True to Your Selfie

by Megan Mccafferty

  Mom never leaves for work without waking me up first. I’m usually an early riser, but I haven’t been sleeping so well since Lauren left. I pretended to be out cold when Mom checked in on me after she got home from class last night. It seemed easier than telling her I hadn’t found my phone.

  I stayed up late practicing all the new covers Morgan wants to record next, half of which aren’t obvious ukulele songs and don’t even have tabs for me to learn from. But I don’t mind, because it’s actually more fun when I have to figure out for myself how to turn dubstep bleep-blorping into plucking. I didn’t even mute the strings, because Mom grew up in Brooklyn and can sleep through car alarms, trash compactors, and police sirens. But if I ever tried to sneak out in the middle of the night, you can bet she’d already be at the front door blocking my exit. She’s got selective hearing in that hyper-protective Mom kind of way.

  “Any luck finding your phone?” she asks.

  I can’t pretend to be asleep, so I shrug instead. Mom doesn’t conceal her disappointment.

  “I hate to bother Izzy,” she says, “but I’ll have to text her if I can’t reach you.”

  I pick up the first box of cereal, pour it into my bowl.

  “I don’t think Izzy will mind,” I say. “She likes me.”

  I pick up a second box of cereal, pour it into my bowl.

  “I’m sure she likes you. But it’s not her job to be in charge of you too …”

  Mom’s voice trails off. Izzy has pretty much been in charge of me all summer. Hanging out with Morgan was far cheaper than any summer camp I didn’t want to go to anyway. With only a few days left until school starts, it’s a little too late for Mom to regret this arrangement.

  “So,” Mom says, stirring a spoon around her mug, “what are you and Morgan up to today? The pool?”

  “No,” I reply. “Izzy is taking us for mani-pedis.”

  Mom stops stirring, frowns.

  “I’m not asking you for money! Morgan likes treating me …”

  “I know,” Mom says. “Morgan is very generous, but …”

  “But what?” I ask.

  “It makes me uncomfortable,” she says simply.

  I understand what she means. I still get freaked out when I think about how wealthy Morgan’s family is. I’m pretty sure our entire two-bedroom apartment could fit inside the Middletons’ six-car garage. I almost died of embarrassment the first time Morgan showed up here unannounced. She totally picked up on my mortification and immediately put me at ease.

  “If my parents didn’t want me to be friends with girls like you who live in apartments like this, they’d put me in Ivy Academy or some other snobby private school,” she said. “Now show me that ukulele!”

  My chosen instrument had Morgan’s full approval. She called it “quirky cute.”

  “It totally fits your Goofball Goddess aesthetic,” Morgan decided.

  “I have an … aesthetic?”

  I made sure to pronounce it the same way she did. It was one of those words I’d seen on the socials but never heard out loud. I had never considered developing an aesthetic until Morgan made it seem as necessary as oxygen for survival.

  “Of course you have an aesthetic! We both do!” Morgan laughed. “You’re the Goofball Goddess, and I’m the Girlboss Goddess. We can’t get famous without an aesthetic!”

  “We’re going to be famous?”

  “Of course we’re going to be famous!” Morgan wasn’t laughing anymore. “Think of this as the pre-famous phase of our lives.”

  Most moms would be thrilled if their daughter was in with Mercer Middle School’s biggest influencer. But my mom is not most moms. She thinks Morgan is too superficial and too obsessed with the socials. Worst of all, she thinks Morgan has an unrealistic view of the world and my role in it.

  I defend our friendship for the millionbilliontrillionth time.

  “If I had money, I’d treat her,” I reply. “That’s what friends do.”

  “But you don’t,” Mom says, looking into her mug. “And you can’t.”

  I have nothing positive to say about this, so I shovel in a huge mouthful of “Compromise” instead of talking. That’s what Lauren calls the fifty-fifty bland nutritious/sugary delicious cereal combo I eat for breakfast every day. Today it’s whole grain Shredded Wheat and Apple Jacks.

  Mom throws back the rest of the coffee and stands. She’s rinsing out her mug in the sink when she snaps her fingers like she’s suddenly just remembered something.

