by Donna Cooner
Or worse, a best friend bully.
On Monday morning, Asha doesn’t go to school. Instead, her family sits huddled together in the small, book-filled office of Dr. Martinez. Asha’s dad holds a phone up so her older brother, Matt, can be present remotely. He couldn’t fly back from his college in California for today’s family meeting.
“I wanted to meet with you all today to check in on how you’re doing. This is a very tough journey for any family. How are you feeling today, Mrs. Mirza?” Dr. Martinez asks, sliding her big black leather chair back from the desk and crossing her legs.
“Sometimes things that happened a month ago feel like last week.” Asha’s mom speaks very slowly and carefully, trying to group words together into sentences. Asha can tell that talking this way is exhausting for her, and there are long pauses, but eventually she finds the words. “Or I’ll say something, thinking it just happened, only to be told I was talking about something from a year ago—or even longer.”
It’s going to get worse, Asha thinks.
“Like when I put the car keys in the fridge.” Her mother stares at the doctor and her eyes fill with tears. She glances over to meet Asha’s stare and wipes the tears away quickly.
“We are not telling anyone,” Asha’s father says firmly.
Not sharing any of this with her friends seems wrong to Asha. But then true friends should know something isn’t right. Even if you don’t tell them. Maybe her friends don’t care about her as much as she thought.
Dr. Martinez frowns at her dad. “Eventually, you will need help.”
“Not yet.”
The doctor nods like she understands. “Early-onset Alzheimer’s disease is uncommon, but still affects at least two hundred thousand people under age sixty in the United States.”
“Why us?” Asha manages to choke out the question. “Why Mom?”
Dr. Martinez gives her a sympathetic look. “We don’t know why some people get the disease so early, but we do know there is a type that runs in families. When it is genetic, there is likely a parent or grandparent who also developed the disease at a young age.”
“Both her parents died in a car accident when they were relatively young,” Asha’s dad says, putting his hand on Asha’s mom’s shoulder. “She never knew her grandparents.”
Asha looks at her mother. There is a blankness in her eyes that was not there three months ago. It’s like chunks of her life are torn out of her brain, leaving ragged, raw edges of images that she can’t piece together—like a dream that haunts you with a glimpse of something just outside your grasp. The monster is getting closer, taking over everything that is her mother and blacking it out from the inside.
“Last week she got confused on her way home from the grocery store,” Asha’s dad adds, sounding more upset than Asha has ever heard him. “She had to call me to come get her.”
“I understand your wife is still working?” Dr. Martinez asks Asha’s dad.
He nods. “She can’t lose her job now. I’m self-employed and her health insurance covers us both. It would ruin us financially.”
Matt’s voice comes from the phone. “Should Asha and I have some kind of test to see if we have it, too?”
Oh, God. Asha closes her eyes, breathing hard. The thought of a genetic time bomb ticking down inside her veins causes a fresh rush of raw panic to rise in her throat. This could be my future, too.
The doctor glances over at Asha’s dad, then turns her full attention to Asha.
“You don’t have to decide that now.” Dr. Martinez’s voice is calm. “If you want to consider it at some point, we can talk about the pros and cons.”
“How do we help her?” Matt’s voice seems so far away. Asha wishes desperately he were here in person, not just some disconnected voice on the phone. There is a foggy blackness invading her brain that she can’t escape. She needs someone—not Skye or Emma—to help her make sense out of all this.
“As I mentioned before, you can help your mother by moving as much of the mental processing outside her brain as possible,” the doctor responds patiently. “Taking photos and filing them according to date can help give her a sort of bionic memory.”
“I’m doing that,” Asha says in relief. Finally, she feels somewhat helpful. Her voice breaks. “Every day. See?”
She takes her phone out of her bag and brings up her ChitChat page. There they are: the photos of Asha going about her day, all with that familiar hashtag: #IAmAshaMirza. Then Asha holds out the phone to her mother, watching her reaction carefully.
