True to Your Selfie

by Megan Mccafferty

  UR PERFECT TAG MEEEEEEEE

  SO JELLY I LOVE YOU PLEEEEASE TAG

  GIRLBOSSNESS GOOFBALLNESS GORGEOUSNESS TAG TAG TAG

  I say “apparently” because I only see what Morgan and Maddy show me. Otherwise, I’d be totally oblivious to our “popularity.” Our Fotobomb profile may be exploding, but I haven’t really met anyone new at Mercer besides Paisley, who, honestly, I don’t know much about other than her commitment to the Morgan & Ella fandom. Let’s see. She rrrrrrrreally rrrrrrrrolls herrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrs in Spanish class.

  “Obvs, Morgan is your BFF,” Paisley said on the second day of school, “but I can fill in for her when she’s not around!”

  So I let her. She sits next to me in class and partners up with me on projects and deals with all the jealous girls who could’ve been in her position if they were first to post a selfie with me.

  “When are you getting a new phone?” Morgan asks now.

  She’s still standing above me but gazing at the distant clouds in a way that is supposed to look like she’s thinking deep thoughts.

  “I told you,” I say. “My mom won’t get me a new phone. She thinks I need to learn to be more responsible …”

  Morgan pouts.

  “You know what’s irresponsible? Leaving me to make up for your nonexistent social media presence …”

  To be honest, I think this arrangement is working out pretty well for both of us. Morgan can have total control over our brand, and I can pretend everyone loves it. I know it isn’t true because, you know, haters gonna hate. But they rarely—if ever—hate right to your face. This is why Morgan’s daily Fotobomb attacks on Sophie are so … so …

  What’s the right word to complete that sentence?

  A) Bold

  B) Brazen

  C) Bullying

  D) All of the Above

  I’m about to remind Morgan how much better she is at Fotobombing than I am when I start wibble-wobbling off the side of the railing. Fortunately the fall happens in sloooooow motion so it’s like a very low-impact, butt-first crash to the bottom bleacher.

  “OOF.”

  No major injuries, but I wince in anticipation of the roasting I deserve for messing up the, um, plandid.

  But Morgan isn’t mad. She and Maddy are cracking up.

  “Did you get all that, Maddy?”

  “Of course! Hashtag Outtakes! Hashtag Bloopers!”

  Morgan fist-bumps Maddy, then me. “Classic Goofball Goddess!”

  “Whaaaat?” I’m so confused. “You wanted me to fall off the railing?”

  “Totally!”

  I peer down at the drop to the mud if I’d toppled over the opposite side of the railing. It’s less than a few feet to fall, but still.

  “What if I’d gotten really hurt?”

  “You didn’t get hurt,” Morgan says, picking up her gym bag.

  “But what if I did?”

  “The OMGs would be devastated,” Maddy answers. “Hashtag Pray for Ella.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted me to fall off the railing?”

  Morgan’s phone buzzes.

  “That’s Hailey, I gotta go. We got what we needed, and that’s why you’re the best Goofball ever!”

  Morgan gives me a hug and hops off the bleachers.

  “Don’t forget the Must-Dos!”

  I never forget the Must-Dos.

  Morgan blows us kisses then dashes across the field to meet up with her soccer friends.

  “Morgan’s superior time management is what makes her such a Girlboss,” Maddy says.

  I guess my inferior sense of balance is what makes me such a Goofball?

  I rub my butt, wondering how bad the bruise will be.

  “We couldn’t tell you what we wanted,” Maddy explains, “or it wouldn’t look spontaneous.”

  “So you set me up to fall.”

  “Exactly!” Maddy says, folding up her travel tripod. “Set-up spontaneity!”

  Set-up spontaneity is another example of that word I can’t remember …

  An oxymoron, says The Best Friend in My Head.

  The Best Friend in My Head. Ha. That’s an oxymoron too.

  The OMGs are loving the clip of me falling off the railing.

