Fake

by Donna Cooner

  LET’S SEE THE NEW AVENGERS MOVIE ON FRIDAY? GIRLS’ NIGHT???

  But I have to go further. Connecting Sienna with people Jesse actually knows is the best way to make him believe she is real. So now Sienna just needs to friend some friends of Jesse. Luckily, I know just the right person to help me connect my web.

  Once upon a time, Dezirea and I were good friends. We were inseparable in elementary school. Sleepovers. Birthday parties. Bike rides to each other’s houses. Secrets shared.

  In fifth grade, our class went up to the mountains for Eco Week. It was supposed to teach us about nature and teamwork. Owen discovered his passion and natural ability for rock climbing. I learned something different.

  All week, we played team-building games. The culminating activity was a long hike straight up to the top of a mountain. The instructors added rules: Everyone had a team. If one member of the team needed a break, then another member of the team had to stop and wait with them. No one would be left on the mountainside alone.

  I’m sure that seemed like a good idea to the camp leaders. Everyone would rally around and support each person on the team to achieve the goal of getting to the top. But the reality was, it just put a target on my back. No one wanted me on their team because everyone knew I wasn’t going to make it to the summit. Being my friend meant instant disappointment and ultimate failure.

  It was bad enough having to balance on ropes and trust-fall into people’s arms who were supposed to catch you, but this hike kept me up all night worrying. In the girls’ cabin, I’d stare at the springs on the top bunk and listen to Penelope Young snore above me. The night before the hike, I slid out of bed, put on my slippers, and snuck outside into the darkness. I looked up to see a billion stars—layers upon layers upon layers. My breath clouded into puffs while I sat on a fallen log, shivering in my pajamas. In that moment, it was like something tiny inside me became bigger and more beautiful than anything I’d ever imagined. All the tension from the day poured out into the starry, cold night. This was the mountain experience I needed. Breathing in. Breathing out.

  Suddenly, Dezirea was there, in black fleece leggings and sheepskin Minnetonka slides, a red plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She sank down beside me and draped the warmth of the blanket over my shivering shoulders.

  “I won’t leave you behind tomorrow,” she said quietly.

  I frowned. “But then you won’t get to the top.”

  She laughed. “Like I care?”

  I slipped my arm through hers and laid my head on her shoulder. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  She shrugged, but even in the dark, I could see the tiny quirk of her lips.

  We sat there huddled together on that log for a long, quiet moment.

  Finally, Dezirea said, “All this fresh air makes me hungry.”

  I laughed. “Okay, now you just ruined the moment.”

  But actually that comment was perfectly Dezirea, and that made it just right.

  I look at her ChitChat profile picture now, and can’t find the familiar face beneath her shiny, polished features. She’s changed. We both have. The years between then and now snapped the bold edges off my life and layered them onto hers. I don’t hate the me inside my body. Far from it. I know that I’m smart, occasionally funny, and talented. It’s just the disguise I live inside that I hate. That’s not Dezirea’s fault.

  When we were younger, Dezirea’s biggest dream was to become a ballet dancer. She had posters above her bed of Misty Copeland and Lauren Anderson—Black ballerinas who took the dancing world by storm and broke barriers for other young dancers. Dezirea idolized everything about them. I remember sitting on her bed and watching her leap gracefully around her bedroom, only she called it doing a grand jeté. I called it amazing.

  I search through Dezirea’s photos, pictures, and posts. Finally, I take a chance and go for it.

  SIENNA: LOVE LOVE LOVE THE MISTY COPELAND LACE CROP YOU’RE WEARING IN THIS PHOTO!!! SERIOUSLY, YOU SHOULD MODEL FOR HER NEW UNDER ARMOUR LINE.

  I wait. The suspense is killing me.

  DEZIREA: SHE IS MY HERO.

  Ah. There she is. My breath whooshes out in relief and a smile tugs at my lips.

  SIENNA: I CAN UNDERSTAND WHY. SHE’S AMAZING. YOU KIND OF LOOK LIKE HER.

  DEZIREA: YOU THINK SO?

  SIENNA: TOTALLY.

  There is a pause and Dezirea must be doing her own research into this new Sienna person. I feel a well of panic rise up suddenly in my chest. Two followers is not enough. What if she doesn’t write back? Ever?

