True to Your Selfie

by Megan Mccafferty

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Kaytee continues. “I’m happy you told me about the team tryouts, but I got on the squad because I’ve got skills.” She takes a long gulp of her blue sports drink. “I’d like to think the other girls like me for who I am and not just because of who I know.”

  Morgan lets out a little gasp. The New Girl obviously doesn’t know not to talk to a Middleton like that. I’m literally on the edge of my seat, waiting for her retaliatory roast.

  It doesn’t come.

  Morgan quickly rearranges her face.

  “Of course you earned your spot! And of course they like you for you! Who wouldn’t like you?”

  Morgan isn’t wrong. Kaytee is incredibly likeable. But would Morgan be putting in so much effort if she didn’t have a Mystery Hottie brother? Or a mom with PR connections?

  For the next few minutes, Morgan complains about the other girls on the soccer team.

  “Brianna is such a ball hog. And Hailey shows no leadership skills.”

  I stab at my lunch with a fork. As a connoisseur of baked dough topped in sauce and cheese, school square-style is probably the least appetizing of all shapes and forms of pizza. But it’s particularly cardboardy and flavorless today. I never thought lunch would rival math or gym as my least favorite period of the day. I’ve pretty much murdered my meal when Kaytee unexpectedly turns to me.

  “So, Ella,” she says, “can I make a request?”

  I’m so surprised to be seen as a decision maker that I automatically look to Morgan for approval. She gives a tiny nod.

  “Um, sure.”

  “Can you arrange another Kaytee K. song on the ukulele? She’s my absolute fave!”

  I wait for a second nod from Morgan.

  “Sure,” I say. “Which one?”

  “Surprise me!” Kaytee exclaims. “I’m Morgan & Ella’s hugest fan, and I’m Kaytee K.’s hugest fan, so it will be just the fabooshest cover ever!”

  If Paisley were here, she’d argue with Kaytee on the first point and easily give up the second. I think they would quickly come to agree on the third.

  To prove her fandom, Kaytee breaks into what technically could be considered a song, but it’s so off-beat and off-key that I’m not sure it actually qualifies.

  “sToP conCeaLInG revEALinG is HeaLing GiVe mE tHe fuLlest TruTh …”

  I haven’t heard Morgan laugh this hard since I fell off the bleachers.

  “Omigoddess, Kaytee!” Morgan gushes. “You are so hilarious! Our fans would love you! I wish you’d appear on camera!”

  “Nope.” Kaytee shakes her head. “I’m much more comfortable behind the scenes.”

  “Speaking of, your mom is still looking into hooking us up a public relations team, right?”

  Morgan mentions it so casually, as if she hasn’t been dying to ask Kaytee this question all day. Morgan never wants to give the impression that she needs anyone else’s help. Even when she so clearly does.

  Kaytee bounces up and down in her seat and the whole table-for-two wobbles.

  “Totally!” Kaytee answers. “She’s been out of the business for a few years but still knows people …”

  Morgan startles.

  “What do you mean she’s out of the business? You told me she worked for a major PR firm!”

  The table shakes, and loose grapes escape to the floor. And after seeing the icy-hot look on Morgan’s face, I’m about two seconds from dropping to the ground for safety myself. Kaytee downs the last of her drink and crushes the bottle as if nothing is wrong.

  “Well, she did, until she took time off to raise me and my brother …”

  Morgan cuts her off.

  “So your mother is not currently a public relations professional?”

  “Technically, no,” Kaytee says. “But she’s looking to get back into it. My mom thinks you two are really talented and really wants to help you …”

  Morgan has stopped listening. She’s now giving her phone the attention Kaytee Ray no longer deserves. I search the New Girl’s face for hints of trouble, but she beams as brightly as her radiant last name. She looks and sounds 1,000 percent sincere and not at all concerned about being liked for who she knows.

  But that’s only because she hasn’t spent as much time with Morgan as I have.

