Follow Your Arrow Page 4

  She’s not talking about The Talk that most teens dread having with their parents. Those conversations have always come relatively easily to us. She’s talking about our version of the talk: the “the internet is scary and are you sure you know what you’re doing?” talk.

  “No, Mom,” I assure her. “We do not have to have the talk again.”

  Mom lets out a long sigh, then barrels ahead anyway. “I don’t love how much personal stuff you share on there.”

  “Sharing personal stuff is kind of the point.” I resist the impulse to roll my eyes. “And there’s a lot I don’t share, you know.”

  “I realize that. But your last name is public information, and you talk a lot about living in Cincinnati …”

  “Literally hundreds of thousands of people live in Cincinnati,” I counter. “The odds of accidentally running into, like, a murderer who also follows me on social are low—”

  “Low but not nonexistent.”

  “And,” I keep going, “I never tag my location in posts, unless it’s after the fact.”

  “Even so.” Her expression becomes more contemplative and she glances at the way I’m clinging on to the phone. Consciously, I relax my grip. “It’s an addiction.”

  Maybe it is, I admit only to myself. But not all addictions are bad, are they? What about Mackenzie’s addiction to outdoor yoga?

  But if I want to get Mom off my back, bringing up Mackenzie, with her five million app followers and line of designer juice cleanses, isn’t the way.

  “You can trust me,” I assure her. “I know my limits.”

  She nods. “I do trust you.”

  I make a show of clicking my phone screen off and placing it on the coffee table, a little out of arm’s reach. “Can we finish the episode now?”

  Mom picks up the TV remote, but before she presses PLAY, she eyes me. “You’re just going to be thinking about your phone, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” I admit with as close to a laugh as I’ve been able to achieve since leaving Silvie’s house earlier.

  Mom smiles. “All right. Why don’t you post a photo of Abe? Don’t those posts always get a lot of likes?”

  She’s not wrong. I snap a few shots of sleepy Abraham, edit them, and upload a collage. The caption I type is, admittedly, tinged with snark and self-pity, but I let myself have that.

  The relief upon tapping POST is instantaneous, if not complete. I’ll still have to address the Silvie stuff more directly. But I have some time to work with now.

  Later, after the food has been eaten, the dishes put away, episode four of Killing Eve queued up for another day, I give Mom a big hug and head up to my room. The overhead light is harsh on my cried-out eyes, so I make do with my little desk lamp.

  Today has been an eternity. Was it really just this afternoon that I was kissing Silvie? My heart feels like a stomach after going too long without food—empty and sore and eating away at itself. Silvie was my nourishment.

  But it isn’t until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that I understand why Mom was so worried. I look horrible.

  Dark circles under my eyes, emphasized by the eerie light of the room. Makeup cried off and rubbed away. Lips pale and dry. One of my little yellow houses is gone; it’s probably in the couch somewhere. And how appropriate, because that’s exactly the look I’m rocking: a girl lost and without a home.

  For a whisper of a second, I consider posting a selfie. Unfiltered, unedited, showing the whole of the internet what I really look like—what I’m really feeling. Social media has lately been veering away from the airbrushed, professionally lit, high-def #plandids of the past in favor of more authentic, light-or-no-makeup, shot-on-your-phone candids. If I posted this selfie, it would be a huge departure for me, but not necessarily unheard of for social media as a whole …

  I wish I could do it.

  I wish I were brave enough.

  I wish I didn’t care what they think.

  But I do care. And Mom was right when she said life online is dangerous, though not in the ways she thinks. Social media has given me more than I could have ever imagined, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also completely terrifying, having people monitor your every step. Cancel culture is rampant, and the world will turn on you so quickly. I’ve seen it happen—the wrong wording or visual at the wrong moment, and the person loses everything.

  There’s no way I’m going to risk it. I’ve lost enough for one day.

  I turn out the light, crawl into bed, and click the phone off, sending what remained of my world into total darkness.