  “Guess who I saw yesterday on my drive home from the hospital!” She doesn’t wait for me to guess. “Sophie!”

  I poke a spoon around the bowl of Compromise. The soy milk is turning a peachy color not all that different from Mom’s scrubs or matching Sherbet Surprise lip gloss. Soy milk costs twice as much as regular milk, so I try to pour just enough to cover Compromise and no more.

  “She was coming out of the hardware store dragging a trash can filled with gardening supplies.”

  The hardware store? Of course that’s where Sophie goes for all her back-to-school shopping.

  “How did she spend her summer?” Mom asks.

  I shrug again.

  “You haven’t seen her at the pool?”

  “Nope.”

  That’s mostly true. Sophie made one appearance early in the season.

  She and I used to race each other to be the first to jump in the deep end. So when I dared her to cannonball, she didn’t hesitate. Even after everything that had happened between us in sixth grade, she still believed me when I said I’d take the plunge too. But I stopped short of the edge and watched her hit the water all by herself. She came up for air to the sound of Morgan’s laughter. She says public pools are like “human soup.” Gross. Anyone who swims in them is gross by association. Unless you’re a cute boy like the Mystery Hottie. Then it’s okay. Cute boys like the Mystery Hottie can break all the rules.

  “I come here for the social scene,” Morgan reminded us whenever Maddy complained about the heat. “If I wanted to swim, I’d just stay home.”

  So that explained why Morgan loved hanging out at the pool but never in it.

  And also why Sophie didn’t show up again for the rest of the summer.

  “Sophie’s a good girl,” Mom says. “She’s got her head on straight.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say.

  “She’s a good friend for you,” Mom says. “Lauren thinks so too.”

  And Lauren’s always right.

  “Maybe you and Morgan can record one of your videos with her?”

  I laugh out loud, spraying soy milk and half-chewed cereal all over my place mat.

  “That’s not happening, Mom.”

  “Why not?” Mom hands me a paper towel to clean up the mess I was ready to sop up with my sleeve. “You two always blended so well.”

  Before Morgan & Ella there was Ella and Sophie. Two girls who were best friends. We also sang together, but it wasn’t for fame and fortune and followers. We weren’t motivated by international stardom. We sang together because between kindergarten and sixth grade we did everything together.

  “I miss seeing Sophie around here,” Mom says.

  We haven’t hung out in almost a year, and yet I still hear Sophie’s voice more clearly than my own.

  Don’t you miss me too? she asks.

  I’m not even hungry, but I choke down more Compromise. Anything to stop myself from shouting SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! at Mom, Lauren, and The Best Friend in My Head.

  I should’ve known that a random strip mall mani-pedi place was not Morgan Middleton’s style. Namaste Day Spa, as Morgan mentioned, then reminded me at least three times on the half-hour drive, was featured in Vogue as “New Jersey’s number one Members-only destination for mind-body rejuvenation.”

  It’s already working on Morgan. She’s high-key loving every second of this majorly postable afternoon. She’s already shared pics of Morgan & Ella:

  1.Striking “om” poses

 
2.Strutting runway style in our bathrobes

  3.Admiring each other’s towel turbans

  4.Making monster faces while wearing green tea detoxifying masks

  clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

  The little girls at the pool—our fans—are totally into it. Morgan & Ella’s socials are all lit up with loves that I can’t see because I still don’t have my phone. Morgan isn’t even annoyed about doing all the work because she’s way better at the socials than I am anyway.

  “This is the best practice for spon con.” Morgan slips her phone into the front pocket of her robe. “It won’t be long until they’re paying us to get treatments!”

  She leans back in her lounge chair, sighs, and closes her eyes. Business done, Morgan is totally blissing out.

  I’m totally stressing out.

  For one thing, our private sanctuary is decorated like, I don’t know? A rain forest? And there are definitely too many tropical plants near too many lit candles.

  This place is a fire trap, warns The Best Friend in My Head.

  And as much as I want to disagree with her, I make note of the exits.

