by Donna Cooner
My dog, Cassidy, greets me at the door with excited barks and wild tail wagging. This greeting is the same whether I’m gone for an hour or a day. Her unconditional joy is comforting, especially since I feel like I just got run over by an eighteen-wheeler. I kneel to hug Cassidy tight for a few seconds, her soft brown fur against my face, before letting her bound away.
Mom is sitting at the dining room table, her laptop open in front of her. Mom’s a bookkeeper—I got my math smarts from her—and sometimes has to work weekends.
She looks over the top of her computer to greet me. “Hey, how was the party?”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m tired.”
“Did you get any sleep last night?” My mom closes the computer screen partway to give me her attention. She’s wearing a black hoodie over her workout gear, but I doubt she actually went to the gym.
“Not much.” I sit down in a chair beside her, my fingers drumming restlessly on the tabletop.
After we ran around outside in the snow, Asha, Emma, and I watched a movie of Asha’s choosing and then went to bed. The two of them fell asleep right away, but I was up most of the night, tossing and turning and thinking about the ChitChat video. It had long since disappeared from the app, but it was still playing in my mind.
Cassidy joins us, her head finding my lap for a snuggle and ear strokes.
“What time are you working today?” Mom asks.
“Afternoon shift. Then I’m going over to Luke’s afterward.”
She nods. “Want something to eat?”
“Grilled cheese?” I ask hopefully. “And tomato soup with stars?”
Even though we both know I can prepare this meal myself, Mom laughs and gets up to go to the fridge. “Boy, you must be in a mood.”
She knows me so well. I sigh. Moms and comfort food are the best when you’re really tired and cranky.
A few minutes later, Mom’s back with the sandwich and hot soup. I take a big bite, blissfully chewing, and Mom sits back down across from me. She tilts her head to one side and her eyes get serious. “By the way, is Asha’s mom sick?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I was talking to Mrs. White down at the cul-de-sac yesterday.”
Mrs. White is the neighborhood gossip. She has long gray hair and sort of resembles her shih tzu, Mitzie.
My mom continues the story. “Mrs. White works with Asha’s mom at the university and said she’s been out on some kind of extended sick leave. Did you see Asha’s parents last night or this morning?”
I think about it, then shake my head. Asha, Emma, and I were ensconced in Asha’s private section of the house the whole time.
“No, but I’m sure she’s fine,” I reply, chewing my sandwich. “Asha would have told me if something was wrong.”
Just look at her posts and you’ll see everything’s perfect.
My younger sister, Megan, and her best friend, Lulu, rush into the room like there’s a serious emergency. “Oh good, you’re home,” Megan says to me. “Can you dye my hair?”
I look over at Mom and she shrugs.
“Why? Your hair is pretty the way it is,” I say, reaching out to tug on Megan’s shoulder-length ponytail.
“No offense, Skye,” Lulu says in her pretentious, too-old-for-middle-school tone. Lulu has a smooth blonde bob that she swishes importantly across the tops of her shoulders for emphasis. “But that brown is kind of … you know … bland.”
“Offense taken,” I grumble, then blow on my spoonful of soup. Megan is a mini-me—same brown hair, same hazel eyes, same round face, same curvy figure.
“My hair needs to be bright red,” Megan says. “I’ll figure out the green skin later.”
I stop with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Seriously?”
“We’re cosplaying. I’m going to be Gamora.” Megan eyes the second half of my sandwich. “Are you going to finish that?”
“Yes,” I say, and take a big bite right out of the middle of the piece just to prove it. She scowls at me.
“Who is Gamora?” Mom asks, obviously confused by the whole conversation.
“Guardians of the Galaxy?” Lulu rolls her baby-blue eyes and swishes her hair over one shoulder again. “Duh.”
I think Lulu needs to read up on likability, too. “Hair dye is a little too drastic,” I tell Megan. “I’m sure we can find a wig online that will be even more realistic. Besides, you never know who you’ll want to be next week.”
Megan thinks this over. “That could work,” she says at last.
I pull off a corner of my sandwich—the crunchy, toasty edge Megan likes the most—and hand it to her. She grins, takes a bite, and leads Lulu back upstairs.
* * *
Luke’s cheeks are flushed from the heat of the kitchen. His golden hair is damp from his baking efforts, making his curls a tousled mop. He bites his lip in concentration as he closes the oven door, peering inside with deep concern. When he finally turns back to me, he pushes his hair out of his eyes with a big purple oven mitt and flashes me a grin.
“Almost ready.”
I smile back. A red apron covers his T-shirt and he smells like vanilla and sugar.
“It smells delicious,” I say from where I sit at the kitchen table.
I have my homework stacked in front of me but I can’t focus. I’m still thinking about that stupid video Asha took. I need to concentrate on this assignment; otherwise my A in physics could slip away.
“Did you know the internet was originally called the Galactic Network?” I ask Luke, looking up from my book.
“Is that on your physics test?” Luke asks, confused.
“No. I just read it online somewhere.” I close the book, giving up on studying for now. “And they called the people who first used it Internauts.”
