Fake

by Donna Cooner

  I’ve copied Lexi’s sketches line by line. I’ve watched her draw on YouTube and I’ve seen every interview she’s given. I don’t want to just meet Lexi Singh. I want to be Lexi Singh. The fact that she graduated from our high school only five years ago just makes her even more relatable. If she can make it, maybe I can, too.

  Owen’s voice startles me back to reality. “The light is green.”

  I drive forward. How did Grace possibly know this before me? I’m the number one Lexi Singh fan of all time. I follow her on Instagram, ChitChat, Twitter, and every other possible social media platform. I even Google her name randomly sometimes just to make sure I haven’t missed anything important. There is nothing about Lexi Singh I don’t know.

  Except this.

  And this is HUGE!

  “You’re serious?” I ask Grace, needing all kinds of confirmation. Kidding with me about this would be cruel and unusual torture.

  Grace pats me on the shoulder. “Yep.”

  I push down on the accelerator, trying to keep my focus on driving. Grace gets on my nerves for sure, but if I wasn’t behind the wheel right now, I would give her a hug. And I’m definitely not a hugger.

  Grace keeps talking. “And I hear they are going to have a contest to select some students to meet her personally.” She beams at me in the rearview mirror like she knows she’s giving me the most amazing news ever. And what she says next hits me with a sucker punch right to the gut. “I think some kids might even get to have lunch with her or something like that. Can you imagine?”

  Oh. My. God. Meet Lexi Singh? In real life? I. Cannot. Imagine.

  Homecoming is three weeks away. My biggest dream could happen in three weeks. I might hyperventilate. I briefly considering pulling over to the curb and doing a wild happy dance on the sidewalk.

  Grace seems pleased with my reaction to her news, but then the sound of “Amazing Grace” interrupts any further scoop she can share. It’s Grace’s text tone. Figures. She digs her phone out of her backpack and looks down at the screen.

  “It’s my mom. They’re pouring the concrete for the driveway today. Can you drop me off at the building site?”

  I sigh like it’s a big inconvenience, even though I know it’s only a block out of the way. Grace and her family are all working on a Habitat for Humanity house. They are always doing something like that.

  “I’ll give you a cookie for the extra trouble.” She rummages around in her pink floral backpack and pulls out a baggie full of chocolate chip cookies. “They’re my special recipe. I use milk and dark chocolate chips. Makes them super rich.”

  I shake my head. Now that my head is full of Lexi Singh dreams, I don’t need cookies.

  “These are way too good for her anyway.” Owen smiles his wonky smile over the seat directly at Grace. He reaches for the bag and takes two. Grace looks delighted. He chews thoughtfully, then says, “If they were any richer, they’d be fortune cookies.”

  I do a serious eye roll and Grace groans. She twists a long curl around one finger, then throws it back over one shoulder.

  “Too much?” he asks.

  “You need to work on your delivery,” Grace says graciously.

  Owen laughs. “Maybe you can help me work on the timing?”

  I look over at him in shock. Is he flirting with her?

  Sometimes I draw Owen as a raven. His bright green eyes remind me of a bird. A lot of people don’t know ravens are crazy smart and intense collectors of unusual things. Researchers even discovered that ravens use logic to solve problems. That’s why a raven fits Owen perfectly. He is the most complex person I know. Brilliant. Funny. Irritating.

  But maybe he is changing. If I drew him at this moment, he might shift into a rabbit—soft and adorable. The thought gives me an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Once upon a time, Owen gave me my first kiss. It was at a Christmas party that my sister, Veronica, threw at our house. Veronica and her friends thought it would be hilarious to hang sprigs of mistletoe over every doorway, then shout at any two people standing under it to “kiss, kiss, KISS!” Owen and I were one of the first clueless couples caught unaware. I remember my heart racing as Owen leaned determinedly toward me. The kiss was more like two mouths awkwardly colliding rather than the swoon-inducing first kiss of the movies. Then we’d both pulled away, blushing, and together we walked over to the snack table to get more hot cocoa, like it hadn’t happened.

  “I think Owen likes you,” Veronica said to me later. “He totally planned for you guys to stand under the mistletoe.”

