True to Your Selfie Read online

  I can’t stop it?

  I’m too afraid.

  How can I be afraid of someone I’m best friends with?

  Tan khakis and a navy blue polo shirt isn’t a great look, but it isn’t horrendous either. Sophie suffers from a lack of fashion imagination. Seriously, she’s the only girl I know who would petition for a mandatory school uniform. But is that a good enough reason for turning her into a meanie meme?

  “Fotobomb! Ummm, Ickface? Pleated khakis are so tacky.”

  Morgan shoots me a look. I know I’m supposed to play my part. But I’m really, really, really not up for it today. I say nothing.

  There’s nothing there.

  Totally blank.

  “How do you spell ‘khaki’?” Maddy asks for me. “Is it like T-A-C-K-Y?”

  Maddy is just pretending to be a bad speller. She’s always eager to fill in for me when I don’t deliver the way Morgan wants me to.

  Three weeks into the school year and these daily Fotobombings have become a predictable part of Sophie’s routine. But according to Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f, she never sees what’s actually being said about her. They saw that as a good thing, but I’m not so sure. Imagination can be our own worst enemy. But Sophie’s face is expressionless as she presses onward, pulling her rolling backpack down the hall behind her. Mom warned us in elementary school about the permanent spinal damage that could be caused by heavy backpacks, but only Sophie actually took her advice.

  “Isn’t Fotobombing Sophie bad for our brand?” I ask when Sophie is out of earshot.

  “There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Morgan says. “Remember?”

  “I never said that!”

  “You did too!” Morgan insists.

  “I did not!”

  In fact, I’m pretty sure Maddy said that, not me. Still, I’m unsurprised when she takes Morgan’s side. “You did!” Maddy backs her up. “When you pointed out how Gigi is more popular than the rest of Fourth Dimension …”

  “But that’s not what I meant.” It’s so hard to untwist my tongue when the two of them are staring me down like this. “Aren’t we supposed to be positive role models?”

  “We are positive role models!” Morgan purses her lips. “What’s gotten into you today?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  There’s nothing there.

  Totally blank.

  And maybe on any other day the conversation would have ended there. But I want to prove that Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f are wrong about me. If not to them, then at least to myself.

  “I just don’t see the point,” I say quietly but firmly, “in bullying Sophie every day.”

  “We are not bullying her,” Morgan insists. “We’re helping her. I feel bad for Ickface, don’t you? It’s like she’s actually allergic to cuteness.”

  “She has no idea how sad she is,” Maddy adds.

  “And it’s, like, our duty to show her what she’s doing wrong,” Morgan says. “We’re doing her—and the world—a service.”

  Only Morgan Middleton could claim bullying is an act of charity.

  Only Morgan Middleton could almost convince me it was true.

  I don’t see Sophie again until PE. Three weeks in the same class, and we haven’t said a word to each other. It’s not that hard. We get undressed and dressed between different rows of lockers on opposite sides of the changing room. And we’ve actively avoided being assigned the same teams in soccer and flag football. But I’m having trouble getting over what Morgan said about Fotobombing as a favor.

  I can’t stop Morgan because Morgan is unstoppable.

  But I can let Sophie know I don’t think what she’s doing is okay. And hopefully, maybe, that can be enough.

  So I’m lingering outside the door to the gym when our gym teacher, Coach Stout, claps twice in my face.

  “No time for dawdling, Plaza!” she says. “Line up!”

  “But I’m just …”

  I look back to see if Sophie is on her way out. Coach Stout blows her whistle.

  “Line up! We’ve got a special visit from the university athletic department!”

  A half dozen young women and men stand behind her in strappy white jumpsuits that kind of look like straitjackets.

  “Today we’re going to learn about fencing!”

  Bleh. Lauren has told me about these special sports clinics. They were always a highlight for her. As a jock, she loved any opportunity to learn from college athletes. It didn’t matter what sport they excelled in: basketball, track, tennis. They worked hard enough to get the kind of scholarship she hoped for—and eventually achieved. But I could not be less interested in learning how to fence. And as I watch Sophie line up next to Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f on the opposite side of the basketball court, I know I’ll have to wait until class is over to relieve my guilty conscience.

