Instafamous

by Marcus Herzig

  “You did the right thing,” Jordan said. We were sitting on a bench on the hill that was overlooking the park. The playground still looked exactly the same way it did when my mom used to take me here as a kid, except for the picket fence they had built around it to prevent the kids from going astray and taking an accidental dip in the duck pond. The pond was new. The kids seemed to like it. The ducks did, too.

  I had told Jordan everything. I’d told him how I’d deleted the account and why I’d done it. Telling him was the hardest thing I had ever done, much harder than telling him how we were being blackmailed and why, because I had to admit how I felt largely responsible for Troy’s death. Jordan tried his best to convince me I was being stupid. There was a small chance that Troy’s accident had been just some freak coincidence, that our blackmailer was someone else. Maybe he had changed his mind, or maybe he had never really intended to expose us in the first place. Maybe he had just been messing with us and trying to see how far we would go. Maybe Ben was right after all, and our blackmailer was still out there, the threat of our exposure still dangling over our heads. It was not impossible.

  Alas, I was not convinced. Occam’s razor was sharp, and if we cut out all the assumptions we couldn’t prove, the simplest and most obvious theory was most likely the right one.

  “Fine,” Jordan said. “I’m willing to accept it was Troy if you’re willing to accept that under the circumstances, he had it coming. Karma and everything, you know?”

  I wished it would have been that simple. If karma applied to Troy, it applied to me too, which begged the question: what had I ever done to deserve any of this, and what did the universe have in store for me, now that I had caused Troy’s death?

  “Stop beating yourself up over it,” Jordan said.

  “Isn’t that what you do when you cut yourself? Trying to distract you from one pain by inflicting another?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. To drown out one type of mental pain with another doesn’t even make any sense. It’s physical pain that can drown out mental pain, if only temporarily. So you’d have to actually, like, literally beat yourself up.”

  “I don’t think I have the guts to do that,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “Could you do it for me? Beat me up, I mean.”

  He turned his head and waited until I looked back at him before he said, “No.”

  I let my eyes graze the park again. It was a sunny day with a light breeze coming over from the ocean. Joggers were jogging, people were walking their dogs, and the playground was teeming with little ones who were blissfully oblivious to the world beyond the playground and the future beyond bedtime. How I envied their ignorance and their carefreedom. I watched a little girl and a little boy sharing a pair of swings when the girl lost her balance, slipped off the swing and landed with her face in the sand. Welcome to my life, the cynic in me wanted to think, but the boy immediately jumped off his swing and helped the girl back up on her feet. He wiped the sand and tears from her face and gave her a hug. Welcome to your life, the optimist in me thought. Maybe for you, everything is gonna be okay after all.

  From the corner of my eye I noticed a movement next to me, and a moment later I felt Jordan’s soft, warm hand on mine. I turned my head to look at him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, looking at the playground as he lifted my hand, pulled it on his thigh and cupped it with his other hand. It was an awkward but sweet gesture that triggered a million thoughts, a million things I wanted to say to him, but any single one of them would have destroyed the moment. And so we were just sitting there, feeling connected to the world through each other as we were holding hands and staring into the distance in comforting silence.

  Thank you for reading Instafamous. If you enjoyed it, a quick review over at Amazon and/or Goodreads would be greatly appreciated. Reviews help authors make a living and write more books.

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  About the Author

  Marcus Herzig, future bestselling author and professional cynic, was born in 1970 and studied Law, English, Educational Science, and Physics, albeit none of them with any tenacity or ambition. After dropping out of university he held various positions in banking, utilities, and Big Oil that bore no responsibility or decision-making power whatsoever.

  Always destined to be a demiurge, he has been inventing characters and telling stories since the age of five, and it’s what he wants to do for the rest of his life. His favorite genre, both as a reader and a writer, is Young Adult literature, but he also very much enjoys science- and literary fiction.

