by Donna Cooner
Now my heart is starting to pound even harder. Senator Watson is not going to hire me with this kind of stuff floating around the internet. She is all about strong, powerful women and positive images. I can’t let this photo go anywhere beyond my phone screen right now.
“The soufflés are ready,” Luke announces, his face proud over the plate he’s now holding out toward me. He is smiling this half smile that I know oh so well. His eyes are calm and soft. Completely trusting.
For a second, I think about showing him the screenshot. Telling him everything. But no. I tug on the hem of my denim button-down shirt, wanting to be sure my belly isn’t exposed. If I show the photo to Luke, it makes it real.
That’s not me. That’s not who I am. Everyone knows that.
But that’s not true. Senator Watson doesn’t know that. Or everyone at school. Or the people at work.
As Luke sets the plate of soufflés down on the table, another text pops up on my screen.
PAINT YOUR NAILS BLACK TOMORROW, OR I’LL POST THE PHOTO ON MY CHITCHAT ACCOUNT.
How do they know I’m getting a manicure tomorrow? My mind races back over my day. Who did I tell? I can’t think. This has to be Asha. I start to text her. Then I remember Emma posted about our appointment online. Luke knew about it. So it could be anyone …
I try to breathe. My head is reeling. Please let this be a joke. Please.
Another new message comes in.
FINGERNAILS AND TOENAILS. THEN POST EVIDENCE ON CHITCHAT SO I’LL BE SURE YOU DID IT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
I don’t know whether or not to reply. I don’t understand. I’m being threatened? Why?
Luke reaches out and takes the phone gently out of my hand. “Whatever it is can wait. The world’s not going to end if you don’t look at that message right now.”
“But …,” I say feebly. I lower my eyes as Luke puts the phone facedown on the table. It kind of feels like the world might end, but I don’t say that.
My jaw is clamped down so tight I can feel the muscle in my cheek twitching. I put my hands on the table, pushing my palms flat against the surface to stop the trembling. If Luke asks me what’s wrong, I’ll blame the Venti Frappuccino I drank on my way over here. But Luke doesn’t seem to notice my distress. He hands me a cappuccino soufflé with a big smile.
“Hope you love it,” he tells me.
“It looks amazing,” I mumble, but when I take a bite, I taste nothing.
The air snaps with expectation and cold, but Asha rocks through it in typical breezy fashion. She pushes the volume up to drown out all thought and closes her eyes, letting the music in her earbuds slam into her brain. Her arms snake out in front of her in time to the rhythm and her Burton boots crunch through the soft powder beneath her feet. Even though she can feel the crust of the ice give under her, all she hears is classic Pearl Jam blasting, the song pounding down into her muscles.
It is a perfect day for snowboarding, and even though she finished the first two runs, it isn’t over. Not by a long shot. A sculpted tunnel of white glitters in front of her like a billion tiny diamonds leading straight down the mountain. The pump of the adrenaline is still there from the last run, but now it is mingled with confidence. For Asha, snowboarding is about making the impossible possible in plain sight. It is about doing something wondrous and special, something that maybe humans aren’t even meant to do. It is about leaving the mundane world of gravity behind.
Today it is also about forgetting.
She pushes that shadow out of her brain. Not now. Not here.
Another boarder steps out in front of her, smiling and holding out a gloved fist. Asha pulls out her earbud.
“You totally stomped that landing,” Nate says with an admiring grin.
Asha bumps her own fist against his and grins back.
“You were great, too. Best run I’ve ever seen from you today,” Asha says. She figures she might as well be gracious and share the love. The powder, the sun, and the clear blue sky make every boarder want the best run of the season. Asha balances her board against her side and unzips her baby-blue parka. “Besides, did you see me fall on that one jump? It was a total yard sale.”
“Who cares, right?” Nate adjusts his helmet over his long blond dreads. “It’s a gorgeous day for shredding the pow.”
