“Hey,” I say. The dogs stopped barking when they realized it was only me who’d rung the bell. They scratch at my shins now, tails batting back and forth. I crouch down to pet them, and whisper, “I’ve missed you guys too.” Then I look up at Silvie. “Can we talk?”
“Sure. At school, though? I need to go shower.”
I’m not going to school today. Mom okayed it. Everyone will have seen the callouts online, and I just can’t deal with their opinions yet. But all I say is: “It’s kind of urgent.”
Silvie hesitates, but only briefly. “Of course.” I expect her to open the door wider to let me in, but instead she closes it, and joins me on the porch. We sit on the steps, making sure to keep almost a foot between us.
“So, how are you holding up?” Silvie asks. She doesn’t need to qualify the statement; there’s only one thing she could be referring to. I’m thankful for the conversation starter.
“I don’t know.” I shrug weakly. “Not great.”
“Yeah.”
I turn my phone over and over in my hands. “How many takedowns have we seen before?” I murmur.
“A lot,” Silvie says.
“Right?” I shake my head. “I can’t believe I thought they were justified. Not the bullying part, but, like, usually the person had done or said something really messed up, so I thought people had a right to be upset.”
“Yeah,” she says again.
“But this? The pictures with Josh. This is what people are mad about?” I look at her. “Do you think it’s justified?”
Silvie’s gaze meets mine for only a second, then darts away again. My heart pounds so loudly as I wait for her answer that I’m a little worried I won’t hear it when it comes. “No,” she says finally. “I don’t. I think your privacy was violated and people are being jerks.” Her response is so simple, like it’s a fact. After she says it, she peeks at me out of the corner of her eye and smiles.
That friendly, understanding smile is everything. Everything.
I exhale, and tears spot my vision. “Really?”
“It’s messed up, CeCe. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I sniffle, and I don’t fully know if I’m crying out of hurt or relief. “So why are they doing it?”
“Probably because it’s fun to point fingers and feel like you’re better than someone else for a little while? The internet is a giant clique of mean girls.”
“You sound like my mom,” I say wryly.
Silvie laughs at that, and it takes a moment for the sound to fade.
“You know,” I say softly, “you were one of the only people I told about Josh. I didn’t even tell Mackenzie.”
She looks surprised. “Why?”
I take a breath. “Because he’s a boy.”
Silvie tilts her head a little, and I shift my position on the porch step, turning to face her more. She won’t judge me if the words that come out haven’t been entirely thought through yet. She won’t go posting about some stupid thing I said that I wished I could take back immediately.
“It’s not that I care about gender,” I say quickly. “Like, at all.”
She laughs a little. “I know you don’t. I’ve always been jealous of that.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because it feels so closed-minded of me to only consider women. So not enlightened.”
I laugh. “Silvie, you are the least closed-minded person I know. Shut up.”
She smiles and shrugs sheepishly.
“Anyway,” I continue. “I don’t care about a person’s sex or gender. But I knew that they would care about it. The people online.”
Silvie nods. “You’ve always cared so much what they think, CeCe. I mean, yeah, everyone on the app equates likes and followers with value at least a little. But for you … it’s at another level. It’s your entire support system and your identity and your family, in a way. You can’t stand to disappoint them.”
She’s right. Of course she is. I’m glad we’re talking without hesitation now; I needed this.
“Do you remember when we almost got tattoos?” I ask her.
“Of course.”
“We never really talked about why we didn’t. It just kind of faded away.”
Silvie runs a hand through her hair. The blue has faded, but the bleached streak still looks cool. “Yeah.”
“The reason I decided against it was … this.” I gesture around us, as if to indicate the entirety of my current situation. “I was scared of pushback. That people would think I wasn’t ‘gay enough’ and didn’t deserve to wear the rainbow.”
By the expression on Silvie’s face, she didn’t know that. That doesn’t surprise me—Silvie has never worried about the same things I do. “Wow. Really?”
“Yeah. Were your parents really the reason you decided not to?”
She looks off to the sky. “They were part of it.”
“What else?” I press.
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “It kind of felt like we’d be doing it to prove something. Like the two of us getting matching tattoos would be another way to show the whole world how perfect our relationship was. Even though …” She glances at me quickly, then looks away again.
“Even though we weren’t even close to perfect,” I whisper, finishing the sentence when I realize she isn’t going to.
Silvie nods. “A lot of the time I felt like I was the only one in the relationship who knew it, though. It was a lot of pressure, to match what you were putting out there on the app.”
Ouch.
But after a few moments, I understand what she’s saying.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s the truth.
“It’s okay.” She smiles.
“Can I ask you something?”
Silvie rests her elbows on her knees, and looks at me. Waits.
I shake my hair out of my face and say cautiously, “If I keep feeding the trolls, it will mean one thing, but if I go silent, it will mean another.”
She nods.
“But people seem to want your input on all of this. And I thought, maybe you could … weigh in? To try to put it all to rest? Everyone is more likely to listen to you than me right now.” I look at her pleadingly.
