by Eva Robinson
With a knot in her chest, Hannah turned her phone off. She bit her lip, wondering if she had what it took to become a wolf. What if she could build up her Instagram following—what if she could get a book deal?
On the one hand, she knew that if it were easy, everyone would do it. On the other, she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.
What did it take to get a hundred thousand Instagram followers? Being promoted by Rowan would be a start. Imagine making rent money from just one single picture.
Of course, of course it wasn’t that easy.
And yet…
They hadn’t been in touch since high school. She remembered it very clearly, the last night they’d spoken. December, during the winter formal. Rowan had been drunk.
The worst night of Hannah’s life, in fact—one that made her want to throw up the omelet.
Hannah’s muscles tensed, and she pushed the memory out of her mind.
Rising, she grabbed her plate off the table and dropped it in the sink. Then she hurried to the bathroom and started rummaging through her drawers until she found her old makeup bag.
As she drew the swoops of black on her eyelids, she wondered if you could get an eye disease from makeup that was several years old.
She pulled out a tube of red lipstick—the one Nora had once used to draw on the walls—and started to fill in the color on her lips, then drew outside the lines a little to give herself the kind of enormous pout that Rowan had. She stared at herself in the mirror, not quite recognizing herself. She looked half glamorous, half demented.
As weird as it was, Hannah was now certain she had to find a way to run into Rowan. In fact, she would do whatever it took to insert herself into Rowan’s life.
Because she was drowning, and Rowan might be the branch that would save her.
Six
Give them magic.
Rowan leaned against the window in the Old Brattle Café, the sunlight streaming behind her and catching her brown hair with streaks of honey.
With the old, warped windowpanes behind her and the walls a colonial ochre, the image would have a rustic charm. She tilted her chin down, pouting at the camera and opening her eyes wide. She snapped a shot. In this light, her skin took on a warm tan hue. Very cute, Ro.
Then she took another, and another. She took one leaning on her hand, her gold S&O bracelet gleaming in the sunlight.
No matter how many times she’d done this, she still felt a bit self-conscious taking selfies in public. She knew what everyone around her was thinking—preening, self-obsessed narcissist.
She lowered her phone, casting a nervous glance around the little café. No one seemed to be paying attention, but she could practically write their comments herself.
Can you imagine just sitting around all day taking photos of yourself? Idiot.
It was a gorgeous photo, though—makeup looked stellar, the side of her cheekbones shimmering with the backlighting. What would the haters have to say about this one?
It took her a few minutes of adjusting the photo—adding a bit of a blur and some grain, tweaking the highlights—before it was ready to upload. She typed out a quote she’d memorized from the poet Tomaž Šalamun, one about demanding both total freedom and unconditional love. It was about being terrible, but interesting. And being interesting was the key thing.
She added, #poetry, then uploaded it.
Then, unable to stop herself, she clicked on her most recent messages. One at the top was from an account boasting an image that looked like a Victorian clown, with bright red cheeks and a terrifying leer.
When she opened the message, her heart skipped a beat.
I want you cut up in little pieces you phony pig!!!
Her hands shook as she frantically deleted it, then blocked the sender. No matter how many of these messages she got, they always made her feel sick.
Get a grip, Ro.
When she looked up again, she tried to smile. Her marketing manager, Heather, was moving toward her table. Heather’s entire presence exuded confidence and a sense of control. Her dark hair draped over a grey suit jacket, and she wore just a hint of bronzer on her skin.
Rowan flicked off her phone, still shaking a little. But Heather deserved her full attention.
Without her agent, Rowan would be totally lost right now. Heather was the one who found her the jobs and shaped all her branding.
Heather slid into the chair and crossed her legs. “You’re looking well, Rowan! I’m glad to see you’ve slept. You look much healthier. A little pale, maybe.”
That’s because of the Victorian clown.
“I feel healthy. I’ve been doing everything you told me. I haven’t read any comments in two days. I haven’t read my messages.” Lies, all lies. “I’ve been drinking tons of water. I had fruit for breakfast, cut down on the booze. Yoga and all that.”
Heather sipped her latte from a paper cup, and it left a little foam mustache. “Good. Because your engagement is going up again. You have nearly two thousand new followers in the past few days. People are really watching you now. They like the poetry bits. You’ve got more of an air of mystery when you’re not talking about your critics.”
It was hard not to rant about them. And honestly, what was wrong with people? What made a person wake up in the morning and think, “I should tell her she looks old and that I want her to die”?
Her first “women should support each other” comment was when things had taken a turn for the worse. They smelled blood in the water before she even realized she’d made a mistake. They knew she cared, that they could hurt her.
“The Sephora post did well, didn’t it?” asked Rowan.
It had nearly seventy thousand likes—probably had something to do with the amount of cleavage she had on display. Everyone liked boobs—men, women, everyone.
Heather nodded. “They were very pleased with it, and we’ll definitely have more work from them soon. They want to try out a new color palette. And you have a new offer from Laurell Caron makeup. A bronzer or something.” She mouthed, “Ten thousand.”