  I move on to Camila’s profile. She’s just posted a Boomerang video where she smooches the screen over and over again. I write a comment under it.

  SIENNA: DYING TO KNOW THE SHADE OF LIPSTICK YOU’RE WEARING! IT’S PERFECT.

  No response yet. I go over to Bella’s profile. She’s just posted about a recent trip with her parents to New York City. She stands giving a thumbs-up underneath the marquee of the Mean Girls Broadway show.

  Her caption reads: WANT TO JOIN ME? OOPS. SO SORRY. SOLD OUT.

  Typically smug. I type out a quick comment.

  SIENNA: SO GOOD! DID YOU GET TO SEE THE ORIGINAL CAST?

  I click over to Graham’s profile. I wade through some videos of sports practice until I see a photo of him at a concert at the Aggie Theatre.

  SIENNA: I WAS AT THIS SHOW, TOO! DID YOU GET CLOSE TO THE STAGE?

  Hunter Inwood is a little harder to crack. I scroll through his videos, pictures, and posts, but nothing strikes a chord. Finally, I settle on a pretty generic comment and hope it gets enough attention for a follow.

  SIENNA: YOUR MEME GAME IS THE BEST!

  Then I write a new post on Sienna’s own profile, just to see if anyone out there is watching.

  SIENNA: HEY FORT COLLINS PEEPS! I’M IN TOWN. HIT ME UP.

  Almost immediately, I get a reply.

  DEZIREA: CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE HERE! COME MEET US AT THE MALL!

  What would Sienna say? My mind races. Be cool.

  SIENNA: OH MAN! I WAS JUST THERE. WE JUST MISSED EACH OTHER! NEXT TIME?

  I can’t do anything more or I’ll just look like some internet stalker. All I can do now is wait. I pick up the yogurt off my nightstand and stir it slowly, blending in all the strawberries from the bottom until it’s the perfect color of pale pink. Smiling, I take a bite, letting the tangy sweetness melt into my mouth.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long for someone else to chat with Sienna. A new message pops up in my inbox. It’s from Jesse.

  CHITCHAT DIRECT MESSAGE

  JESSE: THINKING OF YOU.

  SIENNA: NICE. WHY?

  JESSE: I’M LISTENING TO SOME TROMBONE SHORTY RN.

  SIENNA: WHY DO YOU LIKE JAZZ?

  JESSE: DON’T LIKE. LOOOOOOOOOOVE IT.

  SIENNA: BUT WHY?

  JESSE: BIG QUESTION. HARD TO ANSWER. I GUESS CAUSE IT’S MOSTLY IMPROVISED, YOU KNOW? SO YOU CREATE ART EVERY TIME YOU PLAY. DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?

  SIENNA: TOTALLY. CREATIVITY IS EVERYTHING.

  JESSE: YEAH. PLUS, IN JAZZ REAL PEOPLE PLAY REAL INSTRUMENTS. NOT COMPUTERS OR SYNTHESIZERS.

  SIENNA: MUSIC HAS HEALING POWER. IT HAS THE ABILITY TO TAKE PEOPLE OUT OF THEMSELVES FOR A FEW HOURS.

  JESSE: WOW. EXACTLY. YOU’RE PRETTY SMART.

  SIENNA: ACTUALLY THAT WAS AN ELTON JOHN QUOTE.

  JESSE: HA! WELL AT LEAST YOU’RE HONEST.

  SIENNA: MOST OF THE TIME.

  I’m not expecting Grace to ask me to hang out after school, so when she does so the following Monday, I don’t have a good excuse ready. I end up saying yes when normally I would have just gone home. Maybe it’s because this whole Sienna thing has me thinking about making friends and Owen’s been busy at soccer practice. Or maybe it’s because I’m still not sure what I’m going to say in the Lexi video and doing something to get my mind off it for a while might help. Anyway, I end up at a construction site with a paintbrush in one hand and a cookie in the other. And, eve
n though I’m not usually an oatmeal raisin fan, Grace has once again outdone herself. They are delicious.

