True to Your Selfie

by Megan Mccafferty

  I wait for Dede to give one last pitch for the tournament. But I’m surprised when she continues wiping down the equipment without saying another word.

  “So that’s it?” I ask. “You’re not going to talk me into going to the tournament?”

  Dede offers me a slight smile.

  “It’s not my job to talk you into anything,” she says. “I can coach. I can encourage. But only you can decide to make fencing a priority.”

  “I want to,” I protest, “but …”

  But it’s not up to me, I think.

  “Thanks for everything, Dede,” I say instead.

  I walk out the door for the last time, expecting to see Alex, but he isn’t there. I guess his class hasn’t finished yet, so I peek through the window to catch a glimpse of him in action. His arms are out to the sides as he spins on one foot, with his other foot jutting out like a triangle from the knee of his supporting leg. He’s

  quick

  graceful

  and

  precise.

  Just like me.

  I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I figure the least I can do is stick around long enough to say goodbye. When the class is over, he opens the door and lets everyone exit before he does.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to act casual.

  “Hey,” he says back with a grin that comes naturally to him.

  “You were really good in there,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he says. “Wish I could say the same about you. But I’ve never seen you fence, so I’d be lying.”

  His joke falls flat. It’s not his fault though. He doesn’t know the situation.

  “You’ll never get a chance to see me because today was my last class,” I say. “Ever.”

  He holds the door open, and I step through it.

  “Oh,” he says. “But if your big meeting with Ribot Entertainment goes well, you’ll get rich enough to take all the fencing classes you want.”

  “Wait!” I grab him by the arm. “You know about my meeting?”

  I’ve sort of convinced myself that Alex only knows as much about me as I’ve told him myself. I hadn’t counted on him following all the online gossip that continues to exist with or without my participation—or permission.

  “Of course I know about your meeting! Kaytee told me all about it. She’s more of a Kayter than a Ribot, but she’s excited for you.”

  Well, I guess it’s some consolation that he found out from his sister, not the socials. And I don’t doubt that he’s telling the truth. Overall, Kaytee is the most positive person I’ve ever met, even more than Paisley, whose enthusiasm is limited to her pop cultural obsessions.

  “Even if the meeting goes well and I get rich,” I say, “I still won’t be able to take fencing classes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because fencing is off-brand.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Morgan.”

  Alex groans at the mention of her name.

  “Do you think ballet class is on-brand for me?”

  I sort of see his point. Alex is the last person I would’ve pictured doing pliés and pirouettes in his free time. But it’s not the same thing. He’s not seeking global multiplatform domination.

  “You’re not a brand,” I say. “You’re just you.”

  Alex stops in his tracks. His eyes grab mine, and hold on. The look he’s giving me is something between a gaze and a glare—pity and disapproval. If I wasn’t one of the foolish girls before, there’s no doubt in my mind that he sees me that way now.

  “When did you stop being you?”

  Then he dashes away, leaving me alone on the sidewalk to give his deep question a simple answer:

  I stopped being me when Morgan started telling me exactly what to wear, post, link, sing, say, and think.

  Or is that a deep answer to a simple question?

  I’ve been to Middleton Mansion many times, and it never gets any less bizarre to me that someone actually lives here. It’s grand and foreboding and has an actual tower called a turret, a word I’m familiar with from the Dragonologist Chronicles. Any day now they’ll install a moat filled with laser dolphins.

  When Morgan greets me with an enthusiastic hug, I’m thinking maybe Maddy and Paisley are wrong. Morgan really likes me for who I am and not what she thinks I can do for her image.

  “Omigoddess! We have so much to do!”

  I follow Morgan through one enormous living room before passing through what I think is a second enormous living room—or maybe it’s the family room? Media room? Great room? There are a lot of enormous rooms to keep track of and they’re all full of oversized earth-toned furniture that somehow all looks the same. Whatever room we’re in, Morgan hangs a left and starts making her way up a marble staircase to Morgan & Ella HQ on the second floor.

  As always, Morgan spreads out on a skinny, zebra-striped couch called a divan. I usually flop into a beanbag at her feet, but for now I’m more comfortable standing. Morgan takes notice, because Morgan notices everything.

  “Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the floor. “Relax.”

  “I’m good,” I say, before quickly moving on to business. “So what do you want to do first?”

  Morgan watches me carefully, clearly debating whether to make an issue of my decision to stand. When she smiles at me, I know she’s letting it go.

  “So before we work on our songs, our look, or anything else,” Morgan says, “we have to work on our story.”

  “Our story?” I ask. “What story?”

  “About how Morgan & Ella came to be,” she says. “Our origin story.”

  “Well, that technically wouldn’t be an origin story,” I say, “because we’re not, like, heroes or villains …”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Morgan says. “I forgot what a book lover you are. Maybe when Ickface gets here we can forget all about preparing for the biggest audition of our lives and just sit around eating junk food and reading the Dragonologist Chronicles all night. Would you like that instead?”

  “Well …”

  “Well, what?”

  “Doesn’t it make more sense for us to postpone the audition so we can really perfect our sound and aesthetics? What’s the rush?”