  Marcus, who finds it very peculiar to talk about himself in the third person, prefers sunsets over sunrises, white wine over red, beer over wine, pizza over pasta, and humanity over humans. A lifelong lost boy recently found again, all he needs to be happy is sitting at the beach and watching the sunset with his illustrator-and-cover-designer fiancé.

  Also by Marcus Herzig

  Counterparts

  Cupid Painted Blind

  Eschaton - The Beginning

  Idolism

  Follow the author on Twitter @Marcus_Herzig

  Counterparts Sample Chapter

  ONE

  It was the best of spacetimes, it was the worst of spacetimes, it was the age of youth, it was the age of tomfoolery. My youth, my tomfoolery. I had everything before me, I had nothing before me. In my mind, I was going direct to heaven. In Turnbull’s mind, I was going direct the other way.

  I was young—Taylor Young, that is—and I was in trouble. In trouble, should anyone be lucky enough to be unfamiliar with the concept, was a metaphorical location that in this case found its physical, real-life manifestation in the office of Mr. Turnbull, official head honcho and big kahuna of Winfield Northrop, my beloved, behated high school.

  “So what am I looking at?” my dad asked, holding a piece of paper Turnbull had pompously presented to him as Exhibit A. What he was looking at was a page Mrs. Cunningham had ripped out of my notebook during her calculus class because she had been having a really bad day. Of course I couldn’t point out that she’d been having a really bad day, because that kind of snark wasn’t appreciated at Winfield Northrop.

  “This piece of paper,” Turnbull said in his signature sonorous, deep, spine-tingling voice, “is a token of your son’s lack of commitment to the high standards we strive to adhere to here at Winfield Northrop. Taylor produced these scribblings during—”

  “They’re not scribblings,” I said. Yeah, you guessed it, interrupting adults wasn’t appreciated at Winfield Northrop either, but I was never one willing to betray the truth in the name of misguided courtesy—or to succumb to the presumptuous entitlement of authority. “They’re equations describing quantum entanglement Bell states.”

  “Oh, I thought that’s what they were,” Dad said, smiling proudly. For an evolutionary anthropologist to recognize quantum entanglement Bell states was no mean feat.

  Turnbull theatrically cleared his throat. “I’d rather you not interrupt me, Taylor, although I do appreciate your effort to put your lack of discipline and your rude behavior on the record right here in front of your parents.” He turned to my mom and dad. “Because this certainly is an important part of the problem we’re dealing with here. I don’t really care if they’re Bell states or swing states or states of matter.”

  “That’s clever,” I said, but Turnbull ignored me.

  “Fact of the matter is, your son penned them during Mrs. Cunningham’s calculus class. Calculus is not physics, and whatever Taylor was doing, it had nothing to do with calculus. Mrs. Cunningham, rightfully, did not approve. Here at Winfield Northrop, we’re committed to provide our students with the best education their not inconsiderable scho
ol fees can buy. However, this requires not only an extraordinarily dedicated teaching staff but also students who are ready and willing to focus their attention on whatever is put before them at any given time. Mrs. Cunningham has been teaching for over forty years, twenty-eight of them at this school. While her teaching methods may be described as ‘old-school’, they are proven to be extraordinarily effective. When she asked your son to stop doodling—”

  “Not doodling,” I reminded him, shaking my head.

  “—his response was rude and disrespectful beyond anything we deem acceptable here at Winfield Northrop.”

  “So what exactly did he say?” Mom said glancing at an incoming message on her phone.

  “He …” Turnbull cleared his throat, waiting for Mom to look at him. When she didn’t, he continued. “Without looking up from his notebook, and I can see where he got that from, he told Mrs. Cunningham to leave him alone and do her effing job.”

  Mom turned to me, an eyebrow raised in reproach. “Really? You said ‘effing’?”

  “I did definitely not say ‘effing,’” I said, shaking my head. “I’m pretty sure I said ‘fucking.’”

