Selfie

Selfie Read Free Page B

Book: Selfie Read Free
Author: Amy Lane
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feral. My prized cheekbones threw the thinness of my face into stark relief.
    I stared at my own image for a few wordless seconds before it hit me.
    “What am I doing? And why isn’t there any sound?”
    “There’s no sound through the entire thing,” Jillian said irritably. “Did Vinnie not show you how to work the damned camera?”
    I gaped at her, and then I gaped at the computer, because no. No, he had not.
    I was actually grateful as I watched what followed.
    If you asked me on any given day what the worst part of this video was, I’d give you a different answer on each and every different day. I could point out the fact that my eyes were half-mast and my mouth kept opening while I stared at the ceiling in between sentences. I could say it was the beginning sequence when I seemed to be just yelling incoherently at the camera, one hand on my cocked hip, one hand waggling my index finger like a teacher drunk on his or her own power.
    But it was obvious that I wasn’t drunk on power.
    My tirade, whatever it had been, ended, and apparently it was time to fly. Yes, fly—flap my arms and run around the kitchen and pretend to be an airplane or a condor or a butterfly or what the fuck ever—I was gonna fucking achieve liftoff and zoom overhead, I just knew I was . . .
    Right until I face-planted, arms outstretched, on the couch.
    “Wow,” Jillian said, like she was impressed.
    “Wow, that’s the end?” I prayed.
    “No, wow, I can’t believe your luck that you missed the floor. And you only wish that was the end.”
    I looked at the counter below the frame.
    “ Seven minutes ?” Of which we were apparently only two minutes in. It went on. There was the Batusi and the bunny hop. At one point I was singing—obviously singing—head back, belting it out. I tried to read my own lips for a moment, before I gave up.
    “‘Sloop John B,’” Jillian said without glancing at me.
    “What?” I could not seem to look away from the . . . the train wreck of my life, on display for YouTube viewers everywhere. Oh Jesus. I had over five hundred thousand hits, and it was less than twelve hours old.
    “It’s what you’re singing. See? Right here, you can see that last part.” Oh yeah. It was clear I wanted to go home.
    “Oh!” And then, as a capper to the madness, we both sang along with my silent movie self as the timer counted off twenty more seconds of my career-dissipation light.
    Holy fuck.
    And then . . . Oh God. On the screen I was sitting on the couch, one ankle crossed philosophically over one knee, leaning on my elbow and talking earnestly to the camera.
    And then . . .
    “Turn it off,” I said thickly.
    “No.”
    I’d pulled up a picture on my phone and was showing it to the camera. It was nothing incriminating, just me and Vinnie, standing on my balcony, leaning back against the railing, sunglasses on, our faces toward the sun.
    We looked so happy.
    The other me, the skinny, drunk, pathetic me, just broke down and cried.
    Then that same guy stood up and drew really close, so close you could see my rib cage through my tank top, so close the frame went black.
    Jillian and I slumped in the desk chairs, while I thought of something to say.
    “I’m sorry, Jilly,” I managed after a moment.
    “It’s my fault,” she said quietly. “I thought you were okay. You said you needed time to grieve, I said sure—that’s what I did. Gave you time to grieve. I didn’t realize you were here, all alone. You weren’t getting better. You were just . . .”
    “Just being sad,” I said, closing my eyes. Behind them I could see that icky, rainy May morning we’d gotten back from the funeral, when Jillian had come inside and helped me eat, and I’d told her I just needed time.
    There might not be enough time in the world.
    “Well, you had a right.” She clasped my hand. “I was sad—I don’t know if that helps, but I was sad as fuck. You remember when I called Christmas Eve?”
    I nodded. I’d been alone,

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