Can't Look Away Read online

  I slide back down into my seat. For a minute, I feel a strange twinge of envy.

  How does it feel to be so blissfully unaware of other people’s opinions? Have I ever felt that way?

  “I’ll pick you up on Monday?” Raylene asks.

  In only a few days, I’ll be part of this new world — bling, cowboy boots, and all. I nod, weakly, and watch Raylene turn and practically skip out the front door. Taking me to school with her probably just increased her popularity by 100 percent.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes. I want to think about fashion and Zoe, but I don’t. My mind immediately goes to the one thing I never want to think about, but can’t forget.

  That day.

  It’s all still there, swirling around in my head, like a snow globe you shake up so you can watch the world inside go crazy.

  It was my idea to go to the mall that afternoon. I had been planning a new mega Urban Outfitters haul, and I thought it’d be cool to do the video right there, steps away from the front door. Zoe had begged to be part of the vlog. Since the last one she’d appeared in had been so popular, I agreed.

  I’d pleaded with my sister, Miranda, to come along to the mall. I had to promise to buy her the latest edition of some comic book about a green-skinned superhero named Miss Martian. I needed Miranda to hold the camera and film me and Zoe, though Miranda didn’t know that yet. I’d spring that on her once we were there.

  Pearl Street is a four-block pedestrian mall in the downtown area of Boulder. I don’t know who thought they should have an outdoor mall in Colorado, but it’s a popular spot even when there’s four inches of snow on the ground. That August day, any sign of cold weather was at least a month away, and the intense high-altitude sun brought out the back-to-school shoppers and summer tourists alike. With the foothills as a backdrop and the cloudless blue sky overhead, it was like a postcard photo. The people were busy, the shops expensive, the hanging baskets exploding with flowers, and a different street performer was on every corner.

  I was concerned with not tripping over the foot of a clown twisting a yellow balloon into the shape of a giraffe. I stopped so suddenly in front of Urban Outfitters that the woman behind me, carrying the efforts of hours of shopping, stumbled into my back. She mumbled a totally insincere apology and then stepped around me with a glare.

  Funny how I remember those little details.

  Zoe was waiting for me to keep my promise and include her in the video. All I needed was for Miranda to film the action. Maybe zoom in and out a couple of times. That’s all. A simple request. But we’d been arguing, and Miranda was not cooperating. She stood there in that crazy purple plaid hat with the furry flaps down over her ears, even though it wasn’t nearly cold enough to wear something like that. Her arms were crossed stubbornly in front of her and she was yelling so loudly that people were craning their necks to see what was causing all the noise. I was mortified.

  “This is stupid and you can’t make me do it.” Her eyes were as blue as the cloudless sky, the exact same shade as mine, but oh so angry.

  Then she turned and walked away. A stiff, obstinate back marching through the endless rush of people carrying shopping bags and Starbucks cups. I thought she would eventually come back. Instead she stopped when she got to 10th Street and cupped her hands around her mouth. I remember the big planter boxes full of bright yellow marigolds right beside her.

  Guilt is the color of marigolds.

  Standing perfectly still in the midst of the crowd pushing and shoving around her, Miranda yelled one final thing. Her voice carried across the sidewalk. The last time I would ever hear it.

  “I’m going home!”

  No black thunderstorm gathered in the distance. No ominous music played in the background. No sense there was a car coming down the road half a mile away with a drunk driver behind the wheel.

  Everything was fine.

  And then it wasn’t.

  Boulder, CO — Just weeks after being dealt the devastating blow of her sister’s tragic death, Internet star Torrey Grey is facing even more heartache from cyberbullies who claim she is capitalizing on the tragedy.

  For more than a year, Boulder, Colorado, native Torrey Grey, or Beautystarz15, as she is known online, has cultivated a loyal following on YouTube, offering young girls her advice on shopping and fashion. Grey shows off her purchases in homemade videos she posts online.