Luke shakes his head in amazement. He doesn’t really understand my fascination with random facts. “You are an expert on everything.”
“No, I’m an Internaut.”
“Cool, Internaut Skye.” He gives a gesture that is sort of a combination Vulcan and Boy Scout salute. “Be careful out there on that Galactic Network. Just don’t go where no one’s gone before …”
Suddenly, I have a horrible thought. “Were you on ChitChat last night?” I ask Luke.
“Nope,” he says. “I was coming home from the soccer game. Remember? We won?”
I grimace. That was an important game. I should remember these things. “Oh yeah. Sorry.”
At least I know he didn’t see the video.
“So big plans for your day off tomorrow, huh?” Luke says, leaning over the counter. His eyes are almost the exact color of his faded green Abercrombie T-shirt. “Around two o’clock?”
I’m surprised. It’s not like Luke keeps close tabs on me. He’s never been a clingy boyfriend.
“Yeah. Asha, Emma, and I are getting mani-pedis then. How did you know?”
“I used the Galactic Network.” He winks at me. “Emma posted about it earlier after she made some obscure movie quote references.”
If only I could spend all my spare time watching movies like Emma. “Audrey Hepburn?”
“I think so.”
I wonder how the information session at the Lyric Cinema went for Emma. Asha, of course, has been posting nonstop updates from her day snowboarding with Nate.
I glance down at my phone, instinctively checking my email. No new messages. I guess it was silly to expect to hear from Senator Watson’s office on a Saturday. Although rumor has it her staff works around the clock.
Like he can read my mind, Luke asks, “Any news from the senator’s office?”
I lean back against the chair and unfasten the clip from my hair. I run my fingers through my waves and redo the ponytail while he waits for my answer. “No,” I finally say.
“You’re going to get an interview,” Luke says. “You have your ‘to-do list,’ right?” He laughs, making quote marks with his fingers.
“I do.” I give him a big, extra fake smile.<
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“Do you take suggestions from the audience?” he asks. “For what to put on the list?”
“What do you want to add?”
“Go to all of Luke’s soccer games.”
I laugh. “I don’t think that’s going to help my political career.”
“It can’t hurt.” He leans over further, giving me a quick kiss on the lips for emphasis. “Look, you’ve already come this far in student council,” he points out.
“I guess,” I say, and there’s a moment of awkwardness between us.
Sophomore year, I lost the runoff election for student council vice president. This year I won. And I can’t deny that it has to do with the fact that this year, I’m Luke’s girlfriend. People may say politics isn’t about popularity. But it is.
I know it is.
“The thing is,” I say, brushing off the feeling of discomfort, “I want to do more than decide what snacks to have in the vending machines.”
“Barbecue potato chips,” Luke says.
I let out a frustrated sigh. Sometimes I feel like Luke doesn’t get me, but I don’t say anything. After all, Luke is the cute, super popular boy and I’m the girl no one imagined him ever dating.
“Just kidding.” He gives me that smile that makes all the freshmen girls follow him around like lovesick puppies. “You did set up the whole job fair. That’s impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a warm glow. Organizing the school job fair has taken up a lot of my time for the past two months. “But how embarrassing will it be if I don’t have an interview there?”
“Well, even if you don’t get an interview with Senator Watson, there are plenty of other possibilities.”
My smile disappears from my face. Here we go again. “Luke, come on. This is a big deal for me.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to check out all your options. I know how you are about this stuff. If you get that internship, it will suck up all your time.”
“This stuff is important,” I say fiercely. “Only sixteen-point-four percent of US Congress members are women. And Senator Watson wants to support young women in leadership. Like me.”
“I know. I know,” Luke says. “This is your big chance, but it’s just not your only chance. My dad still has that receptionist position open and he’d be flexible with the hours.”
Luke is trying so hard and I’m telling him things he already knows, but I can’t stop myself. “Senator Watson is thirty-one years old and the youngest representative ever elected from Colorado. She has one internship position open for the summer.” I hold up my index finger for emphasis. “One.”
“But if this doesn’t happen, there are other ways to spend the summer …” His voice trails off when he sees the expression on my face.
“You don’t believe I can make it.” I didn’t know that was going to come out of my mouth, but there it is.
“That isn’t true.” He looks down at the counter, then back up at me. “I’m just saying things don’t always happen the way you plan. But it doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.”
I don’t need this. Not from him. A fast, raw anger runs up my neck and into my cheeks. Luke is supposed to be on my side no matter what.
“Forget it,” I say in a tone that says I’m definitely not going to.
He starts to say something, but then stops himself and turns back to the stove, his shoulders slumping in resignation. The anger seeps out of me. I love those shoulders. I’ve seen them bare and sunburned in July after a long day on the lake. I’ve felt them covered by a fleece jacket and smelling of campfire in October, when we huddled together over steaming-hot cups of cocoa on a camping trip in the mountains.
Instantly, I feel guilty. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t get much sleep last night at Asha’s, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
Luke shrugs but doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts the other oven mitt on his hand and carefully opens the oven door.
When his father walks into the kitchen, I’m thrilled for the interruption of our awkward silence.
