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I kick off my shoes and faceplant into my bed, my comforter cool against my warm face. I tuck a pillow under my arms and work my phone from my pocket, propping it up between my hands in front of me. I scroll to Lily’s contact information and finish typing in her name, boldly labeling her as Tutor in the title area in case my dad decides to grab my phone and go exploring before he meets her. I think he’ll agree I made a good decision when he does. It took a lot of extra hours, mostly on my mom’s part, to get me through algebra and history at my public school. I don’t even understand half of the names of the classes at this place.
I open my Instagram and look back at the few photos I have remaining. I deleted anything of me and Neveah, both because I didn’t want to lead her on and because it made me nervous to be tied to her. I have a few posts, mostly of me working out, and two with the guys from my old school doing dumb shit like putting firecrackers in an old shoe and taking hard-thrown water balloons to the bare chest.
Without thinking too hard, I search for Morgan, whom I have never officially followed on anything. Her pages are easy to find. They’re usually promoted and in the top ten trending categories. At least, they were. I pause on the first photo on her account and expand the image to really take in her smile. That’s where her money is. The girl could smile and sell a shit sandwich to a million people, I swear. I let the pic snap back to its regular size and note the others in the photo with her. Before today, I wouldn’t have recognized any of them. But Lily and Brooklyn look nearly the same, and I’m pretty certain the girl to Morgan’s left is Anika. She looks like Theo.
This post is four and a half months old. While I knew who Morgan was, I didn’t obsess over her like a lot of people do. I didn’t realize she’d gone dark on her account. I open a different app to search her and find the same thing—four-month-old posts sitting in the most recent positions. I don’t think she was injured to the extent Brooklyn was in the accident, but people can hurt in other ways.
I flip back to that image of her and her friends and read through some of the comments. There’s a lot of adoration, and a lot of prayer emojis and hearts. But the deeper I go, the more the ugly side of humanity creeps in. I inhale a sharp breath when I realize I’ve been holding it, my temples hot from the pounding pressure of my pulse. People are cruel and so quick to hate on someone they probably took their beauty tips from a year ago.
My thumb hovers over the follow link. I’m sure the guys from my old neighborhood will get a notification the minute I press this, which means their stream of messages about what hot TikTok girl is really like will soon come pouring in.
Morgan’s profile is a strange fit with my collection of college football programs and workout profiles. But those reasons aren’t enough to stop me from being a fan for the right reasons. She needs someone in here to post more positive comments. Following her like this is harmless, and it’s nice.
I press follow before second-guessing, satisfied my dad is clueless when it comes to social media. I’m pretty sure he thinks all of these things on my phone are recruiting apps. I scroll through a few more of her posts, seeing some that are clearly for sponsored purposes, like the fruity-flavored seltzer water, but I stop on one of her lying upside-down and sticking her tongue out, being silly, a kitten pawing at her neck. This girl has a glimmer of whatever I saw in the cafeteria line tonight. She’s stripped of all the glitz, and not just the makeup and designer clothing and posturing for the camera to make sure her lips are full and her ass is popping out. She’s just a cute girl being silly, like the one who made fun of the cafeteria food with me.
My hand buzzes as my phone gets a notification, and I thumb it open to see her request to follow me back. My chest tightens, that pang of guilt digging at the soft spot between my ribs. Ignoring her request is what my dad would prefer. But again, I can’t completely isolate myself socially and succeed at this place. And Morgan, as distracting as he may find her, is a great contact to have. She’s a businesswoman in her own right, having forged a path separate from her family. But that family name is mighty persuasive. The Bentleys sometimes get mentioned on CNN, they’re that big. Can’t hurt to have one of them in my corner.
I accept her request and wait for the tightness to ease in my chest. It doesn’t. The vise only grows tighter. And the more I try to ease it by glancing through more of her pics in search of ones that are business-worthy and fine examples for me to show my dad to prove my case, the more I zero in on that smile—those full lips and smooth skin. And her in a bikini on a yacht. And . . . yeah.
