Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Mina
One month later
Am I a dirty person? No—not as a lifestyle. Sexually? In theory, but not in practice.
Am I a tidy person? On a good day, eh. On a bad day, Marie Kondo couldn’t save me. But with my current hobby/project/passion/questionable life choice? I need to be put down.
It’s so messy that my head is pounding, and I can hear fucking colors.
My foot catches on another bag of clothes on the floor, and I almost land flat on my face.
Great. Just great. I love living in this hellhole of my own making.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I stand in the middle of the bedroom, taking deep, calming breaths that my high school counselor would be proud of before reopening them and wishing I could boot myself back into make-believe land.
Nope. Not looking. This bomb site doesn’t exist. It’s all in my head.
I trip again and nearly scream in frustration. What is it this time? Clothes from a drop-ship site? My will to live—that would be nice to find, actually.
It’ll all be worth it, I remind myself. Not that I know for certain it will be. Or if anything will come of this.
What I do know is that the sooner I take pictures in the clothes, the sooner I can return them, and I can live life in luxury by consuming something other than instant noodles and shitty store-brand cereal. Because, as it turns out, my in with the Duvals is really expensive to achieve.
As in, my savings have dried up.
If I’d put my two brain cells together, I would’ve realized sooner that reaching my goals involves buying a whole new wardrobe—several times over—and starting a social media platform from the ground up.
Which, unsurprisingly, is basically a full-time job—where the pay is abysmal to none, there are no benefits, no health insurance, and in exchange I lose my sanity.
Huffing, I drop onto my bed and hear my wallet screech in the distance as my laptop skitters to the edge of the mattress. If someone is praying for my downfall, the gods are going through their backlog today.
I click between YouTube and Lightroom. This is all so tedious. I want to be sedated. I experience a whopping zero amount of joy living in Adobe, inputting a bunch of random numbers in the slider, and hoping that the image doesn’t turn into utter shit. Graphic design is not my passion.
Whatever. It must be done. The potential federal offense must go on—or whatever the saying is.
I snatch my phone off the duvet and open up Instagram to check on my two new accounts.
Jasmina Santos Mendoza. That’s my full name.
The book world knows me as JT Santos—or Tee, as most people in the writing world call me.
Sabrina Duval and the fifteen thousand follower bots and human followers I amassed over the past month know me as Tala Mendoza: rising fashion influencer.
Hence the clothes strewn all over my room, and my near-empty bank account—and the countless hours I’ve spent taking photos, editing videos, upping engagement, scouring the internet for clothes, wading through the trenches of Pinterest, and hysterically sobbing thanks to body dysmorphia and my inability to not compare myself to literal models.
It’s exhausting, and my endometriosis is hating me for not napping 24/7 even though I’m not on my period. Tucking the hot water bottle against my abdomen, I have to take another nice, tense, calming breath at the picture Sabrina sent me of her latest purchase.
Cool. When it rains, it pours.
I know for a fact that the blouse costs more than what I make in a week. I aspire to have her level of financial freedom.
It takes every ounce of energy I have to pull myself upright so I can snap a picture of the skirt closest to me and reply:
Mina: I just bought this. Now imagine it with lace tights, socks, and loafers.
Her response is instant. It’s like I can’t catch a break.
Sabrina: OMG! YES. You better wear a knit vest with it. OOH or a little harness???
She’s the loveliest person I’ve ever interacted with.
I used to feel guilty about conning her into becoming my friend, but I haven’t completely lied to her.
Tala is what I called myself for the first ten years of my life because I liked it better than my real name.
She doesn’t need to know that I’m an author. Or that most of my followers are bots.
Or that I made this entire account just for her.
Admittedly, it wasn’t hard to get into her good graces, or get my feed up and running to a standard that might be worthy of her attention. Still, our relationship is very much surface level. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about anything other than clothes.
My initial theory was that if I got close enough to her, she’d start inviting me places, and eventually I’d cross paths with Leo. All this pain, money, suffering, and anguish will be worth it. But just in case it doesn’t get me anywhere, I have another plan.
I switch to my other account and double-check that the scheduled post has gone out.
This profile is just for Leo.
Jas Manalo, my other alter ego—next time I’m dragged to church, I’ll be sure to thank my uncle-in-law for letting me borrow his last name.
The page loads. Right at the top is an image of my hip dips in a pair of boy shorts with my cybersigilism tattoo peeking out over the top. I never show my full face—beyond a flash of my septum piercing and silver ear climbers. But everything else is fair game, should my self-esteem permit.
Gone is the author who darkened his digital doorstep. No, Jas, the internet personality who shows a lot of skin on her feed, and who loves hockey, slid into his DMs this morning.
I open my inbox and stare at the message I sent him as Jas.
Mina: You strike me as the type of guy whose guilty pleasure is listening to Pierce the Veil’s Collide With The Sky album. Specifically “Bulls in the Bronx” for the guitar solo. I’ll give you ten bucks if I’m wrong.
My stomach sinks seeing the empty space beneath my message.
It’s so cringey. Mortifying, even. Nauseating.
Terrible. Awful. I hate it. But what else could I have said?
I tried not to keep my hopes up that he’d reply, or even see it.
But I’ve stupidly let myself imagine that he’d respond with a marriage proposal.
Sighing, I throw my phone onto the bedside table and shove my head into my pillow with a groan. What has my life become? Writing isn’t working out, so I’m turning to . . . what? Investigative work (stalking)? Influencing? Hiding in my delusions?
My phone buzzes, and I whip my hand out without looking, slapping the wooden surface until my fingers wrap around the device. I peer up at it, blinking against the harsh light in the backdrop of darkness.
