Luv Ya Bunches

by Lauren Myracle

  Not that they ever would. But it sounded so fun: posting comments, sending cupcakes to your friends, updating your status, like, every second.

  Yasaman is attending a Hollywood premiere!

  Yasaman is meeting Miley Cyrus!

  Yasaman is watching the sun set while sipping Turkish tea!

  None of those would ever happen except the drinking Turkish tea part, but hey, a girl could dream.

  A girl could also turn her dream into reality, which is what Yasaman (and no other girl in her class) managed to do. Not the Miley Cyrus part, but the Facebook part. Instead of sneaking onto Facebook under false pretenses, Yasaman simply created her own Facebook.

  Well . . . kind of.

  So far the basic site exists, which is a start. The chat room function is enabled, as is the profile function. Meaning, Yasaman’s friends could log on and set up their individual profiles if they wanted. They could IM each other and write on each other’s walls and send out invites for sleepovers and stuff. Or they could log on to Yasaman’s site and just chat. They wouldn’t have to set up profiles if they didn’t want to. They could work their way up to that gradually.

  So, chatting was enabled, and making profiles, and also uploading pictures and videos, even though Yasaman knew that was possibly crossing into dangerous territory. Last week Yasaman’s baba came across an article in the New York Times about girls posting videos of themselves on the web, videos that showed them hitting and kicking each other. His face turned grim.

  “Where are their parents when these girls catfight?” he said, turning “cat fight” into a verb. “Yasaman, I am proud you don’t have friends like this.”

  Um, I kind of don’t have friends, period, Yasaman wanted to say, but she didn’t. Why tell her parents that at school she was the weird girl in the headscarf who was always stumbling and dropping her books?

  Along the same lines, why tell her parents about her website? It would alarm them for no reason. Anyway, there are no members on her site except herself.

  Le sigh, as her cousin, Hulya, would say.

  Right now, Yasaman’s website is called BlahBlahSomethingSomething.com. She’s trying to come up with something better.

  Maybe, if she had friends who wanted to join, they could come up with the perfect name together.

  Club Panda business that Modessa and Quin are so into? Ag! Milla likes pandas, and she likes clubs, but still. There are too many complicating details, and IMing with Quin about it is making her stomach twisty.

  A fresh message appears on her computer screen:

  All those question marks! All that pressure! Could she just not answer?

  No. Quin and Modessa must be answered, one way or another. There will be consequences if she doesn’t . . . and possibly consequences if she does. It’s impossible to know with those two. Ag, ag, ag.

  Milla lifts her fingers over the keyboard. She sighs and starts typing:

  days, which is three days more than she’d like. She didn’t want to move here. Who would? Nothing against California (maybe, she doesn’t really know), but her friends aren’t in California. Her house with the front porch swing isn’t in California. Her mom isn’t—

  She cuts that thought off. Her mom is in California, just not here, which is pretty much the same in terms of badness. To tell the truth, even worse.

  Ever since getting here—just Violet and her dad and no one else—Violet has felt like she doesn’t own her body anymore. Her self. She used to be inside herself, and now . . . she’s not. Now it’s more like she’s watching herself, and she’s a robot, or a pod person, and she knows she should snap out of it, but she can’t.

  If her life right now were a poem, it would be so boring. It would go like this:

  Violet sits and sits.

  Boxes wait to be unpacked.

  Violet hates this place.

  Her boring life poem is a haiku, which Violet knows because her mom is (was?) a poet. (Does she write poetry, where she is? Is she still a poet even if no more poems flow out of her?) At any rate, Violet’s mom taught her about haiku, just as she taught her about prose poetry and sonnets and sestinas.

  Violet used to tune her mom out when she went on and on (and on) about poetry. Now Violet wishes she hadn’t. But guess what? Too bad, so sad, because Violet isn’t a time traveler. She can’t go back and change her snotty poetry attitude. As for the future, Violet has no clue whether her mom will go on and on about poetry again.

  The term for that, Violet knows, is poetic justice.

  “Violet?” her dad calls from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready!”

