Just for Clicks

by Kara McDowell

Poppy’s answer surprises me. “Yeah. And also sad. About you. About us, not being sisters, I mean. And about the fact that you didn’t think I would want to be there for you when you met your birth mom.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t care?”

  She shakes her head. “You should know me better than that. Did you honestly believe me?”

  Did I believe her when she said she didn’t care? Or did I just convince myself it was the truth, because it meant I could do what I wanted? I’m not sure I’m ready to answer these questions, so I ignore them. “Why’d you lie?”

  She sighs as she crawls out of her seat and into the back with me. “I was scared of losing you. It’s obvious you hate all the online stuff we do. I’ve known it for years. But you’ve always gone along with it because it’s the family business. When you told me that you were adopted, I knew you had finally found the excuse you needed to quit the vlog and move away for school. And selfishly, I was afraid of losing out on the show.”

  “You could have told me that,” I say, but I understand better than anyone how hard it can be to say important things to the people you love.

  “I didn’t want you to stay out of guilt or obligation. Besides, you’ve never been one to do what people tell you to.” She smiles and rolls her eyes.

  “Why do you want to do the show so badly? What’s all this for? And don’t say influence.”

  “The day you were almost taken was the worst day of my life. I’ve never felt so powerless. To this day, every time you wake up screaming from a bad dream, or mentally shut down around strangers, all I want is the power to help you. I decided a long time ago I had to take any opportunity for power, so that one day, we’d be so rich and so important that you wouldn’t feel scared anymore. All this internet stuff is the only way I knew how to help.”

  My heart swells. In her own, Poppy-ish way, she was trying to help me. Because that’s what we’ve always done for each other. But stress and fear tricked my brain into thinking she was the enemy. “I’m sorry I’ve been a terrible sister.”

  “Just don’t forget you are my sister, no matter what some stupid DNA test says.” She reaches out for a hug.

  For the first time, I realize it’s true. It doesn’t matter if we’re biologically related or not. We’ll always be Poppy and Claire.

  She’s quiet for a minute and then asks, “Do you remember the last thing Dad ever said to us?”

  Right after the accident I used to think about this all the time. Eventually, I gave up hope of ever finding out. “No. Do you?”

  “Nope. Mom doesn’t remember either.”

  “She told you that?” I’m shocked. Mom never talks about the accident or the weeks that followed. Maybe that’s why the whole thing is a giant blank in my memory.

  “I read it on the blog,” she says. “It kills her that she can’t remember the last words he said to her or the last time he kissed her or what she made for their last dinner together. That’s why she still does the Twin Tuesday thing. She doesn’t want to forget anything else.”

  The guilt that has been threatening to suffocate me all morning lands squarely in my chest. I sometimes forget that I didn’t just lose my dad. Mom lost her husband. For years, I’ve judged Mom for what she does. For the fact that outfit photos are “trivial.” I’ve never given her enough credit for building an entire brand on her own while being a single parent. If I lost Poppy or Mom, I would fall apart. But the blog would be there with its lifetime of pictures and stories to glue me back together.

  Poppy’s phone beeps. “It’s another email.”

  I roll my eyes. “They’re getting desperate.”

  She opens the email and her face drains of color. “Not this time.”

  I pry the phone out of her fingers and see pictures from the Halloween party I didn’t attend. Poppy’s in her sexy strawberry costume, and judging by the beer in her hand and the spaced-out smile plastered on her face, she’s completely wasted. As the pictures go on, she gets sloppier, and her skirt rides higher. In the last one, it’s yanked to her hips as she straddles some guy, in the midst of a make-out session.

  Her hands shake as she accepts her phone back. “I’m going to lose them both.” Tears spill out of her eyes, pouring down her cheeks. Her nose turns red and snotty as she sobs. “I’m going to lose the show and Brayden.”

  Seeing her like this, my body floods with anger and adrenaline. It’s my turn to protect my sister.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” I jump out of the car and march toward the house. “I refuse to let Emily and Erica do this to you after you’ve defended them for so long.”

