I wait for the beep. “Jenna? It’s Vicky. Are you there? Call me, okay?” My voice breaks and I can’t talk anymore, not without crying. But not talking to Jenna is what started all this in the first place, so I blurt the rest out through my tears. “I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m so sorry. Please. I’m here. I’m . . . I hope this is your number. I’m here for you. I’m here . . .”
The call cuts off when my voice gets too soft to be heard, and I’m listening to a dial tone over my own shuddery breath. I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to figure out what to do next. There’s no time to hyperventilate or curl into a ball feeling sorry for myself. But my brain feels slow and dull. I don’t know what to do.
Then I remember how Jenna called me on our home line, that she probably has one, too. I text my mother:
Do you have Jenna’s home phone number?
She sends me a link to Jenna’s mom’s contact info without even giving me grief about texting her in the kitchen from my bedroom. I click on the home number and it rings four times and then goes to voice mail. I try to sound calm and normal but it’s not working.
“Jenna, it’s Vicky. Are you there? Please pick up. Jenna?” I start full-on crying and hold the phone away from my mouth until I can catch a breath. Then I quickly say, “Call me as soon as you get this,” and hang up.
It feels like I’m leaving messages on dandelion seeds and blowing them into the wind. They’ll never reach her. I open Instagram on my phone even though she hasn’t posted anything in weeks, but it’s the only other way I can think to find her. I pull up her jennaelizabethtanner page and leave a comment on the last photo she posted—the concert image that inspired my Foo Fighters posts.
vicurious Jenna, it’s me, V. I’m here. Please let me know you’re okay. I’m here.
I don’t spell out my name, but she knows who “V” is. And I could swear she’s justjennafied, too, so I click over to that page and leave another comment.
vicurious Is this Jenna of Wisconsin? I’m here, Jenna. It’s me, V. I just got your texts. Please call me.
It’s as close as I’ve come to identifying myself as Vicurious. Anyone who follows Jenna will know she had a friend named Vicky. But I’m counting on the fact that it’s such an old picture, it won’t pop up on anyone’s feed.
I toggle between the two posts for a while to see if she responds, but there’s nothing. It’s been over an hour now since I saw her text and I’m wasting valuable time, not finding her, not stopping her. I pace my room feeling closed-in and helpless, until I realize there’s only one thing to do. And it’s what I should’ve done first, and all along, with everything.
I walk to the kitchen. “Mom?”
My mother turns away from the computer to look at me. Her face twists into a knot. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“I need your help,” I say, the tears coming back. “You have to help me.”
Mom stands. “Of course. What is it?”
“It’s Jenna.” I explain what’s happened and show her the texts. “We haven’t spoken in weeks. I thought she dumped me for her new friends. She said I was pathetic, that she’d wasted all the years we’ve been friends. But she didn’t mean it, look. She’s been texting me all this time and I didn’t know it. You had my phone.”
My mother scrolls through the texts, her eyes wide. “Did you call her? Did you try calling?”
“I did, but she didn’t answer. What do I do?”
“Let’s try her parents.”
“I called their home number. There was no answer.”
“I’ve got their work numbers, and cell. Let me find them.” I pace the kitchen while Mom scurries around looking for numbers written in an address book, then gets her phone and dials. “It’s ringing,” she says. “Voice mail.”
She leaves a message on Mrs. Tanner’s line. All the time I’m reading and rereading Jenna’s texts. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be anywhere.
“We need to call 911,” I say when she hangs up.
“Let’s try her father first.”
She dials Jenna’s dad’s number but he doesn’t answer, either, and she leaves a slightly more frantic message.
She hangs up and we stare at each other for a moment, breathless.
“Call 911,” I say.
Mom blows out a sharp breath. “Okay. We’ll call 911.” Her hand is shaking as she dials and brings the phone to her ear.
The 911 operator answers, and Mom says, “I want to report a possible suicide in progress.”
