Queen of Likes (2 page)

Emergency? Me being on Snappypic is suddenly an emergency? On the opposite wall, a fire extinguisher hangs in a glass box. Now
that's
for real emergencies. Snappypic? Most people would be happy their daughter is that well-liked.

“I'm sorry to hear you have to leave.” Mrs. Steinberg pats Mom's shoulder sympathetically as if a relative is sick or something.

Dad tells Toby that he'll be right back, and soon enough, the three of us are in the entry hall, standing next to a basket full of programs. My parents glare at me as if I just robbed a bank.

Floyd pings inside Mom's purse. Another text or maybe a message on Snappypic. Maybe from Bailey. A few people chat on the other side of the entryway.

Dad gestures to the front entrance. “Let's go outside.”

Mom opens the door and I go to follow them, but Dad shakes his head. “We need to talk alone. Just for a bit.”

Through the glass doors, I see them conferring on the front patio. The sky is ice blue. A cool breeze makes the leaves on the bushes rustle, but there are no rain clouds in sight. Grimacing, Mom tucks her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ears. Their heads are bent down together, whispering furiously. What can they be saying? Mom turns and motions for me to come outside too.

I push open the door and join them. All at once, they sigh deeply, as if an unspeakable tragedy has just occurred.

I send out calming vibes. “What?” I ask.

My parents study me in this scary way, and I know I won't like what is coming next.

“You lied, Karma.” Mom's voice rises. “Are your . . . ‘fans' this important?”

“Followers. They're called followers,” I correct her. “Not that it matters,” I add hurriedly after seeing her face.

“This is what I know.” Mom slaps her hands on her hips. “You've lost our trust.”

Dad's face scrunches. “Karma, it was the middle of a bar mitzvah. You're going to be up there soon. And even if you weren't . . .” He trails off.

Mom shakes her head. “Your behavior is unacceptable. We've gone over this before. Many, many times.”

Dad ticks off a list on his fingers. “You're on Snappypic when you're supposed to be asleep. You're on it at dinner. You've been caught three times in class. We've given you lots of chances.”

“A thousand,” says Mom. “You don't pay attention to your brother anymore. You obviously weren't paying attention today, and—”

“Was too. Ask me anything about the bar mitzvah. I'll prove it.” I glance up at Dad, hoping he'll take my side on this. But he frowns, and his frown turns into a scowl as Mom's purse pings from my phone getting another message.

I wonder if that's Bailey again. I'm dying to find out what she wants.

Mom yanks Floyd out of her purse. She holds it in her hand like it's a hot potato. “I'm shutting this thing off.” My eyes pause on my screen. I can almost see who the text is from.

Almost. But Floyd is backward. My insides tighten. If I were a rubber band, I'd snap and whizz across the parking lot.

My raspberry blingy case glistens in the sunlight. Mom turns the phone off. I swallow hard. “Mom! You don't understand—”

“No, it's you who doesn't understand.” Mom's mouth becomes a hard line.

“So we've come up with a new punishment,” says Dad. “Something that will get your attention.”

Dad looks at Mom and Mom looks at Dad, and I can tell that they are a united front against me. “We're going to close your Snappypic account,” states Dad.

“What?” My stomach dips as if I've just dropped from the highest part of a roller coaster. I want to flop against the nearest car in the parking lot. “You can't do that. It's
my
account. It's private. You can't.” Every day I get smiley faces and hearts and balloons and
LIKES
. All of the time. Waking up and not being able to see what my followers are up to? Being totally cut off like that? My parents might as well send me to Antarctica because I'm going to be frozen out of everything. “This must be some kind of hallucination,” I say. “The parents I know would never do this to me!”

“Karma, I'm sorry,” says Mom. “But I think you are overreacting. You knew the rules.”

“Please.” I clasp my hands together. “Please, please.
Please
. I'll do anything. I'll babysit Toby as much as you want. I'll clean the house every single day. I'll make dinner. I'll—”

“It's a final decision,” says Dad.

“But I'm like . . . a professional. I have more followers than some companies.”

“Exactly our point, Karma,” says Mom. “You're not a company. You're our daughter and still a kid. And I don't really love this obsession of yours.”

The parking lot is practically spinning. “You just don't want me to grow up!” I fling up my arms. “Please,” I beg. “Don't do this.” My eyes water. In the past, my parents have taken away Floyd for a few hours, an afternoon, and even a weekend. But closing down my account? That's just plain cruel. “I need it! I have over ten thousand followers,” I plead to Dad, but he folds his arms in front of his tie and jacket.

I stare at Floyd as Mom grips him so hard her knuckles are white. “We're also taking this away.”

“What?!” I reel back. “How can I live without a phone? That's not fair!”

“We had an agreement, Karma,” Dad reminds me. “You got all
A
s and
B
s on your final report card last year, so you got your new iPhone. And you got Snappypic. But that also meant following rules. Like putting away your phone after nine. And no phone at the table, and . . .”

“It's not just about today,” adds Mom. “It's just gotten out of control. All you do, day and night, is go on that QuickiePic.”

“Snappypic!” I swallow hard.

That's when Toby pads into the parking lot, his tie totally askew.