  In a terrible turn of events, Grey’s 12-year-old sister, Miranda, was killed by a drunk driver just steps away from where Grey was filming her latest video blog. Grey’s fans were deeply upset at the shocking news, posting hundreds of comments to her Facebook and YouTube accounts.

  As a result of the exposure, Grey’s videos have been receiving more than 2 million views, and critics have claimed she is using this recent tragedy as a publicity tool to gain even more followers. Even though Grey has not posted a vlog since her sister’s death, her YouTube stats are soaring, jumping 10,000 or more a day. The public can’t seem to get enough of Torrey Grey.

  “Get over the self-consciousness of talking in front of a camera and just try to be unique. Make videos that you are dying to watch.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15

  I shut off my alarm and fall back onto the pillow with a groan. Out of habit, I reach for my phone, now fully charged with the found cord, and check the most recent Google Alerts on my name. Pages and pages of hits. Not as many as two weeks ago, but the story — my story — is still getting picked up and spreading.

  I always wanted to be famous, but not in this viral sort of way. It’s the kind of fame that is fleeting and faithless. There was that guy who helped land the rover on Mars who was famous for his haircut. Or that girl who sang a really bad song about a day of the week. Or sometimes people are momentarily famous because something so horrible — so unimaginable — happens that we just can’t look away. Like the woman crying into her phone as she runs toward a school. Or a beauty vlogger who witnesses her sister’s death.

  Being pitiable is never an attractive quality.

  Even though part of me doesn’t want to, I click over to my YouTube page. It loads infuriatingly slowly and I wait impatiently for each screen shot to appear. I scroll down to the comments. There are so many that say so sorry and thinking of you, but then there are the others.

  Strangers’ comments wait on my phone, like tiny emotional landmines. Behind the screen that keeps them anonymous and cruel, they have the power to wound me. My total value is summarized in one or two casual sentences that no one would ever say in person.

  Get a life and get out of the mall. All you care about is yourself.

  Stop using your sister’s death for your own fame. Is it worth it just for more subscribers?

  It was your fault.

  I close my eyes and take in the cut of criticism deep. Then I look back down. The next comment makes my whole body shake. It’s about Miranda.

  Poor girl. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  What kind of stupid thing is that to say? How could being in the middle of a crosswalk on a sunny day be the wrong place for a twelve-year-old? There was a man making a balloon giraffe and a woman playing bongo drums. When is the right time for someone to die?

  You don’t know my sister. You don’t know me.

  But this isn’t a conversation. I know that. Posting a response will only make it worse, so I cram the anger and hurt down inside.

  I close YouTube and stare at my phone. I haven’t heard from Zoe since I texted her. But she’s just busy. It has absolutely nothing to do with her guilty conscience about Cody. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. If I could talk to her, I’d tell her that, too. No boy is going to ruin our friendship, not even Cody Davis.

  Zoe knew I had a crush on Cody all of freshman year before he actually asked me out. I loved his tall, blond good looks and the sound of his laugh, surprisingly loud and contagious. I felt so special that he’d chosen me. He told me I was beautiful all the time, but he did often add t
hat I looked better with my hair down. He didn’t like it in a ponytail. He thought my videos were boring, but he loved boasting to his friends about my online stats. Sometimes, when we were together, I wondered if Cody would still like me if I weren’t so popular. Or if I wore my hair in a ponytail all the time.

  Pushing back the covers, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Time to face the inevitable. A school full of new viewers.

  I pull the red T-shirt I slept in up over my head and drop it on the floor of my new blah bedroom. Several drawers in the big oak dresser are open with a couple of socks dangling out. Tennis shoes and a black Ugg boot keep a pair of jeans company on the floor. This mess used to drive my mom crazy. Now she doesn’t seem to notice.

  The closet is half the size of my one back in Colorado, and stuffed to the brim. I pick out a pair of cigarette jeans and a plain white T-shirt with a scoop neck, tucking in the front and leaving the back out. I layer on a blazer, but decide against the fringed scarf. Instead I accessorize with a long beaded chain pendant and silver earrings. Red ballet flats add a bright pop of color, but after I slip them on I can’t seem to stop staring at them. I just want to tap my heels together and go back home to Colorado.