  I’d rolled my eyes at that. I couldn’t believe that a boy would like me, and besides, I didn’t like Owen that way.

  “He’s not even a good kisser,” I told Veronica, as if I was an expert, and she’d laughed and said that boys could get better at those things.

  Now I wonder if Owen might have gotten better at kissing. It’s been a few years, after all. I swallow hard.

  “We’re here,” I say to Grace, abruptly pulling up to the curb beside a big dump truck. What I really mean is, Get out.

  Grace insists on leaving Owen the remaining cookies. Then she takes forever to get out of the car, chatting endlessly about the cookies and the workers pouring the concrete and blah blah blah. I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

  Finally, she’s gone. I breathe in deeply. Now it’s just me and Owen again. We can finally discuss all the details of how I’m going to impress Lexi Singh with my drawings. But when I glance over at Owen, all excited to brainstorm a plan of action, his bright green eyes are intently focused on Grace’s departure. And the look on his face sucks any joy right out of me.

  I spend Friday evening alone in my bedroom, which isn’t unusual. I love my room. It’s my safe space. No matter how dark I feel on the inside, I always feel better here—surrounded by color and art. No blues allowed. Literally and figuratively. Instead, shades of yellows, greens, reds, and purples fill the room. Patterns of flowers, stripes, and checks adorn the bedspread and throw pillows in coordinating colors. When I escape here, it’s all about hope and joy.

  I painted the sunny yellow walls myself just last year and carefully selected everything, from the pop of bright red checked pillows on my bed to the green striped chair by the window. On my desk is a pile of Lexi Singh graphic novels and scribbled half drawings on various scraps of paper where I’ve tried, and failed, to copy her art. Colored pencils, markers, and ink pens scatter across the desk beside my laptop. My favorite Lexi Singh drawings of all time make up a collage on the back of my closet door. And my own completed strips are pinned on the wall above my desk.

  High school might be terrible, but when my pencils touch paper, that all changes. On the page, I can create a reality that plays by my rules. And if I don’t like the way something looks, I just erase it and draw it differently.

  If only the real world worked that way.

  But still. The news that Lexi Singh is coming to Fort Collins is almost as big as the Colorado night sky—endless with layers of possibilities. I sit on my bed, my feet swinging above my purple throw rug, my mind buzzing.

  My sister’s cat, Katy Purry, stares at me with a killer green-eyed glare from the open doorway. The cat blames me for my sister leaving her behind, but then, she never liked me much anyway.

  When Veronica left for college in California, Katy Purry lay on V’s bed all alone in her empty room for days until my mom finally started closing the door. The cat spent the next week sitting beside the closed door, shooting death rays from her narrowed eyes every time I passed to go to my room. Even the birds outside her favorite window could not draw the cat away from the obsession.

  I get it. I miss her, too, Katy Purry.

  Owen is rock climbing this weekend up in the foothills near Horsetooth Reservoir and out of cell range, so I won’t even have his company. But maybe that’s okay. While Owen supports my obsession with drawing stories, he doesn’t really understand it. I’m willing to spend eve
ry single weekend alone, dedicating myself to the craft, if that’s what it takes. If I’m really serious about becoming the next Lexi Singh, I have to make sacrifices.

  Besides, I don’t have anything else to do.

  I get up and walk over to my desk, where I sit down and take out my sketch pad. My biggest creation so far is a collection of secret drawings that make up a comic strip I call The Froot Loops. I’ve never shown it to anyone—not even Owen. It’s about my kind of people—the freaks, misfits, and outcasts of high school. It’s a mash-up of oversharing and revenge therapy. Especially when characters shape-shift into wolves, dragons, and tigers and eat all the popular, mean kids. When I’m working on the Froot Loops strip, I’m not afraid anymore. And I’m not alone. This is the place I let everything go.

  In The Froot Loops, Owen and Grace change into specific creatures—a raven and a dog. And I can change into anything. Because, why not? After all, it’s my world and I can do what I want. It’s the only place in my life where that is true.

  The only problem? I can’t draw myself before I change, only afterward—when I’m magical and triumphant.