“Toby! What you are doing here?” Mom says. “Please go back in there.” She points to the synagogue.

“I don't like being by myself,” he squeaks. By himself? There are hundreds of people inside.

“We'll only be a minute,” says Mom. “Go back inside and find your friends.”

“Honey, go back in the there,” says Dad. “I'll be there in a second.”

Mom kisses Toby on his forehead beneath his mess of curls. Toby reluctantly meanders back into the temple. Even outside, I can hear people cheering, applauding. They sound so happy.

They sound deafeningly happy, and I think I'm about to cry.

“Please,
please
! I'll do anything.”

Mom bites her bottom lip. And for a moment, she looks like Cool Mom, who once in a blue moon buys me not-on-sale shoes. She rubs her forehead and sighs. “For emergencies, we'll buy you one of those pay-as-you-go phones.”

“A flip phone? You've got to be kidding me!” Now the tears flow. Don't my parents get how rare it is at my age, at any age, to have 12,032 followers? Do they want me to go back to being Unknown and Unliked Karma, otherwise known as Bad Karma?

Mom stalks toward our car, gripping my phone so tightly in her hands it looks like it's about to liquefy. “This is going into hiding,” she calls out. “If you have good behavior, we'll consider giving it back to you sometime in the future.”

“Mom, don't!” I race after her into the parking lot. “Bailey—I have to message her! Give it back!” My heart thuds in my chest. I race up to try to peel it out of her hands.

“Not happening. I'm sorry, but you need a break from this.” And with that, Floyd disappears into Mom's purse.

My stats:

12,032 followers, but not for long

5,456 people I'm following, but also not for long

3 messages, probably from Bailey, that I can't respond to

2 fascist parents

1 doomed life ahead

Mood: Worst ever

I can't believe my Snappypic is gone. My parents destroyed it in a few quick swipes. There's no way I'm ever talking to my parents for the foreseeable future. It's Sunday, and I'm stuck doing dishes. I'm not sure what happened to Saturday since I spent the rest of the day after the parking lot disaster mostly in my room, in my bed, buried in my quilt. Well, I read a book. It's not like I could call anyone, since I have no phone. It's not like I could see anyone, since I'm grounded. Later this afternoon, Dad's buying me a pay-as-you-go phone. But that doesn't count.

I grab a dish out of the sink. It's coated with something crusty and yellow. Probably eggs, judging from the shell in the sink. No matter how hard the water spurts out, the yellow mess clings to the plate like an egg leech, not letting go. I'm forced to get out the sponge and rub, not with the soft side but with the rough side. With every ounce of strength, I erase the egg off the plate. I think of my Snappypic. It's gone just like the egg.

In the nearby family room, Toby's laughing. He's watching his favorite show,
Bunny Rangers
, or something like that. I rinse off the plate. I think about all my lost comments. All my photos. All my
LIKES
on Snappypic down the drain.

Grabbing the plate, I dry it with a checkered dish towel. My hand rubs in a circle so fast the plate heats up. It's so hot that maybe it will combust. Right now, I'm spinning. Maybe I'll combust too.

I really, really want to talk to Ella. I need my best friend. Now. My hand reaches for the phone next to the pencil canister, but it's not there. Right. Three weeks ago, in a money-saving move, Mom got rid of our landline. I can't believe it. Why didn't she choose the stupid dishwasher? I don't need a clean plate. I need Ella.

Taking some mugs out of the sink, I imagine my life tomorrow at Merton Middle School. I flip the mugs upside down and wedge them into the top rack. Tomorrow, will anyone say anything to me about my Snappypic being gone?

No. It's Sunday. They won't notice. Lots of kids don't post on Sunday. Or they're away for the weekend. But what about Bailey? I'm going to see her on Monday, and she's going to think I blew her off.

I grab a couple of bowls and try to balance them on the rack. I hate putting in the bowls. They never quite fit.

So tomorrow I can almost pretend it's a normal day. Ella will be at school. Just thinking about telling my best friend makes me feel a little less horrible. Ella always knows how to make me feel better. One time when I was feeling down, she made me open up a present. When I unwrapped it, there was a box. And then another box. And another. And then inside the smallest box there was a paper rainbow heart. And on it, in calligraphy, she had written,
Karma Cooper is the best BFF.

I can't wait to see Ella. That's going to be the only good thing about Monday.

My stats:

0 followers

0 people I'm following

0 friends I can call

0 friends I can visit

2 parents I'm not speaking to

1 Monday ahead

Mood: Very frustrated with the injustice of my parents!

Sixth, seventh, and eighth graders stand over by the morning drop-off circle, milling about, laughing, and talking to each other. But most kids haven't arrived yet since the first bell won't ring for another fifteen minutes.

I wave at Ella, who stands by our meet-up spot next to the water fountain.

“Hey,” she asks, walking toward me. “You didn't answer my texts this weekend. Something wrong?”

“Um, yeah. Something hashtag
huge
. Something horrendously huge.” I raise my voice over the shouts of good-byes from parents in their vans and SUVs as their kids spill out.

“What?” She shrugs off a long-sleeved shirt to reveal a much tighter cropped one underneath. Her mother would die if she saw it. “Did your phone fall into the toilet?”