Another email. Another brand offer. Five hundred dollars for a single post—not bad, actually. That’s . . . really good.
Suck on that, Mother.
This is the second one I’ve received this week. It’s great to know I’m doing something right with Tala’s profile. It just means that I’m spending less time writing.
Maybe it’s for the better.
Either I’ve become a shittier writer, or my luck has run out.
I shove my phone beneath my pillow.
Whatever. I’ll reply tomorrow.
My delicate, oh so sensitive brain rattles in its cage to the tune of the blaring alarm. I whimper, burrowing deeper into the heavy blankets to seek out the warmth still radiating from the hot water bottle.
Based on the sound playing, this is alarm number six. The final boss that proves I’ve defeated the five other alarms in my sleep.
“Turn that shit off.” Joyce’s groggy voice makes it past the wall between our bedrooms.
Another day. I am not prepared physically, emotionally, spiritually, or sexually.
How unfortunate that I didn’t pass away in my sleep.
Yanking the duvet away, I reach for the bedside table, tapping my phone screen until I click the End button.
“Fuck this,” I mumble, dragging myself out of bed.
I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes hard enough to see another astral plane before sliding my glasses on, then go through my morning routine: brush my teeth, experience existential dread, wash my face, contemplate existence, coffee, go through the five stages of grief over the state of the world, then station myself on the couch to wade through my notifications.
My responses to the emails and comments go out in the order they appear: supportive messages, collab offers, business inquiries, hateful comments that instantly get deleted and blocked.
My heart stops beating when I open Jas’s inbox to see Leo’s message at the very top.
I blink. Rub my eyes. Blink again.
Holy fuck?
Holy. Fuck.
He replied.
I scramble upright to the very edge of the seat.
Leo: Do I give you ten bucks if you’re right?
I refresh my inbox to make sure I’m not imagining it. Then again. And again. My phone clatters onto the coffee table, and I leap to my feet. It’s real.
He replied. He replied. He replied. He replied.
Holy shit. I squeal and sit down, only to stand back up. I jump from foot to foot, covering my mouth to hold back a scream. He replied.
Leo saw my message. Leo knows I exist. Leo’s engaging with me.
Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, and I let out another excited screech before dropping onto the couch—as if that might compose me. My lips are trembling with uncontained excitement; I could run around the block ten times, and I’d still be bubbling with energy.
Okay.
Deep breaths.
I can do this.
I can think of a nonweird reply that’s fun—not desperate, clingy, or obsessive—and leaves things open for further discussion. Easy peasy. No pressure. No worries. I’ve got this.
Minutes tick by as I stare at the message thread.
I don’t got this.
My thumbs fly over the screen, then I frantically hit Delete. No, I’m coming off too intense. I repeat the same process over and over, but every message I type is worse than the last.
Come on, Mina. Think.
My leg bounces up and down, nerves getting the better of me as a hundred different responses fly through my head. I massage my temples. How hard is it to reply to someone?
Whatever. Fuck it. Without letting myself overthink it anymore, I tap out my response and hit Send.
Mina: The contract terms were never negotiated. I’ll give you a discount and settle for five. I’m in a generous mood.
Oh, God. It sounds stupid. He’s never going to reply to that.
I chuck the phone to the other end of the couch, then drop my face in my hands to suppress a scream.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Minutes pass. Or maybe just a handful of seconds. My brain still won’t shut up. God, what if he hates what I said? What if it’s too boring, and he doesn’t reply? What if he thinks it’s too desperate?
My phone buzzes. I scramble for it.
Leo: Good, because you now owe me five.
My pulse runs rampant. A smile spreads across my face. Leo doesn’t hate it.
I put a timer on for twelve minutes and set my phone down without clicking into the message. That’s enough time to wait before responding, right? Under five minutes is too keen. Ten is too specific. Fifteen feels too long.
Okay, eleven is safe too—I don’t want to wait longer.
Forcing myself to my feet, I decide I need a distraction, so I get into some house cleaning and try not to count down the seconds.
I dive for my phone as soon as the alarm goes off, type up my reply, and hit Send.
Mina: Venmo or CashApp?
I blow out a breath. Twelve minutes may have been too much time for me to freak out over what to say. Now that I’m reading the message, I realize how creepy it is to be asked that by a supposed stranger.
My heart stalls when the dots immediately appear at the bottom of the screen.
Leo: I’m old school. Direct deposit will suffice.
I giggle, grinning like a kid whose crush just looked at her—which is precisely what’s happening. I knew we’d have a similar sort of humor. This relationship was written in the freaking stars. I’m glad he’s finally realizing it.
Mina: Counteroffer: either tell me what the correct song is or I’m writing a check.
Leo: Promise not to tell anyone?
My eyes widen, and I chew my bottom lip. I’m two seconds away from kicking my feet and twirling my hair.
I lie back on the couch and quickly respond while I have his attention.
Mina: I swear it.
Leo: Can you feel my heart.
What the fuck kind of question is that?
Wait.
Oh.
Mina: Bring Me the Horizon? Fuck. That was my second guess.
He wore their band T-shirt in a photo from six years ago. I really should have put those two pieces together.
Leo: Counteroffer?
My brows hike up my forehead, and I don’t bother containing my squeal. Leo fucking Duval is continuing a conversation with me. I can die happy.
Mina: I suppose I might be willing to negotiate.
Leo: You can keep your money if you tell me what your song is.
Mina: That information is near and dear to me. You won’t get it that easily.
Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, as they say.
Leo: It looks like I have some work to do then.