  “I’m Patty. Your personal aesthetician for the afternoon.”

  Patty’s bun is pulled so tight it tugs her skin taut across her cheekbones. I can’t tell if she’s twenty or forty.

  “Aesthetician.” I pronounce it carefully to get it right. “As in aesthetics.”

  Patty smiles blankly.

  “I’m Ella,” I say.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ella,” Patty says. “We always welcome guests of Miss Middleton.”

  “She’s never been to a spa before,” Morgan says as one of her PAs puts cucumber slices on her eyes.

  Morgan doesn’t know the full truth: I’ve never had a real manicure, not even from a cheapo nail salon, let alone a luxury Members-only day spa featured in Vogue.

  “Let’s see what I’m working with here.”

  Patty glances at my hands and frowns.

  “So uneven.”

  She’s just stating the truth. The nails on my right hand are noticeably longer than on my left.

  “Unnnnh.”

  Her disapproval sounds like a loogie lodged in the back of her throat. She’d be much happier with Morgan, who has a total of three personal aestheticians literally waiting on her hand and foot. None of these young women bear any resemblance to Mom, but I’m reminded of her anyway. Their matching Namaste uniforms—loose-fitting, bright orange-and-pink batik-print cotton tops and drawstring pants—aren’t all that different from the scrubs she wears to work.

  “Unnnnnnnnh.”

  Now Patty is grimacing at the thick calluses on my left hand, the one I use to press the strings down on the frets.

  Patty’s fretting, jokes The Best Friend in My Head, over fretting.

  The Best Friend in My Head never cares if I am in the right mood to appreciate puns. But she’s right. Morgan’s PAs all smile peacefully as they massage something called coconut basil balm butter onto her hands and feet. But Patty shoves my hands into the soapy water like they’re a crusty burnt casserole dish that needs scrubbing.

  “Soak to soften!”

  I pull them out.

  Patty pushes them back in.

  I pull them back out.

  “Miss Middleton! Why is your guest fighting me?”

  I can’t help but notice Patty’s emphasis on the word “guest.” Morgan is a capital M Member. I am a lowercase guest.

  Morgan groans, sits up, and removes the slices of cucumber from her eyes.

  “What now?”

  “It’s just …” I begin.

  “It’s just what, Ella?” Morgan says. “This spa was featured in Vogue. What could be wrong?”

  “It’s …”

  “Do you know how badly Maddy wanted to be my plus-one?” Morgan asks. “Like, really bad.”

  I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I realize that bringing me here is a big deal. But when I agreed to a manicure, I didn’t expect all this. I thought I’d get a tiny trim, a little shaping, and a few coats of the strongest polish that met Morgan’s standards for on-cam cuteness. I didn’t know the manicurist—I mean, my personal aesthetician—would set out to destroy what I’d worked so hard to build up over hundreds, no thousands of hours of practice.

  Everyone in the sanctuary is looking at me, waiting for me to explain myself.

  “I need these calluses,” I say. “To play.”

  Patty suddenly shows a slight interest in me.

  “Violin?”

  “Ukulele.”

  This is the wrong answer.

  “Baby guitar.” Patty sniffs dismissively. “Not a real instrument.”

  The first month or two of playing ukulele was so so so painful. The strings felt like blades on my tender fingertips. It takes practice, persistence, and patience to improve, three qualities Mom and Lauren say I have in short supply. But even they were impressed when I pushed through the pain to get better. Players have to put up with blistering and bleeding, which is pretty punk rock, right? So it’s always annoying when haters like Patty don’t give the ukulele any respect.

  I’m shocked when Morgan rises to my defense. I thought she might be too annoyed with me to make the effort.

  “Actually, Patty,” says Morgan. “Ukulele is the fifth most popular music category across all social media platforms. It’s not too popular, like lip synchs, or not popular enough, like beatboxing. It’s the perfect amount of popular.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say.

  “I know these things so you don’t have to,” Morgan says.