“Would you like to see some pictures?” Asha asks. “Mom?”
Her mother puts both hands on either side of the chair and pushes herself away from the cushion behind her. Leaning in further toward the phone, her nose almost touches the screen. She stays like that for a long moment, staring at the pictures with Asha sitting silently by her side. Finally, she pushes the words out of her head.
“I know you,” she says, looking back up with a smile of relief. “You are Asha Mirza.”
At first, no one seems to notice the difference. Luke passes me in the hall and he nods, but keeps walking. I see the hurt in his eyes and it makes me feel horrible all over again.
Lunch is when it all starts to fall apart. Luke and I always sat together over by the windows, along with Asha and Emma. Asha is already at our usual table when I get there with my cafeteria hamburger and Tater Tots. At first, she’s more interested in the Tater Tots, grabbing two and stuffing them in her face before I even sit down.
“Do you know how bad this stuff is for you?” she says with her mouth full. “You know I’m in training, right?”
“You could have fooled me.” Emma joins us, sliding down the bench. She pulls the top off her blueberry yogurt and starts stirring up the fruit from the bottom.
“I forgot to bring my lunch,” I say, staring at the food in front of me.
“Why is Luke sitting over there?” Asha asks, squinting at the far wall of the cafeteria.
Emma looks over her shoulder and starts to wave Luke over, but I stop her. “Don’t.”
Emma’s brows wrinkle in confusion. “What’s going on?”
“We broke up,” I say, then try to take a bite of my hamburger. It tastes like cardboard and I chew forever before I can finally swallow.
“Who broke up with who?” Emma asks.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Bewildered, Asha asks, “Why didn’t you call me?”
So you would know I held up my end of the deal?
“I didn’t tell anyone.” I swallow. It feels like the bite of hamburger is stuck in my throat.
Asha’s eyes narrow and her face freezes. “Not even your best friend?”
The venom in her voice surprises me. I expected people to be surprised about my breakup with Luke. But why this raw anger?
Emma looks back and forth between me and Asha, but doesn’t say anything.
“What am I? Nobody?” Asha stands up. Her voice gets louder. It’s starting to attract stares. “Did you just forget about me?”
My head is spinning. I don’t even know what to say. I remember how pouty Asha got when Emma and I wouldn’t go snowboarding with her. How she was always so resentful of my job and the time I spent away from her. Did Asha decide to blackmail me because she was feeling left out? The idea makes me furious.
“Nobody can forget you, hashtag IAmAshaMirza. You won’t let us. Every second of every day you’re in our faces constantly reminding us of how perfect and strong and great you are.” I spit out the words. The adrenaline pumps through my body like wildfire. “Just because you say it—over and over and over again—doesn’t make it true.”
“Calm down,” Emma tells me, but I’m already standing up and walking away from the table.
“Wow,” I hear Asha say from behind me. “Was telling me off on your stupid to-do list?”
* * *
Later, at work, I’m sitting outside on my break. I watch a woman push her cart across the lo
t at a snail’s pace, a little boy toddling along beside her. He’s drinking from a yellow ducky sippy cup and the mother stops every few steps for him to catch up. Across the drive, a man in a wheelchair lifts himself up and over into the driver’s side of his van.
Earlier today, Mr. King told all the employees that the store was closing. A chorus of gasps and groans went up. Ryan looked startled, but Harmony looked the most upset of all. I wonder if this store has been a kind of home for her. I wanted to talk to her and Ryan about it, but then we all got slammed with a surprisingly busy afternoon. I’m grateful for the break now.
A single green leaf floats in a circle in the puddle at my feet. The sun warms the tips of my dirty black boots with the glow of late afternoon. I notice a smear of mud across the right toe. A car horn blares out at the stoplight.
It feels like everything is ending—my relationship with Luke, my friendship with Asha. My time at Kmart. But maybe it is a sign of new beginnings.