“It is pretty sweet,” Asha admits, her smile growing until it takes over her face. After all, they are both after the same thing. Behind every cloud of breath and the ice-encrusted goggles are hopes of landing the seemingly impossible next trick.
“Photo op,” Asha yells, and holds out her phone. Nate leans in, making a crazy face, and Asha snaps a picture of the two of them.
“Speaking of photos, are you gonna show me a pic of the outfit you told me about? The one Emma got you?” Nate grins.
“Nope. You’re not gonna get to see me in that thing just so you can show your friends or whatever.” Asha sticks her tongue out at him and Nate laughs. Then she remembers the image she saved to her phone without telling Skye. “But you should see someone else in it!” she adds playfully, to get Nate off her case.
“Okay. I’ll bite. Show me.” Nate leans in to look at Asha’s phone.
“Not so fast.” Asha pulls it away. “You’re going to have to work for it. You land that cab in the half-pipe and then we’ll see.“
Picking up his board and grinning back at her, Nate says, “See you at the bottom.”
And now she is alone at the top of the run, the splendid snow tunnel in front of her, taunting her with its dazzling glory. This is Asha’s happy place. She can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else on the planet. The Mirza family has been coming up to their condo in Steamboat for as long as Asha can remember. Her mother taught her to snowboard when she was only four.
Remember?
So many memories. They all come crashing in at once, like a continuous feed of photos.
Flash. Mom running alongside her while Asha rode a bike with pink and blue streamers blowing back from the handlebars. Flash. Asha and her mom jumping together on green chalk squares drawn on summer sidewalks. Flash. Blowing out candles on a birthday cake her mom made especially for her.
Remember?
Suddenly, standing on top of the world makes her feel totally alone. Like the inevitable is coming, but no one realizes it. It never used to feel that way. She shivers—an impulsive jerk that takes her by surprise. It isn’t from the cold, or even from the anticipation of the steep drop-off in front of her. The shadows are back, and not even a perfect day on the slopes can keep them at bay. Switching her phone over to video mode, she films herself waving.
“Hi, Mom,” she says to the camera. Then she posts it to ChitChat with her trusty hashtag: #IAmAshaMirza boarding.
Then she shoves the phone into her jacket pocket, zipping it up for safety. She pulls her goggles down over her eyes, blinking rapidly, then slides off downhill into a slow glide.
ME: WHERE R U GUYS?
Punctuality is part of my rule-following personality. Emma and Asha don’t have that trait. It’s Sunday afternoon, ten minutes past our appointment time. I’m waiting outside the nail salon on a bench facing a busy parking lot. I check the weird TellTaleHeart ChitChat profile one more time. Still nothing. No photos. No messages. No videos. It’s just there waiting. Gathering followers.
Last night, I Googled around and figured out that the anonymous texts are coming from a free online service anyone can use. So that gave me no clues.
A text pops up on my screen now.
EMMA: ON MY WAY
Nothing from Asha. I click off my phone and slide it back into my purse. Then I stand and walk into the salon, over to the wall of nail colors. Pinks. Reds. Blues. Purple. Even green. Down at the bottom are the blacks.
I look at them all—except the blacks—picking up a few and examining them. Finally, I select a dark strawberry-pink color and shake it up to see it swirl around in my hand, like the thoughts whirling around in my brain.
I don’t
have to listen to whomever texted me last night. I should choose pink or purple like I always do.
But then I imagine that photo going everywhere.
Anger bubbles up from the fear. This isn’t funny.
I pick a black bottle off the bottom shelf, curling my fingers tight around it to keep my hand from shaking. After a long minute, I pick up a pale pink, too, and carry both of them back to the pedicure station. I get in the first seat and Leah, the nail technician, twists some knobs. The water pours into the pedicure chair. I pull out my phone and type into my Notes app.
TO DO:
LEAD CONVERSATIONS WITH A COMPLIMENT
SMILE MORE
“I like your hair when you wear it curly,” I tell Leah. My to-do list helps distract me from my worries. Plus, it feels good to look for something nice to say to someone.
