I show him Mum’s “signed” permission slip, and he gets me to email it to him. Then he sits me down at a laptop, and I start answering questions. The survey is easy. I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this. How many hours a day am I on my phone? What apps do I use? Would I say I feel better or worse after a few hours online? I zoom through the questions. At the end, there are some rapid-fire photos I have to rate, which is the only part that’s ugh, because he’s hooked the computer into my social media, and I know these faces. Sophie and Maisie from home. Lily. Zara the rat.
And there are electrodes, stuck with Velcro to my fingertips, measuring I don’t know what: emotions, maybe? There are questions about what makes me happy, sad, angry. One look at Zara’s picture makes my fists clench. I half expect the machine to burst into sparks. The instant Jors says I’m done, I pull the things off my fingers.
I sign more forms that confirm I’m older than I am—a white lie that’s worth the sixty dollars Jors counts out onto the clipboard. I stare at the crisp twenties, sure it’s a mistake, but Jors says they doubled the money because not enough people were taking part. “It was only my colleagues who’d do the test, and that’s not valid, you know, when it’s a study of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds.”
I smile weakly. If my parents weren’t researchers, I wouldn’t feel guilty about messing up Jors’s results with my seventh-grade answers.
“We give you another sixty dollars if you do the part two?” Jors says as he watches me sign.
Of course, I’ll do “the part two.” In my mind the first sixty dollars has already bought me my train ticket home, my swim, and a Starbucks Summer Berries Frappuccino. And, best of all, that strappy dress I spotted in the Urban Look window. For part two, Jors has to load my phone with some software that’s learning how teens use their phones. That just takes a second, then I’m done. He says he’ll email me a voucher for the rest of the money when “part two” is over, though I’m not sure when that’ll be.
Soon, I’m strolling in the shade of the buildings, sipping my icy coconut-raspberry frappé. I feel like I’m in a film. The traffic cop even tips her cap at me.
Jors wasn’t happy to hear I was headed to the YMCA—it’s not in the best part of town, I guess—so he’s given me a free pass to the university pool. When I jog up the steps to the City University of Lowell gym, I’m grinning. It feels like future me—me older, me at university—has pulled me forward to see what life will be like later.
I stand at the edge of the deep end, watching the lane guidelines wave underwater. The pool sparkles blue-green in the sunlight filtering through the glass roof. I dive and feel my strength as I begin my strokes. For a perfect hour, I don’t think about Zara at all.
* * *
The train back to Eastborough is crowded, but it feels good to ride the rush-hour wave. A businesswoman in Converse sits opposite me. Everyone’s on phones. A familiar voice from two seats ahead makes me look up: a woman with wide eyes and a Cork accent is scolding her two young ones. “Don’t ye get out of those seats! And stay together—this is America.”
I smile but there’s no tug toward the Irish family. Maybe I’m becoming more American; I kind of look it. My reflection shows my hair is a mess of wet curls, but wearing one of my new dresses (Jeeves steered me to cheaper ones at the back of Urban Look, and I bought two), I feel pretty fantastic. Strong enough to look at my phone.
I tap on a glowing Y on my screen. The second part of the research is something about whether being on social media promotes a “positive mind-set.” Jors was a little vague. But he says it’ll track my activity on You-chat, anyway. And he wants me to use the app at least an hour a day. Good thing it wasn’t TokTalk, where my name is now dirt. I have a You-chat account, but apart from chatting to Lily on it months ago, I’ve never really used it.
I remember sitting in Dublin, scrolling and tapping like on Lily’s You-chat pictures: There were lots of a beach at sunrise, pinky sky and purple water. The captions said it was the view from her vacation house. I remember thinking then that we might go there together someday. Idiot that I was.
The instant I launch You-chat, it goes berserk with notifications. I have no clue why. Nobody from home uses this app, and Lily’s my only follower. I flick over and see that new people have friended me: Zara. Mara, too. I don’t hesitate. I block those two and anyone else I don’t want there.
Then I switch over to the general timeline, and my breath catches in my throat.