  I wake early the next morning. It’s not like in the movies when it takes the person a minute to remember all the terrible things that happened the day before—the loss of Silvie was with me in my dreams all night, and it’s the first thing on my mind this morning.

  Eyes still half-closed, I root around in the blankets until I find my phone. A long list of app notifications clogs up the home screen, but I pay them no mind, because there are two new texts waiting for me.

  Has Silvie changed her mind? Could she have woken up this morning and realized what a huge mistake she’s made?

  No. Of course not. The texts are from Mackenzie.

  How are you holding up?

  And then: (PS Does Silvie not own eye cream?? Sheesh.)

  I have no idea what that second text means, but the app notifications keep popping up, so I send her a quick heart emoji back and swipe over to the app. Mackenzie’s for sure asleep by now, so I won’t get an answer until later anyway.

  My Abraham post has over a thousand comments, and there are another couple hundred direct messages in my app inbox, which is way more than normal.

  Anxiety popping like firecrackers in my bloodstream, I dive into the pool of messages. Sharks are always circling there, even on a good day.

  Sleep hasn’t entirely left me yet, and at first I don’t understand how they know. I didn’t post something in a dream haze last night, did I? But then I swipe over to Silvie’s page.

  She’s posted two photos, side by side, so early this morning it was still the middle of the night. The first picture is of her and me at last year’s Cincinnati Pride, rainbows painted on our cheeks, streamers in our hair, and our hands clasped tightly together. She’s captioned it: #tbt. Today is Sunday, not Throwback Thursday, but she’s never let that kind of thing stop her.

  The second photo is a selfie, apparently taken last night because she’s still wearing her LESBIAN LIKE WHOA shirt. It’s the worst picture I’ve ever seen of her. I mean, she still looks pretty, because I think it’s physically impossible for her to not look pretty, but she’s got no makeup on, and you can see bags under her eyes, sallow cheeks, veiny eyelids. The lighting is unflattering, the picture itself is even a little blurry. Now I get why Mack mentioned eye cream.

  I read her caption announcing our breakup. It isn’t long, but it manages to get under my skin anyway. No one’s fault??? #heartbroken???

  She did exactly what I wanted to do but was too scared to. And look at the response—she has more comments than I do, more likes, more words of support and virtual hugs. She’s even gained followers since yesterday.

  I leap out of bed and pace my room, rage and jealousy heating my skin and numbing my extremities as I scroll.

  This is so. Not. Okay. I did not leave her! Silvie doesn’t get to be the “heartbroken” one. I’m the heartbroken one. She’s the heartbreaker. Any sadness she feels she brought on herself. She doesn’t get to take this from me too.

  I tap the COMMENT button and begin to say as much.

  But, as always, just before I click POST, something stops me. A built-in self-preservation system that trips me up every time, asking, Are you sure you want to post this? like those spiky things that stick up out of the ground in places you’re not allowed to drive your car into.

  And no. Of course I’m not sure. Of course I won’t post this. It’s not my brand.

  Even if I clicked POST and then deleted th
e comment two seconds later, it will have been screenshotted. And that would make everything even worse—once something’s out there, it’s out there forever. Deleting only brings more attention to it.

  Forcing myself to take a breath, I carefully and deliberately delete what I’ve written before any damage can be done. When the words are cleared from the screen, I exhale. Regroup.

  Then, with a grip around my heart, I click COMMENT on Silvie’s post once more.

  #same

  That’s it. No How dare you?! or SHE’S the one who did this, not me!

  Just #same. Diplomatic and safe, as always. Friends forever, we’re totally in this together, it’s no one’s fault, blah blah blah.

  Everyone will see it, but most importantly, Silvie will. I hope it makes her feel really freaking guilty.

  I sit there for a minute on the edge of my bed, phone in hand. What I really want is to slink under the covers and go back to sleep. But no.