  My third out of four fencing classes is already over. It was the best one yet. But it definitely didn’t seem like it would go that way when Morgan called me up this morning just to complain about her horseback riding lessons.

  “The horses stink, and the helmet messes up my hair, and I’m just so over it!” she griped. “But my parents are forcing me to go, and it’s torture and not fair!”

  Not fair? For the price of just one session at the equestrian center, I could take fencing lessons for six months! But I obviously couldn’t say this to Morgan. I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like I was accusing her of being a spoiled brat, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Helllooo? Ella? Are you there? Did we get cut off again?”

  I was never so grateful for the landline. I quietly hung up, unplugged the phone from the wall, and spent the next few hours getting really worked up. It’s a fact that the Middletons will throw away more money on “torturing” their daughter with expensive activities than my mom will earn in a lifetime. Now that’s unfair.

  I was still feeling stabby when four o’clock rolled around. Fortunately, fencing class is probably the most perfect place on earth for this particular emotion. I was prepared to conquer a whole squadron of fire-spitting dragons, so poor Bob didn’t stand a chance.

  “En garde!” he called jovially.

  “En grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” I growled in return.

  I defeated D.J., Gilda, and The Moms in similarly epic fashion. I thought I’d feel a bit drained after the second or third victory, but instead of losing energy in each bout, I actually gained it. Only it was a different kind of energy, as if through the swordplay I’d transformed anger and negativity into power and positivity. By the time I finished fencing against Dede herself, I felt downright invincible—which is ironic because it was my only loss of the afternoon.

  And now there’s only one lesson left.

  The Moms, D.J., Bob, and Gilda have just cleared out, but I’m lagging behind. I’m not in any hurry to put this class behind me, so I’m very slowly stowing my borrowed gear.

  Dede pokes me in the shoulder with her foil.

  “So how do you think these lessons are going?”

  They’re going … going … almost gone, I think. And that’s not fair.

  I’m feeling the fuzzy burn behind my eyes and at the back of my throat. If I try to talk, I’ll cry. So I just shrug instead.

  “Let me tell you how they’re going,” she says. “They’re going pretty freaking great.”

  It means a lot to hear this from Dede. I’m not delusional. I really am as good at fencing as I think I am.

  “That’s why you’re the only one in the class I’m encouraging to go to this.”

  Dede shows me a neon orange paper with the university and county logos at the top. Sure, I’ve seen these flyers posted all around the fitness center, but I haven’t actually bothered to read beyond the first line of bold, large font:

  FENCING FOR ALL.

  Not for me, I thought the first time I saw one pinned to the bulletin board. Not for long.

  “I can’t,” I croak. “I mean, we can’t.”

  I don’t want to say it out loud.

  We can’t afford any more lessons. One month was already too much.

  And even though she isn’t even here, I find myself getting mad at Morgan all over again. I’m not jealous of her exactly, but I do envy all the opportunities she takes for granted. Her parents would buy the YMCA and rename it in her honor if she showed even the teensiest smidge of interest in fencing.

  I throw down my protective chest pad and flee the room before I have to say any of these humiliating truths aloud. I’m so eager to get away that I don’t e
ven notice Alex lingering in the hall.

  “Heeyyy …” he calls out, but I’ve already sped past him toward the exit.

  “No time!”

  “Whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa!” he says, reaching the doors before I do. “What’s the rush?”

  I make him wait until I’m safe before giving him an answer.

  “I needed to get out of there before I could feel any worse,” I say.

  His eyes get all crinkly in a way Morgan thinks is “the cutest thing ever, ever, ever.”

  “Are you really that bad at fencing?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “I’m great at fencing. But my lessons end next week, and I’m upset because I won’t be able to keep going …”

  I don’t give any more details, and I really hope Alex doesn’t ask for them.

  He doesn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “That sucks.”

