True to Your Selfie

by Megan Mccafferty

  To Heather Schroder, for helping me be the best version of myself

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Morgan & Ella

  Disaster

  Haters

  A Place for Everything

  Compromise

  OMIGODDESS

  Pretty Petty Please

  Disconnection

  Ready or Not

  Part Two

  Imaginary Audience

  In-Betweener

  Fotobombed!

  This Is Me

  Remedial Gym

  Oxymorons

  Fake Followers

  Totally Blank

  Charitable Bullying

  On Guard

  Price to Pay

  No Refunds, No Returns, No Exchanges

  Part Three

  So … This Is Me

  New BFF

  First Class

  Funday

  Perfection Inspection

  Positives and Negatives

  Next Level

  Second Class

  Fitness Test

  Ding-Dong

  Close Enough

  Part Four

  Is This Me?

  Bonk!

  Next to Last Class

  Free Talent Scholarship

  Gabby Mackenzie

  Being Good

  Tomorrow Today

  Oppo Research

  Tea Party

  The Last Class

  Origin Story

  Suckerella

  This. Is. Not. Me.

  Pics or It Didn’t Happen

  No, I Think

  The Fullest Love

  Revealing Is Healing

  This Is Really Me

  About the Author

  Copyright

  My best friend, Morgan Middleton, puts on a smile she’s worked very hard to master. It’s the friendly Everygirl greeting: a silent, open-mouthed “ohhhh hiiiiii” inspired by Riley Quick, her pop star idol, who pioneered and perfected this look.

  We’re in our usual spot at the Mercer Community Pool Complex, facing the open swim area, a little too close to the greasy smog of the Snack Shack. It’s not the most perfect spot—that would be the rows of umbrellas surrounding the high dives occupied by wild packs of high schoolers—but we’re not even seventh graders yet. There’s a lot of competition for lounge chairs, and at our age we’re lucky to get them anywhere in the complex.

  Since we arrived, we’ve been stalked by a quartet of nervous little girls who appear to be at least two years younger than we are, maybe more. I’m guessing eight to ten years old. Young enough that they wear one-piece swimsuits and still allow parents to apply thick layers of sunblock. Their faces are clear and makeup-free, their hair scraggly and damp with pool water. I can’t decide if their lips are blue from Popsicles or playing Marco Polo too long.

  I’m still not used to calling them our “fans.”

  The tallest girl is pushed to the front to represent the group.

  “We love you!”

  In public, we’re a unit. So we reply in Morgan & Ella unison.

  “And we love you!”

  “Can we get a group selfie?”

  “Of course you can!”

  Our friend Maddy hops up from her chair and steps out of the shot. Earlier in the summer, she thought she’d be helpful by offering to take the picture for our fans. Morgan shut her down.

  “Ummm … It’s called a selfie not an otherie.”

  Then she made an exaggerated winky expression like a real-life emoji to make sure we all knew she was joking. That’s another face Morgan has practiced a lot in the mirror. I appreciate her winky faces because otherwise I have a hard time knowing when Morgan is trying to be funny. She has a sophisticated sense of humor.

  “You’re both so pretty!” the tallest girl exclaims.

  “Aw, thank you!” says Morgan & Ella.

  “You know you’re all beautiful too …” Morgan starts.

  “In your own unique ways,” I finish.

  That’s what Morgan & Ella always says when we’re complimented on our appearance. Morgan and I share a general category, twelve-almost-thirteen-year-old girls, but we don’t look anything alike. Cake and pie share the same general category of dessert but are two very different things. Both yummy. But you wouldn’t judge a pie by a cake’s standards or vice versa. In sort of the same way it’s impossible to decide who is prettier: Morgan or me. Or at least that’s what Morgan says.

  So far our fans seem to agree.

  Morgan and I lean in to our fans like we’re all best friends. The whole pack of them smells like pool chemicals and fake berry flavor.

  “Hashtag Goalz Girlz!” cheers Morgan & Ella.