  “It’s not Emily and Erica,” Poppy shouts as she follows me down the hall, but I’m too busy to argue with her. I burst through the door into Mom’s office. She looks up in surprise and holds her hand over her phone, blocking out the noise.

  “Where’s the STARR contract?” I demand. She points to the corner of her desk.

  “What are you doing?” Poppy is in the room now.

  I pick up the contract, flip to the back page, and sign my name. “I’m not letting anyone cyberbully me or my sister for another second.” I drop the contract in front of Mom. “Tell Stella we’re in.”

  Poppy blocks the front door, refusing to let me drive to Emily’s. Or Erica’s. I don’t care which once I see first, because they’re both going down.

  “Listen to me. I’m promising you, as your sister, it wasn’t them.” Her voice is full of conviction. She believes what she’s saying, at the very least.

  I give up with a sigh and retreat to my room, with every intention of confronting them as soon as Poppy lets me out of her sight.

  I spend the rest of the day scrolling through the Twin Tuesday posts on the blog. What surprises me most is how, in the beginning, they were about my whole family, including my dad. Apparently, he made breakfast for us every Sunday morning, and I loved his blueberry pancakes. He watched nature documentaries, taught a kickboxing class on the weekends, and always wore wacky, mismatched socks. There’s so much about him I don’t know. I can’t believe so many of the answers were here the whole time.

  As I read the stories, I wonder what my dad thought about the blog. Did he care that Mom poured so much of his life onto the screen? In the early days, not everything she wrote contained a fashion-affiliate link. She wrote about arguments and money troubles and bad days. It feels like a completely different blog than the one she writes now. Her audience was smaller and her posts contained so much more life.

  I read about the trip to California when my dad got lost and drove one hundred and fifty miles out of their way. By the time they arrived in San Diego, they were tired and hungry and furious with each other. If Mom had written that story about me, I would’ve been embarrassed about getting the directions wrong and wasting hours of our time. I would’ve said that it was “not her story to tell.” But what does that even mean? Poppy was right when she said that all our stories are mixed together. Mom was in that car with my dad. It was his story, but it was also hers.

  I’m her daughter. She’s the one who read me books and put Band-Aids on my knees and drove me to swim practice every single day. She didn’t just observe our life . . . she lived it. My story is her story. It’s impossible to separate the two. So where is the line between what is okay to share with the world and what isn’t? Is there a line? Should there be? People have been telling stories since the beginning of time. Cave paintings on walls. Oral renditions of the Odyssey. Aesop’s fables. The Bible. Shakespeare. It’s all stories. This blog isn’t Shakespeare but a collection of stories passed down from mother to daughters. What’s so wrong with that? Maybe the reality show won’t be so terrible, and I’ll find a way to tell my own story.

  I click on another post.

  My Claire Bear,

  Poppy is sleeping soundly in her crib. You’re sleeping soundly in my arms. It’s always been this way. She sleeps better on her own. You sleep be
tter with me. My arms were sore the first six months of your life. The shadows under my eyes resembled bruises. I’d never been so tired. But I’d never been so happy.

  Your dad always offers to take the night shift. “I’ll get her. You sleep,” he says. But I never take him up on it because I’m selfish. I love this time we have together when the house is quiet and it’s just the two of us. Sometimes you look up at me with a grin on your face and stick your fingers in my mouth. You tangle them in my hair. You pull on my cheeks. I look forward to these stolen moments every single day.

  I love having twins. Seeing you and your sister play together makes my heart burst. But this time we have in the middle of the night is just for you and me.

  I love you, Claire Bear. I’m so glad you’re mine.

  Happy birthday,

  Love,

  Your Mom

  I look at the time stamp. November 22. 11:59 pm.

  My first birthday.

  She didn’t forget.

  I didn’t realize my browser was open to BITES in the background until a chat from Serge pops up on my screen.

