Just for Clicks Read online

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Drive

  Eagle, ID 83616

  amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kara McDowell

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McDowell, Kara J., author.

  Title: Just for clicks / Kara J. McDowell.

  Description: Idaho : Amberjack Publishing, [2019] | Summary: “Twin sisters Claire and Poppy are accidental social media stars thanks to Mom going viral when they were babies. But what happens when, as teens, they’re expected to contribute by building their own brand?”-- Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2018037088 (print) | LCCN 2018043149 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948705233 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948705196 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Social media--Fiction. | Celebrities--Fiction. | Sisters--Fiction. | Twins--Fiction. | Mothers and daughters--Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M43452 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.M43452 Jus 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018037088

  To Scott

  The boy who inspired the first book I ever wrote

  I need a balcony. Maybe a trellis, ivy-covered or otherwise. A sturdy drainpipe positioned just outside my window would work too. Or a single-story home. Unfortunately for me, I haven’t been blessed with any of those things. Despite what people say online, I’m obviously not “Teenage Goals.”

  I gently nudge open my bedroom door, flip-flops in hand, and hold my breath. I’m listening for any sound other than my neighbor’s yapping beagle. A shaft of early morning sunlight spills across the hall, illuminating my escape route. It’s not ideal. Why couldn’t my existential crisis and accompanying need to flee happen under the cover of darkness?

  The dog mercifully stops barking, and a stillness settles over the house, interrupted only by dust motes dancing in the light. I gingerly step out of my room and tiptoe toward the stairs. As I place my foot on the top step, the silence is disrupted by the muffled sound of a shower turning on. My heart sputters in response before realizing it’s a good sign. At least one person in this house is otherwise occupied.

  Sneaking out was not on today’s agenda. At least not on the one Mom sent before I went to bed last night, which had 6:30–7:30 reserved for “outfit photos.” It’s repetitive but not excruciating work, and it’s usually easier to comply than complain. But my grimace-and-bear-it attitude has resulted in a lot of outfit photos.

  To be more specific, some troll is claiming there are more pictures of me online than works of art on display in the Louvre.

  Just when I thought I’d read every insane comment the internet had to offer, DixonDummies16 claims my image is pervasive enough to fill the world’s largest art museum. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever read about myself, which is saying something. Apparently, I had a boob job last fall (sure . . . if puberty is another term for boob job), my calves flow directly into my feet in a situation that can only be described as “cankles,” and there’s a small but devoted faction of people who believe my twin sister and I aren’t really related.

  I sneak down the staircase as quickly and quietly as the marble flooring will allow, only to get smacked in the face by the large portrait umbrella that my mother uses to light the room during photoshoots. The warm, metallic taste of blood floods my mouth. I hold my fingers to my lip to stop the bleeding and wind my way through a maze of portable garment racks, stepping over piles of boots, wedges, and stilettos on my way to the front door. When I reach it, I allow myself a silent victory dance, which is interrupted by the sound of my stomach growling.

  Traitor.

  My fingers pause briefly on the door handle as I weigh the pros and cons of skipping breakfast. Pro—I’ll definitely get out of the house unnoticed and will have an extra hour at the library to research colleges. Con—if I don’t eat something now, I’ll be hangry by first period. It’s not even a choice, I realize with a sigh, and tiptoe back through the haute couture obstacle course and into the kitchen. I slip into the pantry for a granola bar and am enjoying a peanut buttery bite when the silence is pierced by the all too familiar sound of a garment bag unzipping.

  “Claire!” Mom’s usual morning cheer is laced with intensity. I shove the rest of the granola bar in my mouth and brace myself for whatever I’m about to see. When I turn around, Mom is holding a ten-thousand-dollar evening gown.

  “Look what came!” She brandishes the blush-pink dress with a flourish. I point to my full mouth, making slow, exaggerated chewing motions in order to buy myself time.

  “Let’s get it on you!” She drapes the gown across my arms and steers me toward the bathroom.

  I choke down the granola bar and try to shove the gown back into her arms. “Poppy should wear this one.”

  “It’s your size!” She refuses to take it back.

  “Perfect! That means it’s Poppy’s size too!” Mom made sure of that, after a humiliating experience at New York Fashion Week three years ago.

  “It’s too short for Poppy. Wait! What happened to your lip?” She furrows her brow in concern. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. We’re just doing test shots today.” She gives me a final push across the bathroom threshold and shuts the door firmly behind me.

  “Thanks for your concern,” I mumble as I shimmy out of my jeans and T-shirt.

  “It’s a reimagined version of the one you wore on your first birthday.” Her voice is loud, even though the door.

  “I know.”

  “I should show you the pictures. You girls looked like princesses!”

  “I’ve seen the pictures.” If I had a dollar for every time I’d seen the pictures, I could buy this gown—and burn it.

  The dress has long sleeves and a high neck, with rosette appliqués on the bodice. I open the door and turn, lifting my hair off my neck so Mom can do up the buttons in the back. The final one tightens around my neck like a noose. When she’s done, I turn around to face her.