  YOU ARE HILAR

  SO GORGE

  ADORBS

  But Morgan is the opposite of happy when I meet up with her before homeroom this morning.

  “Are you buying fans?”

  This isn’t the greeting I expected.

  “What?”

  “Are you,” she says slowly, “buying fans on Fotobomb?”

  I’m thinking this is a setup for another joke that plays off my Goofball Goddessness. But Maddy isn’t recording this conversation, which means this is one of those rare moments meant for real life only.

  “Are you serious?”

  Her eyes are icy, but her cheeks are ablaze.

  “Do I look like I’m not serious?”

  Morgan’s most intimidating when she runs hot and cold at the same time. I’ve witnessed this stormy mood many times before—when Maddy inserted herself in a selfie or Izzy picked us up ten minutes late or the Frootie Smoothie barista misspelled her name (MORGON) on a takeaway cup—but never for something I did. Not even when I lost my phone.

  “You are totally in charge of Fotobomb,” I remind her.

  “That’s why it’s so weird,” she says. “You’re getting all these new followers.”

  “We’re getting new followers …”

  “But you are getting more,” Morgan says.

  “What? Fotobomb doesn’t keep track of our individual followers.”

  “It’s a new feature,” Maddy explains from over Morgan’s shoulder.

  Morgan thrusts her phone in my face. It’s open to the Morgan & Ella Fotobomb page. In addition to our numbers as a duo (15,002—whoa!), there are tallies under each of our names.

  Morgan has 10,006.

  I have 10,226.

  How is it possible for me to have two hundred more followers than Morgan? I don’t blame Morgan for suspecting something shady. I wouldn’t believe it myself if the numbers weren’t right in front of me.

  “Morgan, how can I buy fans? I don’t even have a phone! And I wouldn’t know how to go about it even if I did!”

  “It is a pretty complicated process,” says Maddy. “And expensive too.”

  “That’s true,” Morgan sniffs. “You don’t have enough money to buy any bots.”

  What she’s saying is true. I can’t afford to buy fake followers. And while I appreciate being cleared of the accusation, that truth isn’t any less hurtful to hear.

  “Clearly the algorithm is off,” Maddy says. “The programmers will correct it soon, I’m sure.”

  I have no idea what Maddy is talking about, but I nod vigorously as if I do.

  “We’re supposed to be equals, Ella,” Morgan says. “And this imbalance just makes us look bad as a brand.” She turns on her heel and heads to her classroom without another word. Maddy hangs back just long enough to whisper an ominous warning.

  “Do. Not. Get. More. Popular. Than. Morgan.”

  The rest of the day doesn’t get much better.

  I don’t like talking about classes for obvious reasons. The only subject I have any success in is social studies, and that’s because we’re starting with a unit on geography. I’m able to identify a few continents and countries because I recognize them from the Secret Map underneath my mattress.

  I get my math test back, and it’s no surprise that I’ve bombed it. Okay, I didn’t fail it, but I didn’t ace it either. And with perfectionist friends like Morgan and Maddy and a genius sister like Lauren, a C might as well be an F. My math teacher requires parental signatures on all tests, and for the rest of the day I’m dreading showing it to Mom because she’s really, really hoping this will be the year I’ll get it together grade-wise.

  It’s not happening.

  So I’m totally distracted during our afternoon shoot
. And Morgan gets mad at me because I keep messing up the choreography she gave me five minutes to learn. After a few flubbed takes that aren’t funny enough in a Goofball Goddess kind of way, she cuts it short.

  “Go home, Ella,” Morgan says. “You’re a disaster.”

  By the time I get to the apartment, I’m totally drained and not in the mood for the lecture I’ll get for the math test. If I catch Mom right before she leaves for class, maybe she won’t have time to deliver it.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say as she’s reaching for the doorknob. “By the way …”

  She frowns when she sees the test in one hand and a pen in the other.

  “Let me guess,” she says. “You need a signature on something you don’t want me to see.”

