“I can see why.” He leans back on his hands. “How’d you find it?”
“A few summers ago, Poppy and I spent the day at Saguaro Lake with the swim team. Afterward, we drove up here to eat shaved ice and watch the sun set. It was love at first sight. I’ve been coming back on my own ever since.”
“Always by yourself?” His gaze turns to me in the dark.
“Until now.”
One corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile. I try to return it but it’s half-hearted at best. Rafael’s expression softens. “What happened with the swim team?”
I consider his question as I look at the lights below us. I asked him to come, the least I can do is answer his question. “Do you know what an online troll is?” He shakes his head. “It’s someone who spends time ‘trolling’ the internet, looking for ways to make people mad or start arguments.”
“What? Why?”
“Boredom. Jealousy. Straight up nastiness. Who knows? Poppy and I have always received mean comments on our pictures and videos, but last year, things got really bad. The worst of it came from one person who would leave horrible insults on everything we posted and send terrible emails. No matter how many times we blocked the person, they would register under a new username and start over. Eventually I figured out it was two of our swim team friends, Emily and Erica.” I pause, suddenly worried about how petty this must sound to a boy whose entire life revolves around helping less fortunate people.
“How’d you find out?”
“They left a comment containing information I only ever told them,” I say, hoping he doesn’t ask for specifics. It was posted on a vlog Poppy and I made last summer called “How to Get Ready for a Date.” I still remember their comment word for word. What a joke. Poppy’s such a slut all she has to do is open her legs, and Claire’s such a prude even her boyfriend won’t touch more than the palm of her hand. They were the only ones who knew about Jackson and the prom high five.
“That really sucks,” Rafael says and I’m relieved to hear him say it. “What’d you do?”
“I quit the team, because I had zero interest in spending time with those girls.”
“And Poppy?”
“She swears they didn’t do it, but she’s such a people pleaser, I’ll bet she never confronted them about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I can feel the sincerity in his voice. For some reason, the sound of it brings tears to my eyes. He focuses on my face again, but I keep my gaze on the lights below.
“Mom told me to develop thicker skin, and I swear that hurt worse than any of the online garbage. I trusted her to understand how much I was hurting, but it was like she only wanted me to toughen up so I would keep posting.”
Rafael sits up. “That’s terrible. She never should have said that.” He turns his body to face me, and I put my arms around my legs and rest my head sideways on my knees to look at him. His face is so earnest. I’m struck by the horrifying thought that he feels sorry for me, that he drove here out of pity.
“Whatever. It’s not a big deal,” I lie, so he doesn’t feel obligated to spend time with me or comfort me. And then, before I make a conscious decision to tell him, I add, “She’s not my mom.”
“That’s harsh.”
Everything about the journal and the letter and the abandoned baby comes spilling out. The silence that follows stretches out before us and fills the empty sky. I imagine stars scooting out of the way to make room for it, falling into recently darkened windows and lighting them up again.
“What are you thinking?” I ask after several minutes.
He waits a beat and then responds. “I’ve lived all over the world and seen every kind of mom you can imagine. I’ve seen moms with dozens of filthy kids running around their feet and naked babies strapped to their backs. I’ve seen moms go hungry so their children have something to eat. I’ve seen them cry and yell and hit and pray. Even the best ones seem a little unhinged at times.”
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
“I just can’t help but think, unhinged or not, the good moms are the ones who stay. The ones who keep trying day in and day out.” He picks up a handful of small rocks and tosses them one by one down the hill.
“Well, that doesn’t apply to me then.” I imagine a woman with my hair and freckles wheeling me into a stranger’s hospital room and running.
“I’m not talking about your birth mother. I’m talking about Ashley. She did more than stay. She took you in. She wanted you.” Rafael turns to me again and gives me a hard look. A twinge of sadness lurks behind it.
My insides squirm as I flash back to the time he told me about his parents. Never once in our game of questions and answers did I ask about his feelings toward them. “Does your dad ever talk about her?
He shakes his head. “Never.”
“Have you ever tried to find her?”
“It wouldn’t be that hard; even if I couldn’t get my dad to tell me her name, she was stationed in Greece with Doctors Without Borders the year I was born. But why should I care about her when she never cared about me?”
I turn back to the lights. “What was it like, growing up without her?” I lost my dad a long time ago, but it’s not even close to the same thing.
“My dad gets restless easily. It’s why he continues to re-up with Doctors Without Borders year after year, instead of settling down in his own practice. Every time I felt comfortable in a new country, he’d uproot us, and I’d have to start all over again. It’s not all bad. I’ve seen a lot of cool places and met a bunch of amazing people, but honestly? I’d give it all up to stay in one spot and make connections that last. I bet half of my childhood friends don’t remember me.”
“You sound like my friend Nora.” I have the connections and stability they both crave, but more and more, my life feels stifling. Not comforting.
We watch the lights dance for several minutes before Rafael speaks again. “I answered your question, which means it’s my turn to ask one.”