Rowan smiled, though her mind was still working over the terrifying threat from the clown.
Things used to be different. People used to like her online. Now, there was a new breed of younger models she didn’t understand—rail-thin nineteen-year-olds who posed in sexy thongs on the toilet, who licked their middle fingers at the camera, legs splayed.
“I was thinking,” said Rowan. “Maybe I should do more on the Harvard campus? A preppy photoshoot or something outside my old dorm?”
Heather’s nose wrinkled, and Rowan already knew she hated the idea. “You’re twenty-eight now; it might look like you haven’t moved on. Like you’re living in the past. We need the new, mature Rowan.”
“Right.” She bit her lip. “What if I started grad school? Something easy.”
Heather tapped the side of her cup, holding Rowan’s gaze for long enough that it started to make her uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t it be hard to get in? I mean… Look, you don’t need to go to grad school just for your brand. You’re doing strong work already. Stop looking at the tweens. They have a different audience.”
Rowan stared at her peppermint tea. “I just wanted a little more gravitas, I guess. I have this friend Arabella who’s doing a PhD at Harvard; her dissertation’s on children with PTSD. Wouldn’t it be good if I could sell makeup and do, you know, something more meaningful?”
She didn’t want to examine how genuine this was—whether she actually wanted to help children with PTSD, or if she just saw that kind of virtue as a shield against criticism. Maybe both were true. Life was complex.
Heather leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. Even frowning, she looked much younger than her forty years. “It’s a nice idea, Rowan. But it’s not your brand. People looking at your photos don’t want to think about emotionally damaged children. They want fun, adventure, luxury. You provide escapism, elitism. They can get traumatized children from the news.”
�
��People keep calling me a privileged narcissist.”
Heather pointed at her. “And that, precisely, is your brand. Privileged. First you were the preppy girl at Harvard. Then the sultry rich girl with the famous boyfriend in Paris. And now, you’re—” She waved a hand, unable to find the right words. “Now, you’re a sultry rich girl in New England. Anyway, the point is—once more, it all comes down to the fact that you need to ignore the negativity. You have an amazing career if you stop sabotaging yourself.”
But Rowan was hardly listening. Her mind was already whirling with this new idea. “But what if I did something for charity? What if I used my followers to raise money for something positive? I know some academics who are working on a grant—something about funding for an afterschool program. They’re trying to raise tons of money to create a center for Cambridge kids to go after school where they can get extra tutoring or whatever. It’s like an educational equality thing.”
Heather recrossed her legs. “I mean, it’s not the worst idea. Just don’t post any images that look depressing.”
“Of course not.”
“It could get you some press, I guess. Maybe something in the Globe. You just have to make it seem aspirational somehow. And we’d need to think of how to phrase it and some specifics so you don’t seem like, you know…”
“Like the out-of-touch, privileged narcissist I am?”
“So it sounds genuine. Make sure the captions sound right. And that you don’t lose focus from what’s actually paying your bills. Speaking of which, how’s the book going?”
Rowan didn’t want to talk about the book. She’d spent most of the advance already—three-quarters of a million. And despite her champagne post, she’d hardly written a word. But she had a separate literary agent to nag her about that, so there was no point going into it with Heather. “Fine. Just revising.”
Heather grabbed her paper cup and rose from the table. “Good, because that could be a whole new audience, too. And all that time you’re not reading the comments can be put toward writing words, yes?”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m doing.” More lies—much like the content of her book so far.
“I’ll see you soon.”
As soon as Heather was out the door of the Brattle Café, Rowan felt that overwhelming urge to check her phone. Since her book deal had been announced—along with rumors about the size of her advance—the comments had taken an even darker turn.
She’d stepped out of her lane, and people were mad about it. Stick to the cleavage, Rowan. The pout, the dumb-but-sexy expression on her face—those were all fine. But once she had shown literary pretensions, a bit of rage had started seeping into her comments like poison.
She opened the Instagram app and clicked on her latest post. It was a shot of her lounging on her bed in a low-cut black dress. With her arched eyebrows and scarlet lips, this was her classic Hollywood look—a sort of combination of Sophia Loren and Elizabeth Taylor. Sixty-two thousand likes, and two hundred and eighty comments.
But the number of comments already had her stomach tensing. That many suggested that people were pissed off about something.
Nausea started rising in her gut as she read them.
I’m amazed she managed to write a caption without reminding us she went to Harvard again. Well done, Ro!
And then a stream of replies to that comment.
Friend of a friend told me she never graduated. Also, her rich parents bought her way in, and she was basically on coke the whole time. And she blew at least one of her professors.
Who is she getting to write the book for her? We all know her last book was ghostwritten, considering she can’t put a sentence together.
She needs to die already.
Rowan’s vision seemed to dim, and she had the strange sensation that she was falling, plummeting through the air.
Keep it together.
Some of her fans jumped in, arguing that her haters needed to “get a life,” but her fans never seemed witty or clever.
The most pressing question on her haters’ minds—the one they kept asking over and over—was why did she get a book deal?
Because she could make the publishers money, that was why! It wasn’t a freaking conspiracy.