  In every story, I’m just a stick figure—a placeholder for my image that is yet to come. I can’t seem to ever make that likeness materialize on paper. One strip shows a stick figure walking out of the lunch line with a tray of pizza. All the popular crowd sits in their usual spot over by the windows. They giggle and punch each other when she walks by. Then—SHAZAM. The stick figure shape-shifts into an elephant and sits on the end of the bench, throwing them all up into the air—expensive bags fly everywhere. A carton of yogurt ends up on top of queen-bee Dezirea’s head, fat-free gooeyness splashing down her face. Tonight, I put the final touches on the girls’ horrified expressions.

  Then I go back to the stick figure and try to make it a real body. A girl who looks like me. Immediately the arms don’t look right. There is an awkward bend to the elbow and the fingers look like claws. I scratch it out with big black marks. It’s not even worth erasing. I turn the page so fast, it rips out into my hand.

  I hate the way I look.

  Instantly I feel guilty. Strong girls don’t think things like that. They embrace their inner power and their size. I know because my mom tells me that all the time. Then my dad chimes in with his own words of wisdom. Beauty is skin deep, but ugly is to the bone. Just shake it off. Don’t listen to the haters. Be proud of who you are. I read articles and posts and blogs and fashion magazines about body positivity all the time. I want to see it in myself, but I can’t.

  And if I can’t see it, I can’t draw it.

  With a blank page in front of me now, I shift gears. I need something to impress Lexi Singh—matching her bold, confident style stroke for stroke. For inspiration, I look at a poster of Nosy Parker, Lexi’s main character in the series, on the wall across from my bed. I glance down at my sketchbook, then back up at the wall, sketching quickly. It’s not exactly copying because I give Nosy a completely new outfit—a white blouse, checked miniskirt, and black tights—and put her in a new street background.

  When I finish, I’m finally happy. It looks like it could almost be a Lexi Singh original. Maybe I will somehow get a chance to meet Lexi, and then I can show her my drawings. And then … who knows?

  I open my laptop, pull up a recent online interview of Lexi, and watch it for the fourth time. She’s so confident and talented. Becoming the next Lexi Singh is not going to be easy, but someone at this very moment is creating the next big thing. Why can’t it be me?

  Lexi’s life looks amazing online, but if I were to post about myself, it wouldn’t exactly be prime watching material. But then everyone knows ChitChats are a reality unto themselves. Nobody tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My “truth” would look something like this:

  *draws picture* *erases* *draws picture* *erases* *cries* *opens flap of blanket fort* *crawls inside alone*

  Nobody wants to watch that video.

  The thought of ChitChat reminds me that Dezirea’s party is happening tonight. They are probably dancing and laughing right now. Maybe they’re even talking about poor Jesse, who got paired with the absolute worst lab partner. And Jesse is laughing and saying something like, “People like her are the reason I work out.” And then they all laugh even louder.

  But I don’t have to imagine it. I can see it all for myself—in full-screen mode—and let the images build and simmer in my blood just like everyone else. Not that I want to be there. I don’t. But I can only fight the urge to see what I’m missing for so long. I unplug my laptop and carry it with me to my bed. Once settled, pillows behind my back and head against the headboard, I open ChitChat.

  Then I go to the party just like most of my classmates—as an uninvited and unwanted guest. It’s easy. The Dezirea show is in full swing, broadcasting live on ChitChat with messages, pictures, and video clips.

  At first, it’s just morbid curiosity on my part. The Davises’ basement is different from the way I remember it. Much more modern glitz, and much less My Little Pony. There is a lot of noise—laughing, singing, and talking. It’s hard to filter out the sounds and where they are coming from, but from the continuous stream of A-listers in the background, it’s clear that all the important people have arrived.

  Dezirea herself appears. She’s wearing a ruffled gold minidress paired with black sneakers and ankle socks. Her hair has tons of glitter and sparkle, with crystal diamanté bows pinned throughout her braids, amping up the glamor factor. Her brown eyes look even more striking with a thick addition of newly applied eyelash extensions. There is not a single blemish on her smooth dark skin. I watch as she puts on a glittering tiara that reads “Party Girl.”