  She knows what’s up. My mom is so much smarter than I give her credit for.

  Than many people give her credit for.

  “I can’t say I’m thrilled about this,” Mom says, tapping the red Xes for every incorrect answer. “A C isn’t the end of the world, but I think you’ll agree it isn’t the best start of the school year either.”

  I nod.

  “If I accept a C in September,” Mom says, “you’ll be failing in June.”

  I nod.

  “You need to get your priorities in order,” she continues. “Stop spending so much time on those silly videos and more time on your schoolwork.”

  I nod.

  “Until your grades improve, I want you to come straight home every day after school and do your homework.”

  This punishment should feel like the end of the world.

  But it doesn’t.

  To be honest, I’m kind of worn out by all the demands of being half a brand. Morgan says I have no reason to complain since she’s handling all the socials and playing travel soccer and horseback riding and taking dance classes. And I’m grateful for Paisley and all the other OMGs who, for whatever reason, really, really like us and want more. But I need a little break from being the Goofball Goddess. I kind of understand why Gigi from Fourth Dimension had that epic meltdown after the Grammys.

  “Okay,” I say. “Fine.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows.

  “That’s it?” she says. “No protests? No pleading?”

  “Nope,” I say. “You’re right. I need to take my work more seriously.”

  She studies me for a moment. Lauren says that when Mom looks at us like that, she’s seeing all the way down to our souls.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” Mom says, “I’d think you were happy about this punishment.”

  It’s really impossible to get anything past Mom.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  One person who will definitely not be happy about my punishment is Morgan. And I guess I’m nervous about telling her because I need to pee really, really bad even though I never pee at this time of day. I can’t remember the last time I actually used a school bathroom to, you know, go to the bathroom. Even Lauren is impressed by my bladder—on a normal day I can hold in for like, eight hours, no problem.

  But today is not that day.

  So I’m in the stall, doing my business, when I hear the door open. Two girls enter in midconversation. I automatically lift my feet so they can’t see I’m inside. I know everyone pees but it’s, like, still embarrassing.

  “I’m just glad Sophie doesn’t have a phone,” one girl is saying.

  “And doesn’t see all the horrible stuff posted about her,” another girl is saying.

  I recognize the voices as Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f. And this already-awkward situation has just gotten worse.

  “She can’t stop it?” Harumi asks.

  “Morgan is unstoppable,” Sofie-with-an-f says.

  “She’s too afraid,” Harumi says.

  “And I kind of can’t blame her,” Sofie-with-an-f says. “Isn’t that why we aren’t doing anything about it?”

  “If we stand up for Sophie,” Harumi says, “we’ll be Chewy and Lickity Lick all over again.”

  They aren’t wrong. Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f both caught Morgan’s snarky attention in the past. For all of fifth grade, Harumi was called “Chewy” because she has a habit of biting the ends of her hair. And Sofie-with-an-f was better known as “Lickity Lick” for the slurpy way she runs her tongue over her braces after meals. Fortunately for them, this was before Fotobomb. Sophie hasn’t been so lucky.

  “How can you be best friends with someone you’re afraid of?” Harumi asks.

  “That’s why Morgan picked Ella to be her best friend,” Sofie-with-an-f says. “She knows Ella will never call out her bad behavior.”

  I almost fall into the toilet.

  The “she” they’re referring to—She can’t stop it? She’s too afraid—isn’t Sophie.

  It’s me.

  “Ella’s too nice to be best friends with Morgan,” Harumi says.

  My heart lifts a little. They don’t think I’m a terrible person after all.

  “That’s what I used to think,” Sofie-with-an-f says. “But Ella isn’t nice. She’s just, like, blank.”

  I sag, slipping dangerously low in the bowl.

  “Totally blank!” Harumi says with a cackle. “There’s nothing there!”

  And the door opens again, and their voices are swallowed up by the hallway noise.

  I’m all wobbly when I stand up.

  Blank.