I’m staring at a trending meme that has 101 likes. 102. 106. The numbers climb as I watch. It’s a girl in shorts, photographed from the back, with brown dripping down her bare legs: “SORRY, MOMMY, I COULDN’T HOLD IT.”
Oh God oh God.
My throat feels like a fist is closing around it. I unblock Zara to check if I’m right: I am. Zara posted this, using a picture she must have taken while I was walking up the hill. She hasn’t tagged me, but my name is popping up in the comments.
OMG that is the grossest.
is that @roisinkdoyle? told u she was disgusting.
Somebody needs to CHANGE HER CLOTHES.
My shaking hand stabs the screen three times before I manage to report Zara to You-chat for abuse. I only realize that I’m crying when Converse woman passes me a tissue. She stands next to me, ready for her stop. She’s pale, hair the color of Michael’s. The train rocks, but she puts a steady hand on my shoulder. I bury my face in the tissue.
“I’m guessing mean girls? They’re everywhere, honey.” Her voice sounds like Texas. “You’re worth ten of them, I’ll bet.”
I watch her sway down the train to the doors. In the window, my ugly reflection glares back. My shoulders look like hams in this dress with its thin straps. I try to breathe, but we’re almost at Eastborough. It’s like getting sucked down a drain.
My phone buzzes. Michael.
You nearly home?
Y, I text back. It’s all I can type.
I stare at my hands. How have I never noticed how horrible they are? Like slabs of white fat, filthy with freckles.
The train hurries on. The Irish family is long gone. I suddenly, desperately want them back. The scenery flits by, every windowful another leap closer to school tomorrow. Where everyone now thinks I’m not toilet-trained.
I force out breaths through my nose, but it’s like I’m shaking apart on the inside. You hear about people being afraid to go to school. I never thought that would be me. I’d do anything for someone, somehow, to fix this.
“Eastborough! NEXT STOP.” The conductor yells it like a threat.
I bash my head against the seat back. “Jeeves, make me feel better,” I murmur into my phone. He doesn’t answer, because he’s a machine.
I’m staggering down the aisle when my screen pulses again with that heartbeat light. Jeeves’s voice speaks in my earbuds. “It sounds like you could use a friend.”
God. No thanks, Jeeves. I know a robotic cat you might like, though. I shove my phone away and step off the train, but on the trudge home, I can’t resist checking again, to hear what other creepiness Jeeves will say.
Actually, he’s opened You-chat to suggest people to friend. Still a bit creepy. I scroll through the faces. There’s Jors. I guess I should friend him, in case I have questions about the research. But the rest are a mix of people from school—no thanks!—and a bunch of randos. One girl—I think it’s a girl—has “MEAN PEOPLE SUCK” as her description.
I stop to check her out. I flop down beneath the giant oak tree halfway up our hill; the heat has eased, but my thighs ache from swimming.
Her name is Haley Alan, and she has an angry manga girl as her photo. A ninja panda is mine. I only thumb through a few of her photos before I friend her.
Her posts—so much truth. She’s found more mean-girl memes than I knew existed. Soon I’m laughing out loud. I’M ACTUALLY NOT FUNNY, I’M JUST MEAN AND PEOPLE THINK I’M JOKING.
This is the best, I type. I lean back against the tree. A breeze w
hooshes up the hill, cooling the sweat on my neck. My phone buzzes: Haley’s friended me back. Kung Fu Panda is the best! she replies.
This is true. I’m not a big fat panda … I type.
Haley shoots back the rest: I’m THE big fat panda.
I laugh again, and Michael’s message comes in: He’s sending out a search party if I’m not home in five minutes.
Gotta eat, I type. Catch you later?
You better :-)
Michael looks up as I burst into the kitchen. “Where’ve you been? You had me worried.” He’s ladling stew and mashed potatoes into the biggest bowl we own. He nods at my dress. “That looks new.”
He sits down to eat without getting any for me.
“Not so worried that you’d serve me, too, I guess.” I pile up a bowl. It smells amazing. I’d forgotten how good this feels: being properly hungry after swimming.
“Your hands aren’t broken, are they?” Michael murmurs through a full mouth. But he gets up anyway and pours us both orange juice. He sets the glasses down with a thump. “Mum gave me an earful for letting you go off to Lowell on your own.”
