“It’s on Twitter, too,” Judas continues. “And yo, the hashtag Roman and Jewel is trending. Jerz, it’s on all the social media networks. You’re viral.”
I double-check the number below the video, the one that tracks the amount of views. Two point five million?
I’m pacing now. Back and forth on the balcony. Me? Viral? A small smile creeps onto my face right at the moment a terrifying thought occurs. What if Cinny has seen this? This is worse than Black Panther being watched by second Black Panther. This is Black Panther being challenged on Challenge Day and thrown over the side of a cliff! How has this happened? Who’s responsible?!
“Judas, I’ll call you back.”
As I hang up and step back in through the window, my phone is ringing again. It’s Riley. I accept the call and hold up the phone. Riley’s sitting in a dugout, face covered in smears of dirt, blond hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.
“Riley? Are you at practice?”
“Nope.” She blows a bubble, and it fills up the screen before she sucks it back into her mouth. The sound of a large crowd cheering blares through my phone speakers.
“You’re at a game?!”
“Eh. Something like that.” She blows another bubble.
“Get off the fucking phone!” a male voice cries out.
“One sec, Coach!” She leans forward and whispers, “I should probably go. But, dude! How are you viral? My best friend is viral?” More cheers. Riley stands, staring out over the phone. “Nice hit, Kaitlyn!” She looks back at me. “Not that you’re any competition for Cinny’s video, but I mean, yours still has millions of views.”
“Cinny’s video?” I stop pacing and stare at the screen.
“Yeah. It’s obviously a publicity stunt.” She snorts. “Cuz she’s all over the place in her version. But it was funny. Made me laugh. Still like your version better.”
“Riley Powell!” the male voice screams over the roar of the crowd. “End that FaceTime call in one second or you die.”
“Coach is threatening my life. Gotta run. I’ll call you later!”
She ends the call. I sit slowly on the edge of the bed. Now I type in Roman and Jewel/Cinny into the YouTube search engine. The top video to pop up has seventy million views so far, and it was uploaded two hours ago, too. I click it...and cover my mouth with my shaking hand as I watch Cinny and Zeppelin performing “I Think I Remember You.”
It’s actually a montage of many of their rehearsals. Cinny falling on her ass. Cinny messing up. Cinny missing cues. Cinny singing the wrong note. It ends with today’s performance, where she trips over her own two feet and she and Zeppelin clunk heads.
Roman and Jewel Coming Soon scrolls across the screen.
“I Thought All for the Best”
After fifteen texts and twenty-something phone calls, Aunt Karla made her ride-share driver do a U-turn to bring her back home. She’s currently sitting on the couch, staring at her own phone, watching the viral video. When it finishes with the kiss, she looks up and grins.
“You didn’t tell me about the kiss, you little sneak.” She laughs.
My video was up to 3.5 million and Cinny’s was holding steady at ninety million before they were both removed from YouTube. But the videos were downloaded and reuploaded by other users, so they’re still everywhere. Vlogger videos have them embedded in their online dialogue. News outlets are playing the footage and discussing it. Cinny is trending on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, too.
The comments are brutal. It’s an online Cinny assassination. I’m scrolling through Twitter as I pace in front of Aunt Karla:
YogiLover: Cinny is Broadway gone K-mart #RomanAndJustStopSinging
Geranimo777: Dictionary definition of Cinny: WORST. #Ugh #GirlBYE
TaylorsSuperSwift: Listening to Cinny butcher Robert Christian Ruiz’s music is like eating vomit stew. Then throwing it up. #VomitSquared #MuteCinny
JohnnyBeGooder: What do you expect? With a dumb name like Cinny. Did anybody think she could actually sing?
Brett_GameofThongs: NYC officials are on high alert. Cinny is banned from even walking down Broadway. Let alone being on one of their stages. If you see her. TELL somebody!!!
“You need to stop reading that stuff.” Aunt Karla leans her head back on the couch. “It’s gonna give you a panic attack.”
She’s right. It is making me anxious. Especially because interspersed between the online Cinny dragging is praise and adulation for...well...me. It seems the internet knows how to research, because somewhere, somehow, the trolls have discovered that I, Jerzie Jhames, am cast as Cinny’s understudy:
GoGoGo_Joseph: If Cinny’s falling in a forest and nobody is around. Can we leave her there so Jerzie Jhames can take her job?
PickledBeets: Joke of the day: What did the understudy say to Cinny? You STINK. #Unemployment #MuteCinny #Jerzie-Jhames4EVA
WherezCarmenSandiego: Jerzie Jhames as the understudy for Cinny would be like Beyonce being the understudy for DocMcStuffins. #BroadwayFailway
MaryJanesHurtMyFeet: Poor Jerzie Jhames. Stuck in a Broadway nightmare. #WakeUpJerzieJhames
There’s more. Hundreds. Thousands of tweets. I toss my phone onto the couch so that it’s out of reach. “It’s today’s news. The internet’s gonna move on.” I look at Aunt Karla. “Right?”
“Do you want it to?” She grabs my phone and fiddles with it. “Yesterday you were holding steady at 114 followers on Instagram. Would you like to guess how many you have now?”
“I dunno. A thousand?”
“Girl, bye. Almost one hundred thousand.”
“Holy shit!” I cover my mouth with both hands.
Aunt Karla only laughs. I’d laugh with her, but all I can think about is Cinny. It shouldn’t be #WakeUpJerzieJhames trending, it should be #WakeUpCinny. If this is my dream come true, it’s her real-life nightmare.
“What’s gonna happen at work tomorrow? What if Cinny makes them fire me or something?”
“Fire you?” Aunt Karla repeats. “Why? It’s not your fault she’s getting dragged.”
The screen on my phone is lit up now. A call is coming through. I don’t recognize the number, but something says to answer it. I move to the couch, grab it off the cushion, and press the button to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Jerzie? It’s Alan Kaplan. I got permission to call you from your mom.”
Oh, God, no! I look at Aunt Karla with panic eyes. Worse than panic. Desperate, I’m-about-to-get-fired eyes. “It’s the director,” I whisper.