Fake Page 4

  I put the laptop on my nightstand, turn off the lights, and slide under my covers. I’m tired, but I can’t go to sleep. Instead, I toss and turn, rearranging blankets and changing positions over and over. Finally, I end up on my back staring up at the ceiling, my hands clenched in fists by my side. I think about the meme of me sitting down on the stool next to Jesse. The ChitChats from the party replay in my mind like a movie projected onto my bedroom ceiling.

  Why am I here in this world? There has to be a reason.

  I want to believe I would step up to push the child away from the speeding car, to rescue the drowning puppy, to walk the old woman across the street. I want to believe it. But how can I be a hero when I don’t even stand up for myself?

  I understand cowards. They didn’t start out that way. Something changed them. At some point something horrible met them as they stepped up to confront their demons. Maybe it wasn’t all at once. Sometimes the demons chip away at you, whispering and slithering their way into the strongest of hearts.

  There is a tiny spark of something I don’t want to face here with me in the dark.

  It is anger.

  And it is growing.

  A tiny voice begins to whisper in some small part of my brain. It gets deeper and louder until I finally know exactly what to do. The thought takes hold and starts to grow.

  Jesse Santos is only one member of the popular crowd. I can’t take them all down, but he has a target on his back. Maybe I can’t be the one to defeat him in my current form, but what if I shape-shifted into something else?

  Or someone else?

  I might be able to wipe that stupid grin off his face. Maybe I could actually make him care about something other than football practice and being cool and making fat girls like me miserable.

  Minute electrical sparks tingle at my nerves. Adrenaline courses through my veins.

  Wonder Woman doesn’t fight evil as Diana.

  Superman doesn’t right wrongs as Clark Kent.

  They change.

  I sit up and turn on the light. My eyes wander over to where my comic strips hang on my wall. Dragons with glasses. Elephants with porcupine skins. Fairies with cell phones. Unbelievable creatures I can never become when all I really want to change into is a perfectly normal-looking teenage girl. A completely impossible dream.

  Or is it?

  I sit frozen, thinking. Katy Purry bumps her head against my hand. I rub the spot under her chin where I know she likes it most, and then I pull my computer off my nightstand. My mind races. The idea is still bubbling inside my brain. I think it over, scratching Katy Purry behind one ear. It is so wrong on so many levels and yet …

  This is crazy.

  Crazy awesome.

  I turn my computer back on and open ChitChat. The best place for this little experiment to go down. I find the button for Create New Profile.

  The empty screen with the blinking cursor makes me feel the same way I do when I look at the blank frame in my comic strip—powerful and invincible. There is going to be something here soon that has never existed before, and I am going to be the one to create it.

  I quickly discover lying—I mean creating—online isn’t complicated. It’s like drawing a new character for one of my strips, but instead I use my keyboard. First, I need a name. Something cool and a little bit unusual. My eyes wander over to my desk. The soft reddish-brown color of one of my markers speaks to me. It makes sense that my creation should emerge from the colors I use for my drawings.

  Sienna.

  I write in the new profile name—Sienna Maras. Even her last name has special meaning to me. In some Scandinavian shape-shifting tales I read once, the Maras are restless children whose souls leave their bodies at night to haunt the living.

  So appropriate.

  Now Sienna needs a bio. Something catchy. I spend the next thirty minutes researching different websites and celebrity social media accounts. Finally, I write, “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.”

  It’s my own little inside joke. An Easter egg planted, but only for me.

  I give Sienna’s age—sixteen—and her location: Denver. Close, but not too close.

  And now the most important part.

  The picture.

  I start to search on ChitChat for images of random girls, but looking for my perfect replacement makes me bitter. The more pretty girl pictures I see, the angrier I get. So many likes and comments. So much praise. They live in a world I will never know. I feel the anxiety rising in my throat, choking me.

  Telling me to be okay with my body through perky Pinterest statements and Dove commercials doesn’t change the way I feel inside. If I’m honest with myself, I would unzip my skin and step out of it. Just for a day. An hour. For a break. A breath.

  Don’t ever admit that to anyone.