Hearing her say that about Jenna makes all the air go out of my lungs. I press my fist to my mouth as tears roll down my cheeks. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her. Mom holds the receiver so I can hear what the operator is saying. “Do you have a location?”
“It’s in Wisconsin,” Mom says.
“She’s on a cliff,” I call out. “There’s a lake.”
The operator says she’ll connect us to the 911 service there. Mom smooths her hand down my hair and back, petting me, saying, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
“What if it’s not? What if it’s too late?” How could I have been there for everyone else, millions of total strangers, and not my best friend?
The wait is excruciating. Finally, a Wisconsin 911 operator comes on the line, and my mom explains the situation. But I can’t sit idly by.
I take the phone. I am not calm. “Her name is Jenna Tanner. I think she might try to kill herself. She’s on a cliff. It’s somewhere in Wisconsin. I think she’s going to jump.”
“Do you have an address? I’ll need a location to send an officer out.”
“There’s a lake,” I say. “It’s a cliff by a lake.”
“I’m sorry, miss. There are lots of lakes in Wisconsin. Without an address, without even a name of the lake . . .”
Mom takes the phone back. “She lives in Madison. It would probably be somewhere near Madison.”
We give them Jenna’s phone number, see if they can use GPS to locate her that way. The dispatcher says it would only work if the 911 call came in from her device. They can’t help. They can’t do anything. Mom is realizing it as I am. We lock eyes. “Try her parents again,” I say. “I have an idea.”
I leave my mom in the kitchen and race to my room with my phone. I sit down at my desk and open the cliff photo Jenna texted to me in Instagram. Vicurious will not be making an appearance in this scene, but it’s the most important one I’ll ever post. It may very likely be the last one I ever post, because if Jenna . . .
No. I can’t think that. She wouldn’t. She can’t.
I quickly write a message to attach to the photo:
SOS. I need your help! My best friend is in trouble. Her name is Jenna. If you’re in Wisconsin, please help me find her. Do you know this cliff? Please, go there. Tell her I love her. Tell her—
I stop typing. What I’m about to do will change everything. I’ll lose Vicurious for good. I may lose myself. But I can’t lose Jenna.
Tell her that VICKY DECKER LOVES HER.
I click send and watch and wait. The image fills my screen. The photo starts getting likes, and I shout at the screen, “I don’t want your likes! I want your help!”
Mom hurries into my room. “I left messages again, and I called Jeanette’s office. I told her secretary, but she’s traveling. They’re not answering. I’m trying to think if there’s anyone else we can call.”
“Tristan,” I say.
“The boy who . . .” Mom grimaces.
“He might know where she is.”
“Yes, yes.” My mother nods. “It’s worth a try. Do you know his number?”
“No, but I can try messaging him on Instagram.” I pick up my phone and swipe and tap until I’m on Jenna’s page, on the photo she posted weeks ago of her and Tristan. She tagged him. I click through to his page and start writing a comment on his last post.
I’m looking for Jenna. She’s in trouble. Is there a cliff over a lake near you? She might be the
re. Can you—
“Vicky.” My mom taps me on the shoulder. She’s looking over my shoulder at the computer, at Vicurious—the little circular profile image of a girl with purple-and-orange hair. She points to the screen.
“I’ll explain later,” I say.
“No, look,” she says. “They’re answering.”
I turn to the monitor. Vicurious fans from Wisconsin are chiming in.
sasharocksscotland I know that place. It’s Devil’s Rock.
jesseethehiker Devil’s Lake State Park
badasschristinio Anyone at Devil’s Rock today?
I turn to my mother, who is still staring slack-jawed at the screen. She’s trying to puzzle out what I’m doing on Vicurious’s Instagram.
“Mom,” I say. “Can you call 911 back? Tell them it’s Devil’s Rock.”
She nods and hurries back to the kitchen to get her phone. I can hear her making the call, repeating all the information. But now with a location. She’s pacing the hall outside my room.