  Turnbull slammed his hand on his desk, making us all jump. “Taylor, I will not have you use that kind of filthy language in my office!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was merely trying to give my parents an accurate picture of what actually happened. In the spirit of transparency and full disclosure.”

  Turnbull pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, Mrs. Cunningham was actually trying to do her job when she told you to pay attention to her class, and your rude and insolent response was simply unacceptable.”

  “Excuse me, sir, if I may,” I said, raising my finger, “I would argue that Mrs. Cunningham’s job is to teach the twenty-something other students in that class something they do not yet know rather than wasting everyone’s time by chastising me for trying to advance my knowledge because I want to and not because someone tells me to. I’m sorry if an independent, inquisitive mind is something Mrs. Cunningham takes offense at, but it shouldn’t be about her.”

  “It shouldn’t be about you, either.”

  “I didn’t make it about me, she did. I appreciate the focus on me, but with all due respect to Mrs. Cunningham, she has nothing left to teach me. I understand how that must feel frustrating, but by scolding me for my academic fervor she has done a tremendous disservice to everyone else in that classroom who would actually benefit from a bit more attention.”

  Turnbull looked at my parents. “Is he like that at home?”

  “Oh, no,” my dad said, shaking his head emphatically. “At home, he’s much, much worse.”

  Nodding in agreement, my mom added, “We’ve stopped arguing with him when he was fourteen because he would always win anyway. He’s simply too smart for us. Or anyone, really.” She squeezed my hand and smiled at me like the proud mother that she was.

  Turnbull sighed. “If he is so smart, there would have been ways to get him through high school much quicker by letting him skip a year or two. Actually, it’s not too late for that. Taylor has already completed his core requirements. He doesn’t have to be here any longer. In fact, I’d be happy to sign his graduation papers right away.”

  “And deprive me of my inalienable right to a proper graduation ceremony?” I said. “And my prom? Sorry, but that’s not gonna fly. I’ve already bought a tux. I wanted to get one made out of genuine Chinese silk, but apparently my high school graduation isn’t worth it, so I had to settle for Topman, which is really quite embarrassing.” I sighed, casting a side glance at Mom.

  “We’ve been through this, honey,” she said without looking at me. “I’m not going to fork out five grand for a tuxedo. Go play the lottery, and with a little luck you can buy all the silk in China for all I care.”

  Turnbull looked at me. He tapped his finger on his desk a couple of times, then he said, “Would you excuse us for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said and waited.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, Turnbull said, “That was my way of asking you to step outside so we can talk about you behind your back.”

  “Oh!” I said, feigning surprise. “You see, Mr. Turnbull, sir, this is why I desperately need my senior year. I still have to work on my social perceptiveness.” I got up and left the room, breathing a silent sigh of relief. As much fun as it was to play the slick, cocky smart-aleck to a small but dedicated audience, as an act it was difficult and exhausting to maintain over an extended period of time. The spine-tingling thrill that came with speaking truth to power was in no small part owed to the looming danger of crossing the very fine line between the top of the world and the gaping abyss below.

  When I closed the door to Turnbull’s office behind me and turned toward the waiting area outside, still high on adrenalin, my heart skipped a beat and I inaudibly gasped when my glance fell upon the adorably miserable-looking figure sitting in one of the chairs next to the water cooler. Bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes were fixed on the floor until I caught his attention. He raised his head, and the moment he met my glance, his sad blue eyes lit up, suddenly all alert. Putting his hands on his thighs, he sat up straight and stared at me with his mouth half open. I wasn’t sure if it was my cerulean blue fingernails that made him stare at me as if I were an animal at the zoo, my baseball-style raglan T-shirt with the huge number 69 printed on the front, or simply my stunningly good looks.