  I think he’s asking me how I’m doing since the viral video at New York Fashion Week. I shake my head, amazed by how much has happened since then. At the time, that video felt like the end of the world. Now, I actually don’t care about it at all. Not the comments or emails or any of it. None of those people, the ones who love me and the ones who hate me, have any idea what my life is actually like. It’s not necessarily bad or good. It’s just a fact.

  Mom was right about one thing. Internet strangers don’t deserve to control my happiness.

  The Jackson high five.

  My fingers freeze over the keyboard as realization hits.

  Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  “POPPY!”

  I trip over my own feet in my rush to get downstairs. “I know who’s been harassing us.”

  Mom and Poppy look up from their spot on the couch. Poppy’s eyes are rimmed in red and her cheeks are streaked in makeup.

  “It’s not Emily—”

  “I know. Listen. It’s Nora from BITES.”

  Poppy’s mouth opens in surprise. “Nora? Why?”

  “I have a guess, but I don’t know for sure.” I sit next to them and take Mom’s computer off her lap. “Can I borrow this?”

  “Where did she get that video of you and the pictures of me?”

  “I don’t know that either,” I say as Poppy rolls her eyes. “I’m going to find out, but first, I need your help, Mom.” I fill her in on my plan, and she agrees. She types a long text message into her phone, but before she hits “send,” she gives me a nod.

  I send Nora a video chat request. She answers, revealing a dimly lit hotel room. She leans back against the bed’s plush headboard. “What’s up?”

  “I’m a little bit curious why you did it, but mostly I’m wondering how you did it?”

  “My money is on jealousy.” Poppy leans in front of the camera and waves.

  “Mine too. Nora’s always been jealous of the fact that we get to live in a normal town and go to a normal high school. Is that it?”

  Her face hardens. “You got me. I’m jealous of your basic, boring life.” There’s no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice, but I know we’re getting to her.

  “Ooh, I get it. You’re jealous that STARR Network doesn’t want to give you a show. You jet set around the world every day of your life, and we’re still more interesting than you, even in sleepy Gilbert, Arizona.”

  She doesn’t respond, a clear sign that I’ve hit a nerve. Nora’s anonymous comments started right around the time our vlog got big, implying she wasn’t jealous of us before that. We’ve figured out why she blackmailed us, now I want to know how she did it.

  “We’ll start with the video of me in Superior. I’m assuming it was posted on an anti-Claire message board?” More silence. This is easier than I’d thought. “What I can’t figure out is how you got the pictures of Poppy at the Halloween party, unless you’re in contact with people at our school.” Nora leans forward to disconnect the call. “Wait! You don’t want to do that!”

  “Actually, I do. I have some pictures to email to a friend of mine. She’s a reporter at MyStyle magazine. I think you know her.” Nora flashes a self-satisfied smirk and crosses her arms over her chest, daring me to contradict her.

  “Go for it,” Poppy says with a shrug. “STARR Network has already seen them, and so has Brayden.” She practiced this line a few times before we called Nora so it would sound convincing.

  “I don’t believe you.” Her eyes dart between Poppy and me.

  Mom takes the computer from my lap. “Hi, Nora! Long time no see. You’ve grown up into such a lovely young lady. I still keep in touch with your mother though. Did you know that? In fact, I’m about to send her a text right this very minute.” She holds her phone in front of the camera so Nora can read the detailed explanation of everywhere Nora hides her weed while they’re traveling.

  Nora’s eyes widen in alarm. “You can’t. They’ll kill me.”

  “I can and I will, unless you destroy those files of my daughters.”

  We watch as Nora deletes the files from her computer. She might have backups somewhere else, but I’m not worried. The threat of a convent is enough to keep her in line. If she thinks our life is boring, she wouldn’t last a week living with nuns.

  I smile at Nora, genuinely pleased with the results of this conversation. “You’re an idiot if you thought I was going to let you blackmail my sister. And one more thing, don’t let me see you around BITES ever again.”