  “Goalz Girlz!” our fans chant back.

  clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

  Duck pouts. Smizes. T. rex hands. We’ve got the poses down. Morgan deletes the uglies and enhances the pretties before returning the phone to the tallest one.

  clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

  “Follow Morgan & Ella on all the socials!” Maddy calls out to our fans as they skitter back to the other side of the pool.

  Maddy is a terrible singer and was never in consideration for Morgan’s on-screen partner. Fortunately for her, she’s made herself useful by being a genius at market research and promotion.

  “Hashtag Goalz Girlz! One word! With z’s!”

  We are Morgan & Ella.

  We record, edit, and post videos of ourselves singing covers of pop songs. Morgan sings lead. I play ukulele and sing harmony. Morgan & Ella has about ten thousand followers for each of the most important socials, like Insta, Snap, and Fotobomb. Every time I get a little freaked out by so many eyeballs, Morgan reminds me that we’re tiny compared to the most popular influencers. That’s true, but ten thousand is waaaaay more than the number of students, teachers, and parents in the audience at Shadybrook Elementary School’s talent show. Outside of Mercer, New Jersey, we aren’t celebrities yet. But we are to the little girls at the pool. And they are just the beginning.

  “They’re our first fans.” Morgan waves at them. “But not the last!”

  Morgan blows on her sunglasses and hands them to Maddy.

  “Those little girls will have big-time bragging rights when our videos go viral,” Morgan continues. “All we need is a shout-out from the right influencer …”

  “Click, click, click, BOOM! All over the internet!” exclaims Maddy.

  Maddy cleans the lenses with a special cloth, then hands the sunglasses back to Morgan. The frames are flamingo pink, which I thought would clash with her red hair, but nope, the colors totally pop on camera. Morgan always selfie-tests before buying anything. Luckily for me, she gets bored with her purchases and happily passes them on. At least half the clothes on my floor once hung in Morgan’s walk-in closet.

  “Our fans need a name for themselves,” Morgan says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Riley Quick has Ribots,” Maddy explains. “Kaytee K. has Kayters. The Morgan & Ella fandom needs a name.”

  “It really should be priority number one.” Morgan swipes on her phone.

  I automatically reach for my phone in my bag so I can start swiping too.

  “What about Ukies?” Maddy suggests. “For the ukulele?”

  Morgan frowns, gives a thumbs-down.

  “Rhymes with pukies. And puts too much focus on Ella.”

  “Reddies?” Maddy suggests. “For your hair?”

  Morgan smiles and tosses her flame-colored curls over her shoulder but reluctantly gives another thumbs-down.

  “But I like where you’re going with this.”

  As Morgan
and Maddy pitch potential nicknames for our tiny-but-growing fan base, I close my eyes and put my own priorities in order.

  1.Avoid The Eyeroll.

  2.Be good for Mom.

  3.Listen to my sister, Lauren. Listen to my sister, Lauren.

  I’m working on number four when Morgan spritzes me with cucumber water hydrating mist. I can’t see through the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses, but I’m pretty sure I’ve already failed at number one.

  “You’ve been very quiet during our brainstorming session.”

  I’ve been very quiet because it’s impossible to deliver on the first priority and still come through on the second and third. I don’t know why Morgan wants my opinion anyway. She is smart. Like, the way the world works smart. She is also school smart.

  I am neither.

  Okay, that’s not totally accurate. I am pretty good at all the parts of school that don’t have anything to do with learning, studying, or test taking. The less it has to do with any of those things, the better I am at it. I’m not playing dumb like some people I know. Boo-hoo! I got an A minus in Advanced Quantum Calculus of Geometric Astrophysics! No. I’ve got years of not-great report cards to back me up. Some Satisfactories, some Unsatisfactories. Many Needs Improvements. The only Outstandings I ever got were in music classes.