I watch my feed. More Wisconsin followers chime in. They recognize Devil’s Rock. They’ve been there before, but nobody’s there right now. Until:
staceyfromindiana My brother’s at Devil’s Rock today, I’ll try to reach him.
I drill my eyes to the screen, willing it to give me the message I want to see, but it’s taking forever and my feed is so cluttered with everyone else leaving comments, I’m afraid I’ll miss it. So I comment to her directly:
vicurious Any news, @staceyfromindiana? Did you reach him?
staceyfromindiana I can’t get through. I forgot there’s no cell reception up there.
The sound that comes out of my throat then is half scream, half groan, and my mother comes running. “What happened?”
I can’t speak now; I point to the screen and she reads. Her phone is still pressed to her ear. “They’re sending emergency responders. They’ll be there soon. I’m supposed to stay on the line until they find her.”
We both stare at the computer for what feels like hours. Mom occasionally says into the phone, “Yes, I’m still here” or “No, we haven’t heard anything more.” She nods and says, “Okay, thank you” a couple of times.
“It’ll take them a while to get up the trail,” she says to me softly.
I want to curl up on my bed until Jenna is found, but I keep watching my Instagram feed. It’s cluttered with people asking if we’ve found her, if she’s okay, if my name is really Vicky Decker. Someone even writes, “Vicky Decker from Richardson HS?”
I knew this was coming, but I didn’t think it would happen so fast. I want to disappear, but I can’t look away until there’s news of Jenna, or the emergency workers find her. I keep scrolling, reading, crying.
Finally, someone writes:
hikerdude22 My friend is up there today. He borrowed my satellite phone. I’ll see if I can reach him.
“Yes. Yes. Please,” I whisper. Mom rushes to my side to see what’s going on. She talks into the phone. “Someone’s trying to reach a hiker up there with a satellite phone . . . yes . . . I’ll let you know . . .”
We both wait and watch. Then:
hikerdude22 He’s on his way down. Just passed a girl going up there so he’s turning around to see if it’s your friend.
I start typing frantically.
vicurious Her name is Jenna. She has long brown hair.
I try to write something else to describe her, but my brain is frozen and all I can think of are things like “she can’t tie her shoes.” Every single other memory of Jenna and our friendship and how important she is to me is knotted up in my chest and I can’t seem to let any of it out or I’ll shatter into a million pieces. All I can manage to write is:
vicurious @hikerdude22 Ask him to tell her I’m sorry.
vicurious @hikerdude22 That she’s my best friend forever.
The minutes tick by like hours. What if he’s too late? What if she jumps? What if she’s not even the girl he passed on the trail?
I start crying again, face in my hands, because I can’t stop imagining the worst. Jenna, out there by herself, standing on the edge of a cliff. Thinking she’s alone, that I don’t care about her anymore, that taking one step toward the horizon—into nothingness—will make it all better.
It won’t make it better, Jenna. It will only take away the chance to make it right. We’ll never get to see each other again. I’ll never have a chance to say I’m sorry.
“Don’t take that away, Jenna, please,” I mumble into my hands. “You’re the only one who knows the real me. You’re the only one.”
Mom rubs my back. She keeps saying, “They’ll find her. Everything will be okay.” And then she’s talking to the 911 operator again. “Yes, I’m still here . . . No, we haven’t heard anything more . . . I’m not going anywhere.”
Then this happens:
hikerdude22 He’s got her. Showed her your message. She’s crying, but she’s safe.
My mother starts sobbing and smiling behind me. She says into the phone, “Someone’s reached her. A hiker.”
The 911 operator tells my mom to stay on the line. They’ve got responders heading up the trail.
I put my shaking hands to the keyboard and type:
vicurious Thank you, @hikerdude22. Please thank your friend, and tell Jenna I can’t wait to talk to her, to call me as soon as she can.
hikerdude22 He’s walking her down now.
