.

  “You okay?” Trey was walking down his front path toward the white picket fence. “Do you need help?”

  “No!” I screamed so forcefully, he paused with his hand on the gate. “I’m totally fine, really! No need to come over!” Hustling to my feet, I pushed the towel back over my face and yelled a muffled, “See you tomorrow!” before running out of sight, dragging my bike behind me.