  For now, I give up on finding Sienna’s perfect face. The picture is crucial, and I’ll take my time finding just the right one, even if it takes me all weekend.

  Then, still in Sienna’s profile, I click over to Jesse’s page and hit the Send Direct Message button. I take a deep breath. This is it.

  For every oink.

  For every giggle.

  For every eye roll.

  For every turned back.

  For every stupid meme.

  For every broken heart.

  A shape-shifter steps out of the shadows and takes up the challenge.

  CHITCHAT DIRECT MESSAGE

  SIENNA: HEY YOU.

  JESSE:

  SIENNA: I THINK I SAW YOU ON CHITCHAT AT A PARTY. BLUE IS DEFINITELY YOUR COLOR!

  JESSE:

  I roll onto my back and smile, remembering last night’s creation. The birds sing outside my window. Sun streams through the blinds. Outside, I hear our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Deitz, mowing her lawn. Across the street, Mr. Alonzo’s dog, Winnie, is barking at the fence.

  My dreams were unremarkable. No werewolves changing by the light of a full moon or vampires flying away to coffins deep underground. But my resolve is still strong. I didn’t follow nice people’s advice about not letting the sun go down on anger. Instead, I let it burn deep into my sleep and trickle through my thoughts. And now everything is different.

  Or will be. Soon.

  Jesse didn’t write back to Sienna’s message last night, but I didn’t expect him to, not without Sienna having a profile picture. I’m just getting started. My laptop waits patiently on my nightstand.

  The smell of bacon distracts me. I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. First breakfast, and then I will get to work making the rest of my plan come to life.

  Shape-shifters are cool in stories. The forms they take are awe-inspiring, powerful, and vicious. The form I will take will be just as powerful. In its own way. My creature’s special power will be to make Jesse Santos feel vulnerable. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish my mission.

  Before I leave the room, I hear my phone buzz. I grab it to see texts from my sister. Usually, I text her on Friday nights or Saturday mornings, but I’ve been distracted. Veronica may be completely different than me, but we share a connection. She always worries when I’m just a little bit too quiet. And that evidently hasn’t changed, even with the distance between us.

  V: U THERE?

  V: HELLO????

  Taped above my desk is a picture of Veronica and me. I don’t remember where the picture was taken, but we’re both wearing bathing suits. I think I’m probably about ten, and she’s twelve. She is laughing with a mouth full of braces and holds me in her lap, my chubby bare legs hanging over her knees. Our eyes are the same dark brown color, and our skin is the same light brown color. I’m sure anyone could see we are sisters. But while my face is round and pudgy, her chin is more pointed. Her cheeks sharper. She looks directly into the camera, eyes crinkled with her smile, but I’m looking up at her. It was so apparent in my expression: I thought she was amazing. Still do.

  ME: SORRY. BEEN BUSY WITH SCHOOL.

  V: HOW IS KATY PURRY?


  ME: SHE HATES ME

  V: AWWWW. POOR KITTY.

  ME: WHAT ABOUT POOR ME????

  V: YOU’RE FINE

  ME: RIGHT. GOT TO GO. DAD IS COOKING BREAKFAST.

  V: SO JEALOUS. EAT SOME BACON FOR ME.

  ME: WILL DO

  V: AND CALL ME SOMETIME??

  I click off my phone and lay it facedown on the nightstand, then go downstairs and stick my head in the kitchen.

  My Filipino Californian dad is standing in front of the stove and my white Texan mom is sitting at the table. My sister’s seat is empty and I don’t want to think about that too much.

  My father’s entire family lives in California. My only interaction with them is the occasional vacation and the big family reunion every five years that features an overwhelming number of titas and titos. My dad was ecstatic when a Filipino restaurant opened in Fort Collins a couple of years ago. It didn’t make it, even though Dad tried his best to keep them in business. Now he just shops at the tiny Asian market located in a strip mall south of town and re-creates his family’s recipes as best he can, but he always complains about having to buy frozen lumpia instead of fresh ones like his mom made.