  Home.

  Don’t even think about it.

  Quickly I braid my hair, put on some eye shadow and a bit of liner, brush on a neutral lipstick. One quick spritz of hairspray, and I call it done. I figure I’ll still be better dressed than half my classmates.

  There’s no sign of my mom in the kitchen, but a scribbled note in Dad’s handwriting is on the table. Got to get to the office. Good luck and have a great day at the new school! Love you.

  I notice the unplugged home phone on the countertop. My dad probably did it. My mom can’t even make the connection right now between cords and phones. It’s irritating, but at least it explains why Zoe hasn’t called. As usual, she was just following my directions to call the landline. It’s why she’s such a good friend. She listens.

  By the time I stuff a hastily made sandwich in my bag and eat half a banana, Raylene is at the curb blasting on the horn of a beat-up red Chevy Blazer.

  “I’m coming,” I yell back from the window over the kitchen sink. My mom’s bedroom door stays closed even with the honking and the yelling.

  Outside, I slide into the car and pull the door shut behind me. It doesn’t close.

  “You have to slam it really hard,” Raylene says.

  Classy. I slam it three more times until it finally shuts.

  Raylene glances at me as she pulls out into the street. She’s wearing chandelier earrings that hang almost to her shoulders, a pink tee, and a blue-jean miniskirt. It’s not great, but it’s not horrible. Until I glance down. Cowboy boots with embroidered hearts and flowers? Seriously?

  Raylene enthusiastically turns a corner and something hard on the floorboard bangs up against my ankle.

  “Ouch.” I fumble around and come up with a silver tube. “What is this?”

  “A baton. I’m trying out to be a twirler.”

  Twirler? Like throwing a silver tube up in the air and jumping around?

  “Why?” I ask, because honestly I can’t think of a reason why anyone would.

  “Because around here nobody runs for the bathroom and the food stand at halftime. They stay to watch the band and the twirlers. It’s like being on Broadway or something.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” I say, putting the baton back on the floorboard. I rest one foot on top of it so it won’t hit me again.

  “Thanks.” Raylene grins at me. I don’t smile back.

  “Are you okay? You look …” She pauses.

  I flip the visor down and glance in the cracked mirror. My eyes are red and even the best cover-up doesn’t hide the tired purple smudges underneath. In my darkened bedroom, I didn’t notice. “I’m fine,” I say.

  I close my eyes and try to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach. Raylene slams on the brakes so fast my head jerks forward, hitting the visor in front of me.

  An image of a crumpled body in a crosswalk explodes into my mind. Memory ricochets against my closed lids. I quickly open my eyes to escape back into reality.

  Don’t think about that. Not now. Not ever.

  “Sorry,” Raylene says. She rolls down the window to wave at the woman crossing in front of us, walking a small Yorkshire terrier. “Hey, Mrs. Berry.”

  My head is pounding and I rub a spot above my right eye as though that’s going to help. It doesn’t. Raylene just keeps talking as we drive on. I realize it’s about the woman we just saw.

  “Mrs. Berry owns the Paxton Boutique down on the square. They sell a lot of different things, but are probably best known for Poo-Pourri.”

  Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s kidding.

  “They even have a sign on the door that says Poo-Pourri. Spray a little in the bowl and no one will ever know. I think they sell it online, too. There’s evidently a pretty big market for Poo-Pourri.”

  I blink at her a few times, then turn my attention back out the side window.

  “Nice jacket.” Raylene blurts out after only a block of silence.

  Nice is not how I would describe my three-hundred-dollar Italian wool blazer from Abercrombie, but whatever.

  “Thanks,” I say, looking out the window. A few houses have pumpkins out on the doorsteps and fake spiderwebs strung from porches. It’s the only sign of fall. The sun is brighter than expected and suddenly I worry the jacket is going to be too hot. I’ll probably have to ditch it in some stinky locker before lunch.

