My Life Uploaded

by Rae Earl

  “I’m a Christmas pudding—it’s cold,” I snap. It’s very difficult to be taken seriously when you are a dessert or a panda.

  Mum shakes her head and leaves. She shouts, “I’m going to unload the car.” I hear her muttering as she trips over something on the stairs. That would never happen at her house.

  I should be using this time to go and help her, but I’m not. I’m going to keep my stupid hat on and edit and upload my new vlog. I think the bit with the cucumber was actually quite good. Family can wait a bit. It’s vlog o’clock.

  #GirlPower

  Now, I have to admit, by the time Mum has carried all my stuff up to my room, I’m feeling a bit cross. I’ve only been here for one night and Mum is already checking up on me.

  I bet I know why she’s here. Mum reckoned I’d be ready to come home after one night. I used to hate sleepovers when I was little. So Mum thought I’d get panicky almost immediately and go back to her house in no time. Her plan has failed! I am stronger than she thinks!

  I can tell that she is worried, though. She keeps walking around my new room, picking things up and putting them down again, opening and closing her mouth without a word. She looks like a music video on mute.

  She tries to be nice. “Millie. If you’re going to live here, you’re going to have to make some little changes. They’re ones that you deserve! The front door needs a proper lock. You need somewhere to hang your clothes and a desk for homework. And someone needs to remove that garden gnome that’s doing you-know-what from the porch.”

  I know which one she means, but I say, “I haven’t noticed it. What I have noticed is how I can walk around this house without being attacked by a mop!”

  “Well,” Mum continues, “that’s partly why I’m here. After you left last night, I had a chat with Gary. He has agreed to ONLY get McWhir—the robot vacuum cleaner—out every other day. So I want you to know that he is prepared to meet you halfway on the issue that maybe, perhaps he is over-cleaning.”

  “I’m not meeting anyone halfway!” I shout. Mum has ALWAYS told me that a strong woman doesn’t give in. She fights for more. So I say, “Mum. I would like to see a complete cess … cess—”

  Mum interrupts me and helps me with the word: cessation.

  “Yes,” I continue in, frankly, a very professional, almost-bossing-the-entire-situation way. “A complete cessation of the robot-hoover issue.”

  Mum looks sadly at me. “Well, Millie, that’s not going to happen. Nor should it. Gary is trying. I’m trying. So should you. That’s what ADULTS do.”

  The old Millie would have just shut up and done as she was told. But this is not old Millie. This is NEW Millie. Independent Millie. RESURGENT Millie (stole that from a film). RESURGENT MILLIE AHOY! And THIS Millie can fight back.…

  “Well, MUM. I AM in a house full of adults, and THEY actually act like grown-ups rather than supercontrolling crazed people!”

  At that moment, we both hear Dad shout from the kitchen, “Teresa! We cannot start using paper plates just because you don’t want to spoil your Halloween nails by doing the washing-up. I don’t care how long it took to do the vampire bat. Anyway, it’s SEPTEMBER! It’s TOO EARLY. Even for YOU!”

  Mum only has to look at me and say, “You’ll always have a room at my house, Millie. Come home.”

  It’s scary and annoying. Mum can read me like a psychic. She can see that all this Dad-based chaos is actually quite hard to deal with.

  Mum flounces out in a dazzle of Lycra. My mum rocks gym gear. She rocks everything.

  She is totally magnificent and everything I would like to be. I can’t tell her that, though. I’m too upset.

  Downstairs, things have escalated. Teresa is claiming that you can scrub the bath by just having a bath when you are already clean and “rolling about a bit.”

  Wherever I live, cleaning causes problems.

  I put some TV on and doze. It’s all been a bit much. Too much emotional stuff makes me sleepy. Especially if I’m wearing a duvet.

  When I wake up, I check my phone and squeal loud enough to make a dog deaf.

  #Favorite

  My cat vlog already has over a thousand views, which must be because it has been liked by the DAILY DANESH and he has COMMENTED!

  Great cat. Chill. Funny. Purrfect pet, YEAAHHHH. All the thumbs.