  “Good morning, Maisie,” my mom says, glancing up from her computer. Everyone says we look exactly alike, but I don’t see it. We both have the same thick brown hair, but Mom’s eyes are blue while mine are brown, and her skin is much lighter than mine. My mom’s family all lives near Houston and we don’t see them any more often than the California side of the family. Whenever my mom misses Texas, she puts on George Strait music and tries to get my dad to dance with her. She calls it “two-stepping” and my dad just laughs and waves her away. She says she’d never live back there again. Too hot and too many mosquitoes.

  “Hey, kid. Please put the plates on the table.” My dad’s greeting is quick and to the point. No kisses or hugs. On Saturdays, my dad cooks breakfast. Today, it’s waffles. He leaves the sizzling bacon long enough to pour a cupful of batter onto a waiting waffle maker, then squeezes the lid down on top. Instantly, steam slides out of the sides and I smile at the delicious aromas.

  Unfortunately for me, both my parents have short, round bodies that gave me a double dose of genetic punch. My dad fights his stomach with almost daily bouts of CrossFit. He looks young for his age, with a shaved head and a tribal tattoo that stretches around one large, beefy bicep. For as long as I can remember, my mom has embraced her size. Although she regularly walks a two-mile route every morning with a group of chatty neighbors, we all know she does it more for the social updates than the exercise. Mom also never lost her Texan true love of big hair and makeup even after living for years in nature-loving Colorado.

  I open the cabinets and take down the plates. Dad automatically moves to the side so I can pull out the silverware drawer. My sister was lucky enough to inherit Dad’s athletic passion. Her love is swimming and any sport with a ball. She may not be tall, but all that activity resulted in a strong, muscular body and the ability to eat anything she wants without gaining an ounce. V could wear every outfit I ever craved—prints, stripes, colors—but she will almost always opt for sweats and T-shirts. It’s a constant frustration. Being big never stopped me from appreciating the art of fashion, it just keeps me from participating.

  I think again about my waiting computer upstairs. I’m eager to get back to it and find the perfect profile picture for Sienna.

  “You’re going to have to put that away,” I tell my mom, nodding to her computer. We both know Dad’s rules about eating as a family and without distractions.

  She holds up a finger. “Just one second. I’m almost done.”

  Mom is a professor in the education department at Colorado State University, and midterm exams just hit her inbox. She’ll be in front of that computer grading for the next few days, oblivious to everything else. That means I won’t have to worry about her being nosy about my plans.

  I place plates, forks, and napkins on the table. I took out too many utensils. I’m used to being the younger sister, but now I am like an only child. Am I still a little sister when the big sister is gone? I don’t know how this works. Evidently, neither do my parents, because my father has made way too much bacon and my mom has carefully left my sister’s spot free of her work mess like there is an invisible bubble protecting the space. Being an only child sucks, but I didn’t know that until it happened.

  I take V’s plate and put it on the shelf. The bacon is done and Dad carefully lifts each piece off the griddle with a fork. Then he hands me a plateful to take back on the return trip.

  I sit down, putting the bacon in the middle of the table. Dad slides a waffle on my plate, then sets a jug of syrup down beside it. “Go ahead and eat this one while it’s hot. I have one for your mother cooking.”

  Mom picks up a piece of bacon, chewing thoughtfully. Her eyes never leave the screen.

  “I don’t know what to do with this student,” she says, shaking her head. “She’s deathly afraid of gnomes.”

  “Gnomes?” I repeat. “Like, the little guys? With the white beards and red hats?”

  She nods. “Yep. Garden gnomes.”

  “And that’s a problem because?” Dad asks, coming back over with Mom’s waffle.

  I can think of a lot of reasons why that might be a problem.

  “Apparently her thesis advisor is a collector of gnomes. Has them all over his room. Twenty-six total,” Mom says. “She counted.”

  I try to think if any of my teachers would collect gnomes, but the only one who comes to mind is my history teacher, Mrs. White, who reminds me of Professor Umbridge from Harry Potter. Mrs. White collects cats. Cat posters. Cat mugs. Cat ears (that she wears every time we take a test). Cat screen saver. Cat T-shirts. I don’t mind Mrs. White’s cat obsession. It just made things awkward when we studied the idea of stereotypes in literature and Hunter Inwood said, “Like single women who are crazy cat ladies?”