  Violet stays motionless on the edge of her new bed with the lumpy mattress, because when her dad says “dinner’s ready,” it means, “I’m back from In-N-Out Burger,” a fast food chain that is apparently really popular in California. If her mom were here and said “dinner’s ready,” it would have meant, “The chicken I soaked in buttermilk overnight has now been dipped in Parmesan cheese and bread crumbs and baked to golden perfection, so come on down. Let’s eat.”

  But no. It’s just Violet and her dad and all these boxes to unpack.

  And tomorrow? School, where she won’t know a soul.

  And the In-N-Out burgers, so wrong-smelling in this already wrong house.

  “Violet!” her dad calls. “Got you a chocolate shake—your favorite!”

  See Violet cry.

  Cry, Violet, cry.

  WELCOME TO BLAHBLAHSOMETHINGSOMETHING.COM! Yasaman types.

  No, that’s no good, she thinks. It needs color. It needs flair! It needs something to make it Yasaman instead of blah . . . even if the outside world sees the two as one and the same.

  Welcome to BlahBlahSomethingSomething.com!

  Slightly better. The name’s still horrible, but the font is fun and the orange is much more inviting than black. Yasaman loves the color orange—it tickles her nose with tangerines and Pez and gleaming plump pumpkins. She also feels sorry for the color orange, because no one ever says “orange” when asked their favorite color. They say “blue,” usually. Blue, blue, blue.

  Blue’s nice, but it isn’t the only color out there.

  From here, you can start your own blog! You can share your thoughts and dreams with your friends and let the world know who you really are!

  Yasaman twists a chunk of long dark hair around her finger and brings the end to her mouth. Maybe she should delete the “with your friends” part, as she has no friends?

  You can share your thoughts and dreams and let the world know who you really are!

  Yes. Better. She wants to take the next step and go for it—start sharing her thoughts and dreams—but her brain has locked up. Everything she considers sounds stupid.

  So? she argues with herself. It’s not like anyone’s going to read it, anyway. She pulls her hair out of her mouth. Her fingers hover above the keyboard. You don’t have to be brilliant, she tells herself. You don’t have to be witty. You can say whatever you want.

  First she has to name her journal entry. So, okay:

  Pre-School Jitters

  No, that makes it sound as if she’s three and about to start actual preschool. Her little sister, Nigar, is about to start preschool, but Nigar has no jitters whatsoever. She’s so proud of her Hello Kitty lunch box that she sleeps with it.

  Okay, try again:

  School Starts TOMORROW!!!!

  That’s nice and simple and relatively un-stupid. Excellent. Now go on and actually write something, Yasaman tells herself.

  Hi! Yasaman here! Aaaaaargh, this is ridiculous. NO MORE DELETING!!!

  Deep breath. Shoulders back. Three, two, one . . . type.

  This is MY blog and I can say whatever I want. Nobody cares.

  Things about me:

  I like frogs

  I love books

  I love movies, too, but I’m not allowed to see very many

  sometimes I worry that nobody likes me

  Yasaman’s index finger stays on the Delete key longe
r than it needs to. Her stomach is an elevator of sadness going down, down, down, and it catches her by surprise. It shouldn’t, but it does.

  She swivels away from her laptop and goes downstairs. She takes the portable phone from its base and punches in her cousin’s number. As the call goes through, she pit-pats quietly back upstairs, returns to her room, and pulls the door almost closed.

  “Hulya?” she says. “Hi!”

  “Yaz!” Hulya says. “Waddup, cuz? Keeping it real?”

  Yasaman grins, because Hulya only talks this way when no one else is around. To Yasaman, she’ll say, “Give me some knuckles” or “Yo yo yo,” but to their elderly büyükbaba and büyükanne and their gazillion of halanin and amcanin, it’s “Yes, ma’am, no sir” all the way.

  “Um, yeah, I guess I’m keeping it real,” Yasaman says. She grips the phone. “School starts tomorrow.”

  “Yah, I know,” Hulya says. “My friend Chrissy? She’s insane. She’s planning this whole sneak attack on Joseph Terrico, who we call Jellico. She is boy crazy with a capital boy, I’m telling ya. She’s the total ditzy blonde—I love her. Only she’s smart under her ditziness. She does have brains, but she’d rather tie a pillow to her tummy and have pretend sumo wrestler fights, ya know?”