  The Daily Danesh is one of the BEST vloggers around. He’s a boy who lives with his grandma and created Frozen-Food Jenga. (He made a sixty-inch tower of frozen fish fingers and potato wedges!) He’s a LEGEND, and HE HAS SEEN ME. He must like the fact that my female cat is called Dave.

  It seems that Dave not being a viral sensation is actually quite funny. I can see in other places that the vlog’s been shared by loads of people at school … including Danny Trudeau.

  I think he’s just trying to sort of be “in” with everyone.

  You can stop thinking what I KNOW you’re thinking. No. He does not fancy me. He doesn’t even know me! This is real life—not Disney. Boys like him don’t fall into Big Hug Time with girls like me. You know what I mean.

  I take a screengrab and change my bio to Favorited by the Daily Danesh because this is huge and just what I needed after my mum made me feel like I was about seven years old.

  I run downstairs to tell everyone. Teresa and Dad are arm wrestling, so I tell Granddad instead. He’s not very impressed. In fact, he’s rude.

  “So someone you’ve never met before—you have absolutely no idea what he’s REALLY like—decided that you’ve said something a bit good and pressed some sort of thumb symbol thing, and that’s a cause for celebration?!”

  I leap in the air, clap, and shout, “YES!”

  “I know you’re a clever girl, Millie,” Granddad mumbles, “but I’m not going to get excited every time something tiny like that happens. You’ll get a big head, and there’s nothing worse than that. Especially in a woman.”

  I don’t really want to do that “old people don’t get it” thing but OLD PEOPLE REALLY DON’T GET IT, do they? Besides, perhaps if Granddad had given more praise to his children, they wouldn’t currently be practicing WWE–style wrestling on the front-room carpet—they’re in their late thirties!

  Also, “Especially in a woman”?! I decide to make it my responsibility while I am here to drag Granddad into this century with some epic feminism.

  Slightly deflated, I go back upstairs to the room that is not really my room. I realize that I didn’t even say good-bye to my actual best friend due to my family’s nonstop drama. I message her.

  Sorry for earlier, Loz. Will think of vlogs that aren’t about Miss Mad Cat! See you tomoz. BTW Daily Danesh liked it!

  I don’t want to show off, but I am chuffed and minted and all the joys.

  Lauren replies almost immediately with two hundred emojis and:

  Class, Mills. C-L-A-S-S!

  It’s an okay response, but, between you and me, I’m a bit disappointed. This is my best friend, and the Daily Danesh is big, so I reply:

  Are you okay?

  If I’m being honest with you, that really means: “That was a bit of a rubbish message. Why? Are you okay?”

  My phone pings, like, IMMEDIATELY.

  No. They are yelling again. It’s horrible.

  INSTANT GUILT. Why am I getting excited about a favorite when Lauren basically lives in the equivalent of one of those really horrible places you see on television, where there’s constant war?

  I message back.

  Stay out of it. Do like I do when it gets to be too much. Put your headphones on, do some coloring, and remember: I think you ARE THE BEST.

  Lauren sends back loads of hearts. Send the love. Feel the love. It’s what you have to do, isn’t it?! That is just properly sensible.

  Can I tell you what I’ve noticed? Not many adults are feeling the love. Lauren’s parents argue pretty much 24/7 about everything. During the summer holidays, while Lauren and I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, her mum and dad had a row
about everything from Lauren’s swimming lessons (she didn’t want to go) to Lauren’s gerbil (was it dead or just really tired?) that lasted the ENTIRE film. When a boy wizard can save the entire world in the same time that you have screamed about a dead mouse thing, you should probably realize that you have problems.

  My problem is that I now can’t stop checking the views on my vlog. Maybe now that Danny has seen me online, I can actually say hi to him in real life at school tomorrow?

  Or maybe I’ll just stay quiet and safe and UNDER THE RADAR in real life.

  #ParentPlan

  When I see Lauren at school the next day before homeroom, she looks tired. “They shouted till about two in the morning,” she moans. She pulls the books out of her locker in the corridor like she hates everything. “Millie, it was pretty horrible. It was slightly funny, though, when I heard my dad say, ‘The way you arrange the spice rack is madness!’ It’s very difficult dealing with people who are getting really angry about coriander and ground nutmeg.”