Leah glances up, surprised, and fluffs her dark hair around her shoulders. “Thank you. I didn’t have time to do anything this morning, so I just let it dry naturally.”
“You should do that more often,” I say.
Leah puts a scoop of powdered soap into the water, and I tentatively dip my toes in. It’s scalding. I glance over at the black nail polish perched on the arm of my chair.
If Asha is the one who sent me the texts, I could call her bluff. But then, I know Asha. She never bluffs.
It has to be her. Asha’s always doing things like this to other people—posting unflattering photos or making snarky comments. Now it’s my turn to be her victim.
And it’s not like she’s never done this kind of stuff to me before.
Suddenly, I remember when Asha gave me, the fattest kid in seventh grade, a gigantic Hershey’s Bar at my birthday party. Everybody laughed because it was funny, right? It has to be what every fat girl wants for her twelfth birthday. And it’s even funnier when you give it to her in front of the whole class, wrapped up in gold shiny paper.
Then there was the time, when we were thirteen, when Asha made me ride the Ferris wheel at the state fair even though I said I’d throw up.
I did.
And the other time, when we were fourteen, when she insisted I ski the double black diamond trail even though I said I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t. And I almost broke my leg.
The memory of these betrayals makes my back stiffen against the chair.
“Sorry we’re late!”
Asha rushes into the salon with Emma trailing behind her.
I roll my eyes at them, but they pick out colors quickly and come back to the chairs beside me in record time.
“Is the water okay?” Leah asks me.
I nod. It’s cooled off now.
Asha and Emma settle into their seats, greeting the salon employees who will be doing their nails today. The three of us have been coming here forever.
I lean over Emma to talk to Asha, watching her reaction closely. “Your makeup looks perfect. You’re going to have to give me some pointers,” I say.
“Thanks,” Asha says. She’s not acting any different than normal.
What if it isn’t Asha, though? Then what? Is it worse to think it’s my best friend, or that it’s someone else? Someone unknown?
Asha looks back down at her magazine and flips a few more pages.
Would Asha really be disloyal to me now? Would she threaten to damage my future just for a laugh?
The truth is, this TellTaleHeart person could be anyone who just happened to see the ChitChat video for those fifteen minutes on Friday night. Anyone. The thought makes my stomach hurt.
I bite my lip. Maybe the username—TellTaleHeart—is some kind of hint about who this person is and what they want. Is it a reference to “The Tell Tale Heart,” that Edgar Allen Poe short story that was assigned to us in freshman year, about a murderer with a guilty conscious? Is the TellTaleHeart person hiding something, like the narrator of the Poe’s story was hiding a body under the floorboards? I shudder.
“Did you pick your color?” Leah asks me.
I hand her the black polish with a little more force than necessary and look over to see if Asha has noticed. She’s still flipping through the magazine, her whole body shaking with the motion of the massage chair. The headlines scrawled across the face of the gorgeous cover model read “Hollywood’s Hottest Teen Star Gets Real” and “Selfie Skin—Camera-Ready Face, Eyes, & Hair.” Asha doesn’t look up, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve seen Asha stare down Tom Ramirez, the biggest kid in ninth grade, just for stealing my homework. She didn’t even flinch, and Tom finally gave my homework back with an apology.
Emma looks at the tiny black bottle I gave to Leah and frowns at me. “Whoa. Feeling a little Goth today?”
“I wanted something different.”
Emma laughs. “Okay. Calm down. It’s just nail polish.”
An older lady getting fake nails applied turns and looks at us. My tone was way too defensive.
It actually isn’t what I want at all, but if I do this stupid thing, the joke will be over.
“Relax, Skye,” Leah tells me, pouring a long line of warm pink lotion down each of my legs. “You’re so tense.” She massages the lotion into my calves with deep circular motions, but it does not help my rising frustration.
“In China, royalty used to wear red and black nail polish,” I say to my friends. I read that on the internet last night; I’d been searching for random facts about nail polish to make myself feel better.
“You are not Chinese royalty,” Asha says.
