While we wait for a table to become available, Poppy and I take turns in front of the camera. First, we pose separately, then together. After Mom is satisfied, she hands the camera off to me and I get a couple of “candid” shots of her and Poppy sitting together on a bench in front of an old brick wall. I keep taking photos even after I’m confident that I have the shot. I would much rather be behind the camera than in front of it.
When I get bored taking fashion shots, I turn my camera on the people milling about downtown Gilbert. Don’t let the word “downtown” fool you. This isn’t the place for skyscrapers or bustling nightlife. You’d have to go into Phoenix to find that. This stretch of road is reserved for trendy restaurants, farmers markets, and food trucks, which have all popped up in the last few years. I love to see the new venues integrated into the old backdrop.
Eventually, we get a table inside and Mom lets us take off the coats after we order dinner. She leaves hers on, despite the beads of sweat dripping down her neck. She’s trying to prove a point, but I have no idea how she stands it. Sweat is pouring down the small of my back and my coat is damp as I peel it off. I pull a hair tie out of my purse and twist my hair up into a bun on top of my head. The server brings me a glass of ice water, and we’re thankfully positioned under a vent. By the time the chips and salsa arrive, we have all cooled off considerably.
“Have people sent questions for the Q&A vlog yet?” Mom asks. Poppy put out a call for questions on her Instagram this morning, and the messages have been rolling in.
“Yeah. Some of them are kind of invasive,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Someone asked what kind of underwear we wear,” Poppy says. She was not nearly as horrified as I was to find that gem waiting in our inbox.
Mom waves her hand dismissively. “I’ve gotten that question once a week since I started blogging. Ignore the weird ones and answer whatever you feel comfortable with.”
“What if I don’t feel comfortable answering any of them?” I ask. Mom and Poppy exchange amused looks. Silly Claire. Always reluctant to pay the price of fame. I let it go. There’s no use arguing when it’s two against one, and the numbers are always against me.
While we’re waiting for the check after our meal, Mom goes to the bathroom. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Poppy turns to face me. “Who’s the guy? Tell me everything.”
“You mean Rafael?” I ask, even though I know that Rafael is the only guy she could possibly be talking about.
She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”
“Not much to tell. He’s new in school, obviously. He’s been in India for the last year because his dad is some kind of Good Samaritan doctor.”
“He’s cute.” She takes a sip of her soda.
“He’s okay.” I don’t know why I’m bothering to play it cool with Poppy, who can always see through my evasions.
“Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Jackson.” She shakes her head in disbelief.
My cheeks burn with shame at the mention of his name. “I’m not.”
“Good. I know you and Mom thought he was going to be the love of your life or whatever, but he’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t waste your senior year pining over him.”
As much as I hate to admit it, Poppy’s right. I had the most obsessive crush on Jackson Hunt all through junior high and high school. Our moms are best friends, he was the boy next door (or close enough—he lived down the street), and he spent every day of every summer swimming in our pool. It’s the kind of stuff romantic comedies are made of. When he asked me to senior prom last spring, Mom and I both believed it was fate. We bought half a dozen prom dresses and let our fans vote on the one I should wear. They even chose Jackson’s matching tux. I assume Mom wrote about it on the blog too, but I don’t bother to check anymore.
The followers went bonkers for those vlogs. It was the Jackson Effect. Everyone loved the idea of the two of us dating and falling in love after growing up together. We made it look like a real-life fairy tale.
It wasn’t.
Prom was our first and only date, and when Jackson dropped me off on my doorstep that night, he gave me a high five.
A high five.
I almost died of embarrassment. But since that piece of horrifying news never made the vlog, some fans still speculate that we’re dating long distance while I finish high school and he attends college at the University of San Diego. In reality, he hasn’t exactly been chatty since he moved to California in June. We used to text all the time. Now he can’t even be bothered to answer me.
“He gave me a high five.” I remind Poppy.
“I remember. I’m just making sure that you do too.”
“Trust me. It’s not an easy thing to forget.”
Poppy tilts her head and frowns. Pity face. “Don’t worry. You’ll get kissed eventually.”
She knows how much I want to be kissed, but I hate it when she feels sorry for me. “You don’t worry either, your boyfriend will kiss you eventually.”
The look of pity morphs into one of disdain. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I should hope not, considering the fact that you’ve never met him.”
She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Poppy is completely in love with this guy she met online over the summer. Brayden lives in Chicago and is semi-famous for playing cover songs on his guitar and posting them online. When he realized that Poppy was a fan of his videos, he dedicated a song to her, and they have been obsessed with each other ever since. It’s sort of weird, but I’m also sort of jealous because it’s not like any boys are serenading me with love songs.
I push my chair back from the table and stand up. “All I’m saying is that I’m not in love with Jackson anymore.” This is not the first time I’ve said those words, but it’s the first time I start to believe them.
