Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  We’ve been best friends ever since.

  Her typing bubble activates and I exhale in relief.

  What?!?! she’s written. OMG WHY. HOW. WHEN!?!

  Like a half hour ago. She said she wasn’t planning to do it today, but we got into a stupid fight and it all came out. She said she’d been thinking about it for a while and she wants to find out who she is away from Cevie. I don’t answer the “why.” I’m still trying to figure that one out for myself.

  Oh CeCe I’m so sorry. Are you ok??

  I don’t know. I think I’m still in shock. And then I say the thing I haven’t been able to stop thinking since leaving Silvie’s house: She could still change her mind, right? That’s not totally impossible?

  Change her mind about breaking up? Mack replies.

  Yeah, I mean, maybe she THOUGHT she wanted to break up, but now that it’s real she’s second-guessing herself?

  I checked Silvie’s app page just before texting Mack. She hasn’t posted about the breakup yet—and maybe that’s what’s given me hope. She’s not sure about it anymore.

  After a pause, Mack writes, You and Silvie have always been so simpatico.

  I sniffle. Like

  Mack sends back a smiley. Exactly. So don’t you think you should … trust her?

  What do you mean? Trust that she’ll come back to me?

  No, I mean … trust that if she said she wanted to break up, she probably meant it.

  Why do I like Mackenzie again?

  But deep down I know she’s right. Silvie isn’t coming back. I wouldn’t be feeling this way otherwise.

  Yeah. Ok, I text back.

  After a moment, Mack asks, So … are you going to post about it?

  I guess I’ll have to eventually. Dreading it. I wish Silvie would post about it first.

  Maybe it would all feel more real then, and I’d have a better idea of what to say.

  Take your time, babes. I’m here for you when you’re ready.

  I push open the front door of my house, and our scruffy mess of a mutt, Abraham, comes trotting over, tail wagging as if everything in the world is just the best ever. I bend down to scoop him up and nuzzle my nose in his neck fur as we make our way upstairs to my room. Abe is the best cuddler on earth, and I can’t think of a better salve right now.

  We curl up together on top of my royal-purple duvet cover with the giant image of Captain Marvel on it. I check Silvie’s app page again. Her most recent post is still the no-longer-live session we did earlier. I share the video to my own page, more out of habit than anything else, and shove the phone under my pillow.

  My room is the only space in my life, online or off, that reflects the person I used to be. I should really change it, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to.

  Rainbows are everywhere, including the ceiling, which is draped with oversized Pride flags. (To be fair, I loved rainbows even before I realized I was bisexual. I’ve always gravitated toward bright colors, and rainbows are so happy-making.) My closet door is perpetually open, and the rack inside bursts with color and tulle and sparkle. Shoes are everywhere too—in the shoe cubbies but also in heaps on the floor, lined up on the windowsill, sticking out from under the bed.

  On the top shelf of my bookcase sits a shrine made up of six prayer candles, each with a different idol’s image: Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Janet Mock, Jonathan Van Ness, and Elizabeth Warren.

  The biggest wall is covered from corner to corner with protest signs from marches I participated in before I got internet famous. GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN(DAMENTAL RIGHTS)! HUMAN BEINGS ARE NOT ILLEGAL! WE’RE HERE, WE’RE GENDER- AND SEXUALITY-VARIANT, GET USED TO IT! THERE IS NO PLANET B! THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!

  If you searched for “liberal agenda” on a stock photo website and an image of my room came up, you wouldn’t think twice. There are plenty of people out there who’d call me cliché, or a lot worse, if they knew this part of me. But they won’t get the chance to. They’re not going to see my room, and they’re never going to know just how hot my blood can get.

  When I was ten months old, I said my first words. Not Mama or Dada or bye-bye or Elmo. Nope, according to my mom, the first English out of my little toothless mouth was a full-on phrase: “Hey, you!” immediately followed by “No!” Clear, with gusto, and directed at a kid on the playground whom I’d just watched steal a ball from a littler kid. It was like I’d spent enough time watching the world around me; I was done being an observer. I couldn’t walk yet, but I had a voice, and I was going to use it for justice, dammit!