I stick my chin out. “No, but I can wear whatever I want. It’s a free country.”
“So you’re making nail polish a political statement?” Emma asks, confused.
No, it’s about control.
Leah looks at me like I’m crazy.
Asha says to Leah, “Just ignore her. She’s a walking compilation of weird historical facts.”
“Whatever,” I say.
I watch Leah uncap the bottle of black nail polish. She pulls the brush out of the bottle and then quickly coats my big toenail with the dark color. It makes my toes look like they are rotting off.
I hate it.
“Is this what you want?” Leah asks, looking up at me doubtfully.
I nod before I can change my mind, then sit in silence as Leah carefully paints each toenail black. The mold is spreading.
Emma is talking about the film competition at the Lyric. She has to write a screenplay inspired by a classic movie. The first prize is a trip to New York City for the summer.
Asha interrupts. “Nate and I were texting this morning and he said he was really into jazz,” she says, surveying her newly sky-blue toenails.
“That’s good, right? You like jazz,” Emma says. I can tell she’s a little annoyed that Asha interrupted her, but we both know it’s better to let things slide.
“He misspelled it,” Asha says.
“How do you misspell jazz?” Emma gives a snort of laughter.
“J-A-S-S,” Asha says.
Nate is definitely not the brightest bulb in the socket.
“So he’s out?” Emma asks.
“He was pretty cute on the slopes yesterday. But I think we’re done.”
I pull out my phone to take my mind off the color of my toes. I scan through different sites, looking into people’s windows that are thrown open wide for strangers to see inside. For once, I think about someone looking back at me. It’s not a good feeling.
Harmony is checking in again at random places. She is so strange. Who checks in at convenience stores? Then I see that Ryan has tagged Harmony in a photo, so it shows up on her wall. It’s a cool picture—two faces reflected in the glass of an aquarium. The unusual angle makes it striking: almost like it’s from the fish’s point of view. I look closer and recognize the Kmart pet department. It’s Dead Fish Man, and he’s watching Harmony scoop out a new goldfish from the tank. He looks so happy and Harmony looks so determined. There is a story in that photo and it makes me want to see more of Ryan’s photos. I cl
ick over to his profile.
He’s tagged in lots of pictures—parties, friends, family. Just the regular stuff everybody posts. I wonder if that one girl who keeps tagging him is his girlfriend. Her name is Amy. With his quiet good looks, I’m not surprised he is so popular. I come upon a portrait of Amy that Ryan must have taken. Her face is heart-shaped and he has captured her midlaugh, with her head thrown back toward the sky. Just by looking at her photo, I can imagine the sound of her laughter. It would be contagious.
I keep scrolling. Ryan’s a good photographer. I see more shots from Kmart, including a couple more of Harmony, some of Mr. King. All candids, taken from a distance. In one shot, I’m captured in the far background, standing at the service desk. I’m not tagged, thankfully. It’s not the most flattering picture of me. I wonder if Ryan has taken any other pictures of me that I’m not aware of.
A sliver of an idea crawls into my brain. Maybe Ryan took the screenshot of me in red lace?
But why?
We finish up our pedicures and move to the manicure chairs. Asha is still talking about Nate, but all I can hear is blah blah blah. I try to calm the paranoia thrashing around inside my head, feeling my chest rise and fall with each breath.
“What shape do you want your nails?” Leah asks me, leaning over my trembling hands with a nail file at the ready.
As usual, Asha jumps in before I can answer.
“She likes her nails square. Just like mine.”
A new idea occurs to me. Did Asha share the video of me with Nate? Could he be the one threatening to share it?
I can just imagine Nate looking at me in that tiny outfit stretched out over my bare skin.
My heart goes hard. The Galactic Network will work fast. Nate will share the screenshot with all the guys on the ski team. Then the ski team will share it with the cheerleaders. Then the upperclassmen will share it with the freshmen, and they will share it with the middle school. It doesn’t matter that Nate lives four hours away. Someone will share it with someone I know.
That’s how the internet works.