Mom and I cross paths as I walk to the bathroom, and she winks at me. I know that coming here tonight was her way of apologizing for our argument after school. She could have chosen anywhere for dinner tonight, but she must have picked downtown because I love it. Just before I push open the bathroom door, a group of women about Mom’s age point to me from across the restaurant. I smile at them and then to myself, knowing that my family would be proud of me for trying to engage.
The bathroom door bangs open while I’m washing my hands, still aglow in the memory of my small personal victory. A woman walks in. She stands at the sink next to me and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “I could not believe it when I saw you! I’ve lived in Gilbert for fifteen years, and I’ve never seen you or your mother or sister in real life. But here you are! At Barrio Queen!” She turns the faucet on and scrubs her hands under the water.
One of the weirdest things about being internet-famous is that it leads people to believe they really know you, even if you’ve never met. Poppy has always been better than me about talking to strangers. After all this time, it still gives me a queasy feeling in my stomach, like I’m strangling my intestines with a too-small belt. She’s constantly reminding me that if we’re not nice to someone, they may show up in the comments section of our vlog and tell everyone we’re bitches in real life.
Now I recognize her as one of the women who saw me walk into the bathroom, and I freeze. For the first time in years, I give an unsolicited smile to a stranger, and now I’m stuck making awkward small talk in the bathroom. “Ni-nice to meet you. I love your necklace.” It’s a throwaway compliment, but I’ve learned from watching Poppy that Mom’s fans love it when we compliment their sense of style. As a rule, they’re very into fashion. That’s why they follow her, after all.
“I can’t believe how grown up you are! It seems like just yesterday you and Poppy were in matching pigtails.”
Perfect. One of those nut jobs.
I dry my hands on my jeans and make a move to leave.
“I’ve been a fan of your Mom for years, and I still love reading
about you girls!” She beams at me. I cringe in response, thinking about the things she knows about me, the pictures she’s seen. I don’t even know her name, but she knows my whole history. It’s hard to believe people still care about us after all this time.
I duck around her and make a mental note to beg Mom to stop writing about me. Again.
“Wait! Don’t go! I need a picture!” She steps in front of the door, blocking my path.
“In here?”
“Why not? Unless we could get Poppy too! Ooh, I’d love to meet her. There’s something about her, you know? Her personality shines through in every picture!” She sees my horrified expression and apparently decides it’s better to settle for a picture of the less shiny twin than risk getting nothing. She pulls a tube of lipstick from her purse and swipes it on before holding her cell phone at arm’s length for a picture of us together. Her fingers wrap around my forearm. I recoil at the contact, but her grip is tight as she pulls me close, pressing her cheek against mine. I swallow the painful lump in my throat and fight to keep my breathing normal. She snaps a picture and reviews it, clucking her tongue, obviously unhappy with my frown and panicked eyes. “One more.”
Half a dozen pictures later, we still haven’t gotten a shot that satisfies her. “I really have to go.” I wrench my arm out of her grasp and see faint nail marks on my skin. I instinctively shudder away from her and push away the memory of another woman, another clenched hand, my sister’s screams.
“Perfect! We’ll find Ashley and Poppy and get that group picture! That’ll be better anyway.” Her smile looks genuine, but my chest tightens. I learned a long time ago that bad people can have nice smiles.
The door swings open and Poppy looks in, her eyebrows drawn. As soon as she sees us, her frown deepens.
“Poppy! There you are! Come here, sweetie, your sister and I are taking a selfie.”
My sister looks at me for confirmation. I don’t make a single move, but my fear must be written all over my face.
“Sorry. Not tonight.” She holds the door open and gestures for the woman to leave.
“Just one? Please?” The woman smiles hopefully, looking from Poppy to me and back again. I expect Poppy to acquiesce, but she shakes her head without hesitation. The woman frowns but leaves without a fuss.
“Are you okay?” Poppy leans against the door to prevent anyone else from entering.
I nod, afraid if I say anything I’ll start to cry.
“I’m so sorry.” She wraps me in a hug and in this moment, I’m overflowing with gratitude that she’s my sister.
“How’d you know I needed you?” I pull back and wipe my eyes before my mascara runs all the way down my cheeks.
“I saw them watching us through dinner. I should have said something before you left, but I didn’t want to scare you. When she followed you in here, I promised myself I’d come in after you if you were gone too long.”
“Thanks for saving me.”
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Consider it payback for the time you saved me.”
Super chill, not-at-all-desperate texts to Jackson
June
Me
Good luck in California! You’re going to kill it!
Jackson
Thanks. Miss you!
Me
I miss you too!
July
Me
Sick of Cali yet? Ready to come home?
Jackson
Never
September
Me
So how’s college life??? Tell me everything!
Jackson
It’s cool. Studying a lot.
October
Me
Whatcha up to??
“Partner up for an activity. Today we’re conducting mock job interviews, because many college students need to work to afford tuition, text books, and room and board.” Ms. Grant gathers a stack of papers and waits for us to follow instructions.