  Totally blank.

  Nothing there.

  I’d still be paralyzed by those words if not for the alarming drip drip drip of liquid running down my back because—EWWWWWWWW—my brand-new Must-Do shirt is saturated with toilet water.

  I have just enough time to soap, rinse, and dry my top before Morgan sweeps into the bathroom for my daily twirl. Maddy, as always, is following right behind.

  “Omigoddess! So cute today!”

  I’m dizzy with relief. Morgan has no idea that just a few minutes ago, I was washing pee water out of the navy-and-white-striped boatneck top she selected for me today. All she sees is that I’ve followed her Must-Dos down to the last eyelash. My makeup is “subtle sunkiss.” I’ve got a single braid woven into my ponytail, and I’m wearing that top along with the distressed cropped jeans and slip-ons she also gave me.

  “Seriously!” Morgan squeezes next to me for a selfie. “Perfection!”

  I wish Sofie-with-an-f and Harumi were here to witness this.

  See? I’d say. There is something here. I’m not totally blank. I’m perfection …

  “Omigoddess! Wait until you see the throwback looks I’ve put together for today’s shoot …”

  Oh no. I’ve gotten so caught up in Morgan’s praise that I’ve forgotten all about being grounded. This morning has already been stressful and we haven’t even gotten to homeroom yet. If I get the disastrous news out of the way, maybe I can bounce back and make the rest of the day a little less terrible than it already is. I decide to come right out with it.

  “I’m grounded.”

  Morgan shivers. Maddy does too, like the shock is contagious.

  “Grounded???” Morgan’s tone is more like an accusation than a question.

  “Grounded,” I repeat. “I have to come home straight after school every day.”

  Morgan huffs. “But we’re recording our throwback video this afternoon!”

  “I know.”

  I spent three hours teaching myself a Spice Girls medley on the uke. Not to mention all the harmonies.

  “How long are you grounded?” Maddy asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t negotiate an end date?” Morgan is stunned. “If you can’t argue your mother out of grounding, the very least you can do is negotiate the terms of your punishment!”

  This is a perfectly logical tactic for the daughter of a lawyer. But my mom has no time for back talk.

  “We’ll just have to produce more content on the weekends,” I suggest.

  “Do you have any idea how booked I am on the week
ends? I have obligations, you know. Commitments.”

  Morgan exhales deeply.

  Maddy nods emphatically.

  I watch nervously.

  “But our brand is a priority,” Morgan says. “So I’ll have Izzy move some things around if that’s what it takes …”

  And this is my cue to throw my arms around her in gratitude.

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  Morgan smiles faintly.

  “I know you’re the Goofball and all, but you need to take our brand more seriously,” she says as we exit the bathroom. “Your actions don’t just affect you, they affect both of us …”

  This last part of her speech sounds so eerily similar to what I’ve heard countless times from my own sister.

  “What did you do to get in trouble anyway?” Maddy asks.

  I was hoping to avoid the specifics. No such luck.

  “I bombed a math test,” I confess.

  Morgan snickers. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You failed?”

  “Okay, I didn’t fail,” I said. “I got a C.”

  “A C?” Morgan is shook. “Isn’t it the same math we were doing, like, two years ago? I always get A pluses in math without even studying! You should have asked me to help you!”

  There’s no way I could have asked Morgan for help. First of all, I vowed never to get tutored by my best friend ever again. It only leads to bad feelings on both sides when I fail. Sophie was the most patient tutor she could possibly be. I cannot imagine Morgan successfully bossing me into being any smarter than I already am.

  Plus, asking for help would have been admitting that I needed help. And needing help totally goes against the Goofball Goddess illusion that I’m just, like, whatever about my grades and barely spend any time studying at all. But I do. Morgan has no idea how much effort I had to put in just to get that C.

  At least I don’t have to think about math much longer because Morgan has already moved on.

  “Omigoddess,” she says. “Here she comes with the Ugly Outfit of the Day!”