  Lauren smiles but seems like she’s about to sob, too. It’s times like this when your best friend needs a lift, so I change the subject.

  “What about the next vlog?” I’m talking very quietly because I don’t want anyone else to know just yet. “How about a ‘How NOT to Be a Parent’ vlog? You and I have got lots of personal experiences we could share.”

  Lauren does a little jump in the air. She brightens up pretty much immediately. “I LOVE IT, MILLS! The point is that it’s a global, universal issue. Like gaming. And makeup. All the big vlogs are about the stuff that is worldwide and really matters. Like cats and really amazing cakes.”

  I decide to just come out with it: “We could talk about your parents!”

  Now, I know this is touchy, so I quickly say, “But we could disguise ourselves.”

  Lauren stares at me intensely. “We could totally wear huge wigs.”

  “Hm. Maybe not.” I don’t tell her that’s possibly the worst idea in the world. I just gently say, “But I think if we start off by talking about it from our own—”

  Lauren interrupts, “Like if I talk about the argument last night. I mean, loads of parents probably argue about swimming, gerbils, and the precise placement of herbs in the spice rack.”

  I can sense that she is being sarcastic.

  “Actually, they probably do, Lauren. I bet that argument has happened the world over. I bet that if we did a vlog about that, we’d…”

  Suddenly, the atmosphere around us goes icy cold. A shadow appears. We’ve been spotted. Hunted. Cornered.

  “Well, well, well! Look who it is! Millie Porter! We ARE causing a bit of a stir, aren’t we?”

  Abandon the plans. Put all defenses up. Erin Breeler is coming this way.

  #Copycat

  Erin Breeler is not what you need first thing on a Monday morning. She is officially the worst start to the week since I had tonsillitis at Christmas.

  She glides up to both of us like she’s on demon fairy wheels. Miranda, her fluffy best friend, is by her side. Erin towers over us, and we press our backs against our lockers. She is tanned and made-up brilliantly. Her lashes flutter like a flock of butterflies. Do butterflies come in flocks? They do on Erin’s eyes. Seriously, if I didn’t hate her so much, I’d be completely impressed. I try to keep calm, but inside, I feel the fear. My palms are sweating and leaving big print marks on my math book.

  She purrs at us. And it’s not a Dave-style purr. “All praise the Wardrobe Queen!” She laughs. “What a clever use of a piece of exercise equipment. I’m impressed, Millie. Really.”

  “Er … yeah,” I say. This is RUBBISH. Why can’t I think of something better? It’s like that time Dad wrapped Aunty Teresa’s head in Scotch tape. She couldn’t say or do a thing. JUST LIKE ME NOW.

  “I really did think it was good,” Erin continues. “An unexpectedly funny, smart post.”

  I’ve still got mental tape all around my brain and body, so I just say, “Thank you.”

  “It was so good,” Erin carries on, “that I thought it could do with a little bit of … improvement.”

  Suddenly, something in my head springs back into action.

  “And what form would that ‘improvement’ take, Erin?” I sound a bit hard but not too ridiculous.

  “It’s no big deal, Millie. It’s just about knowing what you’re doing on Instagram. I mean, what you did was great, but you can’t hope for too big a reach without … upping your game.”

  Now my tummy isn’t full of Erin’s butterflies. It’s full of buffalo—galloping through fields, trampling everything in their path. My stomach is just a mass of HOOVES.

  “And how is that?” I just about manage to get that out despite the total-body stampede.

  Erin smirks her perfect smirk. She pulls out her phone, tosses it lightly in the air, and catches it perfectly. It’s Cirque du Soleil with the latest Samsung. “Using good filters. Posting at the right time. Decent hashtags. The right audience for the content. That sort of thing. But it’s okay, Millie, because I like to help if I can.”

  Feeling ever so slightly like I’m going to throw up, I ask her what she’s done.