I turn immediately to Poppy. First, because she’s always my partner for class projects. And second, because I don’t need Rafael asking me any probing questions about myself. I looked up a few rock climbing terms (those things you shove in the rocks are apparently called cams) but I can only lie about it for so long.
Poppy becomes fascinated by something on the bottom of her shoe and refuses to look at me. I roll my eyes at the back of her head as Rafael leans forward and clears his throat loudly. “Partner?”
“Partner,” I agree.
Ms. Grant hands out the papers of sample interview questions. It’s basic stuff: What experience do you have? What are your strengths and weaknesses? Why do you want this job?
I breathe a small sigh of relief. There’s nothing incriminating about these. For the first time in years, I’ve met someone who doesn’t see me as Claire Dixon: Internet Famous, and I’m determined to keep it that way. If last year taught me anything, it’s that some my classmates view me through a constant “goals” filter, regardless of how unglamorous my life really is. Or they straight up hate me. It’s exhausting. As long as I keep the truth about my online life from Rafael, I won’t have to worry about that with him.
“Do you want to be the interviewer or the interviewee?” Rafael asks he scans the paper.
“Interviewer.” There’s nothing too revealing about the interview questions, but I don’t want to take any chances.
“Fire away.” He sets down his paper and sits up straighter in his chair.
“Tell me about your previous job experience.” My “professional” voice ends up sounding like a voiceover from a dramatic nature documentary. Rafael’s lips twitch but he clears his throat and doesn’t laugh.
“I’ve never had a paying job—”
“Strike one!”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t have any experience,” he says, as if I never interrupted him. “I just returned from a fourteen-month stay in India. While there, I spent a lot of time doing volunteer work.”
“Points for composure,” I say, breaking character again. And then I return to my faux-professional voice. “That sounds interesting. Tell me more about that.” The voice is fake but my interest in his answer is real.
“I sometimes helped clean the clinics, but mostly I talked.”
“Shocking.”
He grins and continues undeterred. “Not all of the patients had visitors, so I’d sit with them and talk, play card games and stuff.”
“Stop!” Ms. Grant calls from behind her desk. “This is pathetic. Hardly anyone is making eye contact. Abigail is staring at her hands, Ethan is doodling on his paper, and Parker is texting because he thinks I can’t see him.”
Parker Evans tears his eyes away from his lap. He doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty.
“Body language is a huge part of the interview process. The right body language conveys confidence and preparedness. The wrong body language can send the message that you’re nervous and unqualified.” She points to Rafael. “Do you see the way Rafael is straight up in his chair, feet on the ground? That’s how you should be sitting.”
At least half the class shifts positions in their chairs. “And above all else—you must make eye contact. Eye contact shows that you’re listening and engaged in the process. It shows you care whether or not you get the job.” She’s in lecture mode, pacing the room as she speaks.
“New assignment. Forget the interview for a moment. For the next five minutes, you must make eye contact with the person across from you. Talk about whatever you want, but you can’t look away. No cell phones, no tablets—no screens of any kind. You have to learn how to have a conversation without distractions. Starting now.” She sits at her desk and the room falls silent. “Start talking or we do ten minutes,” she warns.
I turn to face Rafael. He’s leaning forward, arms crossed on his desk. “So what do you want to talk about?” I ask in a voice that sounds calmer than I really feel.
�
��Did you know that eye contact can make two strangers fall in love?”
I swallow, and it feels like downing a fistful of sand. Is he messing with me on purpose? “I have no idea how to respond to that.”
“A group of psychologists did an experiment a few decades ago. They took two strangers off the street and brought them into a lab. The strangers answered a bunch of questions about themselves and then stared into each other’s eyes for a few minutes. Six months later, they got married.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re lying.”
He mimics my expression before breaking into a smile. “I swear I’m not.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read an article online. This was when I was in Mexico City, where I did have a phone for about six months while my dad helped with earthquake aftermath. Have you ever been?”
“Not to the capital city, but my family went to Mexico a few years ago.”
“I want to go back soon and see the place where my grandparents were born. It’s an amazing country.”
I nod in agreement, hoping I don’t have to confess that the only place I’ve been is Cancún, and only because the white sand beaches look gorgeous in pictures. “My mom loves it there.”
“I don’t know my mom. My parents met in Greece, when they were both young and new to the Doctors Without Borders program. She didn’t want a kid, but my dad did, so after I was born she signed away all her parental rights to me. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”
Whoa. Here I am, trying to hide my last name, and he just told me his entire origin story. The sheer level of candor makes me so uncomfortable I’m compelled to break eye contact in favor of looking at the wall behind him.
“Hey! No cheating.”
I tear my eyes off an inspirational cat poster and look at him again.
Silence.
Self-consciousness overwhelms me. To release some of my restlessness, I stretch my legs while scratching a nonexistent itch on my nose.
But I keep looking into his eyes.
“We have to start over, you know.” He rubs the back of his neck with his hand while maintaining laser focus on me.
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