  And it’s not like I’m diagnosably not-great at school either. My mom is in the medical field, so you can bet I’ve been tested, but I don’t have ADHD or dyslexia. I don’t have any learning disabilities, although Lauren says not putting anything away means I’ve got an episode of Hoarders in my future. I’m just, like, normal not-great at school, which makes my not-great-at-schooling very frustrating for Mom. This year I would like to be better than not-great at school (see priorities number two and number three). But pleasing Morgan (priority number one) takes up a lot of time and energy, and there are only so many hours in the day.

  “Maybe we should focus a little less on stardom,” I suggest, “and a little more on starting seventh grade.”

  Morgan lowers her sunglasses. “Seventh grade? Really?”

  I clutch the arms of my chair to brace myself for The Eyeroll as epic as the earth’s orbit around the sun. The Eyeroll that can be seen from outer space. The Eyeroll with cosmic consequences.

  “Why do you think so small, Ella?”

  I think so small because The Eyeroll means I am an insignificant speck in Morgan Middleton’s universe.

  Morgan sighs deeply, but The Eyeroll doesn’t come.

  “I’m already in with all the most popular eighth-grade girls because of travel soccer. And you’re the younger sister of a Mercer High School soccer star. We’d have nothing to worry about even if our Fotobomb wasn’t blowing up, which it totally is.”

  “What about me?” Maddy asks. “What do I have going for me?”

  “Duh! You’re friends with us!”

  Then Morgan ding-dongs her head in the back-and-forth way she does whenever Maddy or I say anything too ditzy for the brand. This gesture is playful so it doesn’t have anywhere near the same devastating effect as The Eyeroll. What a relief to finally have a best friend who doesn’t push me to be any smarter than I need to be but also discourages me from acting less smart than I really am. I don’t like questioning Morgan’s expertise, but I still can’t help but ask.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Fortunately, Morgan enjoys this opportunity to assert her authority. She sits up tall in her chair, a regal pose for Mercer, New Jersey, royalty.

  “Because I am a Middleton,” she says. “And Middletons are winners.”

  Morgan’s mother was made the first female partner at her law firm because Middletons are winners. Morgan’s father moved up from town councilman to mayor to congressman because Middletons are winners. Morgan has been watching her parents win cases and elections her whole life.

  “I’m not a Middleton,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  “But you’re a Middleton’s best friend!” Maddy replies eagerly. “Which is the next best thing to being one!”

  “Listen to Maddy,” Morgan says. “She’s the next best next best thing.”

  And when Morgan winks we all know it’s okay to laugh at the joke.

  Most almost-thirteen-year-olds would happily settle for being the most popular girls in seventh grade. Until my first time on the receiving end of The Eyeroll, I would’ve happily settled for not being the most unpopular girl in seventh grade. But Morgan Middleton isn’t most almost-thirteen-year-olds. And now that I’ve been chosen as her BFF, neither am I. For Morgan & Ella, Mercer Middle School popularity is just a formality to pass through on the way to what Morgan calls “global multiplatform domination.” Morgan calls herself the Girlboss Goddess Next Door, which is pretty funny because nobody lives next door to her. Her family’s estate is the only house on the block, an ivy-covered mansion hidden behind a security wall. This could be off-putting to our fans if Morgan weren’t so humble.

  “It’s so important to be humble,” she likes to remind me. “Name another girl who has so much and stays so humble.”

  I can’t. Morgan is the humblest.

  At all times, I’m expected to embody the Goofball Goddess role Morgan has assigned to me. I love singing, playing the ukulele, and making videos, but maintaining this image can be very stressful. That’s why Morgan takes all the guesswork out of status-making or -breaking decisions about wardrobe, hair, and makeup.

  “It’s time for you to up your nail game, Ella,” Morgan announces.

  Playing the ukulele puts a lot of wear and tear on my nails. Any cute polish I put on gets scratched off within minutes of strumming. Chipped polish not only looks bad on camera but can actually have an effect on the sound made by the strings. So far I’ve opted out, hoping Morgan would understand why without my having to explain: Perfect nails cost too much money to maintain.