I roll my eyes and nudge him with my shoulder. “Let’s not keep score.” Somewhere between the stuffy cafeteria and this open mountain, we’ve moved beyond that.
“How are you holding up? You don’t look nearly as freaked as I would have expected.”
“You didn’t see me yesterday.” I spent the entire day in tears, crying until my eyes were swollen and sore and my limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. The tears took everything out of me, and by the time they ran out, I felt hollow.
Rafael jumps to his feet. “Come on. I have an idea.” He holds out his hand to help me up. His warm fingers wrap around mine, and my skin buzzes, wiping away the tired and empty feeling that’s been plaguing me all weekend. His eyes dart to our hands. A quick squeeze, and he drops mine. I slip on my flip-flops and bounce on my toes, ready for whatever the night has in store.
“Let’s go.” I take off down the hill, his laugh following close behind.
Incoming Text Messages
Saturday Morning
Poppy
Sorry you’re sick! Feel better! xoxo
We’re still filming today, right?
Saturday Afternoon
Poppy
We’re way behind schedule!
Our Top Five Trends for Fall video is scheduled to drop Monday.
Mom
Do you think you’ll be good for outfit photos in the morning?
Saturday Night
Poppy
Suck it up! Unlock your door!
Mom
You can push the video to Tuesday but no later. The sponsors need it posted ASAP.
Sunday Afternoon
Mom
Have you thought any more about the mouthwash? Did they mention how much money they were offering?
Poppy
UGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Don’t worry. We won’t do anything too destructive,” Rafael promises with a mischievou
s wink as he opens the dairy fridge and pulls out two cartons of eggs.
Once we made it down the mountain, I left my car on the side of the road and hopped in his. At his request, I directed him to the nearest grocery store. Now, he carries the eggs to the checkout counter with a whistle and a bounce in his step that contradict his words. If a cop saw us right now, I doubt they’d believe we were on our way to make omelets. Fortunately, the small store is dead. The aisles are empty with the exception of a few employees pushing mops.
“You look familiar,” the cashier says. Her name tag says Ariel, and she looks about my age. She has black, shoulder-length hair with hot pink tips. Instinctively, I shake my hair from behind my ears and let it fall in front of my face. Rafael looks at me but doesn’t say anything. He takes his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans to pay for the eggs, but Ariel hasn’t scanned them yet.
“I definitely know you.” She squints at me, and I’m wondering if I can lie my way out of this. “You’re the clothes girl! The one in the bird poop video!” she exclaims. “Which one are you?”
It always surprises me how often people say this, considering Poppy and I don’t look much alike. The pain hits me square in the chest as I remember. We’re not even sisters! People should be able to tell us apart.
“Sorry. Wrong person,” I say.
She narrows her eyes in disbelief. Rafael looks at me with a question on his face. He wants to help but doesn’t know what to say.
“Can I take your picture?” She pulls her phone out of her apron pocket.
“She said you’re mistaken.” Rafael’s rough voice is a warning shot. He opens his wallet and takes out a five-dollar bill. Without waiting for the cashier to ring up the eggs, he places the money on the counter, grabs the eggs and my hand, and pulls me into the night.
We drive south, crossing from Mesa back into Gilbert. I roll my window down and watch the wobbly sugar skull attached to his dashboard. Rafael hands me his phone, which is hooked up to his car speakers through Bluetooth. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask, scanning his music library.
To my complete surprise and delight, he says, “You choose.” I thought it was an unwritten law of the universe that the driver controls the music. I look at the carton of eggs on my lap and pick something loud and angry that gets my blood pumping.
“I had no idea Gilbert had so much farmland,” Rafael says over the music as we turn off onto a dirt road.
It’s easy to forget Gilbert’s country roots. The majority of our town is just like every other desert suburb: lots of little houses in a row, lawns that are watered around the clock to keep them green, and churches and elementary schools on every corner.
And then the wind rolls in.
The wind rolls in, and with it comes the smell of manure from a nearby dairy farm. It’s horrible, but it’s home. It reminds me that all I have to do is get in my car and drive a few miles south, and I will be surrounded by empty fields that grow corn in the summer and turn into mazes in the fall. It’s easier to breathe out here, just like in the mountain foothills. I never realize how restless those houses and churches and schools make me feel until I leave them behind.
“I love it out here,” I tell Rafael. “It’s such a contradiction.”
“What do you mean?”
“The idea of farming in the desert is so ridiculous. These people are creating life where it shouldn’t exist.”
Rafael pulls the car off to the shoulder of the road at a four-way stop and turns it off. “These farms aren’t the only contradictions out here tonight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You. You have a million online followers, or subscribers, or whatever they’re called. Everyone wants to be friends with Claire Dixon.”
“But . . . ?”
“But you don’t like people very much.”
“That’s not true!”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Yes, it is. But we can talk about that another time.” He reaches his hand across the car. My breath hitches against my ribs as I brace myself for contact that never comes. He picks one of the cartons of eggs off my lap and opens his door. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
I take the second carton of eggs and follow him into the middle of the empty intersection. We’re alone in a sea of farmland.