  “I saw the vlog when you bought it. Cool store.” She pauses, and then adds, “It must be amazing to have hundreds of people watch your videos every day.” It’s the first time she’s mentioned my vlog, and I can tell she’s relieved not to be bottling it up anymore.

  You have no idea what it’s like. No one does.

  There are comments … follows … likes … tweets … posts. People are talking about me out there and I need to see it. My fingers twitch, but I resist the constant urge to pull out my phone.

  “More like thousands,” I finally reply. More like hundreds of thousands, I think, but don’t say.

  “Wow. You’re, like” — she pauses and stares over at me — “famous.”

  Fame is a peculiar thing. You have to be famous for something. Like singing or acting or modeling. None of those work for me. I can’t carry a tune. The thespian crowd is way too low on the social ladder for me, and I’m not tall enough to be a model. Haul videos don’t take any special talent. You basically go shopping and then show people what you bought. But the results can be amazing. My “talent” led to fans, followers, subscribers.

  But what else did it lead to? My head throbs again.

  Raylene is still looking at me and not the road.

  “Squirrel!” I point. Thankfully, the squirrel does a quick U-turn and scampers back to the safety of the curb.

  “Huh?” Raylene makes a confused sound, but at least her attention is back on driving. “You probably get recognized everywhere, right?” she asks.

  “People don’t expect to see me in real life. It takes them a little while to realize who I am.”

  “But I could tell everyone at school,” Raylene says enthusiastically. I feel a rush of panic at the thought.

  “I’m kind of trying to keep a low profile. I haven’t had a chance to update my subscribers since …” My voice trails off.

  “Oh, sure. No problem,” Raylene says.

  But it is a problem. My YouTube channel is supposed to be reserved for cheerful videos describing my latest shopping spree or my favorite eye shadow pick. How exactly am I supposed to talk about ribbed thigh-high socks in an engaging, bubbly voice now that everyone knows my sister is dead?

  “When are you going back to Boulder?” Raylene asks. “Maybe you could pick up one of those jackets for me. We don’t have any of those stores around here.”

  I bite my lip. “I’m not sure. We’ll go back for
the sentencing, but who knows when that will be.”

  Raylene swerves into the oncoming lane to pass a guy on a bike and my fingers tighten on the armrest. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until we pull back into the lane in front of him.

  Raylene frowns. “You’re going to be there in the courtroom for the trial?”

  “There’s not going to be a trial,” I say. “He pleaded guilty of DUI. But the district attorney said the family can make a victim impact statement when he’s sentenced.”

  I don’t want to think about him, but I do. A wild-haired man, rocking back and forth on the curb in handcuffs.

  “What’s a victim impact statement?” Raylene’s question pulls me back to the present.

  “We tell the judge how my sister’s death has affected us. It’s our chance to represent the victim’s side of what happened.” My voice is robotic, repeating the exact words the district attorney said. I wasn’t sure what they meant then, and I’m still not sure.

  Raylene stares at me in fascination. I have to point out the green light.

  “I saw that one time on a repeat of Law and Order. I was bawling my eyes out. And you’re going to be the one to do it?” Raylene’s voice is full of awe. And for the first time, I realize that maybe I should be the one giving the statement.

  “My mom’s not exactly in any condition to talk in front of people,” I say, thinking out loud. Am I seriously considering speaking in the courtroom? Maybe then my dad wouldn’t think of me as self-centered, and my mom … my mom would just think of me. And everybody else would, too. Not in a mesmerized, feel-sorry-for-you way, but with respect. The idea seeps into my brain, whirling around with possibilities.

  Making that statement in court might be exactly what I need to do.

  “I don’t think I could ever do anything like that,” Raylene breathes.

  I shrug, but feel better than I have in weeks. It reminds me of how I felt when I had over a thousand “likes” on my vlog about fishtail braiding within ten minutes of posting.

  “Will there be reporters?” Raylene asks.