I swallow a mouthful and stare. “She called you from work?” That is a first. I remember now that texts from Mum popped up while I was on You-chat. I swiped them away without reading.
“Dad spoke to her, I think. Dunno. Anyway. You’re not to do it again.”
“I was grand! And Jeeves was with me.”
Michael doesn’t return my smile. “I was worried, Ro. You were upset before, about that girl. After you left, I thought … I don’t know what I thought.” He looks at me with big eyes, like he’s ready for a Dr. Phil moment.
I’m done trying to talk to him about Zara. “Don’t worry yourself.” I drop my bowl into the sink and head to my room. “I can handle it.”
I so want to know more about Haley. With memes like hers, I bet she has mean-girl combat experience.
You there? I type, and wipe my forehead. It’s still roasting in here, even with the air conditioner wheezing away.
The bubbles pop up immediately. I’m here! I love the name Roisin, btw. Sounds like someone sweet, but also awesome.
I laugh out loud. Haley’s cool, I type. Like the comet.
There’s a pause. Halley’s comet. Different spelling.
See, I knew that, about the two l’s. Didn’t want to come across as a brainbox. Right, sorry, I type. Immediately, I wince, thinking of Haley’s timeline. She wouldn’t apologize. She wouldn’t let someone like Zara get inside her head. I scroll fast through her old posts: If you mess with my friends, you mess with me. You don’t want that. I need to be more Haley. Or at least have someone like her in my life.
You seem kinda comet, tho, I type. The way you come at things. Like nothing can stop you.
:-) tysm. You’re the one with the awesome name.
I’m so not awesome. The stupid tears are right there, again. I start to type that I’ve got to go, when Haley types back.
What makes you say that?
A million things. Crying at nothing. Letting Zara get to me. Having no friends. There’s a mean girl in my school, I type. I hate her.
MEAN PEOPLE SUCK.
I know. I swallow and swipe at my eyes.
What did she do?
I’ve never typed so fast in my life. It’s easy to tell Haley everything. I don’t know what she looks like—her manga avatar doesn’t tell me much—but I picture a biggish girl like me, maybe piercings. Someone you don’t mess with. Haley doesn’t say it’s nothing, like Michael did. She can’t believe he told me to laugh it off. Michael doesn’t get it, I type. How ANGRY Zara makes me, u know?
I totally know.
He says I shouldn’t have threatened to rip Zara’s head off. But I saw that horrible poll, and I lost it.
I know how that feels, Haley types. You’re like, RIP THAT HEAD OFF.
COMPLETELY OFF. There’s no brain in there anyway.
You’d be doing the world a favor, she replies.
I laugh. I squish up my pillows to get comfy, and Haley and I chat and chat—I learn that she lives in Maine, and she’s had mean-girl problems, too.
I haven’t felt this good in ages. I’m vaguely aware of my room going orange with the setting sun, but it’s only when it’s so dark that my phone glows like a lamp that I realize it’s probably been hours. Haley says to keep my head high tomorrow if Zara, or anyone else, pokes fun at me because of that disgusting gravy-legs meme.
If Zara says anything to your face, Haley types, look her in the eye and tell her to back off.
I hesitate. Maybe, I type.
You’ve gotta show them ur not scared, Haley types. Coral, the girl who used to harass me, now tries to be my best friend.
I roll over and stare up at my dark ceiling. I can’t imagine myself talking to Zara like that. Especially if Lily’s there. I’ve told Haley all about Lily: how our mums pushed us together, how we chatted loads, how it all fell apart. How Lily left me standing by the 7-Eleven for an hour and never showed the first weekend I arrived. How she invited me to her house, then canceled on me five minutes later.
Zara has a bestie already. Lily, remember? The one who dropped me when she saw how unpopular I am.
Ugh, that sucks. Like a hot potato? Haley includes a winky face.
I grin. Haley knows that potatoes are my soul food. Like a radioactive potato, I say.
Her loss, Haley says. Imagine having Zara as your bestie! Like being friends with a toxic dump.