  What a relief. Sometimes all I want is someone to, like, validate my bad mood and not try to talk me out of it. Alex is still walking with me toward the bike rack, though, so I guess that means our conversation isn’t over yet.

  “I’m taking a ballet class,” he says.

  I pretty much figured this out already. So I’m not surprised by the confession itself, but I absolutely wasn’t expecting him to make it to me. It takes a lot of confidence to be the only boy in ballet class. Lucky for him I happen to think that kind of confidence is very, very cool. But I guess he’s nervous I’ll judge him harshly. He watches my face carefully for a reaction.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s very, very cool.”

  “Dance can be helpful cross-training for soccer,” Alex explains quickly, defensively, as if he’s already prepared himself for pushback. “It improves balance, core strength, and agility.”

  “I know,” I say. “My sister took yoga for the same reason.”

  “Oh,” he says. “You have a sister who plays soccer?”

  Alex just moved here from Virginia. He has no idea who my sister is. What an unexpectedly happy turn this conversation has taken.

  “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Alex asks. “Diego would roast me so hard if he found out I was spending my Saturday afternoons in dance class.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know why,” he says. “You seem like someone I can trust.”

  We reach the bike rack, and I start spinning the numbers on my combination lock. I literally cannot afford to have this bike stolen, so I’m usually sort of paranoid about not letting anyone catch a glimpse as I enter the code. But I don’t even try to shield the lock from Alex’s eyes.

  I don’t know why, but he seems like someone I can trust.

  “I can’t tell anyone about my fencing class either.”

  “Including that Morgan girl, right?”

  His lip curls when he says her name. Morgan would not find his disgust very cute at all.

  “Especially that Morgan girl,” I reply.

  He flips up his hood and cinches the strings.

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Yours too.”

  We fist-bump to make it official. And though I should be happy about making an unexpected new friend, I’m already worried about what will happen when Morgan inevitably finds out about it.

  Now that we have a friend in common, it feels even weirder for Sophie and me to continue ignoring each other in gym class. But it’s so easy to ignore someone when the person you’re ignoring is equally committed to ignoring you right back. Like, if she’s striking out at bat, I’m in the farthest outfield. If I’m missing all my foul shots, she’s waiting her turn on the away team bench. If she can’t stop the hockey girls from scoring on her goal, I’m doing the same poor job in my goal all the way on the opposite side of the field.

  So another class has ended, and I’m picking up the yoga mat I placed as far away from Sophie as possible. Coach Stout calls out to me on the way to the locker room.

  “Plaza!” She blasts her whistle at me. “Let’s have a talk!”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  I fell flat on my butt when attempting tree pose.

  “No, not at all,” she says, smiling broadly.

  Coach pats the bench for me to sit down. Then she props up her foot and leans on her knee.

  “Dede got in touch with me,” she says. “Says you’re showing a lot of progress and promise in her class …”

  Which ends next week, so why does it matter?

  “Which is why she was encouraging you to sign up for this …”

  She flips through the papers on her clipboard and holds up the same orange flyer Dede showed me on Saturday. I’m already shaking my head, but Coach does not have time for my excuses or explanations.

  “Plaza! Did you even read it?” Coach Stout asks, barely hiding her irritation. “It’s an opportunity to get free instruction …”

  Free?

  “It’s a talent search …”

  Talent?

  “Winners of the beginner’s tournament get a full scholarship …”

  Scholarship?

  She goes on to say stuff about how this is “a joint Town & Gown initiative,” which means the community leaders and the university are working together on it. I guess they want to make a bunch of expensive sports like fencing more inclusive to athletes of all socioeconomic backgrounds, but really the only details I need are …

  FREE

  TALENT

  SCHOLARSHIP.

  Coach Stout says more stuff about how it’s expected to draw first-time fencers from all over the state, so getting a scholarship isn’t guaranteed. But Dede wouldn’t have pushed the idea unless she thought I was ready. Just like Lauren wouldn’t have spent her own money for me to fail. I’m not used to having so many people believe in me. What if I don’t live up to their expectations?