  The kid gave the ball back.

  Even though I don’t remember it, I’m pretty sure that moment set my course. Solidified my obsession with setting things right, or at least trying to.

  My dad would go on a tirade about why the United States needed a wall along our southern border, and I would fire back about how his “beliefs” were pieced together out of ignorance, racism, and white-man talk radio.

  A teacher would send a female student to the office for wearing a tank top that revealed her bra straps, and I’d walk out of class too and demand a meeting with the principal to discuss the school’s sexist dress code.

  A conservative politician would suddenly start supporting marriage equality after one of his own children came out as gay, and I’d email him, shouting in all caps that it was his job to have a conscience all the time, and represent all his constituents, not to only be a decent human being when it affected his own family.

  I’ve shouted until my throat was raw, dug my heels in, trying to get the other person to just have some compassion already, more times than I can count.

  All it got me was after-school detention about six million times, a reputation for being difficult, and a messed-up home life. I know, deep in the core of my bones, that it was my personality, pitted against my father’s, that directly contributed to my parents’ fracturing. I’m not saying that from an “it’s my fault Mom and Dad broke up” kid perspective. It was more than that. Mom didn’t love the person Dad had become either, but she was better able to ignore his politics than I was. She could leave a room more easily than I could, knew how to put on her headphones to drown out the sound of the conservative news pundits. I didn’t.

  So of course it was our animosity—his and mine—that lit the flame that blew the family up. I was the instigator of the constant fights, and I was the reason Mom was driven to make a choice. She chose me. He didn’t.

  After that, I learned my lesson: no more politics, no more divisiveness. Because no matter how many families this stuff breaks up, how many kids on the playground who make sure the other kids know not to make friends with you, how many stomachaches and sleepless nights it gives you, it never ends. You never stop being certain that you’re right, or hoping that if you stated your case just one more time, you’d change the other person’s mind.

  But you can’t. You really, really can’t. So what’s the point? Why shouldn’t you take the path of least resistance instead? The path that’s wide enough for everyone, as long as they leave their baggage at home. The path that doesn’t drive the people in your life away.

  Then again, apparently you’re never totally safe from being left.

  “I’m home, CeCe!” Mom’s voice carries up the stairs and through my open bedroom door. “Dinner?”

  With a sigh, I sit up and place Abe on the floor. Time to tell Mom about the breakup.

  * * *

  “Pizza or burritos?” Mom asks from the other end of the couch. She holds up her phone, indicating the food delivery app. I know what she’s doing.

  A few years ago, during and after the divorce, Mom was so busy with work, and legal stuff, and even more bills than usual, and household upkeep. So, in an effort to help Mom and be useful around the house, even though I was only thirteen and didn’t have a driver’s license or money of my own yet, I came up with a system. When there were small decisions to be made, daily-minutia type things—the things
that, when they add up, can drive you crazy even though they shouldn’t—I’d step in and give Mom a choice between two options. Just two. Two is easy. Cereal or toast? Orange nail polish or blue? Stephen Colbert or Samantha Bee?

  Ever since, the two-choice system has been our go-to whenever the other person is going through a challenging life moment.

  “Pizza or burritos?” she asks again, wiggling her feet under the giant comforter we’re sharing. The temperature outside dropped again, and we’re bundled up in sweats and socks.

  Abraham is sprawled out between us, across both of our legs. He doesn’t care what temperature it is, as long as snuggles are involved.

  “Not hungry,” I mumble into a throw pillow, knowing full well that’s not how the two-choice system works. You have to pick one.

  “CeCe.” Mom’s voice is soft. With some effort, I peel my tearstained cheek from the couch pillow and glance her way. My heart might be the broken one, but Mom is sad too. She loves Silvie. Loved, I mean. “It sucks,” she says. “Believe me, I know. And we are going to wallow. But you also need to eat.” She waves her phone my way again.