  So the class starts out with us pretending to fence with invisible swords, because I guess it would be too dangerous to equip a roomful of twelve-year-olds with legit weaponry. The university fencers lunge and dip and thrust their real swords, and we lunge and dip and thrust our imaginary swords, and it feels a little childish but isn’t very hard because it’s kind of like I’m dancing and this is the choreography.

  Then we all line up and get a chance to use a real sword called a foil on an electric target. Lights flash, and we’re supposed to hit them with the foil before they go off, but no one seems to be doing a very good job at it. They’re either too fast and inaccurate or accurate but too slow. And the whole time I’m on line, I’m watching Sophie on her own separate line and I’m thinking about how we went to a midnight release party when the seventh Dragonologist Chronicles book came out. The store hired actors dressed as slayers to reenact the epic sword fight at the end of book six, and I’m wondering if Sophie is remembering that too.

  “Plaza! You’re up!”

  So when it’s my turn, I’m not expecting to do much better than anyone else.

  Except that I do.

  Flash! Ding! Flash! Ding! Flash! Ding!

  I hit the lit-up target every. Single. Time.

  It’s not hard. I’m not even thinking about it. I just do it. And when I finish my turn, Coach Stout asks me if I’d be interested in parrying with a real person. She has not asked anyone else in the class this question, not even the sportiest boys.

  “Um, maybe?” I say. “What’s parrying?”

  And she explains that “parrying” means I’ll do, like, a little sword fight for three minutes with a girl named Dede who is a sophomore on the university team. She’s got short, spiky red hair, but it’s not like Morgan’s, which is like an orange hot red; it’s more like a purple cool red that doesn’t exist in nature.

  “Is it safe?” I ask.

  “The tip is dull,” Dede explains, pressing her finger against the edge. “And bends on impact.”

  Okay. So I decide to trust Dede that this won’t end up like the book six battle to the death. (SPOILER!!! Sorry!) Dede puts this heavy astronaut helmet on my head that has like, a metal screen I can still see through but protects my face. And she puts me in this Velcro vest that’s a less-complicated version of the straitjacket the university fencers are wearing. Then Dede and I square off with an “en garde,” and we trade, um, jabs? The clock stops every time Dede’s foil touches my vest.

  DING!

  DING!

  DING!

  That’s one, two, three points for Dede.

  And the foils clang clang clang as I try to defend myself from getting poked again with her sword. I know my opponent is going easy on me, but I surprise myself—and the whole class—when I’m able to fake left, go right, and strike her in the ribs.

  DING!!!

  SCORE!!! ONE POINT FOR ELLA!!!

  The gym class erupts in cheers, and I’m totally shocked that I got even a single point in three minutes! When the clock winds down, Dede takes off her helmet and shakes my hand in a show of good sportswoman-like conduct. She and Coach Stout are smiling at me
in a way no sporty person has ever smiled at me ever.

  “You’ve got talent!” shouts Coach Stout.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say. “She let me score on her.”

  “Maybe,” Dede admits.

  “You’re quick, graceful, and precise,” says Coach Stout.

  “Really?”

  “Are you kidding me? You riposte with ease!”

  I have no idea what that means, but Coach is definitely complimenting me, and now I can’t stop smiling too.

  “You swear you’ve never had a lesson?” asks Dede.

  “No!” I say. “Unless you count reading all the battle scenes in the Dragonologist Chronicles?”

  I wasn’t totally kidding, but Coach and Dede laugh really hard at this.

  “You’re a novice, Ella, but you might have a gift,” Coach says.

  “You’re a natural,” adds Dede. “Have you ever thought about taking fencing lessons?”

  I shake my head. Of course I haven’t thought about taking fencing lessons. I’d never given a single thought to the sport of fencing until thirty minutes ago.

