Chapter 26 Summer
TWENTY-SIX
SUMMER
My stomach goes cold. “What?”
She hesitates. “You know, if you haven’t seen it, maybe you should keep it that way...”
“Send it, I need to see!”
She sighs. “Fine, but only so you don’t go looking for it. Don’t name-search yourself right now, okay?”
My phone flashes with a link. I open it. The headline blares up at me.
The Summer Faye Effect: What is Social Media Doing to Young Women?
Underneath it is a screengrab from the video of me crying.
The article is by The Grand Chronicle. That’s not some trashy internet publication. It’s a real newspaper. Everyone will see this. My mum will see it.
No. No, no, no. I start skimming the article, my heart thumping painfully.
If you’ve been online in the past week, you’ll surely have seen it: the video of fashion influencer Summer Faye on her knees in a bathroom, sobbing over a broken lipstick.
The video has gone mega viral, racking up over twenty-five million views.
You might assume Faye is yet another nepo baby or A-lister’s daughter, but scrolling back through her feed tells a different story.
In fact, just three years ago, Faye was an aspiring fashion designer working two jobs to make ends meet. Her first videos depict her altering secondhand clothes purchased for cheap. Her outfits are quirky and original. She could be any talented fashion student.
Nowadays, she’s become a billboard for designer brands.
Gone are her unique looks and secondhand finds.
These days, she poses for the same bland labels that appear on everyone else’s feed.
She coos over glittery eyeshadows and “obsesses” over the latest skincare trend.
Faye has clearly mastered the art of becoming whatever she needs to be to be liked by the masses, with the unfortunate side effect of ironing out anything that was ever interesting about herself.
But how does this happen? How did a hardworking fashion student on the rise become a spoiled brat who sobs in public over her makeup? And what does her story have to tell us about the young women who watch influencers just like her every day?
“Don’t bother reading it,” Lulu snarls. “It’s all a bunch of drivel.
They’re basically blaming ‘superficial female influencers’ for the collapse of society.
Sure, the world is going to hell in a handbasket, but God forbid a woman get paid to promote clothes and makeup, right?
I swear to God, why these people will never realise influencing is literally just a marketing job is beyond me—”
I tune her out, rereading the words over and over again:
Faye has clearly mastered the art of becoming whatever she needs to be to be liked by the masses.
I feel dizzy. “What do I do?”
“We’ll need to switch gears. You have to apologise. Clearly ignoring it isn’t working.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll apologise.” My throat feels thick. “Er…for crying?”
“Do you want to just be honest and say ‘I’m neurodivergent and sometimes get overwhelmed, especially when I’m in Bryce’s horrible stinky hovel,’ or whatever?”
“No,” I say immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Are you sure? I know you haven’t told anyone, but it might be a good time…”
I shake my head. “People will think I’m making an excuse.”
“But—”
My voice raises. “They won’t get it, Lulu. Trust me.”
I remember trying to explain the awful feeling of being overwhelmed to my mum or the teachers at school.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I just knew that my brain felt like it was on fire, and I was trapped inside it with no way out.
It didn’t matter how genuinely distressed I was, no one empathised.
In fact, the more upset I was, the more they’d tell me I was overdramatic and whiny.
I eventually learned to just hide away or plaster on a smile.
Lulu sighs. “All right, then. Get in your Notes app, say you won’t burst into tears the next time you hit pan on your eyeshadow, and then keep posting as normal. I’ve racked up some favours from other influencers, I’ll see if they can step in and defend you.”
“Okay,” I say in a small voice.
“And another thing. We’ve had quite a few sponsorships drop in the last twelve hours.”
I close my eyes. I already know what she’s going to say. “Icons Only?”
“No news from them yet.”
Yet. But they could drop me at any time.
There’s some chatter in the background. Lulu swears. “Look, I have to go. I’ll send you a draft for the apology in an hour, okay?”
“No,” I say. “It’s my apology. I’ll write it.”
“Okay. Call me before you post it. And please remember that even though you are apologising, crying in a bathroom isn’t actually a crime, okay? Breathe. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I croak, then hang up. With shaking hands, I open the video of me crying. The comments are a nightmare.
Came here from the Chronicle article. Disgraceful.
If she were my daughter, I’d have a lot to say to her
How has society come to this? I don’t want my little girl looking up to people like this.
What a stupid bitch
I close my eyes. A hurricane of emotion is rising up inside of me. I try to shove it down, to lock it inside its mental box, but it just builds, getting bigger and bigger—
There’s a knock on the door, and I jump as Cameron stalks in. He picks up his jacket from the floor and does a double take when he sees me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all!” I give him a bright smile. My hands are sweating.
“You look like a Stepford wife when you do that,” he mutters. “Me and Fraser are starting work. See you later.”
I nod like a bobblehead. “Okay, see you!”
He leaves, and I sink back onto the bed. I need to write an apology.
It takes me two hours of going back and forth with Lulu to craft something that feels okay. I chew my lip as I reread it for the millionth time.
Hey everyone!
I’m sure by now, a lot of you have seen the video of me crying at a party last week. I’m really embarrassed and ashamed about getting upset over something so trivial. I’ve been very overwhelmed with work recently, but that’s not an excuse. I promise I’ll do better in the future.
All my love,
Summer xxx
I run it through online spell-checks ten times. Send it to Lulu, who gives it a thumbs-up. I load it up in my Picturegram drafts, but I’m too scared to hit post. I pace up and down the room, scrolling mindlessly through my feed while I try to build up the courage.
I don’t know what I’ll do when my mum sees the article. She’ll hate me.
“Summer.”
I spin. Alec is in the doorway. He’s dressed in business clothes—fancy slacks and a pressed blue shirt. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s had his hands in it.
His expression is cold, and I die a bit inside. Did he hear me last night? Does he know what I did?
“I need to make a video call with a prospective buyer,” he says roughly, not looking me in the eye.
“You’re slowing the streaming speeds. I understand you’re—” His eyes flick to my phone.
On my screen, someone is twerking to a Doja Cat song.
“I understand you’re working,” he says coolly.
“But if you could stay off the Wi-Fi until I’m done, that would be helpful. ”
Oh God. I’m interrupting vital farm work with my twerking videos. “Okay, sorry! I just need to post something real quick…” I stab post on my apology. “There. I’ll put my phone on airplane mode until you’re done.” I do it immediately and show him the screen.
He doesn’t respond. His eyes travel over me, taking in Cameron’s jumper. I smile, trying to look incredibly innocent and like I didn’t have my brain shagged out by his two best friends a few hours earlier.
“Thank you,” he says stiffly. “That’s kind of you.” He disappears again, and I flop back onto the bed.
He knows. He totally knows, and now he hates me, like everyone else. I look down at my phone. Normally, after I post something, I’m glued to it for hours, frantically watching the likes and comments roll in, but I guess I can’t today.
I hope the apology is enough. I’m so tired of this mess. My entire body is jittery with energy.
I take a deep breath and get up. I need a distraction, or I’m going to lose it. Hopefully, Fraser and Cameron won’t mind some company.