“Yeah, the difficult kind where you have to act all happy for fans when you feel anything but. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Ah, yes. Thanks. Can you please use your time machine to go back in time a few years to tell me not to build a persona that’s so darn happy all the time? It’s exhausting.”
“I’m on it. I will start working on building a time machine tomorrow, and once it’s finished, future me will go back in time and do exactly that.”
We both freeze simultaneously, then after a moment, we both look around like we’re expecting the whole world to have changed.
Legs pats his cheeks. “Still sore from smiling. Nothing’s changed.”
“Look, man, it’s not my fault if you refused to take future me’s very sage advice.”
He gives a soft chuckle, then points in the direction he came from. “Want to go to the park?” he asks. “There are some benches where we can sit.”
“Sure.” There’s a quiet tension between us. We’ve spent the evening apart, and whatever conclusion Legs has come to about it, it’s not the right one. Maybe he thinks I’m tired of his grief. Maybe he thinks I’m tired of him.
He turns a corner, and I mirror him too late and bump into his shoulder, and it’s like every atom in my body shouts, “Hallelujah” at the touch, and yeah, if he thinks I’m tired of him, it most definitely isn’t true.
I’m not sure how to correct it, though, because how do I tell him that I spent the evening trying to get a clip of Cody being a bigoted jerk so I can compile a video and post it to his channel behind his back, hopefully causing Cody’s fans to blow up in horror and anger at him? How do I explain to Legs that I’m thinking of causing major devastation to Cody’s YouTube career?
And most importantly: how do I tell him all that without making him hate me?
Legs is the kind of person who tells all his fans to be awesome because he really does mean it, the kind of person who always listens when people speak, the kind of person who sees the good in everyone. He’s not the kind of person who would understand that sometimes you need to burn something down in order to build it back up again. So how, exactly, do I tell him that’s precisely what I’m planning to do to my own brother?
That every time I think about it, it solidifies more and more from idea to plan?
We make it to the park, which has paved pathways winding through trees and shrubbery and not much else, considering that there’s still another month until spring is officially here, same as back home.
There’s a park bench in a corner, and we head there together like our minds are in sync, except I know that they’re not, because Legs doesn’t know that I’m a little bit evil. I plop down on the bench. It’s cold through my jeans.
“How was your evening?” Legs asks as he settles onto the bench a respectful foot away from me. He’s definitely got it all wrong.
If we were in a TV show—one of those sitcom ones like New Girl or The Mindy Project—the writers would have a heyday with this moment. It would be the first off-again in a five-season-long on-again-off-again saga that revolves around stupid miscommunications, where all they need to do to sort things out is to frickin’ talk to each other, but they never ever do.
Not that we’re a couple, we’re just friends, but still, I’m not living my life like that. And if we did become more than friends, I’d want our relationship to be based on honesty and open communication and all that corny but still super-important stuff.
Which means that even if Legs isn’t going to like it, I have to tell him.
“So, you should know that I’m a tiny bit evil,” I say, ignoring his question. “But it’s for the greater good. And I really really really wanted to spend this evening with you—it sounded a million times better than hanging out with those idiots—but it was my only chance to put my good-slash-evil plan into action.”
“Oh?” Legs says, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Tell me more.”
And I want to tell him more, I do, but right at this moment, I can’t find the words. So instead I unzip my coat and fish the vlogging camera out of my sweater pocket, find the right spot on the right video, and play it for Legs, turning the volume down low in case this cold park isn’t as empty as it looks.
When the video finishes, Legs frowns. “Have you ever read through any of the comments on Furzzle’s videos?” he asks. “Some of them are pretty atrocious.”
“Ugh, I bet.” For a moment, I wonder if any of those comments are from Cody, and my stomach twists with nausea at the thought.
Legs furrows his brow and opens his mouth, and for a moment I think he might say something angry about Cody, but then he closes it again and simply looks at me, expectant, waiting for further explanation.
It’s my turn to frown. “Your face is telling me that watching this video didn’t magically unlock for you every thought in my brain. That’s disappointing.”
Legs laughs. “I . . . don’t think so? Unless you’re thinking about burritos.”
“I mean, I’m always thinking about burritos.”
“Aren’t we all?”
I try to smile, but my mouth goes all pinchy instead.
Time to tear off the Band-Aid. “I’m planning to ruin Cody’s YouTube channel.”
The smile falls off Legs’s face. “What?”
I shove the camera into my coat pocket and stand. “I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve tried talking to him. So many times. He won’t listen.
“You won’t talk to him. Z has tried to talk to him, to no success. What am I supposed to do? Just keep letting my brother make racist comments and joke about sleeping with fourteen-year-olds? I’m not going to let that happen!” I’m pacing in front of the bench, unable to sit still while I explain. “The world is broken, and my own brother is part of the problem. I have to change that, have to change him.”
Legs chews on his thumbnail as he considers my words. “My mom always says, ‘You can’t change other people; you can only change yourself.’ Which I think is good adv—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off. “I’ve heard that before, and I don’t believe it. Are you just supposed to let an alcoholic be an alcoholic? Or a cheater be a cheater? Or a bigot a bigot? If it’s someone you love, isn’t it wrong to do nothing? Shouldn’t you have talked to your homophobic friend like Brian wanted you to?” I regret the words as soon as they slip out of my mouth. I don’t want to rub it in that Legs has lost his longtime best friend. That’s not what this is supposed to be about.