  “Oh, Claire.” Instant tears.

  “I’m out.” Desperate for breathing room, I stick my finger between the collar and my neck and lunge for the bathroom door.

  “No! I need to see what it looks like on camera.” She directs me to the base of the large staircase and fiddles with the lighting.

  Eleven months. I repeat the words to myself as Mom twirls me around the room like a prop, looking for the most flattering angle. Eleven more months of this, and my term is up. I’ve survived this long, I can do eleven more months.

  Eventually I’m able to make a break for the kitchen and throw together a smoothie for second breakfast. Back in the front room, I drape a towel across my lap to protect Allegra Esposito’s hand-stitching from green smoothie stains and watch my employer in action.

  Mom is standing behind the light umbrellas, scrolling through images on her camera with pursed lips. It’s a classic Ashley Dixon pose. Her deep auburn hair falls into her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, where she has a small sprinkling of freckles. She doesn’t have as many freckles as I do, but then again, no one does.

  “Ale
xa, how many works of art are on display in the Louvre?” I direct my question at the smart speaker sitting on a side table across the room.

  “The Musée de Louvre displays thirty-five thousand works over eight curatorial departments.” The cool, female voice sounds almost smug, as if she’s proud of herself for finding the answer. Her tone displays none of the horror the response deserves.

  Thirty-five thousand. If there are that many pictures of me, there are at least that many of my twin sister, Poppy. Despite the obvious discrepancy in comments and likes, Mom has always been really careful to keep our numbers even. She says it’s because she loves us equally, but I think it’s to keep the fans happy. It wouldn’t be good for business if people thought she preferred one of her daughters over the other.

  The fans are the only ones allowed to pick favorites.

  “Are we done here?” I ask, desperate for a distraction. My brain keeps trying to divide thirty-five-thousand by my seventeen years of age to figure out how many pictures that averages per year. I don’t have to do the math to know the number is Stephen King–level horrifying.

  Mom checks the time on her watch and nods. “How are you and Poppy doing on your latest vlog?”

  As if she’s been summoned, a loud shriek pierces the air. My twin sister bounds down the stairs, phone in hand. “You will never believe what just happened!” Her victory dance looks a lot like mine did only an hour ago, only louder. She thrusts her phone at Mom, who glances at the screen and matches Poppy’s squeal with an even louder one.

  “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Poppy tosses the phone into my lap. “We just reached one million subscribers!”

  “Wait, really?” I look at her phone, which is open to our online video channel. Below our latest video (Five Totally Cute Outfits That Are as Comfortable as Pajamas) is a little box that says SUBSCRIBERS: 1 million. Poppy has been waiting for this moment for a long time, but my stomach lurches uncomfortably.

  “This is amazing!” Poppy’s fingers are already flying over her phone, probably sending excited texts to her friends. Mom is also eager to share the news and leaves the room in a hurry.

  I pick up my smoothie and take a slow sip.

  Poppy watches me for several long seconds. “Aren’t you happy?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I lie. When Poppy and I branched out from Mom’s blog and started our own brand, we both wanted the same thing. Followers, fame, fortune. Influence, as Poppy always calls it. We were on the same train hurtling toward our future, but somewhere along the way I jumped off, and Poppy hasn’t realized it yet. And I haven’t worked up the nerve to tell her.

  Mom sticks her head around the corner. “Claire didn’t answer me. How’s the vlog going?”

  “I mean . . .” Poppy flicks her eyes in my direction. “Not great.”

  Mom sighs and walks into the room. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m sick of doing hair tutorials,” I say.

  “That’s because you’re not as ‘hair goals’ as I am,” Poppy says, referencing the many “goals” comments that populate our YouTube channel. When we have good hair, we’re “hair goals.” When we take a cute picture together, we’re “sister goals.” Travel goals, mom goals, life goals. You name it, someone will find a way to envy us for it.

  “We have the same hair, genius,” I say, even though it’s not totally true. We’re fraternal twins, which means we look no more alike than any other sisters. We both have thick hair that falls past our shoulder blades; hers is a warm brown, mine is almost black. But still, Poppy’s right about the viewers’ comments, and it stings. No matter what I do, mine doesn’t shine quite like hers, nor does it achieve the magical state between undone and trying-to-hard.

  “I don’t want to do another tutorial because I lose an IQ point every time I’m forced to braid my hair on camera.” I turn to Mom for backup, though a lifetime of experience has taught me she’s an unlikely ally. “Can we please do something else this time?”

  “How about a Q&A session with your fans, as a thank-you for reaching one million.

  Well, my plan backfired. I was hoping to buy us an extension, not swap out the tutorial for an extended interaction with people I don’t know.

  Poppy quickly agrees. Damn people pleaser. Mom disappears into the next room and I turn to my sister. “Some creep on the internet claims there are more pictures of us online than works of art on display in the Louvre.”