  Silvie totally outshined me with her breakup post. The proof is right there on her feed. She’s the star between the two of us, I always knew that. She’s prettier than me, more confident than me, less worried about what other people think than I am. But I was okay with it, because she chose me. She loved me. How lucky was I!

  Now, though …

  I take in her post again. She knew exactly what she was doing when she posted this shockingly bad selfie. She knew how to come out looking like the hero, and make everyone forget—even me, for a second—that she’s the villain here.

  Silvie didn’t only break my heart—she one-upped me.

  I can’t let her do it again.

  I go to the bathroom and wash my face, then put on a little makeup. Just some concealer to mask the circles and mascara to brighten my cried-out eyes. Okay, and a little blush on my cheeks because rosy cheeks, even manufactured ones, say EVERYTHING IS FINE. Back in my room, I get dressed, tie a scarf around my unwashed hair, and hit RECORD on my phone.

  “Hi, everyone. If you follow Silvie, you already know this, but you all are so important to me, so I wanted you to hear it from me as well. Silvie and I broke up yesterday.” I flinch, and take a breath. I said the words to Mom yesterday, and texted them to Mackenzie, but they haven’t dulled yet. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who’s reached out; your support has already helped me more than you know. Honestly, it’s probably going to take me a little while to heal from this, but in the meantime, I’ll be here, still posting, and I’ll be watching your posts, soaking up inspiration from all you beautiful, amazing people.” I kiss my pointer and middle finger, then throw them up in a peace sign.

  I end the recording and upload it to my story.

  There. Now I have the last word. And I didn’t even have to ask for a second opinion first. It feels like a win.

  Sitting back in bed, I scroll through my feed as the comments roll in. There are some more like the “oh please” and “go date a man” ones from @yourmom420 and @Mac_0_0, but remarkably, the vast majority of them are supportive and kind. My app friends seem to understand exactly what it’s like to have your heart broken. My follower count does tick down by a couple dozen, but that happens sometimes, even when I haven’t just made a life-changing announcement. There’s a constant ebb and flow to follower counts—it’s the nature of the app.

  Silvie and I are tagged in a few online articles too, and those range from the matter-of-fact “latest influencer gossip” sort to the more vicious “further proof that LGBTQ+ people don’t deserve love, anyway” variety. I skim only a few of them before settling back into my own feed.

  I wish I could call or text Silvie or invite her over so that we could read all these comments together and respond to each person individually. Then again, if we’re being technical, and you always should be when dealing with wishes, what I really wish is to be able to go back in time and stop her, somehow, from falling out of love with me.

  The sun is fully up now, and as Abraham noses his way into my room, a new text comes through from Jasmine, one of my friends from school. It’s a group text—Silvie’s on the thread too.

  You two broke up??? Jasmine has written. What is this going to mean for the GSA???

  Jasmine is the GSA treasurer, and she takes her position very seriously. I don’t blame her—the club is her main source of support, because her parents don’t approve of her being trans. As if a person’s identity is something anyone else gets to have an opinion on. It makes me so angry.

  But also, Jasmine, girl, Silvie and I broke up less than twenty-four hours ago. Maybe give us a second to chill before roping us into a group text, yeah?

  Nothing’s changing, I text back. Don’t worry.

  Promise? Jasmine responds.

  Of course!

  But guilt hits me when I remember that Silvie and I were supposed to discuss the prom yesterday and reach out to @DJRio. It’s too late now; Silvie and I are no longer a united front, and I’d feel weird DM’ing the DJ on my own. Honestly, I don’t want to think about the prom right now anyway. I was looking forward to the whole thing a lot more when I thought I’d be attending with my girlfriend.

  Finally Silvie chimes in, and the notification with her name at the top makes my heart jump. Let’s talk about it at school tomorrow.

  Right. School. Tomorrow. I’d kind of forgotten.

  I’ll have to see Silvie. And talk to her about the GSA. And … be mature about it all.

  Gonna be a blast.

