She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Natasha drunk before.”

  “It doesn’t happen often. Open bars are a dangerous thing.”

  Right on cue, Natasha flung the sliding screen door open with such force it went flying off the track and toppled over onto the concrete. She stared down at it, unmoving. “Oh, shit.”

  Al chuckled. “Don’t worry, honey, I got it.”

  As he bent over to pick it up, she palmed his ass. “Thanks, hot stuff.” Then she came over, empty wineglass in hand. “Fill ’er up, lil’ sister.”

  The words came out slurred. With a meaningful glance toward Al, I asked, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Don’t look at him,” she said, slipping into the hot tub beside me. “He doesn’t control me. I’m fine. I’ve had, like, three drinks. I can handle a glass of—” She squinted at the bottle. “I don’t even know what this is. Riesling? Whatever. Pour!”

  I obeyed her command because what was I supposed to do, say no?

  Once Al had righted the screen door, he gave it a few test slides and called out, “I’m going to bed, hon.”

  “Can you check on Iz while you’re up there?”

  “You got it,” he said, then disappeared inside.

  “How was she tonight?” Natasha asked me, taking a huge gulp of wine.

  “Wonderful, as usual. We put together that whole Lego set, then watched a movie before she went to bed.”

  “Isn’t her new mermaid room cute?” Natasha said. “Izzy picked out the comforter set herself.”

  “It’s adorable.” My mind flashed back to the trinket box, the musty smell of the peeling felt. “I saw you put a little reminder of Mom in there.”

  Her face screwed up into a question. “What’re you talking about?”

  “The trinket box on Izzy’s nightstand.” When she still looked confused, I added, “The one covered in seashells.”

  “That? I got that at HomeGoods two weeks ago.”

  “But it looks so much like the one Mom used to keep on her dresser.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it’s a pretty generic box, Bree. They’re probably mass-produced in some factory somewhere.”

  Natasha sipped her wine dismissively and I felt crushed by the weight of my hopeful naiveté. Naturally, she was right; it was a common, unremarkable, and inexpensive item. Of course she’d bought it at HomeGoods. Of course she hadn’t stowed Mom’s belongings away, untouched, for over a decade. She wasn’t like me, with the secret memorial under my bed.

  “Oh!” Natasha cried, her drink sloshing over the side of her glass in excitement. “I meant to tell you. I took your advice and started an Instagram account.”

  “Cool! How’s it going so far?”

  “Great! I wasn’t sure what I was doing at first, so I signed up for this Instagram boot camp with Demi DiPalma and powered through all the lessons in one day.”

  “I didn’t realize she taught an Instagram boot camp.”

  “She teaches everything. She’s a genius.”

  “What kind of stuff did you learn?”

  “Strategies for building an audience, tips for creating quality content, tricks for improving engagement. That sort of thing.”

  “Sounds really useful.” Maybe I should’ve taken that course myself. I grabbed my phone from where it rested on the deck beside the hot tub. “What’s your Instagram handle? I’ll follow you.”

  “@declutterwithdeangelis. All one word.”

  I pulled up her profile and gasped. “You have over twenty-five thousand followers.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded over her wineglass, as if this wasn’t completely astonishing. Meanwhile, @breebythesea had 223 followers, and I’d felt like every single one was a triumph. Until now.

  “How did you get all these followers so quickly?” And what was I doing wrong?

  “I bought them. Well, most of them.”

  I’d heard of this practice—paying some third-party company to give your account a big batch of followers, mostly bots who were programmed to interact with your account on an automated schedule. “Demi DiPalma told you to buy followers?”

  “No,” she said, “I figured that one out on my own. Right after I started the account, I got a DM from someone called BuyFollowersNow or MoreFollowers4U, something like that. Anyway, I paid them $250 and an hour later, I had twenty-five thousand followers.”

  “But doesn’t that defeat the purpose of using Instagram to boost your business? You’re trying to reach actual people who could turn into paying customers.”

  “Yeah, but it’s impossible to gain any traction without a little help. People want to follow people who are legit, and the only way to prove you’re legit is to have a lot of followers. It’s a total catch-22. By pretending I already have a big following, I’ll be able to attract real people who are genuinely interested in my work.”

  “Right.” Instantly, I thought of the picture I’d just posted, the wine bottle with the bogus #collab hashtag. “Fake it till you make it.”

  “Exactly!” After another huge gulp of wine, she asked, “So, what’s going on with your action plan? You started telling me about it last weekend but then we were interrupted. You said you made a vision board?”

  “A virtual vision board—on Instagram, actually—and it launched me into this whole new venture of being a nano-influencer.” I could see she was about to ask what that was, so I headed her off at the pass. “It’s like a regular influencer, but on a smaller scale.”

  “How many followers do you have?”

  Too embarrassed to speak the actual number out loud, I said, “Not nearly as many as you. I can’t afford to buy followers. Right now, I’m mostly focused on trying to pay my rent. I’ve been working with HandyMinion all week, though, and it’s been good. If I keep it up, I think I’ll stand to make way more than I did when I was with GrubGetter.”