  Yasaman marvels at the way Hulya’s words spill out of her like jelly beans. She also marvels at this Chrissy person, whom she envisions as blonde and manic and pillow-huge, bouncing into people’s stomachs.

  “But even when she’s sumo wrestling, she blabbers about boys,” Hulya says. “She says she’s got ‘boy crazy’ in her genes. Chrissy’s older sister, Angela? She just started college—somewhere in the south, maybe Georgia?—and apparently she’s dating an entire fraternity. Can you believe it?”

  Yasaman opens her mouth, but before she can reply, Hulya jumps back in. “But not in a slutty way. I’m friends with Angela on Facebook, and she’s just as adorable as Chrissy and not skanky at all. Oh! But their aunt? She’s a pole dancer, Yaz. Can you believe it?”

  Yasaman is slightly breathless just from listening to Hulya’s spew. “You’re Facebook friends with a college girl?”

  “Oh, on Facebook you’re friends with everybody,” Hulya says breezily.

  Yasaman hears clicking keyboard sounds. She realizes Hulya is probably on Facebook right this second.

  Sure enough, Hulya says, “I’m sending Chrissy a Black Forest cupcake with a heart on it right now, to wish her luck with Jellico. Want me to add a message from you?”

  “Wouldn’t that be weird? She doesn’t even know me.”

  “Well, I don’t technically know Chrissy’s sis, Angela, but I’ve sent her cupcakes.” She giggles. “But you’re probably right. A fifth grader on Facebook would pretty much ruin the vibe.”

  Yasaman’s shame seeps through her pores. It’s official: she never should have called her über-peppy, über-popular, über-confident cousin.

  “Hey, check it out,” Hulya says, as if Yasaman is there looking over her shoulder. “I just got a friend request from this absolute sweetheart I met at the mall. Adorkable—works at Orange Julius, wears a paper hat—but still.”

  Yasaman hears a single, purposeful click.

  “There. Done.” Hulya giggles some more. “Omigod, I have a hundred and twenty-two friends now. That kills me.”

  It kills me, too, Yasaman thinks. One hundred and twenty-two friends, all sending each other cupcakes and kawaii-ness (which means “cuteness” in Japanese) and real live baby seals, although Hulya explained that no, a real live seal doesn’t arrive on your doorstep. If you accept a baby seal from someone, that just meant you agree to help feed it. Or something.

  “Yaz, sweetie, I gotta split,” Hulya says. Tap tap tap go her fingers on her keyboard. “But I said ‘hey’ to Chrissy for you. She says ‘hey’ back, and to tell your mom to hire her as a babysitter. She’s trying to save money for a plane ticket to visit her sis at college.”

  Hulya knows how unlikely that is. If someone needs to take care of Nigar, it’ll be Yasaman, and if someone needs to take care of Yasaman—or not “take care” of her, but be there just in case—then it’ll be Hulya or one of their aunties. That’s just the way it works in Muslim families.

  But Yasaman sighs and says, “Sure.”

  “Awesome,” Hulya says. “Have a fab first day of fifth grade! Knock ‘em dead!”

  The line goes quiet. Yasaman lowers the phone. She looks at it—so black and lifeless without Hulya’s chirpy voice percolating out of it—then punches the Off button.

  She goes to her laptop and finishes her blog entry in a desperate burst of peppiness:

  Oh, and I LOVE orange and I LOVE school and I just know this is going to be the best year ever!!!

  (Shot from Katie-Rose’s sunshine-yellow video camera)

  FADE IN:

  INTERIOR KATIE-ROSE’S HOUSE—KITCHEN—TUESDAY MORNING

  Katie-Rose’s brothers are wolfing down their Cap’n Crunch. CHARLIE, an eighth grader, has their mom’s fair coloring and sandy brown hair. SAM, who’s starting sixth grade, has dark hair like their Chinese dad. In the California school system, elementary school ends after fifth grade and middle school starts in sixth, which means that for the first time in Katie-Rose’s life, she won’t be at school with either of her brothers.