  “I don’t need to be waiting around like I’m some peasant,” she declares to the camera. “I need to be walking around like royalty.”

  Giggling, Camila comes into the frame and tries to pull the tiara off Dezirea’s head. Camila wears a simple sequined black crop top, a red moto jacket, and edgy white cat-eye sunglasses. If I wore an outfit like that, it would look like a Goodwill store threw up on me, but on her it looks chic and cool. Her hair spills over her shoulders in glossy, beachy waves. Outrageously pretty. I notice with a stab of bitterness the strip of toned stomach between the crop top and her jeans.

  “Don’t touch my tiara with your filthy hands!” Dezirea teases.

  They both start laughing so hard Camila spits out her drink. Of course, that makes them laugh even harder. Then Hunter Inwood walks up behind them, wearing some outrageously green checked blazer over a blue T-shirt, and puts rabbit ears up behind their heads with two fingers.

  Original.

  A new video comes up. Another one of Dezirea’s besties, Bella Carroll, snuggles up on the white couch next to a throw pillow with big red lips on the front. Everyone knows Bella is the richest girl in our school and tonight she definitely looks the part—wearing a Gucci ivory polka-dotted shirt paired with skinny jeans and nude stiletto pumps. Pearl-encrusted pins decorate her blonde French twist like ornaments. She looks more like a twenty-five-year-old CEO than a sixteen-year-old cheerleader. She stares into the camera with a glitter-flecked gaze, and then Dezirea and Camila join her on the couch. Dezirea snaps a selfie of the three of them, and posts the photo to her account immediately.

  DEZIREA: ALL MY BESTIES IN ONE PLACE! ALWAYS BETTER TOGETHER XO #BABESUNITE #GIRLGANG

  Camila comments below it, and then Bella chimes in, too.

  CAMILA: I KNOW I’M SO LUCKY TO BE THIS GORGEOUS!

  BELLA: WHO YOU KIDDIN? I ONLY ROLL WITH PERFECTION

  The ChitChats keep coming, the hashtags filling up my page. I watch them pour in and scroll up. #instaparty #musicislife #chitchatpic #lol #friyay

  The stark difference between the unwashed and the it crowd plays out in living, breathing color. Because the only people who understand the funny references and in-jokes are there—the chosen ones.

  I don’t want to be there. What would I do? Stand in a
corner and watch? It is no different than what I’m doing now. Not just at a party. Everywhere. In chemistry. In the lunchroom. I have to see exactly what I’m missing. Every single day.

  A new ChitChat video from the party starts playing, and there he is: Jesse. He’s standing with several of the football team members in front of the refrigerator, laughing about something. He wears a blue T-shirt that somehow brings out his brown eyes.

  My stomach does a flip-flop. My shoulders tense, my mouth goes tight. “Oh, great,” I mutter aloud to myself. “Just who I want to see.”

  Bella and Camila clatter into the kitchen, joining the football guys. One trips over the other, high heels tangled, and Jesse grabs Bella just in time to catch her before she falls. Instead, she ends up in a giggling heap on top of him.

  “Oh my God, Bella. I can’t breathe. Get off me.” He pushes her off to the side. “You’re huge.”

  Bella makes a close-up, horrified face at the camera. “Did he just call me fat?”

  Then they all start laughing. It is the worst insult anyone can receive. Everyone knows that.

  Bella is a size two and she’s huge. What does that make me?

  Ugly. Hated.

  My spirit shatters. I want to strap a one-hundred-pound bag of flour to each of their backs and let them feel the weight of it on their feet, in their knees, on their bodies. I want them to feel it shift and morph over the sides of chairs when they squeeze into tiny desks and when they dance the night away under the disco ball in the basement. There will be no place on the planet where they will feel free and weightless. Not even in their beds at night.

  Most of all, I want them to see how people look at them—if they look at all—with pity and disgust.

  I shut down the computer. The black screen becomes a mirror. Instead of Bella’s and Camila’s gorgeous smiles, I only see my own fat, sad face. No matter what all the self-help mantras say, I am not enough.