  She set her wineglass down on the side of the hot tub and sighed that same exasperated sigh she gave whenever she was about to lecture me on the importance of “aiming high” and “never giving up” and “choosing happy.”

  “Let’s back up a second. How did you define your aspiration? What did you write in the first action item?”

  “I didn’t actually define one.” Another exasperated sigh. “I couldn’t think of anything I really wanted to do or be. All I could see when I did that creative visualization exercise was a perfectly curated Instagram feed.”

  She cocked her head, thoughtful. “Well, maybe the fact that you’ve manifested this nano-influencing thing into your life is a sign from the universe that you should continue down this path. But you shouldn’t settle for ‘nano’ anything. You should aim for greatness. What’s your Instagram niche?”

  “Niche?”

  “It’s the category you’re looking to dominate. A lot of the big ones are so oversaturated right now, it’ll be hard for you to stand out in something like travel or beauty or fashion. You should pick a niche that’s less common, but still profitable. I bet you could make a killing on something like cooking in small spaces. How to make the most of your tiny appliances in a kitchenette. Gourmet meals in a microwave, or whatever.”

  “But I don’t know how to cook.”

  “Well, you can learn as you go. Fake it till you make it, right?”

  It was difficult to envision myself making anything aside from organic pasta bowls in that miniature microwave. Not to mention, I had no interest in trying. “I’m not sure.”

  “So how do you plan to monetize your account?”

  It was becoming increasingly clear that I had not thought this process through. “Um, I was hoping brands would give me money.”

  “Yeah, but for what? There are different ways of earning money as an Instagram influencer. You could charge a flat rate per post or
earn commission through affiliate links. You could also create your own product to sell. Oh!” She snapped her fingers, spraying droplets of water in my face. “You could compile a bunch of your recipes into an ebook!”

  “I don’t think the whole ‘cooking in small spaces’ thing is the right niche for me.”

  “Then what is?”

  A thin coat of sweat was forming on my upper lip. This hot tub was suddenly stifling. “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t really given it enough thought.”

  “You told me you read The Aspirational Action Plan from cover to cover.”

  “I did! And aside from defining my aspiration, I followed the manifesting process to a T. I made the vision board, I said my affirmations. I put positive thoughts out into the world, and I cleared away negative energy.”

  “But you don’t have any sort of strategy to set you up for success.”

  “The book didn’t say anything about strategizing.”

  “It was implied. Positive thinking is an important part of the process, but you can’t expect the universe to just hand you things without working for them. It’s a self-help book, not a magic spell.”

  Was Natasha so drunk she’d forgotten the conversation we’d had last week? “Those were the exact words you used. You said, This book is like a magic spell.”

  “That was a figure of speech.” She hiccupped. “Besides, a magic spell can only work if the conditions are right. So let’s help you establish the perfect conditions. Pick a topic you’d like to focus on. It can be related to one of your special skills, or interests, or maybe a passion you’ve always wanted to pursue.”

  There was that word again: passion. “I don’t have any passions or interests, and my only special skill is delivering food. I doubt that would be a lucrative Instagram niche.”

  “How can you say you have no passions or interests? That simply can’t be true.”

  “It is.”

  Natasha shook her head. “Everyone has a passion. I remember you used to be so into reading. You always had your nose in a book. What about bookstagramming? I heard that’s huge.”

  The sad truth was I hadn’t read a book for pleasure in years. I’d started a few, but hardly ever made it past the first chapter. When I was a kid, I’d often curl up in the corner of the couch for hours, finish a whole novel in one sitting. Usually, my mom would be in the other corner, totally engrossed in a book of her own. It was a thing we did together, reading. Every night, same spot. A bond forged in mutual, satisfied silence.

  After she died, though, it was hard to get back in the habit. I hadn’t even wanted to sit on that couch anymore, let alone crack open a book. The only reading I’d ever done was assigned by my teachers, required for class.

  If Natasha felt like Mom’s death had extinguished the fire inside her, I felt like my fire had never even been ignited. Not properly, anyway. I’d been fourteen, still trying to figure out exactly who I was, what I liked, what I wanted out of life, and when she died, it was like I’d stopped trying. The burden of daily living zapped me of all my energy. There was nothing leftover to stoke the flames of a burgeoning passion.

  So I kept my head down, did my schoolwork, and went to college. It was a path that had been laid out for me, an easy one to follow without thinking too much about it. It wasn’t until much later, after I’d bombed out and accrued an absurd amount of debt, that I realized it was the wrong choice. A choice I’d made on autopilot. Like every other choice I’d made in my life.

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t really read much since Mom died.” My voice was heavy with unshed tears. “I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, Natasha, I don’t even—”

  “No.” Natasha’s eyes were like flint. All of a sudden, she sounded very sober. “We don’t look back, Bree. That’s not where we’re going.”

  Instantly, I straightened, blinking until my vision was clear. My sister had no patience for self-pity or dwelling on the past. If I was looking for sympathy, I wouldn’t find it here.

  “Now,” she continued, “if you want to be an Instagram influencer, then you can be an Instagram influencer. We will figure this out together. Give me your phone.”