Summer is just around the corner. I want to believe in something good for a change.
Then a message buzzes across my phone. It’s a new ChitChat message from TellTaleHeart.
I open it.
TELLTALE♥: YOUR SISTER JUST POSTED A PHOTO ON CHITCHAT.
TELLTALE♥: HAVE YOU SEEN IT?
TELLTALE♥: SHE’S PRETTY, BUT …
I blink. But what? Now this ogre is coming for my sister, too? Every protective nerve in my body starts to tingle.
TELLTALE♥: I’M SURE SHE WANTS TO LOOK EVEN BETTER.
TELLTALE♥: WHY DON’T YOU FACEFIX IT?
TELLTALE♥: OR ELSE, WELL, YOU KNOW …
The rage bubbles into my shaking hands as I pull up Megan’s ChitChat page. I look at the photo she just posted. She is in our house, bent over and hugging Cassidy, and smiling at the camera. No makeup. No filters. No alterations. Just vibrant happiness. There is nothing there I want to fix. It is pure and perfect just as it is.
Something snaps in my brain. It has been a long time coming and a lot was lost along the way, but the line is finally crossed. Megan will not be a sacrifice to this Galactic Network of lies and intimidations.
ME: NO
TELLTALE♥: REALLY? YOU KNOW WHAT’S AT STAKE …
I do. I pull up the screenshot on my phone and stare at it for a very long time. The image I hold in my hand is what’s been driving me crazy and making me a prisoner. Of what?
For the first time, I really see the image. The girl in the photo looks … pretty. Her smile is wide and free. Her bare shoulders are round—maybe too soft by some people’s standards—but lovely just as they are. Hazel eyes are crinkled with laughter. Thick light-brown hair is big and wild and fun. She is me—unaware of other people’s eyes and judgment for once in her life. She’s not posing for anyone.
She’s not perfect, but she’s real.
I was lost so deep in this one superficial image, I was willing to do almost anything. I couldn’t bear letting the outside world see a different me than the one I so carefully created.
The walls of my identity waver. Start to crumble. Can I be the person in the photo and still be me?
Why does it matter what other people think?
An idea creeps into my head. One I can hardly believe I’m considering. Tears slide down my face. I hesitate. There is something I need to do, and it’s not on some likability list. My to-do list was about what I lacked. My shortcomings. But I didn’t need to do more things, I need to do things that truly matter. Important things. Like this. It’s my choice to take back my life. I am the one calling the shots.
My message back is short.
ME: I’M TAKING AWAY YOUR POWER.
Then I post the screenshot onto my ChitChat page. With shaking fingers, I hit Share.
And it goes everywhere.
“How are you doing?” Asha’s dad asks, sitting down on the edge of her bed that evening.
Asha puts down her phone. “I’ve been better.”
“Me too.”
“What are we going to do?” Asha asks. It’s a much bigger question than here and now.
“I don’t know.” Her dad has a half smile on his face, shaking his head slightly. His brown eyes are sad. “But we’ll get through this somehow. Together.”
Asha wipes her tears on the back of her hand.
Her dad hesitates. “The doctor is right. It’s time for us to start talking about this and get some help. I was wrong to ask you to keep your mom’s illness a secret. You need your friends’ support.”
It feels like a gift. “Are you sure?” Asha asks softly.
He nods, solemnly, puts his arm around her, and pulls her in for a tight hug.
After her dad leaves, Asha changes into an oversized T-shirt and washes off her makeup. She sits cross-legged on her bed, opens her laptop, and plugs in her headphones. But before she starts her homework, she checks into ChitChat and her fingers freeze on the keyboard.
Skye’s screenshot fills the screen. Asha claps a hand over her mouth with a gasp.
Why would she post this? This was never supposed to happen!
It’s the day before Spring Break—it starts on a Wednesday this year—but nobody’s talking about the upcoming vacation. Instead, they are all whispering and pointing at me. Even though I try to walk with my head held high, I hear the comments in the halls. I now know the answer to the question What will people think?—and it isn’t anything good.