Silvie chews on her lip, studying me for a moment. My heart races. I feel like such a jerk for asking, but I’m out of options. Finally she nods once and says, “Okay.”
I inhale sharply. “Okay? Really?”
“I’ll do anything for you, Ceece. You know that.” She grins, and her eyes go all sparkly, and for a split second, it’s like nothing ever changed, and we’re still up in her room, lounging on that teal rug and taking selfies. “Consider it a belated birthday present.”
Swallowing my heart back down into my chest, I cross the invisible line and hug her tightly. “Thank you.”
After Silvie’s post backfired, I should have seen the rest coming. But man, I really didn’t.
Being dropped by Treat Yo’Self stung, but whatever. They’ll find someone else to rep them, I won’t get any more free swag, the world will keep on spinning.
The unceremonious disinvitation from Cincinnati Pride, though—that one cuts deep. Isn’t Pride about celebrating and protecting one’s right to identify any way they choose? About cutting down the bias? I guess the organizers just didn’t want to involve themselves in my mess.
But the Pride event was the biggest, most meaningful thing I’d ever been asked to participate in, and—though I was nervous, and not totally in love with the speech I’d written—I’d begun to get really excited for it. I was going to talk about the influx of anti-LGBTQIA+ judges who have been appointed to state and federal benches in recent years, and remind people that, apart from running for office, the most impactful action they can take to protect queer interests is vote. If not for themselves, then for all of us who aren’t old enough or eligible to vote ourselves. It wasn’t a groundbreaking speech, but it was something. And I was proud that I’d somehow managed to finish it despite everyt
hing else going on.
Pride was supposed to be the perfect start to the summer—and maybe even a start to a new public persona for me. An important stepping stone toward being fully CeCe, as much online as off. And then those stupid pictures came out, and my one chance was squashed before it was even really real.
I haven’t seen Josh since my birthday, which was over a week ago. I told him I had the flu. I just can’t be around him. Not right now. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him like crazy, though.
At least things at school haven’t been terrible. I’m back to eating lunch with the GSA kids every day, and Silvie’s been extra nice lately. She’s been helping me with my posts—finding new ways to be positive and stay relevant, despite the hate and unfollows I continue to get in response. She even connected me with someone online who runs a dog rescue organization, and I’ve done a few posts for them. It feels good to be able to call Silvie my friend, and mean it.
As for the DM from Dad … It arrived in a fresh message bubble at the top of a fresh page—I haven’t heard from him in so long that the app isn’t even registering any previous conversation threads.
I have no idea what to make of it.
He knows I’m making money and have achieved some level of fame; that’s public information. In the past, each time he reached out, I stupidly hoped maybe he wanted to talk about things, maybe he missed me.
But the thing is, my father only ever reaches out when he wants something from me.
The first two times, he needed a “loan.” Just a little money to get him over a hump. He’s never been great at holding down a job—he claims it’s because he’s a “creative type” and can’t be boxed in. (His dream is to be a documentary filmmaker.) That’s just an excuse, though. It’s mainly that he doesn’t like taking orders from other people. I mean, anyone who’s going to engage in a full-on shouting match over politics with a child isn’t going to keep his mouth shut when the boss man (or god forbid, boss lady) asks him to do something he doesn’t think he should have to do.
The first time, I gave him the money (again, stupid), but never saw a penny of repayment. The second time, I held my ground and said no. That’s when he changed tactics—the third time he asked me to meet, he promised he wasn’t asking for anything. So I went. And he didn’t ask for money. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t after something else. Apparently he’d been working on a new documentary, and thought my connections could get him an audience with a producer. I didn’t bother asking what the documentary was about. I didn’t want to know.
In that same meeting, he said some pretty horrible stuff about Silvie and her family. Well, about Mexican people in general, but he knew what my girlfriend’s background was, and he didn’t let that stop him. I started to tell him that he should keep that crap to himself, but the branch that had begun to bend and break all those years ago finally snapped clean off the tree. I was done.
I made it as clear as I could, through all the hurt and disbelief and rage, that he was actively and consciously choosing these “ideals” over his actual family, real people in the real world who had already given him too many chances. I’d made a choice to live my life openly and proudly, and family or no, I could not be around his rhetoric anymore.
So I told him he shouldn’t reach out to me again—ever again—unless his priorities changed. I’d be willing to have a civil conversation, to try to forge some sort of relationship with him, but only if he was willing to put his hate behind him and listen to other points of view.
So far, he’s respected that request.
Wednesday after school, I stare at the DM so long, the words start to look strange.
Hi, honey. Dinner tonight? My treat. Anywhere you want to go.
Yes, he only reaches out when he wants something. But he also never uses terms of endearment. And he never, ever offers to pay.
After spending so much time at Josh’s house, being around a dad who is fun and caring and accepting and cooks dinner and tells jokes and gives gifts and who listens, I can’t help it—I want that too. I’ve always wanted it.
I stare at my phone, debating.
I should say no. Now is not the time for me to invite more drama into my life.
