Ava’s eyes got wide. “I don’t want her to hurt you.”
Delilah was starting to feel clammy, but she tried not to show it. “Stop reading up on people. It’s all probably just hype, anyway. I’ve got it covered, okay?”
She shot her sister a confident smile. After a beat, Ava shrugged and turned for the hall. Only once she was gone did Delilah collapse on her bed, panic clamping down. Her life here hadn’t even begun yet, and it might already be ruined.
FIONA
Fiona perched at a large table with Chase; her mom, Dr. Rebecca Jacobs; and Martie, the writer of a blog called Chocolates and Faux Fur. The blog was a lifestyle/design/culture mashup that attracted the millennial/Gen Z audience Fiona was looking to capture as a brand-new actress on Like Me. Today’s interview was because the network was about to announce Fiona’s upcoming role as Kate, and they wanted to generate some pre-buzz. Fiona was speaking exclusively to this blog, and then she was going to be a guest on a wildly successful YouTuber’s channel, where they’d bake ugly, lumpy cookies and chat—that was the YouTuber’s thing. Tomorrow, she was scheduled to do an interview with Variety, the Hollywood Reporter, and Vanity Fair.
But maybe she shouldn’t be doing promo at all.
They were on the outdoor terrace at Soho House in West Hollywood. A waitress had just set down a kale salad at Fiona’s place. She eyed her mother’s avocado toast enviously, wishing she’d ordered that instead. No, it’s only kale for you, teased the Voice.
One, two, three taps of her napkin to her lips. Should she wash her hands again? She needed to count to twenty until she took a bite, too—or . . . or what? Something terrible would happen, obviously. Or had something terrible already happened? She felt her knee jiggling so wildly it verged on banging the underside of the table. Chase put his hand on her thigh to steady her. He was so good at calming her down.
“Anyway,” Martie said after swallowing a bite of veggie burger. “I love how down-to-earth you both are as a couple. So many young influencers hook up with other influencers and actors—it’s great that you’re dating someone not in the public eye, Fiona.”
“Well, just because Chase isn’t in the public eye doesn’t mean he’s not awesome.” Fiona leaned into Chase’s shoulder.
Martie looked intrigued. “Are you thinking of starting a career on social, too, Chase?”
Chase opened his mouth, about to answer, but Fiona cut him off. “Oh, no way. He sees what I go through, don’t you, babe? It’s not for the faint of heart.”
“That’s for sure!” Fiona’s mom jumped in.
Dr. Jacobs, who taught archaeology at UCLA, was still in her professor “uniform”: chinos, a button-down, and a blazer. Her blond hair was tied back into a ponytail, and her glasses were perched a little too far at the end of her nose, but she seemed oblivious to her lack of fashion sense, even though they were at one of the poshest private clubs in the city. Still, Fiona was glad her mom had taken the time out of her schedule to come. She’d love it if her dad was here, too, but he worked at a hospital on the other side of town, where he delivered babies. Actually, Chase’s mom was also an ob-gyn, which made for some weird dinner conversation when the families got together.
“This makes me sound old, but the things these kids share online—and how mature they are . . . it’s something,” Dr. Jacobs went on. “They’re worlds ahead of what I was doing at their age.”
“But you’re proud of what she’s accomplished, right?” Martie asked.
“Of course.” Fiona’s mom took a bite of toast. “I’ve always taught her to think for herself. When I was growing up, my mother always told me I should be a schoolteacher, not an archaeologist. That’s a man’s job. But I did it. And I’m going to let my kids do whatever they want, too.” Then she offered a sheepish smile. “Anyway. This interview isn’t about me.” She sat back as if to say, The floor is yours, Fiona.
“I just got done with junior year at Harvard-Westlake,” Chase volunteered, getting them back on track. “I’m hoping to go to UC Santa Barbara next year.”
“I’m so happy he’ll be close,” Fiona said, leaning on his shoulder.
Martie pushed her recording device closer. “You went to Harvard-Westlake for a while, too—right, Fiona? Before online school?” Fiona nodded. “That’s where you guys met?”
“That’s right,” Fiona said carefully, hoping the blogger wasn’t going to get into the gossip about her and Scarlet Leigh. Scarlet and Chase had only been dating for a few weeks before Chase and Fiona met. Still, Scarlet didn’t take being broken up with lightly . . . and she was the type who held grudges forever.
“Where were you before Harvard-Westlake?” Martie asked. “Another private school in LA?”
“Oh. Uh, no.” Fiona dissected a large piece of kale. “We were in Orange County.”
“Laguna Hills,” Fiona’s mom specified.
“Were you on social then?” Martie flipped through her notes. In moments, she was going to notice that Fiona’s accounts started three years ago; odd for a person her generation. Most girls her age started Instagramming practically as soon as they could type their own captions.
“Um, no.” Fiona could feel her nails digging into her palm. “I was an awkward tween. Overweight, unhappy, not confident . . .”
Martie looked shocked. “You?”
“She was lovely,” Fiona’s mom interjected. “Smart . . . driven . . . but it’s Orange County. People can be so superficial—and cruel. Especially girls.”
“I was bullied,” Fiona admitted. “It was tough.” You deserved it, teased the Voice.
Martie’s eyes crinkled with sympathy. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Fiona lifted her napkin again. Tap, tap, tap: three times to her lips. She knew Martie wanted her to talk more about this. Maybe about how Lana Hedges, her bully, used to call Fiona “Weeble Wobble,” referring to the kids’ toys of bulbous, legless, fat little people and animals. How Lana spread a rumor that Fiona wasn’t fat but actually pregnant with Janitor Carl’s baby—which was especially cruel because Janitor Carl was in his mid-fifties, cranky, and rumored to be a neo-Nazi. How, many times over the course of the school year, Fiona would open her locker and find red-painted tampons—she could smell the acrylic paint—spilling out.
Lana teased others, too, but Fiona didn’t want to associate with those girls—it would make what Lana was doing even more real. She regretted this now—maybe if she had banded with those other victims, they could have done something as a group. Told someone. Made a difference. But she kept her distance from the others. Until Zoey, anyway.
“Things were getting out of hand,” Fiona’s mom jumped in. “So we got her out of there. Put her in online school to finish eighth grade . . .”
“And my family moved to LA,” Fiona rushed on. “And after that . . . I don’t know. Something happened over the summer. I started eating better. Exercising. I started taking care of myself, you know?” No, you didn’t, teased the Voice. What actually happened is that you developed rituals. Stopped eating. Exercised nonstop.