  CHARLIE

  (mid-sentence, his mouth full)

  —or I’ll throw it out the window. I mean it, Katie-Rose. Turn it off.

  KATIE-ROSE (off-screen)

  One piece of advice, that’s all I want. You’re supposed to look out for me.

  CHARLIE

  (snorting)

  Fine. Free advice: Get a new personality.

  KATIE-ROSE (off-screen)

  Mo-o-om . . . Charlie’s being mean.

  CAMERA PANS TO KATIE-ROSE’S MOM, WHO’S AT THE SINK WASHING DISHES

  KATIE-ROSE’S MOM

  Charlie, don’t be mean to your sister. I think it’s terrific she’s trying to reinvent herself. And Katie-Rose, put down your camera and eat your cereal.

  KATIE-ROSE (off-screen)

  You think it’s terrific I’m “reinventing” myself?

  (beat)

  You think I need to be reinvented?!

  KATIE-ROSE’S MOM

  (wincing)

  No! Bun-bun, no. I just meant . . .

  KATIE-ROSE (off-screen)

  You just meant what?

  Sam grabs the video camera from Katie-Rose.

  KATIE-ROSE

  Hey!

  CLOSE-UP ON KATIE-ROSE.

  She’s wearing her colorful tie-dye. Her hair is up in funny little pigtails, and her cheeks are as pink as the swirls in her shirt.

  SAM (off-screen)

  Remember when you were, like, five? And you’d just started kindergarten?

  KATIE-ROSE

  Give me my camera.

  SAM (off-screen)

  And everybody got you confused with that girl Felicia. Remember?

  Katie-Rose holds her hand out, her dark eyes furious.

  KATIE-ROSE

  Now, Sam.

  SAM (off-screen)

  Because you’re both Chinese. But then they realized you were the one always bossing people around and messing up their games.

  KATIE-ROSE

  Not true. Shut up.

  SAM (off-screen)

  (laughing)

  And one time Felicia walked by some guys building a fort in the sand, and they were like, “Don’t come over here! Go away!” Then they realized it wasn’t you and said, “Oh, sorry, Felicia. Thought you were Katie-Rose.”

  Katie-Rose lunges for Sam and tips over her bowl of Cap’n Crunch. Milk and soggy cereal bits swim over the table and soak Katie-Rose’s tie-dye.

  SAM

  (laughing harder)

  Smooth, Katie-Rose.

  KATIE-ROSE’S MOM (off-screen)

  Oh, sweetie, your shirt!

  The images blur and bounce. Under the overlapping voices of her mom telling her to go chang
e and her brothers saying things like, “Yeah, change into a normal human being,” Katie-Rose can be heard breathing hard.

  KATIE-ROSE (off-screen)

  Thanks, everybody. Thanks so much for getting my day off to such a great start.

  Finally, she finds the Off button. She punches it.

  FADE TO BLACK.

  leans over from the driver’s seat and gives her a kiss.

  “Good luck, have fun, be kind,” Mom Abigail says. “Mom Joyce’ll pick you up, ‘kay?”

  Milla nods. She hasn’t been here, at the actual physical building of Rivendell, in three months, and for some reason it’s surprising how real it is. The building sat vacant all summer long while life spun on, and now kids are mounting the stairs, laughing and high-fiving and hip-bumping each other.

  Anxiety bubbles in Milla’s stomach.

  “This is when you say, ‘Okay, Mom,’ and get out of the car,” Mom Abigail says.

  Milla doesn’t see Quin or Medusa. Ack—Modessa!

  Please don’t let me slip up and use Katie-Rose’s nickname for Modessa, she prays.

  (It is funny, though.)

  Mom Abigail clears her throat. “But in order to get out of the car, you actually have to open the door, swing your legs out, plant your feet on the pavement . . .”

  Milla swivels her head toward her mom. “Huh?”

  Mom Abigail chuckles. “You’re such a dreamer. Go, you silly.”

  “Oh. Right.” Milla gets out of her mom’s minivan. Then she leans over and pokes her head back in. “Mom?”

  “Yeah, babe?”