  It’s an honest suggestion. If we reschedule, I’ll be better prepared to impress. Nailing this audition benefits both of us. Getting to participate in the tournament is an added bonus. Why should Morgan be the only one who gets everything she wants?

  “What’s the rush?” Morgan mimics me perfectly. “We’re already losing fans to the competition!”

  “What competition?”

  “EVERYONE WHO IS NOT US.”

  Morgan is literally pulling her hair out. Just when I think she’s on the verge of a total meltdown, she closes her eyes, brings prayer hands up to her face, and takes a deep breath. It’s a popular Fotobomb pose.

  #zen #peace #blessed

  And maybe it actually works because when she opens her eyes, her face is calm again.

  “Our origin story,” she says, as if this line of conversation hadn’t been broken. “You can thank me for already turning your weakness into a strength.”

  “What weakness?” I manage to ask. “Into what strength?”

  She levels me with the Girlbossiest of looks.

  “Your deadbeat dad,” she says. “Our unlikely friendship.”

  I’m stunned. Not by what she has said, but how easily she said it.

  “You’ll tell everyone how my family has become your family,” Morgan says. “And the congressman has become, like, a father figure to you.”

  I’m so happy I didn’t flop into the beanbag. It’s much harder to make a stand sitting down.

  “I may not have a dad, but I already have a family,” I say firmly. “And I’ve never even met your father.”

  “We can make an effort to correct that,” she says.

  “So what? I’ll have breakfast with the congressman tomorrow morning and—BAM!—he’s my replacement
daddy?”

  When she doesn’t deny it, I know for sure that’s exactly what Morgan has in mind.

  “This narrative really is the best option,” Morgan insists.

  “For who?” I ask.

  “For Morgan & Ella!”

  “For Morgan & Ella,” I repeat softly.

  I think about Paisley and Maddy’s warnings. That Morgan Middleton is never, ever in it for anyone but herself. If I don’t ask this question right now, I know I’ll regret it.

  “Why do you even need me?”

  Morgan blinks slowly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could just go solo,” I say, “and not have to worry about my messy background bringing you down.”

  “You don’t get it,” Morgan says. “Your messy background lifts me up!”

  What did Maddy say about Morgan’s biggest flaws? That picking me made her—and her family—appear more real?

  She stretches herself out on the divan like royalty.

  “When Daddy runs for president—”

  She’s right in front of me, but I swear I mishear her.

  “What?”

  “When Daddy,” she repeats with emphasis, “runs for president—”

  “President of what?”

  “The United States.”

  “Your father is running for president of the United States?!”

  “Not now,” she responds casually, “but, like, eventually.”

  Congressman Middleton will be master of the universe, like, eventually in the same way my mom will get her master’s degree, like, eventually.

  “When it’s time for him to choose a running mate,” Morgan continues, “he can’t choose someone who’s too much like him, even though he’s brilliant. The veep has to make the president look good. And if the veep is too brilliant, like the president, everyone will compare them to each other all the time. And the veep could actually overshadow the guy in charge. So Daddy has to pick someone who is different enough, but not so different that they drag the ticket down.”

  I’m only sort of understanding why she’s telling me this.

  “I’m like the veep?” I ask. “My job is to look good but not too good?”

  “Your job,” Morgan replies, “is to make Morgan & Ella look good.”

  Which is why Morgan tells me exactly what to wear, post, link, sing, say, and …

  “That’s how you bring the perfect balance to my brand.”

  Suddenly, the most ridiculous of Maddy and Paisley’s claims—that Morgan needs me as much as I need her—seems not ridiculous in the least.

  “Our brand,” I correct her.

  “Duh!” She ding-dongs her head. “Of course! Ours! That’s what I said!”

  “But it isn’t what you said,” I reply. “And it isn’t what you think either.”

  Morgan’s smile vanishes quicker than a deleted selfie.

  “Why are you giving me such attitude right now? Do I need to remind you of everything I’ve done to get you here? You were a disaster when we first met, Ella. A disaster. You have no idea how uncute you were before I gave you clothes and makeup and—omigoddess!—you’d never even had a manicure before you met me! And now you’ve got a meeting with Riley Quick’s management team! Which means you’re, like, destined to one day meet Riley Quick herself! It’s a dream come true! Don’t you want the best life for you and your mom and your sister?”

  “Of course I want what’s best, but …”

  “But nothing! You’re acting like an ungrateful …”

  The end of her rant is lost in a groan.

  “Ughhhhhh. I can’t believe it.” She points to the security monitor. “Ickface has arrived.”

  Omigoddess. I can’t believe it either. Sophie actually showed up.

  And I’ve never, ever been happier to see someone who isn’t speaking to me.

  Sophie stands as still as the lion statues guarding the entrance to Middleton Mansion. I don’t blame her for being too timid—or intimidated?—to ring the doorbell.

  “Are you just going to stand here all night?” Morgan asks as a greeting.

  “Hey, Soph,” I say. “Saw you on the security cam.”

  “Hey,” she replies.

  Morgan obviously does not want her here. So it falls to me to make her feel welcome. Not out of politeness, I realize. But for my own protection.