  “My assistant is taking us for mani-pedis the day after tomorrow.”

  Izzy used to be Morgan’s nanny. About six months ago Morgan started referring to her as “my assistant.”

  “But …” I start to protest.

  “My treat!” Morgan insists. “We’re a team! What’s good for you is good for me is good for Morgan & Ella!”

  And before I can say anything more, Morgan has already moved on to a monologue about a boy she’s had her eye on since he showed up at the pool a few weeks ago. “The Mystery Hottie” is not here today. His absence, Morgan says, is tragic, and Maddy wholeheartedly agrees. I barely remember who they’re talking about, but I go along with the gossip because it’s more fun than being left out of the conversation.

  Not for the first time this summer, I find myself asking the following question: If I weren’t half of Morgan & Ella, what would I be doing right now?

  You’d be splashing around the pool with those little girls you call “fans.”

  Oh no. It’s The Best Friend in My Head.

  You’d stay in the water until your lips turned blue and your fingers went pruny. And when you finally got out, you’d spread your towel under the leafy maple tree and swap old copies of the Dragonologist Chronicles …

  That’s what I did last summer. And the summer before that and before that. Baby stuff was fine back in elementary school. But we’re older now, about to start middle school and …

  Those summers are gone.

  Yes. Those summers are gone. Morgan chose me and I chose her in return.

  Over Sophie.

  Over me, says The Best Friend in My Head.

  This time I don’t argue back.

  Yes, I silently reply. Over you.

  Less than twenty-four hours later, Morgan is stomping across my bedroom, trampling right over the laundry—dirty, clean, doesn’t matter now—in her platform flip-flops.

  “This is a disaster, Ella!”

  Like everything she’s passionate about, Morgan is totally committed to pacing and can’t be bothered to kick away clothes to clear a path. It’s totally my fault for
scattering stuff all over the floor in the first place. But since my sister left for college a few weeks ago, I’m taking full advantage of having a bedroom to myself. For the first time in my life, I can be as messy as I want to be.

  “I cannot believe you lost your phone!”

  After all the work we’ve put in this summer. All the practicing and planning, studying and strategizing. How could I be so careless so close to the start of seventh grade at Mercer Middle School? How could I jeopardize the future of Morgan & Ella’s global multiplatform domination?

  “When you didn’t reply to my Morning Must-Dos, I thought, okay, Ella can’t text back because she couldn’t wait another day to fix those janky nails!”

  Morgan wiggles silver glitter fingertips at me. I sit on my hands, too guilty to even look at my naked nails.

  Morgan spins, begins another lap.

  “But when I factored in drying time and you still hadn’t responded to my texts, I started to get worried. Like, seriously worried.”

  If we were at her house, Morgan would have enough square mileage to really work up an anxious sweat. But the bedroom I shared with my sister is smaller than Morgan’s walk-in closet. She barely goes three paces before she has to double back over my dirty laundry.

  “I started to think that maybe you had died, Ella.” Morgan goes still, presses a hand to her heart. “Like, seriously dead, died.”

  I have this superannoying nervous habit of bursting into inappropriate giggles at Morgan’s most serious moments. I press my lips together to stop it from happening again.

  “I had your memorial ready to launch across all the socials,” Morgan continues. “Ella Jane Plaza: My BFF As Only I Knew Her.”

  Sneaky laughter snurgles through my nose.

  SNNNNNNOOOOOORRRRRRT.

  Morgan has warned me that snorting like a hog will make all the boys think I’m more piggy than pretty. This, she has said, would be a tragic waste of cuteness. Fortunately, she’s too caught up in my near-death experience to get upset about that right now.

  “It was beautiful. All of Morgan & Ella’s most loved and linked moments.” Morgan sighs. “Our winning medley of Riley Quick songs at the Jersey Fresh Talent Showcase. Our stirring rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ at the BlueClaws baseball game. Our first video to break ten thousand views!”