  “Oh, don’t let me tell you, Millie. Just go look. Look … and LEARN. Oh, and Lauren, I thought those heels were fab. It’s just a shame how some people can’t cope with real fashion, but I’m sure you’ll get there eventually!” Then she flounces off down the hallway with Miranda, who just smirks and nods like a smirky, noddy thing.

  I grab my phone and go straight to Erin’s account. When I see what she’s done, I want to go off like Gary when he’s spotted pink mold in the shower.

  Erin “TOTAL EVIL” Breeler has reposted my photo to her account and given it a different—and YES, much better—filter, and it got hundreds of likes in under an hour. What’s even worse? She captioned it:

  Don’t fancy working out? Don’t worry, girls, here’s a great hack from @MilliePorter. If you’re not a #GymBunny, you can always use your gear as a wardrobe instead. Remember: If you want to make high-street fashion last, take care of your clothes.;) #Glow #BudgetFashion #LifeHacks

  Erin looks back at me from down the hall and sees that I have seen her evil. “It’s a great message, Millie,” she shouts. “I like helping people. You’re helping them, too. We did it together. It’s like…” And she pauses and does that face of MAXIMUM MINX. “It’s like you and I, for that tiny minute, were a team.”

  Then she walks off. She’s a trap, and I just stepped right into her.

  We can’t speak. We don’t say anything for about three hours. It might be less than that, but it feels that long. Lauren just stares at me and finally says, “How does she manage to always be … right?”

  I sigh. “She’s clever. This is a whole new world of terrible, Lauren. Even when you do good stuff, she finds a way to make you feel terrible about it. Now all her followers will think I’m a complete idiot and troll me to death.”

  “What do you think we should do?” At times like this, Lauren assumes I have the answer, and usually I do. But not this time.

  “Well, there’s nothing that we can do—we’ve just got to take it and…”

  “And?” Lauren puts her arm around me.

  “I need to think,” I say.

  Actually, I need to think for a very long time.

  #ZenLoo

  At lunchtime, I find my quiet, secret place. I need it sometimes. No. I can’t tell you. It’s secret.

  Okay. Farthest cubicle to the right in the loo nearest the science classrooms. Trust me, it’s Zen Central.

  Most people have no idea what power words have these days. Mum told me once that a group of girls used to stand at the end of her street and call her names. There were six of them. She told me that story like she was majorly traumatized. Six people on one street in one town. That’s IT! That’s all.

  How can I explain to her that now there can be thousands and millions of people laughing at you within a minute of you doing something stupid? Or N
OT even that stupid? The sort of people who follow Erin are going to be laughing at me, thinking I’m tragic.

  I take some deep breaths. Sometimes it’s best not to think about things too much.

  I don’t fire back and do something rash, because that’s not my style. You’ve got to plan, and I’m a thinker.

  First, I’m going to think about my breathing. Normally, my lungs work just fine by themselves, but now I start noticing that my chest is going up and down and my body seems like it’s getting smaller. It happens every time I’m really worried. And I can keep it together by just being on my own for a few minutes. Nipping off to the Zen Loo is always a very good idea.

  I come out. Lauren’s waiting for me outside. She’s used to this. She doesn’t say anything, but she knows.

  I’m calm.

  Or I am until I spot Danny Trudeau and his incredible vintage orange rucksack. He is heading my way, looking like a sexy tangerine, and my BFF is frantically digging me in the ribs. Happening now: panic.

  “Hi, Millie!” Danny bounds over to me like we’re old friends. We aren’t. I wish we were. “I just want to say I absolutely loved your vlog with Dave the cat. Someone mentioned it in art this morning, and I was … it was FUNNY. I’m a cat freak, though. I love them. I had to leave mine behind in Canada with my uncle. His name is Benny. I Skype him, but cats aren’t great at the talking thing. A bit like the way Dave isn’t that great at attacking vegetables. Anyway, your vlog was … really good.”

  I don’t really know what to say. I’m not hugely good at the whole compliment thing. But I don’t want to be giggly and stupid near men, so I try to change the subject. I jog around my head, trying to think of something funny and witty and magnificent to say. Something that will make this boy think I’m cool and smart and generally …

  “You’ve got a great-looking lunch there!”