  She held out a sopping wet hand and, without asking why, I placed my phone in it. After a few seconds of silent tapping and scrolling, she said, “Your new name is Bree by the Sea?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s good, we can work with that. Focus on a laid-back, coastal vibe.” More tapping and scrolling. “The photos are all right, but you can do better. Have you heard of Lightroom?” When I shook my head, she said, “It’s a comprehensive photo editing app. It’s got color correction, retouching, all that good stuff, but it’s way better than the free apps you’ve been using. I’ll install it for you, you can use my account for presets. What app are you using to generate hashtags?”

  My blank stare was all the answer she needed.

  Natasha spent the next twenty minutes applying everything she’d learned in Demi DiPalma’s Instagram boot camp to my account. She installed apps and made tweaks to maximize discoverability, improve analytics, schedule posts for optimal engagement, and enhance the quality of my content.

  The whole time, I kept wondering if being an influencer was something I actually wanted to do, or if it was just another one of those autopilot decisions. I’d spent so much time coveting the lives of random strangers on the internet—or, rather, the way they’d portrayed their lives—that it was all I could see when I closed my eyes.

  “There.” With a triumphant smile, Natasha handed her phone back to me. “It’s not a full-fledged strategy, but it’s a very strong start.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. Even if I felt conflicted about the direction my life was taking, I was genuinely grateful to have Natasha’s help in course correcting. “You’re always saving my ass.”

  “It’s my job.” The corner of her mouth twitched, and for a moment, it seemed as if she might cry. Instead, she ran a hand over her now-bedraggled chignon and cleared her throat. “It’s late and Izzy’s got soccer in the morning. I should go to bed.”

  “Right. Me, too.”

  While Natasha killed the jets, I grabbed the empty wine bottle and glasses, and we headed inside, leaving puddles in our wake. A quick kiss good-night and we retired to our respective bedrooms. I enjoyed a long, luxurious rainfall shower before snuggling into the fluffy comfort of the pillow-top mattress. With the covers pulled up to my neck, I whipped out my phone to do a final presleep social media check.

  No.

  There was no way.

  I refreshed my Instagram profile three times, just to make sure it wasn’t some bizarre glitch. But every time, the same number showed up. It was real. It was amazing.

  @breebythesea had 25,223 followers.

  Chapter 16

  The follower count changed everything.

  When I woke up the next morning, all my posts had hundreds of likes. Some of them even had thousands. There were dozens of new comments, many of the generic “Love your pics! ” variety (which were, admittedly, nice to read), but also several requests for collaborations from various brands. And no random Kissy Face lip glosses or FRANGELICO shoes, either—most of these were brands I’d actually heard of. I said yes to every offer because how could I say no? This was what I’d said I’d wanted. It was time to welcome the abundance.

  Of course, my payment for all these collaborations took the form of free products, which was great and everything, but it wasn’t gonna pay the bills. So in the Lyft home from Natasha’s on Sunday afternoon, I signed up for a full week of HandyMinion jobs.

  I mowed lawns. I filed papers. I scrubbed toilets. Once, I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to wait in an hour-long line at the new PB Donut Shop before they sold out of those gourmet crullers that Eater.com had made famous. I performed each assignment with care and precision, and I earned fiv
e stars every single time.

  I also got a text from Trey: Whenever you’re ready to paddle out, let me know...

  The truth was, I didn’t feel ready, and I didn’t know if I ever would. But I did want to get back out there in the water, to recapture that feeling of weightlessness and delight.

  Plus, I wanted to know what the hell was going on with that article I read in SurfBuzz. Naturally, I wouldn’t come right out and ask him, “Are you a rageaholic?” but I needed some sort of reassurance that he wasn’t going to go all green and hulky at the slightest provocation. I decided to take a morning off of work to find out.

  How’s Friday again? Same time, same place?

  You got it.

  Midweek, the #collab packages started rolling in, so it was time for me to implement my newly updated and well-thought-out Instagram strategy.

  Natasha had told me to focus on a “laid-back, coastal vibe,” so I decided to stage all my photos at the beach. It wasn’t quite a niche, but it was a theme, and that was good enough. My plan was to implement a content calendar, posting one picture per day at peak times of engagement as identified by the analytics app she’d installed. To use my time wisely, I would shoot photos in batches and edit them all at once, then schedule their uploads in advance.

  Even though I intended to take all my photos at Law Street Beach, I was going to geotag them at different beaches around San Diego. Yes, it was another little lie, but it was an easy way to reach a wider audience. No one had to know I never actually went to Coronado Island or Oceanside Pier. For the most part, sand and surf looked the same in every town.

  Late Wednesday afternoon, after a long day of scrubbing shower grout with a toothbrush, I slapped on a full face of makeup, blew out my hair, and dragged a big bag full of freebies to the beach. As I hustled down Beryl Street, eager to catch the golden hour for the brief period of perfect lighting, my phone buzzed with a text from Mari.

  What’re you up to rn? Got something for you.

  Omw to Law Street Beach. Meet me there in 15?

  Will prob be more like 25.