“Why would she post a picture of herself like that?”
“Obviously, she thinks she’s hot.”
“Ewwwwww.”
First period is excruciating. Emma makes a gesture, pointing at her phone. I’ve had mine turned off since I posted the screenshot last night, but I pull it out from my backpack now, keeping it under my desk. I turn it on to see Emma’s texts.
EMMA: ARE YOU OKAY?????
EMMA: JUST IGNORE THEM!
I turn the phone off again and put it into my book bag, not looking at anything or anyone else. I stare straight down at my textbook, willing Mr. Sample, the math teacher, to start class on time for once. Instead he stands at the door, talking to Mrs. Drager about collecting money for some other teacher’s birthday cake.
Beside me, Asha taps away at her phone, and a minute later Emma’s phone pings. Asha nods vigorously at Emma and I’m sure they’re texting about me.
Mr. Sample walks to his desk and I feel relieved, but then he just digs around in his desk for some cash and goes back to the door. My hopes sink.
The boys behind me are laughing so loud they don’t even try to hide it. I know they are laughing at me. Someone throws a wadded-up piece of paper at me. It bounces off my arm and lies there on my desk. Even though I know people are watching, I straighten the piece of paper out. It’s a drawing of a cow in a bikini. There’s a big red lip print over the face.
I can’t breathe. How stupid could I be?
Even if the attention eventually moves on, that screenshot will be on the internet forever. All my confidence from last night has disappeared. This decision will cost me everything. My insides crawl from the reality of this public scrutiny. I may have taken control of my life back, but the consequences of doing so are real.
I feel Asha staring at me. I try to ignore her frantic gaze, but she kicks the leg of my chair to make me look at her. She leans across the aisle to snatch the cow picture from my desk and crumples it into a tight ball with one fist. Then she glares at the boys. They shut up.
“Why?” she mouths at me. She looks so confused. I’m sure she’s frustrated I ended her stupid game. If I didn’t know what she’d done, I’d almost feel sorry for her.
You know why I shared that screenshot, Asha. You’re the only one who does.
Mr. Sample finally comes back in the room to take roll. When he gets to my name, he looks at me like he’s so disappointed. I’m sure by now someone has shared the screenshot with him.
“Skye, would you like to go to the counselor’s office?” he asks.
I knew it
was going to be hard, but not this hard. I bite my lip and shake my head.
* * *
When the bell rings, I hustle out of class before Asha or Emma can catch up to me. I stop in a corner, off the main hallway, and dare to turn on my phone again. I don’t open ChitChat, but I check my email. And I have a new message, from Senator Watson’s office. I skim it, too scared and upset to even read closely.
Dear Ms. Matthews … We appreciate your interest and application to the internship program with Senator Watson.… As you are aware, our internship program is highly competitive.… We were impressed by your application, but … we are not able to offer you a placement at this time.…
I stop reading and stuff my phone back in my bag. That’s it. It’s over. No more internship, likely because the office saw the screenshot, too.
I just can’t do it anymore. There is a river running across my skin and the water is closing in over my head. Everything seems completely hopeless.
I’ve never skipped school before, but now I walk toward the doors to the parking lot and just keep walking. I expect alarms to go off like it’s a prison break, but nothing happens.
The parking lot is quieter than I’ve ever seen it. No screeching tires or loud honks. Every car is neatly in its place and every owner is where they should be—in class.
But not me.
And not Ryan. When I get to my car, he’s standing beside it.
I don’t know how he knew I would be here now, but something about his solid build standing there, and the look on his face, make me feel some small comfort.
“I’m leaving,” I tell him.
“Are you coming back?”
I meet his brown eyes. “Not today.” I open the driver’s side door.
“What about work?” he asks.
“I’m sick.” I get in the car. “I’ll call in later.”
“Do you want company?” he asks.