  I’m kidding. The set of genes mother nature had passed on to me through my parents had produced a phenotype that was, although endowed with a superior intellect, sporting distinctly average looks. In my weaker moments I sometimes secretly wished I could go to the Ministry of Beauty and exchange some of my IQ points for nicer physical features, but I was always quick to remind myself that I was too smart to be so shallow. Nevertheless, I was never not shallow enough to be easily stunned by spectacular displays of beauty, the kind that would send the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy and make my adrenalin ask my testosterone to get married and make babies; the kind that was awaiting me outside of principal Turnbull’s office that day and staring at me like a blue-eyed red deer in the headlights of the car I was steering down the long and winding road of my life.

  The boy was tall and skinny. His pale skin stood in stark contrast with his steel-blue eyes and even more so with his shaggy mop of wiry red hair. Dressed in a plain black T-shirt, black skinny jeans and black Chucks, he looked like a human Duracell copper top battery, and all of a sudden I wondered if my Chinese zodiac sign might by any chance be the rabbit.

  “Hi,” I said with a nod as I sat down in a chair opposite Copper Top, and only now did I take notice of the woman sitting next to him. She was probably just a couple of years older than my mom, but she looked as if she came from a different generation altogether. With her flowery dress, the voluminous 1980s hairdo, and the way she clutched the handbag on her lap, she struck me like the kind of person who had struggled with the transition from rotary dial to push-button phones and simply hadn’t bothered to keep up with modernity after that. But at least she had the good manners to say, “Hello,” back to me, unlike Copper Top who only cast me a brief, bashful look as he nervously rubbed his hands on his thighs.

  Needless to say, I found his demeanor unspeakably adorable. Looks aside, I’ve always found the coy, timid kind decidedly more attractive than outgoing personalities such as my own. Opposites attract, and I’d hate to be in a relationship with a person like myself. As someone who tended to live with his head in the clouds, I could always use someone who had the ability to ground me. At the same time, I never shied away from the challenge of luring shy people out of their shell so they, too, could enjoy the thrill of being young and alive.

  Reclining in my chair, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pretended to check my social media feeds—a decoy to distract from the surreptitious glances I cast across the room. I turned off the shutter sound of the camera. I had never seen Coppe
r Top before—I was pretty sure I’d remembered if I had—and for all I knew I might never see him again, so I covertly pointed the phone at him and took a souvenir photo just in case. You could never have enough pictures of cute boys on your phone anyways. Once I had taken the photo, I pinch-zoomed into his face to take a closer look, and I had to smile when I found my first impression confirmed.

  He was gorgeous with his bright-colored hair, his almost anemic-looking skin, his chapped red lips and a few dozen light brown freckles that added an intriguingly boyish touch. Since I was twelve, I’d secretly been rating every single boy I ever met on a scale from one to ten, and this beautiful specimen was easily a nine, possibly even a ten. I would have had to see him naked to be sure, but, though tempting, it was probably the right decision not to ask him to take his clothes off outside the principal’s office and with his mother present.

  I closed the photo and tapped on the Wikipedia app to look up the Chinese zodiac article. My heart skipped yet another beat when I saw that in the year I was born, the Chinese year of the rabbit ended on February 4th.

  My birthday.

  So I was officially a Chinese rabbit, and I silently chuckled as I spontaneously decided I was in dire need of a fresh Duracell battery.

  Meanwhile, Copper Top had assumed the same position I had initially found him in, and he was trying his best to look anywhere but at me. He looked at his hands, at his feet, at the floor, at the walls, but he was fighting a losing battle, and the next time I looked up from my phone, I caught him staring at my chest. He kept staring at it for a long time, at the huge number 69 printed on my T-shirt, and there was something strange in his gaze. I’d always loved wearing that T-shirt because it usually provoked a reaction. Most people would grin or smirk when they saw it, because they all knew what it meant. Some would even blush. But when Copper Top was staring at it, it was almost as if he was looking at something that he seemed to find unsettling or disturbing for some reason. It didn’t make any sense to me, and I wondered how he would react if he saw the back of the T-shirt where I had the fictitious player name Cox custom-printed above the 69.