“What exactly are we doing?” I ask, even though the answer is pretty clear.
“We’re getting angry. You first.” He nudges my arm with his carton of eggs.
“Where do I throw it?” My stomach turns over in nervous excitement.
Rafael laughs again. “Anywhere you want.”
I close my eyes. I have never done anything remotely rebellious in my entire life. It could be because I’m a good kid, or it could be because I’ve never had the opportunity. I’ve had a camera in my face and the threat of embarrassing my family since the moment Mom signed the adoption papers and brought me into her life.
But Rafael is right. I am angry. I’m angry at my birth mom for abandoning me, at my parents for lying to me, at Poppy for being the perfect daughter, and at STARR Network for wanting to put me on TV for people to gawk at, like some bearded lady in the circus.
I open my eyes and pick an egg from the carton. It feels cool, smooth, and fragile in my hand, like one touch from me could turn it to dust. I rub my thumb across the shell and look up at Rafael. His arms are crossed, and he watches me with interest, probably curious to see if I’ll actually go through with his ridiculous plan. My heart thumps faster and faster, but I don’t know if it’s because of the egg in my hand or the look on Rafael’s face. A breeze blows through his hair, and I want to reach out and run my fingers through it. An ache runs through my hand and arm and down into my stomach, and I know I have to do something. If I keep standing here and staring at him like this, he’s going to know how badly I want to touch him. Or worse, I may reach out and actually do it. I take a breath, and before I can talk myself out of it, I send the egg sailing over Rafael’s head. It hits a stop sign with a splat.
Rafael cups his hands around his mouth and cheers loudly. “I knew you could do it!” He opens his carton and throws an egg at the back of the stop sign across the intersection. Another satisfying splat. This time I whoop and holler for him. Before I know it, we’re both tossing our eggs left and right. We get all four stop signs. Then Rafael starts throwing them as high as he can straight up in the air, and I chuck them hard against the ground. I feel like a little kid again, completely free and unrestrained.
It’s over as quickly as it started, and we’re both laughing so hard, we’re crying. I snap a picture of the vandalized stop sign from my seat on the trunk of Rafael’s car.
He leans over my shoulder to see the dark, blurry picture. “Are you going to post it?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not ‘on brand.’” People would be confused. It’s bad quality, for one thing. It’s bad content, for another. No one wants to know how angry I am.
All I want is to be a normal kid who can post whatever normal, boring crap I please without worrying about disappointing my family or upsetting hundreds of thousands of strangers. It’s a simple wish, and I hate how impossible it feels.
I smile at Rafael. “Thanks. That was very therapeutic.”
“I was hoping you’d like it.”
“Do you do this often?”
“Every Sunday night,” he teases as he nudges his shoulder against mine.
I shake my head in mock horror. “I knew you were a bad influence.”
He scoots close enough that our legs are almost touching. “This is a big moment, your first act of juvenile delinquency. What would your mother say?”
My whole body stiffens.
Rafael’s expression freezes as he realizes what he said. “I’m so sorry. I was just trying to make a joke. I’m so stupid.” He scoots back across the trunk of the car and turns toward me. I don’t respond bec
ause I’m afraid that if I say anything, my tears of laughter will take a less happy turn.
Rafael rakes his hands through his hair. “I’m an idiot. Really.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I look at him sideways and pull up half my mouth in a smile.
Relief washes over his face but is quickly replaced by anguish. He reaches his hand out slowly and wipes a stray tear from my cheek. He looks like he wants to say something but he hesitates. I stay quiet. He’ll eventually put his thoughts into words. He always does.
“I know we haven’t known each other for long, but I’m sorry you’re hurting. I wish there was something I could do to help.” His thumb lingers on my cheek for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls it away and averts his eyes from mine.
“The fact that you’re here is enough.” Just having him here makes the pain a little more bearable, because I no longer feel alone. I slide toward him, and he does the same. I lean my head on his shoulder and stare down a long dirt road. It’s almost enough to make me forget that the biggest of my problems are asleep in a house not so many miles away.
Poppy’s Ten Commandments for Posting
1. Thou shalt never post a picture with bad lighting.
2. Use hashtags sparingly. (Long hashtags are only acceptable when they are funny.)
3. Post at peak times (morning, after school, after dinner).
4. Do not post on Friday or Saturday night.
5. No blurry photos.
6. Do not post more than twice a day.
7. Post mostly pictures with faces in them. (They get thirty-eight percent more likes!)
8. Insta-clipsing (the art of posting a picture where you look better than everyone else) is acceptable—within reason.
8b. Never post a picture if someone else in it has a double chin or sweaty pit stains. Karma’s a bitch.
9. Nothing sad. No complaining.
10. If a picture gets less than five thousand likes within the first two hours, take it down immediately because it’s embarrassing and bad.
Just for Clicks Page 14