  It feels good but scary too.

  Even scarier? The prospect of Morgan finding out about it.

  “The tournament is Monday after school at the university fitness center,” Stout says, handing me the flyer to take with me. “And if you need a ride, I’m happy to work something out with your parents.”

  “Parent,” I say, sharper than I meant to. “My mom.”

  I haven’t asked any more questions about our father lately. And Lauren seems all too happy to not have to answer.

  “I apologize,” Coach says in a softer voice than normal. “I can make arrangements with your mom.”

  I catch Sophie exiting the locker room with Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t already know the university campus is exactly 1.2 miles away from my apartment. That’s a five-minute drive, ten-minute bike ride, twenty-minute walk.

  “No need,” I assure Coach Stout. “I’ll get there all by myself if I have to.”

  I fold up the flyer and slip it into my hoodie’s kangaroo pocket.

  I swear the clouds wait until I step outside to unleash all the rain they’ve been holding on to all day. It was sunny when I left for school this morning, so, of course, I’m totally unprepared for such a drastic change in the forecast. Sophie, Kaytee, Harumi, and Sofie-with-an-f are impossible to miss on the sidewalk in front of me, all four girls fully protected by a ginormous golf umbrella in FlutterFyre stripes of green and orange. There’s no room for me under that umbrella, and I wouldn’t have sought protection underneath it even if there were.

  I brace myself for a soggy trudge home, thinking about how much I sort of envy Sophie. She doesn’t care one bit about clothes or hair or makeup or boys or any of the things that girls our age are supposed to care about. She doesn’t seem to worry about being blasted on Fotobomb every day. She doesn’t know the first thing about global multiplatform domination. She isn’t embarrassed to walk around school all day with a ginormous green-and-orange-striped golf umbrella that doesn’t fit in her locker because she checked the weather forecast and saw there was a 99 percent chance of rain during her walk home.

  Okay, so she’s a bi
t nerdy. But Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f have accepted her as she is. And now she’s got Kaytee on her side too …

  “Yoo-hoo! Earth to Ella!”

  A hand frantically waves at me from the back window of a Mercedes SUV.

  I’ve got Morgan.

  Without hesitation, I jump into the back seat.

  “Thanks for the rescue!”

  “Whoop! Practice is canceled! Let’s get hot chocolate!”

  I open my mouth to remind her that I’m grounded when she leans back and takes a critical look at me.

  “Ummm … You look like a drowned rat. No offense.” She taps Izzy on the shoulder. “Quick detour to Morgan & Ella HQ for damage control. Then hot chocolate!”

  “Why can’t we just get hot chocolate?” I ask.

  “We can’t put you on the socials looking like that!”

  “Why do we have to put it on the socials?” I ask. “Can’t we be just, like, two ordinary seventh graders getting hot chocolate on a cold, rainy day?”

  Morgan pinches her lips, shakes her head slowly.

  “Ella …” I know what she’s going to say. And I almost say it with her. “Why do you think so small?”

  “I don’t think small,” I reply. “I think …”

  I think what, exactly? Morgan doesn’t give me time to figure it out.

  “You miss being best friends with Ickface?” she asks. “Because I can think of at least twenty thousand OMGs who would trade places with you in a millisecond. And you can be as ordinary and as boring as you want to be.”

  She’s got me there. Because here’s the fullest truth about being best friends with Morgan Middleton: It isn’t always fun. But it’s never, ever boring.

  “So let’s get you looking perfect, let’s get some hot chocolate, and let’s get you home before your mom ever knows you were gone.”

  I know I should still tell her to tell Izzy to take me straight home. But Morgan is so hard to say no to when she’s Girlbossing as hard as she is right now. I plunge my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and run my fingers over the flyer like it’s a protective amulet, which is just about the wrongest thing I can possibly do in front of a noticer like Morgan.

  “Are you hiding something in there?”