I want to write more, but all I can do is stare at the screen. She’s safe. But is she okay?
My mother is talking to the 911 operator again. “They’ve reached her? Okay. Yes . . . I appreciate it. Thank you. Yes . . . Thank you.” She hangs up the phone and hugs me. “They said they’d take her to the hospital for evaluation and keep her until one of her parents shows up,” she says. “I should call her parents back. They’ll be in a panic when they get those messages.”
She sits on the edge of my bed to make the calls, and I listen to her for a minute before turning back to my computer. I write down the names of all the followers who helped me find Jenna, so I can thank them, then I erase the Devil’s Rock post. I only used her first name, but I don’t want to draw any more unwanted attention. Part of me was hoping I could slip quietly back into anonymity. But it’s too late.
In the hour or so that post was up, tens of thousands of people saw it. Some of them reposted it, maybe trying to help and maybe to be among the first to reveal my identity. It’s probably on Facebook and Twitter and who knows where else.
Ready or not, I am out.
My mother finishes leaving a third set of messages for Jenna’s parents, then comes to stand behind me, hands on my shoulders.
“You want to tell me about . . .” She gestures toward the screen.
“That’s my Instagram. I’m Vicurious.”
“Yes, I see that now. But when . . .”
I turn and start explaining it to her. How I took the pictures, Photoshopped the images. She nods. She looks from my face to Vicurious’s and back again. “It’s you,” she says. “And that time—”
She’s remembering when I answered my bedroom door wearing the outfit. “How did I not realize it was you?”
“Nobody knew it was me,” I say.
“You have two million followers, Vicky. More than two million.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“I know.” She nods, scrolling through the feed. “I can see that. I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier.”
“It’s okay.”
She walks to my door, stands there for a moment. “I’m proud of you, Vicky. What you’re doing with Vicurious, what you did for Jenna. It’s courageous.”
I try to smile at her. “Then why am I so scared?”
She laughs. “Never confuse courage with fearlessness. When you face your fears to do what’s right, that’s courage.”
“But I started Vicurious to hide from my fears. I made her do all the stuff I’m afraid to do. She’s a total fiction. How is that co
urageous?”
“Don’t fool yourself, sweetie. Maybe you didn’t fly to outer space or ride a hippogriff, but the important stuff on there?” She points to my computer, to the Instagram image on the screen. “You did that. You should be proud of yourself.”
I flop onto my bed. “I just want it to all go away.”
“Do you really?”
I hug my pillow, thinking of the followers who are counting on me, the ones who went into a panic when I didn’t post for a week. “I guess not,” I say. “But everyone’s going to know who I am now. They’ll be pointing and staring and laughing. It’s like my entire Terror List realized.”
“Your what?”
“Nothing, just . . . everything I’m afraid of at once.”
“We’ll get you through it, your father and I, and Jenna. Lipton, too,” she says. “And we’ll get you in to see that counselor. Okay?”
I squeeze my pillow tighter. “I kind of ruined things with Lipton today.”
She smiles. “Can you un-ruin them?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
She leaves, closing my door behind her. I grab my phone and pull up Lipton’s texts. I try to put into words how sorry I am, but I keep writing and erasing. Then a “. . .” appears on his side of the screen. And it turns into:
Are you there?
Yes.
Can we talk?
. . .
Please.
Okay.
I stare at my phone, waiting for Lipton’s call to come through. But the ring I hear a few seconds later is the doorbell. And then my mom’s calling me from the living room. I open my door and look down the hall and there he is. Lipton. He’s standing right there, in my house.
I don’t walk to him. I run. I crash into his arms. And he holds me and I don’t deserve him at all but I’m so glad he’s here.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble into his neck. “My brain is an asshole.”
He laughs, and my mother makes a tutting sound. I glare at her over Lipton’s shoulder.
“I’ll just be in the other room,” she says, walking backward toward the kitchen.
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