  The new Habitat for Humanity house is getting the last few touches put on it. Grace tells me she and her parents hope to turn it over to the new homeowners in just a few weeks. Inside, workers are finishing the flooring and plastering walls. Outside, Grace and I paint the front siding a cheery sky blue. Even with the constant noise of the banging and pounding, there is something soothing about covering a huge blank space with color. I love the way the paint soaks into the wood softly from the first swipe of the brush. Then the siding succumbs to the bright hue on the second pass. It makes me feel calmer than I have in weeks.

  Grace dips her paintbrush in the bucket and makes one long stroke down the wood. She has a pink bandanna tied over her hair and a smudge of blue paint on one cheek. “So how’s it going with Jesse?” she asks, cocking her head to one side and studying me.

  My hand freezes. I panic. Does Grace know about Sienna? “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing. Honestly. Just wondered how you were feeling about things.”

  “What things? You mean in chemistry?” Grace can’t possibly have Spidey senses online, too.

  Grace laughs. “Where else?”

  I stuff a cookie in my mouth and chew, trying to give myself time to think. It’s hard to swallow.

  “I’m surviving,” I say finally.

  “Sometimes that’s the best thing you can do,” Grace says quietly. Her brush stills in midair. After a minute, she says, “There was this guy at my old school who was such a bully I had to leave.”

  I had no idea. “That’s why you came to public school?”

  Grace nods.

  “But wasn’t your old school a Christian school?”

  She nods again and blinks a little harder than normal. Is Grace going to cry?

  “There are bullies everywhere. Even places where they shouldn’t be.” Her voice is soft. “At first it was about silly stuff. My hair was too curly. My clothes were out of style. I talked too much.”

  The brush in Grace’s hand trembles ever so slightly. I wait for her to go on.

  “It was constant. It never stopped,” Grace says. “And then it got worse. More physical. He started tripping me every time I walked down the hall and started throwing things at me behind the teachers’ backs. Other people started laughing and that just encouraged him to do it more.”

  “Did you tell someone?”

  “I tried. They said I should ignore him and he’d stop.”

  “But he didn’t,” I say.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I think I was a coward for leaving. I should have stood up to him instead of running away.”

  I mull this over, then say, “I guess Jesse’s silly stunt with the Froot Loops in my locker sounded pretty trivial to you.”

  Grace meets my gaze. “Not at all. It’s not what he did, but how it made you feel.”

  I don’t understand. “But you told me to get over my feelings about Jesse!”

  “I said to let it go for your own sake, not for his. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you say it, then?” I ask.

  “That’s what everyone told me when the bullying happened to me. Forgive and forget.” She frowns. “I want it to be possible—the simple, right answer—but saying it doesn’t make it so. I think something must be wrong with me because I couldn’t do it for myself. But maybe you can.”

  “You haven’t forgotten?” I ask.

  She shakes her head fervently. “Never.”

  Her words make me shiver. Make me see Grace in a different way—and Sienna, too. Maybe Sienna isn’t just about me and Jesse Santos. Maybe she’s bigger than that. Maybe she can be a defender for all the bullied people. Like Grace. My resolve to make Sienna even more real hardens in my chest.

  “Are you happier now?” I ask Grace.

  “Oh my gosh, yes. A million times yes.” Grace beams at me. “You and Owen are the best friends I’ve ever had.”

  Me? I don’t know what to say.

  Before I know what’s happening, she closes the gap between us and hugs me. I don’t hug back, but she doesn’t seem to notice how stiffly my arms hang at my sides. Finally, I pat her back awkwardly to let her know she should let me go now, but she keeps hugging.

  When Grace lets me go, she says, “I was thinking. We should go to homecoming together.”

  “You and Owen?” I ask.

  “And you,” she says. She dips the paintbrush back down in the paint.

  I’m confused. “Don’t you think that seems a little … crowded?”

  “Absolutely not. It sounds like fun!”

  I don’t know if Owen will feel the same way. “I’ll think about it.”

  We paint the rest of the wall without talking, accompanied by the bang of hammers and the carpenter’s radio inside playing polka music loudly. I don’t think about homecoming or Jesse or Sienna. I just think about color and the way the sun lightens the drying paint into an even more satisfying hue.