“Hi, Mr. Barrett,” I say, shifting in my chair.
“What’s up, Skye? Good day at the office?” He chuckles and I smile at him. He always makes lame jokes about my job, but I know he doesn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s more like he doesn’t have anything else to talk to me about, so it’s either school, work, or the weather.
“No problems today, Mr. B.” I always feel a little uncomfortable around Luke’s parents. Maybe because there are two of them—a mom and a dad—but also because they always seem so happy all the time. It’s not what I’m used to.
“What about that mean girl?” Mr. Barrett loves my stories about all my coworkers.
“Harmony works the late shift tonight, so I didn’t see her today.”
“And that’s why you didn’t have any problems,” he says, nodding with satisfaction.
“What’s that smell?” Luke’s mom comes through the back door. “New creation?”
“I’m working my way through a new cookbook of French desserts.” Luke puts one finger on his lips and carefully closes the oven door. “Tonight, we shall have cappuccino soufflés.”
“You never fail to amaze me.” Mrs. Barrett smiles and pulls Luke in for a quick hug. I feel the familiar pang. It’s something like jealousy, regret, sadness—all rolled together into a ball in my stomach that Luke’s family kicks around sometimes. They should have a sitcom on the Hallmark Channel.
“Are you guys going out somewhere later?” Mr. Barrett asks.
“Maybe a movie,” Luke says. He looks over at me and I shrug.
“You need some money?” And just like that, Mr. Barrett pulls out his wallet and gives Luke a couple of twenties.
I look down at my textbook, flipping pages randomly. My mom told me and my sister over and over again that we weren’t the reason my parents got divorced. If it wasn’t about us, and I’m honestly not so sure about that, then it must have been about money. They argued about it all the time, especially once Dad moved out. But then money got all mixed up with me and my sister, so it was hard to tell the difference. My mom was always on the phone telling my dad how much it cost to feed us, to buy us clothes. My mom still makes comments to her friends or family from time to time about my dad’s lack of child support payments. It sort of makes me feel like some unwanted stray begging for scraps. I don’t think she knows I hear.
But I do.
Mr. and Mrs. Barrett leave the kitchen, and Luke turns back to the oven to navigate the removal of the soufflés. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Weird. It’s a text without a name or number attached. How can someone do that? Is that even possible?
The message says, I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU, SKYE, AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO WANT TO MISS IT.
I’m confused. Normally, I would just delete something like this. But the sender knows my name. It’s not some random spam. Still, it doesn’t look like any text I’ve ever seen before. Maybe it’s the interview committee, although it seems like a really strange way to contact me. Another text pops up on my screen.
THIS IS A TEST. NOT HARD. ARE YOU READY?
A test? Now my nerves are starting to kick in. I write back.
ME: WHO IS THIS? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
The message comes back immediately. CHECK OUT MY ACCOUNT ON CHITCHAT—@TELLTALE♥
I glance at Luke. He’s busily dusting powdered sugar over the top of his creations, a satisfied smile on his face.
I click on the link. It takes me to a blank ChitChat page. There is no profile photo or bio. No posts. Nothing but a pale pink background just sitting there like it’s waiting for something.
Strange.
“Hello?”
I look up to see Luke standing in front of me.
“I just got this weird text about a ChitChat profile …” My voice trails off as I look back down at my phone.
Luke gives a frustrated sigh. “Is that phone more interesting than me?�
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I don’t answer. Then a new text, from the same anonymous number, comes in, along with photo.
LOOK AT THE PICTURE.
I do. And at first I don’t even recognize myself. Everything about this is wrong.
It’s a screenshot. Of me. From the video at Asha’s birthday party—only one frame frozen onto the tiny screen of my phone.
The image was obviously chosen for maximum shock value—picked at the exact moment that puts me in the worst possible light. It’s a full-body shot—the nightie slipping down off one shoulder, and me leaning in to kiss the air with eyes half closed. My hair is big. My lips are pouty. But that’s not the part of the picture I focus on. All I can see are my thick thighs, my round stomach, and my flabby arms. This is the me I’ve done everything in my life to hide.
Red heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks. I am right there in all my size and skin, posing like I don’t care what people think of me. And I do. I very much do.
I keep my face angled away from Luke, so he can’t see my reaction and ask questions.
Who sent this to me?
Asha took the video, but she would never do something like this. She’s the one who told me I had toilet paper stuck to my sneaker when I left the bathroom on Thursday, and to hold my skirt down tighter on that windy day last week. She would never embarrass me. When we were freshmen, Asha almost fought Michelle Speer when she said I looked like a circus clown in my red lipstick.
Emma isn’t the fighting kind, but she gave Emory Mysik the silent treatment for almost a year for telling people about my dad leaving. It couldn’t be either of my besties.
But they were the ones who were there.
“Is it about the interview?” Luke asks me.
Instantly, I’m reminded of everything I have to lose. I’ve been to three assemblies at school this year about preparing for college and the future. Every speaker mentioned the internet. Every. Single. Time.
Keep your online image clean. Colleges look at these things. Employers look at these things.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s just a stupid cat video someone sent me.”