Legs looks more confused than angry, though. “You think I didn’t talk to Steve about it?”
I wish I could take the words back, but they’re out there now, so might as well be honest about it. “Well, you wouldn’t talk to Cody, so I assumed . . .” I trail off, unsure of myself now.
“I didn’t want to talk to Cody because he’s your brother.”
“My . . . brother?” I repeat, not sure how that’s relevant.
“Yeah. What if I got mad at him and punched him in the face and from then on your family only ever thought of me as the guy who beat up your brother?” It’s dark here in this park, but still, I’m pretty sure Legs’s cheeks flush red.
“You’d punch someone in the face?” I say to distract from the fact that my own cheeks are probably just as red.
“Well . . . a metaphorical punch.”
I laugh, then break off. “So you did? You spoke to Steve?”
“Of course I did.” He should be angry at me for assuming he didn’t, but he’s apparently too perfect a human, because there’s no malice in his voice. “It was definitely awkward at first, but I think he’s finally starting to get it.” He frowns. “It’s too bad that wasn’t enough for Brian.” There’s a hardness in his voice that’s new. When he’s talked about it before, there’s only ever been the softness of sorrow, like the mushiness of a rotten apple, fallen from a tree and forgotten.
I slip back onto the bench. “What do you mean?”
Legs’s frown dips so lo
w it almost falls off his face. “He cut off his relationship with Steve, and he wanted me to do the same.”
I frown for probably the fiftieth time. “He wanted you to stop being friends with Steve?” In all my brainstorming about how to deal with Cody, cutting him out of my life has never even crossed my mind. Though he’s my brother, which makes it different. If the Meisters or Willow were to finally kick Cody to the curb, I wouldn’t fault them for it. In fact, I sort of wish they would.
Legs nods in answer to my question. “Steve’s a good friend. We’ve gone camping together, and we went to his grandpa’s funeral, and he showed up at my house with all the Star Wars movies to watch together when I was sad about . . . a thing.”
I’m guessing the “thing” was a breakup, and even though we’re in the middle of some fight or debate or I don’t know what, the fact that he’s avoiding mentioning anything about another girl to me makes my heart flip in place once or twice.
“He’s a homophobe, though,” I point out. I think I agree with Brian, I realize; shouldn’t the fact that he’s homophobic be the end of the story?
“That’s changing, I think,” Legs says. “And even if it wasn’t, how would he ever change if he was only ever around people who agreed with him?”
“So you do think you can change him.”
Legs chews his lip again for a moment, then says, “No, I don’t. But if he decides he wants to change, I’ll be there to help him.”
“Why don’t you tell him that, then? Tell him it’s sayonara until he decides to be a decent human being!”
“Because two wrongs don’t make a right, Lainey.”
There’s a heaviness to Legs’s words that makes me think he’s referring to more than just homophobe Steve. “Are you talking about my plan for Cody’s channel?”
He sighs and slumps backward on the bench. “I don’t know. Tell me again what you’re planning to do and why.”
So I tell him again the whole story—about Cody’s crude joke in the airport, about Janessa, about talking to Z. About how Cody refuses to listen. About how the only other way I can think of to force Cody to listen is to make his subscribers do the talking.
I turn to Legs, suddenly hopeful. “Unless you have any other ideas!” If something less drastic would work, I would happily do it.
But Legs only shakes his head sadly. “I don’t, sorry. I can’t think of anything that would make him change unless he wants to.” Then he adds, “So, what if it doesn’t work? What if you do all that and cause all that pain and anger, and in the end nothing happens? What if you do all that and he doesn’t change?”
I shake my head. “It’ll work.” It has to. I can’t believe my brother is so far gone that even something this big wouldn’t make a difference. “And if it doesn’t,” I add, “at least I’ll have tried.” We sit there in silence as the leafless tree branches rustle above us in the breeze. At last, I ask, “Do you think I’m a terrible person?”
“It’s not the choice I would make, but no. I understand why you’re doing it.” He shifts his whole body toward me on the bench and stares at me with an unexpected intensity. “And Lainey, knowing who you are and what you stand for, I could never think you’re a terrible person. Even if I don’t always agree with you.”
I look down at my lap so he hopefully can’t see my cheeks flushing hot again, then decide that’s silly and look him in the eye again. “I’m glad you don’t always agree with me. How would I know when I’m wrong if you did?”
Which reminds me of what he said earlier about Janessa, of how I shouldn’t have messaged her in the first place. And how am I supposed to expect Cody to listen when I call him out on his crap if I don’t listen when people call me out on mine? I pull out my phone. “Hey, so I think you were right. I shouldn’t have messaged Janessa. If Cody had hurt her, I could have made things so much worse for her.”
He nods, but there’s no judgment on his face. “Do you want help figuring out how to apologize to her?”