  “I teach an Intro to Fencing clinic at the YMCA,” Dede adds. “It’s just a month-long tryout to see if you like the sport before making a bigger investment. You don’t have to buy any of the equipment or the uniform or anything …”

  I shrug again. But my lack of enthusiasm doesn’t dampen their spirits, because both Coach Stout and Dede are still smiling at me as the final bell rings.

  Unfortunately, by the time I make it to the changing room, Sophie is already long gone for the day. It’s better that way because I never really figured out what to say.

  I’m sorry I’ve got a new best friend who loves being mean to you and I don’t even try to stop her.

  I’m sorry I’ve got a new best friend who loves being mean to you.

  I’m sorry I’ve got a new best friend.

  I’m sorry.

  Morgan and Maddy are waiting for me at the locker room exit.

  “Omigoddess, Ella! Your hair!”

  I hadn’t given a single thought to my hair.

  “Oh,” I say, patting down the pouffiness. “Gym.”

  “We know,” Morgan says, shooting a look at Maddy.

  “You know what?”

  Morgan frowns.

  “Come on, Ella,” Morgan says. “Stop being so modest. You’ve got a gift. You’re a natural.”

  I’m baffled for a few seconds. How does Morgan know this? She answers my unasked question by showing me her phone. The university fencing team posted a video and tagged my profile. There I am, sword in hand, looking … What did Coach Stout say?

  Quick.

  Graceful.

  And precise.

  Morgan is smiling. And for about a split second, I think she’s happy for me too.

  “Well, it’s too bad fencing is for losers and you’ve got way more important Morgan & Ella business taking up your time.” Morgan tugs a springy strand that’s fallen out of my ponytail. “And your look is a disaster, Ella! Disaster!”

  She holds up her phone. I’m expecting to see myself on Fotobomb with a snarky hashtag, like #PhysEdFail. Instead, I see my own unedited reflection. And Morgan is right. My hair is frizzy, and my mascara is raccoon-y, and my skin is greasy.

  Disaster.

  I guess Morgan is right about the other stuff too.

  Fencing is for losers.

  Morgan & Ella is way more important.

  The biggest deal breaker goes unmentioned:

  Fencing lessons are totally unaffordable.

  “I’m probably not even that good at it anyway,” I say to Morgan.

  “Probably not,” Morgan agrees.

  “I was just the least bad in my class.”

  “Whew!” Morgan exhales loudly. “Can you imagine willingly subjecting yourself to such uncuteness for a loser activity like fencing?”

  Morgan and Maddy shiver at the thought of me even considering that idea for a minute.

  Or three.

  I take another look at my disastrous reflection in Morgan’s phone. Dede’s cropped hairstyle makes a lot of sense.

  “Can you fix me?”

  Morgan smiles and pats me on the head.

  “Of course I can, Ella,” she says. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  As we head back into the changing room, I think about how much more of a disaster I would be without her.

  It’s the deafening kind of quiet in the apartment, when the hum of the refrigerator roars inside my eardrums like a stadium of booing haters.

  I let out a startled yelp when the landline rings at precisely three thirty p.m.

  “Lala!”

  “Lolo!” I’m grateful for the noise and the excuse to stop pretending I’m doing my math homework. “How did you know I was home?”

  Lauren crunches into the phone. Her midafternoon snack time ritual is still going strong.

  “Mom told me to check up on you.”

  And just like that, I’m reminded how my irresponsibility is Lauren’s inconvenience.

  “What’s the big deal? Mom leaves me alone all the time at night!”

  “I guess she wanted to make sure you’re actually grounded,” she says.

  “Well, here I am. Home. Grounded. And bored.”

  Lauren keeps chomping. It’s something healthy, for sure, like the driest kind of energy bar without chocolate or even dried fruit to sweeten it up.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing your math?”

  Bleh. Conversations with Lauren are exactly like those cardboardy energy bars.

  “Please don’t make me talk about math,” I say.

  “Tell me something else, then.” Lauren swallows hard. “I’ve got five minutes before soccer practice. Go.”