  When I take my second cookie break, I watch two little girls playing out on the new driveway. The bigger of the two has a huge frown on her face and her hands placed firmly on her chubby hips. Her T-shirt is just a size too small and her jeans a size too large, but it is very clear she is the boss. A smaller version of her is scribbling furiously on the concrete with a big chunk of yellow sidewalk chalk. Every so often the younger girl looks up for approval, but the expression of the older girl standing over her doesn’t budge. Evidently it isn’t going so well.

  “That driveway was just finished last week. Aren’t you going to tell them to leave it alone?” I ask Grace, nodding toward the two kids.

  “Why?” Grace asks. “It’s their house. Or will be when we finish.”

  “Where are they living now?”

  Grace motions with her chin toward the street, her hands still painting. “In that Dodge Caravan parked over there.”

  The old gray van looks like it’s been in a few scrapes over the years. It sits unassuming at the curb, surrounded by modest newer homes and well-manicured front lawns. I feel something drop inside me. How many kids are living in cars in our sweet little town? I turn back to my job, but my mind is still on the girls in the driveway. Blue is a good color for this house, I think, brushing smooth some drips of paint from under a shingle. It is a color that symbolizes loyalty, strength, and wisdom. I hope for all of that for this new home.

  Grace disappears inside to take cookies to the rest of the workers. Suddenly, the younger girl drops the chalk on the sidewalk and storms off toward the van, obviously frustrated with her opinionated older sister. The bossy girl shrugs and, to my surprise, heads in my direction.

  She marches right up to me and folds her arms tightly over her chest. I go back to painting, ignoring her, but she doesn’t budge. I can feel her staring at me.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Do you want a cookie?” I ask.

  The girl shakes her head, but keeps standing there staring at me. Little kids sometimes make me uncomfortable. They blurt out observations about my size in ways that are brutally honest.

  “So what do you want?” I finally ask her.

  “I want to draw a cat.” Her voice is softer than I expected.

  I turn around and look down at her. Her round white face is speckled with freckles and her eyes are as blue as the paint on my brush. “So do it,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head firmly. “I can’t.”

  “But you haven’t even tried.” The words make an oddly significant echo in my brain. Am I giving myself advice here? I put the paint can down, balance the brush on top, and then walk over to look at the scrawls on the concrete. The girl follows me.

  “My sister couldn’t do it either,” she explains.

  “You’re right,” I say, and she nods in agreement. I think she’s probably used to being right.

  “Why a cat?” I ask her.

&
nbsp; “My mom says we can get a cat when the house is finished. I want to draw a picture so he feels welcome coming home here.”

  I nod solemnly. It’s the most logical reason I’ve ever heard for drawing a cat.

  She holds the chalk out to me. “You draw it.”

  I start to say no, but the look on her face is enough to convince me. She’s not going to take no for an answer. I squat down in the driveway and start to draw.

  “Make it a very happy cat.” She sits down beside me, cross-legged.

  As I draw, I think about Katy Purry’s soft black fur and white-tipped nose. I think about the way her tail twitches when she watches the birds outside the window. And I think about her rumbly purrs of delight when her favorite human, Veronica, holds her in her lap. My hand moves quickly across the surface of the driveway. I finish the face with a flourish of whiskers, then sit back on my knees to survey my work.

  “Wow,” she says reverently.

  I glance over at the girl. She claps her hands together enthusiastically. I do a little fake bow and she claps harder.

  “I didn’t even know you had a happy cat inside you,” she says incredulously.

  “Me neither,” I say with a smile.

  CHITCHAT DIRECT MESSAGE

  JESSE: HI CUTIE! HOW’S YOUR NIGHT GOING?

  SIENNA: BETTER NOW.

  JESSE: I ASKED THE COACH ABOUT BEING IN THE HALFTIME SHOW.

  SIENNA: WHAT DID HE SAY?

  JESSE: HE LAUGHED.

  SIENNA: IN A GOOD WAY?

  JESSE: NOT REALLY BUT WE’LL SEE WHAT HAPPENS.

  SIENNA: BUT YOU DID IT! GOOD FOR YOU.

  JESSE: I NEVER WOULD HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT. YOU’RE A GREAT PROBLEM SOLVER.

  SIENNA: THANKS.