I’m fucked.
Chapter3
Morgan
It’s strange to feel I know someone from spending hours staring at their photos and reading their captions on social media. It’s naïve, actually; I know that better than most. So many times, I posted photos of myself smiling, with hearts and hashtags about feeling blessed and believing in positivity above all. Meanwhile, I was sinking.
James is typical of most guys on social media. He quotes random song lyrics and matches them to pics of him throwing a football or doing a shirtless pullup. I get enough from his content to know the person he wants people to believe he is. And damn if I don’t like that guy a little bit. He’d be perfect for Lily, honestly. And if I possessed even the slightest of similarities to Anika, I would play cupid. I’m not ruling it out.
But because I’m not Anika, and I have one hell of a selfish streak, I am also not committing. Instead, I’m pulling out the sexiest dresses I own for a party James and Theo are throwing in some stupid basement part of the library.
Other than a few glances across the table during lunch this week, my interactions with James have consisted solely of more late-night social media stalking. It took everything I had in my soul to not deploy the special apps on my phone that can tell if someone is looking at my content. I haven’t used them in months because frankly I haven’t had any content to put through the data test. I used to really get into the weeds with this stuff, breaking down my followers and interactions to sell to sponsors. Now I simply want to spy on a boy.
What the hell happened to me?
I strip my tight black dress over my head and toss it to the floor, leaving the matching black bra and undies on along with my black leather boots. I wonder how desperate I would look if I walked into tonight’s party wearing this? I smirk at myself and breathe out a quiet laugh.
Pulling the green tunic dress from my closet, I eye Lily behind me in the reflection of my mirror before slipping it over my head. Maybe she has the right idea. She’s wearing her school uniform, which, let’s face it, clothing doesn’t get much more in sync with the fantasy than a school uniform. I look back at my closet, overstuffed with designer rags, half of which I don’t even like. I pull my red dress out and hold it up to my chest to consider which Christmas color works better, red, or green.
“James didn’t give you any details on whatever this place is we’re going?” Even I cringe at how obvious my question is when it comes back to my own ears. Lily spent the day tutoring James, which is good. It’s a great distraction for her. Instead of twisting around and meeting what I’m sure are exasperated tight mouths and rolling eyes from my roommates, I focus on the red dress in my hand.
“We talked about Willa Cather,” Lily says.
“Willa who?” I respond. English and lit classes have never been my strong suit. One more thing James and I have in common, I guess. Too bad I can’t tutor him.
“That’s the first reading assignment. And Morgan, you look amazing in what you have on now,” Lily says.
I drop the red dress down to my side to see what she sees. I feel like I’m trying too hard. I look desperate, and this sick need to be the center of attention leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I wonder if I’m even truly attracted to James or if I simply want to be the hottest—the best. The winner.Thegirl. Everyone else is second.
“I don’t like James. LikethatI mean,” Lily pipes up after a long minute of silence. My eyes flit to her in the mirror and my stomach sinks. I wonder how long she’s been watching me fight with myself. I wonder if she knows the bad thoughts I’ve been fighting about her all because a guy noticed her more than me.
Attention whore.
I shake those feelings off as best I can to focus on the good. Lily’s being kind. Before Anika was gone, she hit me with some hard truths. I tend to distrust people. My instincts are to assume people aren’t genuine, especially when they’re paying me compliments. Yet I fight so hard to collect them, like magic coins in a video game that add to my character’s life. I need praise to survive.
“Do you think he’ll like this outfit?” I can’t help myself. The only self-deprecating thing I can manage is the guilty, crooked smile I level back at Lily. She must know I’m fishing. I know Brooklyn does. She’s been down the low self-esteem road with me more than once.
My hook catches more than enough as both of my roommates lather me with admiration, play fighting over which of them gets to sex me up at the end of the night. It almost feels good, the attention. But like most addicts, I’ve built up a tolerance, and their forced adoration doesn’t taste as good as it used to.