But could Dad be contacting me now because he really has reconsidered his perspective? Could this request to meet be a drop of glue meant to attach the branch back onto the tree? Has he seen the firestorm on the app? Could he want to offer his support?
Despite everything, I can’t help hoping.
Okay, I write back, and name the time and place.
That evening, I’m on my way out of the house to go meet Dad, when a car turns into the driveway.
My heart drops. What is Josh doing here?
His car door slams. As I catch a glimpse of his expression, my feet grind to a halt, taking my ability to breathe with them.
Oh no.
He’s holding up his phone as he walks toward me. “What is this?” he calls. Because he’s Josh, it comes out less like an angry demand and more like a plea for clarity. Which is way worse.
“It’s … a phone?” Playing dumb will only delay the inevitable, I know, but every extra second is a chance to get my explanation in line.
He glances at the screen, which has gone dark, and lets out a grumble of exasperation. He thumbprints the phone back on and holds it up again, stopping right in front of me. “No. This. What is this?”
I know what it is, of course. I knew the moment I saw his car. My pulse is racing. He knows. But how much?
“It’s my page on the app.” @Hi_Im_CeCeRoss, right there, in brilliant HD.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Josh says. The phone is still in his hand, his arm jutted out straight toward me, as if he’s hoping I’ll point out something on the screen that will make it all make sense. “But … why do you have a million followers?”
“Eight hundred thousand,” I whisper in correction.
He doesn’t appear to hear me, which is probably for the best. “Why are so many people talking about you that my seven-year-old sister heard about it before I did? Why are there pictures of us on here?” His eyes go a little wilder with each question he asks, as if the scope of it all is only just sinking in now.
“Gabby saw it?” I whisper. I didn’t count on that.
“Apparently everyone on the planet has seen it, CeCe. I’m the only idiot who had no idea.” Josh’s face is drawn, and I realize it’s not anger I’m seeing—well, it is anger, but it’s something else too. It’s embarrassment.
No. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. I was protecting him. I was protecting our relationship.
Shame washes over me, all the way down to the ends of my hair. It’s obvious now: I didn’t only lie to Josh. I made a fool of him. It wasn’t my fault that those pictures were posted, but it did only happen because of who I am. And I didn’t even trust him enough to clue him in.
“Oh, Josh,” I whisper. My throat burns. “I’m so sorry.”
He finally drops his arm to his side. His fingers release, and the phone plunks into the grass. My first instinct is to grab it and check to make sure the screen didn’t crack. Nothing worse than a dropped phone. But I stop myself. That wouldn’t be helpful.
“Come inside,” I say, digging my key out of my belt bag and opening the door again. After a brief hesitation, Josh follows me into the house. But instead of heading to my room, he veers toward the kitchen. Which I guess is as good a place as any.
With shaking hands, I make us two pomegranate spritzers and quickly text Dad. Going to be late. Sorry.
He texts back right away. No problem.
Josh is being cold, Dad is being accommodating. Hello, Bizarro World.
I leave my phone on the counter and join Josh at the table with our drinks. Tension is heavy in the air.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Josh finally asks, his voice flat. His phone sits on the table beside him.
I trace shapes in the condensation on the side of my glass, trying to fig
ure out where to begin. “About which part?” I regret it the moment I ask it. Stop stalling. Josh already knows; no reason to dance around the subject.
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, CeCe.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I shake my head. Inhale. “So, you know those ‘influencers’ you hate?” I look up at him. His cheeks are flushed. “I’m one of them.”
“I never said I hate—”
“It’s fine,” I say, cutting him off. “I get it. The internet is scary and fake and huge and small, and everything at once. But before I met you, it was my whole life. I’m … part of something on the app. Or, I was. I don’t know how much of my page you read …?”
“A lot,” he says. He swallows visibly.
I remind myself to breathe. “Okay, so then you can probably see why I didn’t tell you the whole truth at first. I didn’t want to scare you away.”
Josh frowns. “Why would you think I would be scared? That makes no sense.”
“Okay, maybe not scared. More like …” I search for the right word. “Uninterested? In me. You made it clear you didn’t see the value in the app. So I thought if you knew how big a part of my life it was, you wouldn’t give me a chance.”
Josh sighs. “That’s not fair, CeCe. You didn’t have any interest in music, but I still shared it with you.”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “That’s true. Josh, here’s the thing—I care a lot about what people think. Of me.” It’s embarrassing admitting this to Josh, of all people. Like confessing to a scientist that you believe in magic. “And … it’s caused a lot of problems.” I clear my throat to get rid of the crack that’s turned up in my voice.
Josh nods. He’s probably remembering what I told him about my father. “But what about later?” he asks. “After we’d gotten to know each other better? You could have told me then.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I should have.”
Josh spins his phone around and around on the tabletop, staring at the dark screen. “You’ve posted so much since we’ve known each other. You must have been posting constantly, and I had no idea. There were so many times you could have just told me the truth, but you didn’t.” He shakes his head. “It must have taken some real effort.”
Follow Your Arrow Page 17