Apologize? It’s not like I actually hurt her. “No, it’s fine,” I say, then stop myself. Cody has never once apologized when I wanted him to. If Legs thinks I need to apologize, I should listen. “Actually, yes.” I pull up my chat with Janessa and hand it over to him. I might be good at burning down worlds, but I could probably use some help building broken ones back up.
Legs scrolls through my conversation with Janessa, then tilts his head in thought. He starts to type, thinks, types some more, until finally he hands the phone back to me.
I look at the unsent message.
Hey, Janessa, I’m sorry I worried you. I saw that people were blaming you for your breakup with my brother, and that seemed unfair. I’m guessing it’s not your fault at all, as Cody doesn’t have the greatest track record with girls. I’m sorry for what you’re going through. If there’s anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.
I look at Legs, then back at my screen. He’s good at this. “That’s perfect,” I say as I hit Send. “Thank you.” I’m proud of us. Legs is learning to call people out, I’m learning to apologize when my big mouth gets the best of me. People can change for the better. Cody just needs a little something to jump-start him in the right direction. Or a big something.
“We make a good team,” Legs says, breaking into my thoughts. I grin because he’s right. Maybe we don’t agree on everything, but his disagreement makes me stronger and wiser.
Which makes me realize what I have to do. I have to tell him. I have to do it because I am not going to risk being stuck in one of those five-season-long miscommunicating story arcs forever. That is not going to be my life.
And so I take in one deep breath. And then I say: “Legs, I like you. Romantically, I mean. Just so you know.”
For a long moment, my words hang in the air between us, colored with fear and bravery that writes them visibly across the night sky.
I want to look away, but I force myself to meet Legs’s eyes. And when I do, my heart skips a beat, because in his eyes, the whole sky of stars is sparkling.
“I like you, too,” he says. “Romantically, I mean.” And he grins and slips his hand into mine, lacing his wind-chilled fingers with mine, pressing his soft gamer’s palm against mine. And that is that.
Seventeen
SamTheBrave
I CAN’T STOP SEEING MY MAKESHIFT BUSINESS CARD GET TOSSED TO THE ground like it’s trash—like I’m trash. It replays over and over in my mind.
Mark and Leroy didn’t see it. Mark chatters away to Leroy about how awesome that was, how well it went, how I’m going to be famous.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out and unlock it, hoping for a message from Dereck or Jones that’ll distract me.
It’s not. It’s a YouTube comment.
This is garbage. I want these seven minutes of my life back.
My throat tightens as I stare at it. This is garbage. I try to blink it away and focus in on the couple dozen nice ones, but instead, I find myself scrolling to the other comment from this morning.
this is so dumb your an idiot. I bet your face is as ugly as this video and that’s why you never facecam
My business card is trash. I’m trash. My videos are garbage. My face is ugly. I’ve heard all these words before, and worse, spat at me in the hallways, shouted from a car in the parking lot, scrawled on a piece of paper slipped onto my desk in civics class, muttered into my ear with a hand on my throat or a fist in my gut.
And now here, in this place I thought I belonged.
“You want to join us for the card tournament downstairs?” Mark asks. His words are far away.
I shake my head and mumble something about not feeling great.
And then they’re gone and I’m texting Mom to come pick me up.
I want to go home.
One of these days, I’m going to wake up and discover I have no skin left.
Mom waits twenty minutes into our drive before reaching over and handing me a Kleenex. She’s learned that sometimes poin
ting out that I’ve lost control only makes me feel more out of control. It’s like pointing out to a depressed person that they’re still in bed, or like telling a drunkard that they’re drunk. I’m fully aware I’m tearing off my skin, thank you. If I could stop, I would.
I press the tissue against my lower arm, where half a dozen tiny bumps no longer exist. The Kleenex comes away spotted with blood. I stare at the dots of red, a sign that I have lost—though I knew that already. This whole day has been a loss.
I push the Kleenex back against my arm and hold it in place.
“Want to talk about it?” Mom asks.
I shrug. “Plan didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy.” She reaches over and pats my knee. “Well, we knew it was a stretch, right? And at least you tried! Did you have a good day anyway?”
Did I? I’m sure there were moments I liked, but all I can think of right now are those YouTube comments. Sitting alone in the cafeteria. Those girls at the shadowdragon escaping before I could even try to talk to them. That gray piece of paper swirling to the floor.
“I don’t know. Sometimes, maybe? I don’t think I’ll go back tomorrow. I’ve run out of chances with Code, so what’s the point?”
“Aw, Sammy boy. I’m sorry. Maybe we were focusing too much on your goal. I want you to work hard to reach your dreams, but not work so hard that you forget to have fun. Go tomorrow and just enjoy yourself!”
Are there places people can go where the words don’t follow them? Where they aren’t written off as someone who doesn’t belong and shoved discarded to the floor?
I thought I had found one, but maybe I was wrong.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, though I’m leaning toward not.
Mom’s phone, which is sitting in the cupholder, chirrups. She points to it, which is my sign to check the message for her. I swipe her passcode and pull up her texts. It’s from Opa. Great.
“Opa wants to know if he can stop by tonight and pick up that crokinole board,” I tell her. Just what I need to cap off my failure of a day.
Fan the Fame Page 17