  She smiles, clearly amused. “I thought you quit reading the comments?”

  I did.” It’s a lie, but not a big one.

  “Sure you did.”

  “Seriously though. Doesn’t that make you think?”

  The smile on her face blossoms into a wicked grin. “Yeah. It makes me think the Mona Lisa has nothing on us.”

  I roll my eyes and take another drink of my smoothie. “As soon as I go to college, you and Mona can duke it out over who’s more famous.”

  “It’s not about fame, it’s about influence.”

  There it is again. Poppy’s buzz word. “Of course.”

  Her face falls. “Are you really ready to give all this up?” She gestures to my over-the-top gown, and then spreads her arms to include the entire room, which is overflowing with free clothes and camera equipment.

  My answer is delayed by a beep. I flinch, an old reflex from when my phone used to notify me about vlog comments. I turned off that feature months ago, but sometimes the sound still catches me off guard.

  “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

  Email from Mom

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Tomorrow’s Agenda

  6:30-7:30—Outfit photos (test shots with your new Esposito gowns)

  8:00-3:00—School

  3:00-4:30—Swim practice (Poppy), Respond to vlog comments (Claire)

  5:30—Family dinner

  7:00-8:00—Finish filming and editing hair tutorial

  P.S. There’s a problem with my site! Photos are taking way too long to load. Claire, I need you to look at it ASAP.

  Twenty minutes later, I pull into the school parking lot behind Poppy. As usual, we’re cutting it close on time. We find two empty spots near the back of the lot between a rusty pickup whose bed is filled with empty Slurpee cups, and a first-generation Prius. Before I quit the swim team, we drove together, but driving by myself isn’t so bad. Perk one of quitting the team: controlling the music. Perk two: no longer hanging out with people who secretly hate me.

  It’s bright and clear outside, and the sun is doing its job a little too well for a September morning. Instinctively, I hold my breath, but the still air means the smell of the dairy farm hasn’t reached this far north.

  When we reach the front door of Highland High School, I hold it open for Poppy. Instead of walking through, she sticks her hand in her pocket and comes up empty. “Do you have Chapstick?”

  “I think so.” I prop the door open against my back and begin to rummage inside my bag. One by one, I pull out things that aren’t Chapstick: lip gloss, calculator, my phone, water bottle, a book.

  “One day, you’re going to need to find something quickly in there, and you’ll hear my voice telling you not to be such a slob.”

  I ignore her and keep looking. By this time my left hand is completely full of, well, junk, and I still can’t find my Chapstick. I sigh and try to shift everything from my left hand to my right. As I bend forward, I let go of the door a little bit and it slams against my back. Everything goes flying out of my hands. Lip gloss and calculator land at my feet. A bookmark falls out of my copy of Know Your Onions —Graphic Design. My water bottle rolls down the cement steps and my phone goes clunking after it.

  My phone! Poppy and I race toward it, but Poppy gets there first. She gasps as she picks it up and that’s when I know it’s gone.

  “Uh-oh.” She hands it to me, her face fu
ll of sympathy. “That really sucks.”

  It really does. “Now I’ll have no way of knowing when we hit one-million-and-one.” The sarcasm is thick in my voice as I chuck the device with its shattered screen into the depths of my purse.

  “I’ll let you know.” She helps me gather the rest of my belongings as the first bell rings.

  The morning passes slowly. In between classes my hand reaches into my bag no less than half a dozen times before I remember my phone is dead and gone, six feet under a pile of crap. It’s not a huge problem until I’m sitting alone at my usual lunch table, waiting for Poppy and Olivia. When they don’t show up after a couple of minutes, self-consciousness spreads across my skin like a virus. There are worse things than eating alone, but with no one to talk to, my hands get restless. I pull my phone out of my bag yet again, and stare at the screen, pretending to read something riveting. It doesn’t help. Now I feel dumber than before, and I’m positive someone is going to notice the broken glass spiderwebbing itself across my screen. I drop it back into my bag with a sigh.

  The general sounds of laughter and talking and scraping chairs are pierced by a familiar high-pitched cackle. Emily and Erica sweep past me, but now that we aren’t on the swim team together, they don’t so much as glance in my direction. Paranoia creeps into my brain, and I remind myself that just because they’re laughing does not mean they’re laughing at me. I reach into my bag again, and pull out my book.

  Someone loudly clanks into the seat across from me.

  “Finally.” I look up into the dark eyes of a boy who is definitely not my sister.

  “My thoughts exactly.” He smiles, plucks a tortilla chip off my plate, and pops it into his mouth. He has light brown skin and dark brown hair that’s styled in an undercut; shaved on the sides and long on top, it sticks up in every direction. It’s a haphazard and supposedly effortless look that is never an accident, just like the messy buns that take me ten minutes to get right.

  The book slips from my fingers and clunks against the table. I snatch it against my chest as I stare at his flawless hair, wondering why I haven’t seen him before.