  Though it’s after noon by the time Abraham and I get to Smale Riverfront Park, the park people are sleepy, deep in their own Sundays. The joggers have earbuds in, and the dog owners are chatting with one another, coffee cups and leashes in hand.

  I don’t usually spend much time at the park, and especially not on Sundays. Sundays are for Silvie’s house, and her dad’s chilaquiles, and her two yappy Yorkies, and trying on clothes and taking selfies and making out in her room. Were, I mean. Sundays were for that.

  But Mom’s at work today, and hanging around the house alone all morning made me feel like I was just killing time before Doomsday School Day tomorrow. That wasn’t helping my anxiety, so Abe and I decided we could do with some fresh air.

  We select a bench, and he sits beside me, squinty-eyed smiling as the sun warms us.

  I should post something, keep my story fresh and at the top of everyone’s feeds. But what?

  Until now, my app life and my Silvie life were braided so intricately together that they were nearly indistinguishable. For over two years, every photo or video either of us posted was rooted, sometimes directly, sometimes tangentially, in the soil of our relationship. People looked to us for style ideas and inspiration because we always gushed about how beautiful the other was, even when the corduroy shortie overalls (Silvie) or buzz cut (me) turned out to be missteps. Their likes and comments filled me, each one a boost to my confidence, a reinforcement of the perfect little world I’d built for myself on my phone.

  I’m not sure I know how to be on the app without Silvie. I’m not sure I know how to be without Silvie.

  But I’ve already lost her; if I lose my followers too, then I’ll really have nothing left. I’ll have to go back to being what I was: a girl mad at the world, with a messed-up family and more feelings and opinions than anyone has space or time for. No one wants that version of me.

  Positivity. Fun. Lightness.

  That’s my #brand. I just need to find new things in that space to post about, separate from #Cevie. New ways to inject my shiny online world with even more glitter.

  I snap a few photos of the park’s landscape, taking care to frame them just so, then doctor them up a bit—the green grass labyrinth becomes greener, the blue of the sky bluer, the suspension bridge in the background a little more defined. I snap a selfie too, with my sunglasses on and a triangle of skin exposed between the strap of my tank top and my off-the-shoulder boatneck sweatshirt. I look cool and confident, like the whole world belongs to me. Not sad or bored or insecure at all.


  I Cincinnati, I caption it, and add a couple hashtags for discoverability.

  Almost immediately, the likes count starts ticking up up up, and for a moment, I can breathe again.

  This is how I’ll spend my time now. I’ll pour everything I have into curating my profile even more, making it seem like I’m totally fine—no, totally amazing. And if it’s true on the app, that’s almost as good as it being true in reality. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that.

  In a sudden burst of inspiration, I swipe the app closed, put my headphones on, and open a different app—the mindfulness one Mackenzie endorses. She gave me a code for a free membership a while back, but I haven’t used it before today. Now seems like a good time, though. Fresh start, self-empowerment, all that.

  I close my eyes and let the soft, disembodied British voice into my head. I can do this. I can be a person who meditates.

  But as much as I try to stay focused on the breathing exercise and visualization, without the high distraction stimuli of the app, my mind keeps wandering. To school. To Silvie. Will she be friendly to me? Will we still walk to classes together and sit side by side at lunch? Or does this break mean a break from everything? Should I say hello first or wait for her to take the lead?

  And then, as it always does in moments of quiet, my erratic brain hops to other things:

  Climate change. Hurricanes. Australia on fire.

  Puppy mills. Millions of dogs in shelters.

  Police brutality. The conservative Supreme Court.

  With each image, my heart rate climbs up a teetery staircase, to the top floor of the skyscraper where it used to reside, back before Dad left. Before I met Silvie. But somehow the meditation voice seems to know I’m having trouble concentrating, and keeps reminding me to note the distraction and then refocus on my breathing.

  By the time the session ends ten minutes later, I do feel a smidge lighter. Mack would be proud. I send her a quick text to say thanks, then toss my headphones into my bag and help old man Abraham jump down from the bench.