She blew out a long breath. No one would say that about Arabella. Not with the five languages she spoke, and her sophisticated dissertation. Rowan imagined what Arabella’s images would look like if she were to become an influencer. She’d sit at one of the little round tables in Harvard Yard in a pencil skirt and blouse, leaning over a notebook, thoughtfully chewing on the end of her pen. She’d raise tens of thousands of dollars for charity. Then she’d post photos of her smiling with rosy cheeks, surrounded by the traumatized children she’d healed.
Arabella Green. Everyone would love her.
When Rowan was done punishing herself in the comments, she opened the messages again.
She wasn’t sure why she kept going back, except that she was still so upset from the last ones. She wanted reassurance that people loved her again. But it never worked. Each time she checked the comments or messages, it only dug a deeper hole she had to climb out of.
Already, she had a message from a different Victorian clown. They’d made a new profile after being blocked.
She clicked accept on the message, then opened it.
Your disgusting. I hope you die slowly and soon.
It wasn’t even creative. Not an ounce of wit, just pure vitriol. For just a moment, she considered writing back to him. She wanted him to know that his trolling had no effect on her, and she really didn’t care at all.
But that was a lie, and fear was spreading through her gut. She turned off her phone.
Her brand made people angry. Admiration and escapism had festered into jealousy, then loathing, then sadism. They wanted to hurt her.
If she was going to stay safe, she needed to become someone else—someone they could continue to admire. Someone flawless.
She needed to become like Arabella.
Seven
Arabella’s stomach was on fire, and she gripped it tight. It was like someone was carving her open from the inside out.
She opened her eyes, trying to reorient herself. The bright hospital lights seemed to blind her. She hadn’t been admitted yet, but she was sure she would be. For now, she was in an exam room with a curtain pulled in front of her. A beeping noise rang in her ears, and she realized the little plastic clip had fallen off her finger—the thing that measured her oxygen. She couldn’t find it now in her bed, and it felt like her throat was closing up. Someone would need to check on her. She opened her mouth to call for someone, but her voice wasn’t loud enough.
Shouldn’t someone come running when the machines were beeping? What was the point of the alarms if no one paid attention?
And it wasn’t just the monitor she needed. While she was stuck here in the hospital, she wouldn’t be able to walk Penny. And Penny needed her dog insulin. Adam never remembered to give her the insulin or walk her.
Penny must be very confused right now, staring out the window. Adam would need to give her extra hugs when he got home, because she’d be panicking.
Arabella’s stomach cramped, and that beeping noise was making her heart race. Not again. She couldn’t stop throwing up. Clearly, something bad was happening, on top of the pain ripping her gut open. Someone should be helping her, right? When the machine started beeping, she’d expected a team of people to come running in to fix the situation, but time seemed to stretch on for hours. She wondered if they’d forgotten her completely. Were they just going to leave her to die here?
If she could get out of the bed, she’d find someone and explain that her insides were on fire, and that someone had to take care of Penny.
Hadn’t the nurse said a doctor would come in to see her? That must’ve been hours ago.
And why wasn’t Adam here? Her husband should be here advocating for her, but he seemed to think she was overreacting, as usual. He�
��d feel terrible when he found out she wasn’t, and that she had kidney stones or appendicitis.
At last a nurse came in and pulled the curtain open. “Let’s get that monitor back on you.”
“What’s happening to me?” Arabella rasped. That morning, she’d been the picture of health, and now she felt like she was dying. “My limbs feel numb. I can’t feel my feet.”
“That oxygen is low,” said the nurse in a grim tone.
Arabella gasped for breath. “Why?”
Appendicitis didn’t affect your oxygen levels. What if…
What if someone had come after her? Because of what she’d uncovered? This felt like poison.
A new surge of panic washed over her, and she didn’t want Adam anymore. She wanted Mum. Her mum was so far away in their little home in Kent. That was where Arabella should be now, she thought—out in the back garden, walking barefoot in the grass. She’d read out there, in the sun. If she survived this, that was the first place she was going. Home again, to nap under the birch tree. Maybe she shouldn’t have come to America, because look what was happening to her now. Everything had fallen apart; her husband thought she was an idiot, and corruption seethed around her.
Mum was the worst cook in the world, but she always made a fuss when Arabella returned home. Burned rice, undercooked lentils…
A sharp pang of nausea rose in Arabella’s stomach again, and she couldn’t keep it down. She turned over, vomiting on the rail on the side of her bed.
Where had the nurse gone?
Her hands were shaking, and she tried to wipe her mouth as she settled back into the bed, but the numbness in her hand confused her. She felt like she’d done something wrong again—the hospital was supposed to be a clean place, and she kept throwing up all over it.
“Can you help me feel better?” Please make it stop. “I can’t feel my feet.”
Somehow, the numbness disturbed her more than the searing pain in her gut.
She’d once seen a movie about the people who’d worked on the atom bomb, and she thought now of how their bodies looked, swollen with radiation. That was how she felt—corrupted. It wasn’t radiation, of course; that was only how she imagined she looked.