  It’s more accurate to say Maddy researches these things so Morgan doesn’t have to. And it sounds like Morgan asked Maddy to really look into these other categories. Like, how close had Morgan come to choosing Harumi? Everyone knows she’s the best beatboxer in our grade. Boys included. Would Harumi be here instead of me if it had ranked just a little higher on the list? Would Harumi be having a better time than I am right now?

  “I can’t do the manicure without soaking,” Patty says.

  “I can’t play ukulele without calluses,” I say.

  “Ummm,” Morgan says. “This is a problem.”

  “No!” insists the PA massaging her feet. “There are no problems at Namaste. Only bliss. We’ll consult our hand specialist.”

  “That’s not necessary!” I protest as all four PAs exit.

  “Let them,” Morgan insists. “This is why Namaste is the best.”

  “But a hand specialist? This isn’t major surgery! It’s just a stupid manicure that’s already caused more trouble than it’s worth, because I don’t even need it!”

  Morgan leans forward in her chair to make a very important point.

  “Manicures are not stupid,” she says, “and you need one.”

  The PAs reenter the room with a new fifth member taking the lead. The woman in front introduces herself.

  “I’m Amy,” she says, “the hand specialist.”

  Amy is definitely older than the other PAs. She’s got lines around her eyes and mouth, but her hands are flawless. When she takes mine in hers it’s like being cradled by a baby bunny wrapped in cashmere spun from cumulus clouds, which are the puffiest kind. I don’t have Morgan’s recall when it comes to, like, percents and stuff, but that’s one of the few facts from third-grade science I’ve actually managed not to forget.

  The point is, if Amy is not a hand expert, there are no hand experts.

  “You know the international pop superstar Riley Quick?” Amy asks.

  “What a question!” Morgan laughs. “She’s only the most followed person on the internet!”

  Riley Quick is also the reason I started playing ukulele. Her solo on “Red Lips, Black Heart” was 100 percent responsible for the sudden surge in ukulele playing among eight-to-eighteen-year-old girls. That’s why my mom bought the absolute cheapest one she could find for my tenth birthday, a second-hand soprano for less than ten dollars o
n eBay, shipping included. She thought my interest in the instrument was just another one of my phases. And maybe it would’ve been, too, if I hadn’t been surprised to discover that I could actually produce a pretty good sound out of a cheap piece of plastic. I picked up the chords and strumming patterns just by watching YouTube tutorials—no private lessons necessary.

  So I have no idea what Riley Quick has to do with my calluses until Amy whispers something I obviously mishear because there’s no way she said what she just said.

  “What?”

  And Amy smiles serenely and repeats what she said the first time.

  “I do her nails.”

  That’s what I thought she said. And before Morgan can tell her to prove it, Amy holds up her phone to show off a photo of herself being hugged by one of the most famous pop stars in the entire universe.

  “OMIGODDESS! OMIGODDESS! OMIGODDESS!”

  I sure hope this room is soundproof. Otherwise, I’ve totally trashed the Zen vibe for everyone within a mile of these four walls.

  Fortunately, I’m not the only one losing my mind. Amy tries to explain that before Riley Quick became one of the most famous pop stars in the entire universe, Riley Quick was just a normal girl growing up in Pebble Harbor, New Jersey, and Riley Quick would tag along with Mama Quick when she got her nails done by Amy at this total nothing of a strip mall salon, and I guess Riley and Mama Quick helped Amy get the job at Namaste, and Riley and Mama Quick request her services whenever Riley Quick returns to New Jersey, but really, most of the details of the story are getting totally lost because Morgan and I are too busy freaking out.

  “OMIGODDESS!” Morgan shouts.

  “OMIGODDESS!” I shout.

  “OMIGODDESS!” we shout.

  It’s all we can say. It takes a lot to impress Morgan, but meeting Riley Quick’s hand specialist is one of those things. Morgan has leapt from her chair, and we are literally jumping up and down with joy. She knows how much Riley Quick means to me, and she made this happen. In this moment, I can forget all the awkwardness leading up to right now. I’m grateful to be Morgan Middleton’s plus-one. I would never, ever be in this position to get a manicure from Riley Quick’s personal aesthetician if it weren’t for her.