  What a jerk.

  My dad puts the freshly cooked waffle on Mom’s plate, then says firmly, “It is breakfast time. No computers.”

  Mom finally complies, moving the laptop and all her papers down to the floor. Dad slumps down into his chair with a loud sigh. I can tell he is in a bad mood, but then, everybody can tell when Dad is in a bad mood. And a good mood. My dad’s pretty transparent with his emotions. What you see is what you get. I would have noticed sooner, but my thoughts are occupied. My mind is upstairs, already racing toward my new identity.

  I put a couple of pieces of bacon on my plate and concentrate on carefully pouring the syrup on the waffle, trying to fill up each and every tiny little square to almost overflowing. I take a big bite and feel the warm sweetness explode in my mouth with every chew. Mmm. Katy Purry winds around my bare ankles and I push her gently away with one foot. She makes a small “me-owf” in irritated response, but it doesn’t faze her and I give up, ignoring the furry tickle at my toes.

  Unlike my father, I’m in a great mood. With the Lexi Singh news and my idea for getting back at Jesse Santos, the whole world has shifted. Such a big change since last night. Funny what a little hope and a big plan can do.

  “It could delay the project for up to six months,” my dad is saying to my mom, taking a sip from his coffee mug. Evidently the medical research project he’s worked on for the last three years is not going well.

  “You’ll figure it out,” Mom says.

  I scarf down the rest of my breakfast, and as soon as I’m done eating, I say, “Can I be excused? I have a ton of homework.”

  My mom nods, obviously distracted by her conversation with my dad. Perfect. I put my plate in the dishwasher and head upstairs, Katy Purry trailing along behind. I hear the murmur of my parents’ voices talking quietly from below until I close the bedroom door.

  Time to get to work.

  Believe it or not, you can research how to create a fake online profile … online. I sit on my bed with my laptop, and read through some good advice. Such as: Sienna
’s picture shouldn’t come from a commercial site, like a clothing retailer, just in case someone goes searching for it. The picture also needs to be a little amateurish to look like the real deal.

  So after doing some Google image searches, I realize that the models and actresses that come up aren’t going to be good options. I go back on ChitChat and click deeper and deeper into friends’ and families’ posts—further and further away from all the people I actually know in real life. Nobody seems right yet. I want to feel something special when I see her face. A connection.

  I don’t want her to look too pretty, but pretty enough to attract Jesse Santos’s attention. I’m not going to settle for the obvious. I know guys like girls who laugh a lot and wear perfectly applied eyeliner. Pouty pink lips are a must. But my creation is not going to be a knockout. Just cute and normal-looking. And she fits in everywhere. Sometimes she does really silly things, but she doesn’t care what people think.

  I’m already thinking of her as real.

  I take a long breath through my nose and blow it out through my mouth. Then, suddenly, I see her.

  The one.

  Sienna.

  Just like I imagined she’d look.

  The photo is a full-body shot of a girl posted on the profile of a woman who I don’t even know. The woman and I have one friend in common—my mom—but my mom never goes on ChitChat, so it barely counts.

  The girl in the photo is not skinny, but she’s not fat either. She has thick dark blonde hair that falls in loose curls around her shoulders. Full lips and magnetic smile. She poses with one hand on her hip and the other hand flung out toward the camera, fingers spread wide, as though she is telling the photographer to stop taking this gorgeous photo. But I can tell she’s just kidding by the wide smile on her face. She knows she doesn’t take a bad photo. There’s no reason to really stop.

  Her profile name says “Claire,” but that doesn’t matter. I click through to her profile and find a few more photos—one of her wearing a pair of huge shades, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, eating an ice-cream cone. Another where she’s hugging a brown dog and they are both looking adorably at the camera. Then there is one where she is obviously dressed up to go out. Her eye shadow is dark, her eyes lined, and her lips perfectly red. She is wearing a short, boho minidress and over-the-knee, buttery brown boots I would never be able to pull over my calves.