  I disconnect the call, feeling triumphant. “Too cheesy?” I look at my family, expecting them to look relieved. Instead, Mom is on the verge of tears and Poppy looks downright miserable.

  “What’s wrong? We did it! Everything is fine now.”

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” Mom says, blinking her eyes to keep the tears at bay.

  “For what?”

  “For telling you to have thicker skin when Nora was bullying you. For not telling you about Brittany. For the way you found out about her. For the fact that you’ve been scared of strangers for the last nine years and I didn’t realize it.” She takes a shaky breath.

  “My lawyer’s going to contact Brittany and remind her about the conditions of her parole. If she ever comes near you again, she’ll go back to jail.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, and Mom and Poppy each raise an eyebrow. “I mean, I’m grateful, but I’m not as scared as I used to be.” Brittany has a lot of anger, but I still think somewhere deep down, she cares about me. Maybe someday that feeling will manifest in a healthier way.

  “Did she say anything about your biological father?”

  “Not much. But I’m fine. I have a dad. He made the world’s best blueberry pancakes.”

  Mom wipes another tear from her eye before she continues. “Things were difficult for her.” She’s choosing her words carefully, still trying to protect me. “There was no way she could take care of a baby. She loved you enough to understand that you deserved a better life, so she left you with me. Part of the reason why I’ve put so much of myself into the blog is because it brought us together.”

  I wonder if it’s hard for her to talk about the woman who tried to kidnap Poppy and me. I wonder if it’s hard for Poppy to hear. Her life was almost ruined because of me. She meets my eyes and gives me a quick smile, assuring me that she doesn’t hold it against me. A weight I didn’t know I was carrying lifts from my shoulders.

  Mom takes a deep breath. “It’s time to shut down the blog.”

  “What?” Poppy and I ask in unison.

  “Are you serious?” Poppy looks shocked.

  Mom nods. “I’ve been holding on to it for way too long. I’ll shut it down and run all the fashion business from my Instagram account, but I won’t ask you to be in any of the pictures, Claire. You deserve your privacy.”

 
; Poppy stands up suddenly and leaves the room. When she comes back, she’s holding my STARR Network contract in her hands. “Thank you for doing this for me. Now it’s my turn to do something for you.” She tears the contract in half once, then twice.

  “What about your dream?”

  “I’ll get a new one. Or I’ll become famous enough that they’ll want me on my own. Either way, I can’t let you compromise your happiness on my behalf. Not anymore.” She pulls me in for a hug, just as I’m wondering how I got so damn lucky to be in this family.

  “There’s one more thing,” Mom says, interrupting our happy moment. “No reality show means no exclusive interview for Lena. She’ll probably run the article about the kidnapping.”

  “Is there any way around it?” Poppy asks.

  “I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” Mom says.

  Poppy’s reading a book in the backyard with her feet in the pool. She’s grounded for her drunken revelry at the Halloween party and has been out here a lot since then, reading or filming or talking to Brayden on the phone. Not just talking, but confessing. Turns out, he’s had some “indiscretions” of his own, so they called it even and decided to wait and see what happens when he flies here to visit during Christmas break.

  I slip my feet in next to hers. The icy temperature bites my skin, and I immediately pull them back out. “I need help.”

  “With what?” She doesn’t take her eyes off her book.

  “Rafael.”

  She dog-ears her page and sets the book down next to the pool. “It’s about time. What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing,” I say truthfully. It’s now been a week since Rafael and I have spoken to each other. I desperately want to talk to him, but I don’t know how to start. “I’m sorry,” sounds so lame. “Forget it,” won’t solve anything. “I like you,” is an impossible sentence. When it comes to Rafael, I’m at a loss for words.

  “You have to suck it up and apologize.”

  “I know.” I spent the entire day brainstorming ways I could get my message across without my mouth getting in the way, and I finally have an idea. “That’s where you come in.”