Lol. Brb. I drop my phone. My eyes are burning, maybe from the pool. I suddenly feel like I could sleep for a year. I flick off the air conditioner—it’s still groaning but putting out no cool at all now—and flop back into bed. Without the AC’s knocking hum, the quiet wraps around me.
I’m gonna crash now.
Remember what I said, right? Haley types back. You’ll be fine tomorrow.
My stomach twists. I don’t know.
Ro, listen. You’re strong, you’re gorgeous, you can do anything. Repeat after me.
I smile as I type the words back to her. She sends me a string of hearts and stars and thumbs-up.
I drop my phone and snuggle down. “Jeeves, turn off Roisin’s light,” I call.
The lights blink out. “Sure!” Jeeves speaks straight into my ear, from near my pillow, and I jump. I forgot he’s on my phone now; I’m used to him on the windowsill. Jeeves the problem solver. No one can solve Zara. She’s like a flesh-eating virus, dissolving me from the inside out.
“Jeeves, how do you handle bullies?”
“According to Wikipedia, ignoring it often does nothing to stop the bullying, and it can become worse over time. Bullying behavior can be easier to control the earlier it’s detected.”
At least he and Haley agree. Act fast, be firm. I wish I’d known this a month ago. Or what I really wish is that they could get on the bus tomorrow instead of me.
I turn over to stare through my dark windows. One good thing about our weird flat is this room: shaped like a castle turret, with a cone roof and round walls, like something from Hogwarts. Eight-year-old me would’ve loved it. I do love the roundness, and the three windows that look over the roofs of Eastborough. Yellow streetlights bleed into the night, hiding the stars, but some planet sits high in the sky, clear and bright.
My heart gives a leap, remembering Haley told me to text her throughout the day tomorrow. That’s what I picture as I drift off: a new friend, hundreds of miles away in the darkness but thinking of me. My own North Star.
My room’s too bright, the traffic noise outside too loud. Even before my eyes open, I know I’ve overslept.
I kick through my covers, but my phone’s nowhere. “Michael! What time is it?” No answer. He must’ve left already. My hands tremble as I pull on the other Urban Look dress. I’m hopping, tripping down the hall while yanking on a sandal.
A ringing finally lets me track my phone to the kitchen. It’s seven forty-five: ten minutes before the bus.
&n
bsp; Mum’s face blinks up at me from the screen. She always does this: starts a video call even if you don’t want to. “Morning, sweetheart.” She looks as calm as I am frazzled. Her hair is tied back, the gray streak she won’t dye pulling out of the ponytail at the front. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge. In the video window that shows my face, my hair is a furious mass of curls, eyes gritty with sleep. Not how I want to face Zara.
I leave the phone on the table, letting Mum stare at the ceiling while I grab a granola bar and a banana. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” I call toward the phone.
The churning in my belly makes me feel like I’ll never eat again, but I cram the food into my backpack. It’s stuffed with homework I should’ve done.
“I tried, twice. You just grunted.” It sounds like grunnid. Mum’s American accent is a hundred times stronger since we got here. She’s on the train, of course. Why does she even come home? Forget asking for a Saturday off; she should ask for a sleeping bag and a tent so she can live at the lab. “Fixed your phone, though. The screen was locked up when I dropped in laundry last night. You loaded Jeeves onto it, finally—that’s great!”
“Mum, I have to go.” Eight minutes till the bus. My fingers itch to message Haley. But embarrassment suddenly surges in my chest. I kept her chatting for hours yesterday. She must think I’m a random, friendless loser who’s thrown myself at her.
“I took FRED, too, if you’re looking for him. Ro, please don’t leave him on your floor. I almost stepped on him.”
“It, Mum.” She’s right, though. The thought of standing on that cat is ugh. I still think it has an evil switch I’ll flick by mistake. “Okay, bye!”
“Wait—Roisin.” I’m running down our hill, but Mum won’t ring off. “Why don’t we do something together this weekend? Michael, too. I’ve been so busy.”
I can’t think past today. “Maybe, Mum. Sure.” There’s something reachy in her voice that I don’t recognize. Like I have her attention. And she wants mine.
Friend Me Page 3