  Mom can be such a mom sometimes. “Burritos, I guess. Vegan one.” I’m not always vegan, but a bunch of cheese and sour cream wouldn’t feel great sitting in my gut right now.

  A few taps of her screen later, she says, “Done. It’ll be here in thirty. Now for the next decision: Killing Eve or The Office?”

  Normally I’d ask which Office she’s thinking—British or American—but I’m not in the mood for a comedy, either way. And a bloody, murderous, pseudo-lesbian obsession sounds perfect right about now.

  “Killing Eve. Definitely Killing Eve.”

  Mom hums to herself as she clicks through the streaming app on the TV and selects the show. Mom is always singing or humming. Most of the time she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. She’ll often be humming something, and the tune will inevitably get stuck in my head, and then I’ll start singing it, and she’ll look up at me, surprised, and say, “That’s so funny, that song was in my head too!” As if she had no idea she’s the one who got it into mine.

  Mom and I are both usually all about the pop music. (She even almost named me Britney, as in Spears, but my dad convinced her Cecilia—the name of their favorite Simon and Garfunkel song—was better. That’s one thing I can thank him for, I guess.) But right now she’s humming something I don’t recognize.

  “What is that song?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” Mom stops scrolling and looks back at me. “What song?”

  “The one you’re humming. It sounds, like, square-dancey.”

  “Oh!” She brightens up. “Didn’t realize I was humming!” I’d laugh if I could manage it. “It’s an old Patsy Cline song. My mother listened to Patsy a lot when I was growing up. I hadn’t heard it in years, and then today a young man was playing it on the violin outside the Trader Joe’s.” She retrieves her bag from the hook by the front door and digs through it. “He had a CD for sale.” She holds up the plastic square case.

  That’s random. “Do we even have a CD player anymore?”

  “There’s one in my car. Yours too.”

  “There is?” My car is less than a year old. It’s a hybrid because, hello, the environment, but it’s not fancy. As soon as I got my driver’s license, I bought it with some of the money I’d made from sponsored posts. I literally had no idea it had a CD player. Why would anyone need one?

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Yes, Cecilia. Not everything has to be done on the internet, you know. You want to borrow the CD? He’s really very talented.”

  She hands the case to me. The cover is a grainy black-and-white photo of a young, dark-haired white guy playing the violin. His right arm—lifted, bow in hand—is partially blocking his face. Joshua Haim, Violin is written in nearly illegible cursive font along the top. The whole package needs a redo. No, actually, the whole package needs to be tossed into the garbage. I don’t care how talented this guy is—if he expects to reach any degree of success, he needs to get out of the 1990s and put his stuff online.

  I shake my head and give the CD back. “I don’t like country music.”

  “It’s not all country,” Mom says. “There’s some classical pieces on there too. But suit yourself.” She tucks the disc into her bag and presses PLAY on the TV remote.

  It isn’t until the doorbell rings sometime later that I realize I’ve been staring at the shapes on the TV without really seeing them. If things were how they used to be, I would have been texting Silvie Jodie Comer GIFs throughout the episode, and she’d be texting back the fire and drool emojis and her cartoon avatar swooning, and I’d be giggling at my phone, and Mom would tell me to pay attention to the show, and I’d tell her I’m good at multitasking. And then I’d snap a picture of the TV screen, where Sandra and Jodie are the midst of a tension-thick scene, and hashtag it #payattentionMom #itsgettinggood, and thousands of likes would pour in, and everything would be fun.

  Then again, if things were how they used to be, we probably would have been watching The Office.

  Mom and I eat in front of the TV. I try to pay better attention, but my thoughts keep drifting. Spiraling.

  I dig my phone out from under the pillow and check the app again. Silvie still hasn’t posted.

  I scroll over to my own feed, and my heartbeat begins to tumble. Apart from the Pride announcement, which was just a repost, my last original post, the one Silvie had to convince me was okay enough to send out, was seven hours ago. That’s a whole workday for some people. A decent night’s sleep. A season of Killing Eve.