  Now that Sophie’s here, I don’t want her to leave.

  “Come in,” I say, even though it’s Morgan’s house.

  She grips the handle to her rolling suitcase. It’s the same one my mom always complimented her on for having “smart ergonomics.”

  “You’ll have the strongest spine of all of us,” Mom would say.

  She already does.

  This has never been truer than right now, as Sophie—source of a million meanie memes, a billion Fotobomb burns, and a trillion trolling hashtags—steps bravely inside the unwelcoming entrance to Middleton Mansion, pulling her memeable, burnable, hashtaggable rolling suitcase behind her.

  “Okay, I just told Izzy not to bother us because we’re filming,” Morgan says. “Maybe this time she won’t ruin our best take by offering us snacks.”

  “Kaytee should be here soon, right?” Sophie asks.

  I wanted to ask the same question. Again, she’s got a stronger spine than I do.

  “Oh, you don’t know?” Morgan snarks. “I thought you two were besties.”

  Morgan holds on to the moment for maximum tension.

  “She bailed on us about an hour ago. Said she wasn’t feeling well after the game.”

  “Kaytee’s really not coming?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  She probably didn’t find #FlakyKaytee very funny.

  I think it. But I don’t say it.

  “And your bestie is here instead,” Morgan continues. “Funny how that worked out, huh? It’s downright hilarious.”

  Morgan says it like the least hilarious joke ever told.

  “What about Maddy?” Sophie asks.

  “Dunzo? Don’t talk to me about Dunzo.”

  This news comes as a shock to Sophie. That’s how little she pays attention to the popularity hierarchy at Mercer Middle School.

  “It’s just the three of us?” Sophie gulps. “All night?”

  “Yeah,” Morgan sighs, opening the door to her bedroom. “And you are going to make yourself useful.”

  Sophie’s huge eyes aren’t big enough to take in all the bling and bedazzle, pinks and purples, predator and prey animal prints. I almost laugh because it’s exactly the look I must’ve had on my face when I saw Morgan’s room for the first time.

  “Let’s not waste any time,” Morgan says to me. “Grab your ukulele, and let’s get this thing done.”

  “What do I do?” Sophie asks.

  “You wait for me to tell you what to do!”

  I honestly don’t understand why Sophie is still here. If I were her, I would’ve hopped on my bike and pedaled myself as far away from this place as possible.

  I’m not even her, and that still seems like a tempting option.

  Morgan just assumes I’ve perfected the Riley Quick song she decided will best reflect our aesthetic at the audition. “Red Lips, Black Heart” was the first song I ever taught myself on the ukulele. I can play it in my sleep.

  Unfortunately, Morgan cannot sing it wide-awake.

  Okay, to be totally fair, it’s not all her fault. It’s three-part harmony, and there’s only two of us. The middle of the chord is missing, so Morgan’s lead sounds totally out of tune. Especially on the pre-chorus that goes:

  There’s not enough makeup

  to make up

  for the ugliness

  on your two faces …

  After the third unsuccessful take, Morgan loses it.

  “I’m reapplying my mascara,” she says. “And when I get back, you better be ready to sing in tune, Suckerella!”

  Suckerella.

  Morgan’s word.

  Suckere
lla.

  Morgan’s sword.

  Sucker. Ella.

  Plunges directly.

  Sucker.

  Into the light-up target.

  Ella.

  That once was my heart.

  Suckerella.

  It rolls so easily off her tongue. This is not the first time she’s said it out loud. Just the first time she’s said it straight to my face.

  When she gives you a nickname, Maddy warned, that’s when you know you’re Dunzo.

  How fitting that Sophie of all girls is here to witness my cruel demotion to future memedom.

  Sophie gently places a hand on mine.

  “It’s not your fault,” she whispers.

  I’m almost furious with Sophie for being so nice to me. I don’t deserve her kindness or comfort. Maybe I never did.

  “I know that!” I shoot back. “The middle harmony is missing!”

  And she’s wrong. It’s my fault that she’s even here! And there’s nothing I can do to make it better …

  “Mmmmmmmm …”

  Sophie hums the middle harmony to herself. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are turned in on themselves, and she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. It’s this totally unconscious, unflattering expression that earned the nickname I have never used.

  Will never use.

  “Mmmmmmmm …”

  She’s perfectly on key.

  “Maybe,” I suggest cautiously, “you could fill it in?”

  It really would sound so much better if Morgan would give Sophie a chance to sing with us. She can hit all the highest notes, and she’s also much better at blending than Morgan. She might lack Morgan’s on-camera charisma, but I bet that could come with compliments. And confidence.

  “Maybe,” Sophie says.

  Morgan has returned with spidery eyes.

  There’s not enough makeup

  to make up

  for the ugliness

  on your two faces …

  I give Sophie an encouraging nod.

  “So, Morgan,” she says, “I was thinking …”

  “If I wanted to know what you were thinking,” Morgan snaps, “I’d ask.”

  “Well, actually, we were thinking,” I say, surprising myself—and Sophie—with my use of the inclusive pronoun, “that the harmony would come together if Sophie sang the middle part …”