  Lauren could not care less about Morgan & Ella business. So on any other day, I’d be stumped. But she’s probably the only person on the planet who might be genuinely interested in hearing about what happened in PE.

  “Well,” I say, “our gym class got a visit from the university fencing team …”

  “Oooooh! Those were always my favorite days!”

  It always feels good when I get that kind of enthusiastic reaction out of Lauren. So I go on to tell her about getting a perfect score on the electronic target and being the only one picked to parry with an opponent and Coach Stout telling me I have natural talent …

  “Cha-ching!” Lauren chants. “Cha-ching!”

  Why did I think my record-breaking, award-winning superjock sister would be proud of my pathetic athletic achievement?

  “Look, I get it, okay? Fencing isn’t a real sport like soccer, but you don’t have to make fun of me …”

  “I’m not! I’m being serious! Fencing is a fantastic sport! There are way too many talented soccer players out there, so it’s a lot harder to stand out and get noticed by athletic departments. But not a lot of kids fence, so colleges will come after you if you’re the least bit talented.”

  My sister is an expert on the college recruitment process.

  “Are you serious?”

  “One hundred percent! The numbers are on your side!” Lauren exclaims. “This is exciting news, Lala! I hope you’ll pursue this. It’s a lot more sensible than all that silly social media stuff.”

  Silly

  Social

  Media

  Stuff

  As Morgan fixed my hair and reapplied my makeup, Maddy showed me our latest stats. Our newest cover—“The Fullest Truth” by Kaytee K.—racked up a stunning twenty thousand loves in two days. When I first suggested the song, Morgan didn’t want to do it because she’s more of a Ribot than a Kayter. She only agreed after Maddy convinced her that the OMGs really respond to songs with inspirational lyrics.

  Stop concealing

  Revealing is healing

  Give me the fullest truth …

  I guess we were right! Because our popularity is growing way beyond Paisley and the little girls at the pool! I mean, twenty thousand loves
is more than the population of our whole town. Despite my issues with Morgan lately—or, really, her issues with me—those numbers don’t sound very silly to me at all. With this kind of momentum, I’d be a dummy to put anything ahead of Morgan & Ella right now.

  I don’t expect Lauren to understand, so I sum it up in a way I know she will.

  “Fencing gear is really expensive, and we can’t afford to pay for the classes anyway,” I say. “All that silly social media stuff doesn’t cost me a thing.”

  Silence on Lauren’s end. Long enough to think we’ve gotten disconnected.

  “Oh, Lala,” she says finally, “there’s always a price to pay.”

  When Mom comes home, I get an exact amount on one of those price tags.

  “So when were you going to tell me?” she asks. “I had to hear it from Lauren?”

  It’s only been a few hours, but the conversation with my sister already feels like it happened a millionbilliontrillion years ago. In the in-between time, I’ve been teaching myself songs from all the Disney Princess movies because Morgan decided that would be a way more adorable throwback video than the Spice Girls, who are too retro for OMGs to care about.

  “Hear what from Lauren?”

  “That you’re taking fencing lessons?”

  “No, I’m not,” I say.

  “Yes you are,” she says. “Because she signed you up herself.”

  “She did what?”

  Mom shows me the forwarded email from Lauren with confirmation of the registration for Intro to Fencing at the YMCA. It must be legit because Lauren only uses email for serious business.

  “Since when are you interested in fencing?”

  Mom looks baffled, and I can’t say I blame her because so am I.

  “I tried it in gym class today,” I say. “And I told Lauren all about it when she called to check up on me and, well, she got all hyped up about it and started talking recruitment odds and college scholarships and …”

  Mom chuckles softly to herself. “Classic Lolo.”

  She’s right. It’s just so classic Lauren to get RAH-RAH-RAH about something I’m not totally sure I’m even into. Especially when I know for certain it’s something Morgan is not into at all.

  “Well,” Mom says, “you better get at least half as hyped as your sister, because she already paid for it.”