  I can’t remember the last time I went seven waking hours without posting, or the last time my app story was inactive like it is now. There’s always Wi-Fi, and always something to share, even on long flights and in dentist office waiting rooms and in the lunchroom at school.

  A film of sweat pricks at the back of my neck, despite the low temperature of the room. I need to post something. It’s nonnegotiable. My followers expect it.

  Quickly, I snap a photo of my picked-at burrito. My thumbs fly over the screen as I adjust it with filters and add a couple hashtags. #takeout #momtime #vegan

  I mean to click POST, but I stop myself.

  What am I doing?

  This post is stupid. Nobody follows me for freaking food pictures. I delete the draft, and regroup.

  “Hey, Mom? Can I post a picture of you?” She’s going to say no. She always says no.

  She pauses the show and raises one eyebrow. “Why?”

  “My story is dark, and I need to get something up there. But I’m not ready to go public with the Silvie stuff yet.”

  Mom sighs. “CeCe …”

  “If I post about Killing Eve, then people will be expecting Silvie to respond because everyone knows she has heart eyes for Jodie Comer, and then—”

  “CeCe.” Her tone is equal parts gentle and stern. It’s enough to screech my next words to a halt.

  I look at her.

  “Please be nice to yourself,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  She eyes my thumbs, which are still poised midair over the keyboard. “Your photo feed is the last thing you should be worrying about right now.”

  I wait a moment, hoping her meaning will sift into my brain.

  She sighs. “You’re going through your first major heartbreak, kiddo. That’s not a small thing. I think it might be worthwhile to put your own comfort and well-being first for once, instead of worrying about what your followers expect.”

  I appreciate her taking my heartbreak seriously. I do. Lots of parents would dismiss what I’m feeling right now as puppy love, and tell me to get over it. Mom is the closest person in my life, my only real family, my biggest ally. But even she doesn’t entirely get me. She barely even logs on to the app; she doesn’t understand that social media never stops. That there are always people, in every stretch of the planet, in every time zone, who are scrolling. If you’re not visible, you’re forgo
tten. You don’t get to just take a break.

  I shake my head. “Your job doesn’t let you call out ‘heartsick.’ Neither does mine.”

  “I’m an adult. You’re sixteen. I have a mortgage to pay. A child to feed. You don’t.”

  I decide not to bring up the fact that I pay for my own phone plan and car insurance and clothes and haircuts. Or that I intercept the electric and water bills from the mailbox as often as I can, and pay them before she has a chance to.

  When Silvie and I started making real money, my mom and Silvie’s parents teamed up and sat us down for a long talk about “responsible finances.” After a lot of thought, and a lot of discussion with Silvie and Mom, I came to some decisions about what I wanted to do with my earnings. Half of my checks immediately get donated to causes I deem worthy of support: human, women’s, environmental, and animal rights orgs. No one understood why I’d want to give away half of everything I made—Silvie donates too, but not nearly as much as I do. She insists I give away so much because I feel guilty. That I’m trying to make up for not using my platform to fight for social justice issues. I don’t know, maybe she’s right.

  The remaining half is split—25 percent goes to savings (for college), and 25 percent is the Whatever Fund. Sometimes this means helping Mom with expenses, and, okay, fine, sometimes it means going on a shopping spree or buying myself a car. Sue me.

  “And,” Mom continues, as if sensing what I’m thinking, “you’re your own boss. If I worked for myself, you bet your butt I’d call out heartsick if I needed to.”

  “Yeah,” I counter, “but there will always be pets who need vaccines and X-rays.” Mom is a vet tech. She wanted to be a veterinarian, but couldn’t afford the schooling. And then, when she and Dad split, she had to start working at the animal hospital more, so the timing has never been right. “Your customers will still be there, waiting for you. If I’m not posting and tagging, I’m replaced.”

  She sighs, eyeing me. “Do we need to have the talk again?”