30. Noa
NOA
“Aarti!” I yell, losing her in the crowd of what I’m quickly realizing are paparazzi.
“Noa! Noa! Right here, Noa!” a photographer yells. “How long has this been going on between you and Aarti?”
“Did nepotism get you the job?” another asks, holding a tiny mic to my face.
“No–I–what?!”
I tuck my head down and shove my way through the mob, hoping that Aarti has figured out her own exit strategy. I make it to the pickup curb and am relieved to find Henri waiting there. He leaps out to open the car door and take my bag.
“Let’s get you out of here, Dr. Hart.”
Great, even Henri watched this morning’s interview.
“How did those paparazzi get in the airport?” I ask, watching some stragglers take photos of the car as we leave.
“Zey, how you say? Buy super cheap ticket and pretend to take flight.”
I pull out my phone to confirm Aarti made it to her car. Blue dots appear for a moment, then nothing. My stomach knots but I tell myself she’s probably still juggling the logistics of her escape from the LAX mob.
I check Aiden’s texts while I wait for Aarti to respond.
Shoulda known–his make up at least half of the eighty-three.
One is a link to the Variety website. I tap it, and the homepage loads.
There we are–Aarti being served up like the dessert she is, and me, gay panic and admiration etched clear as day upon my features.
I scroll down, reading the comments, and my stomach drops.
Queerbait = clickbait.
Why can’t women work together without playing into a male fantasy to market themselves?
Didn’t think pieces teach us anything about this with that Gossip Girl shoot?
My pulse quickens. I scroll faster.
Instead of my deepest fear of people analyzing my body, somehow, this is worse.
People are analyzing our body language , the way we’re looking at each other.
They’re adding our cover shoot to carousels of vamped-up femme costars fake kissing to promote their latest network procedural.
They comment on our closeness on the interview couch, how Aarti defended my degree, and how I couldn’t stop blushing at her every word.
What did Max say? That we were gonna break the internet? That was a tame way to put it.
I press a button to raise the privacy partition before I dial Aiden in a panic.
“Okay, deep breaths,” he starts the moment he picks up. “I’m looking at the same posts you are.”
“It’s bad, right? Tell me it’s not as bad as I think it is.”
“Listen, the internet has the attention span of a goldfish,” he says. “Remember when people were convinced that K-pop star had been replaced with a double? That lasted like three days before everyone moved on to arguing about whether hot dogs were sandwiches.”
“One, they’re definitely not sandwiches. Two, that doppelganger conspiracy boosted ticket sales,” I groan. “Aarti could lose her show over this.”
“Or,” Aiden counters, “maybe it’s the buzz her show needs. People are invested! Most of the comments are supportive. The homophobic trolls are getting ratioed to hell.”
“You don’t understand the network pressure she’s under–”
“Maybe not, but I understand you, Nono,” he interrupts delicately. “And I can tell you’re catastrophizing right now. Has Aarti said anything to you? Has the network released a statement?”
“No, but–”
“Come eat spooey with me here before you decide the world is ending. Someone will post a controversial ranking of pasta shapes and everyone will forget about this by tomorrow.”
As Aiden rambles about a new art show he’s planning, I finally take one of the deep breaths he wisely suggested.
I put him on speakerphone so I can see if there’s been any word from Aarti yet.
Nada . I refresh Gramsta to see if a social media savior has ranked linguine above bucatini yet, but my stomach drops instead.
“Oh no.”
The first video that pops up has 2.3 million views. It’s a green screen reaction to the photoshoot. The woman commenting is breathtaking, all cheekbones and bronzed tan, with Brigitte Blanchette in her bio alongside a blue check.
“Who is Brigitte Blanchette?” I ask, not sure I actually want to know the answer.
“Holy shit, the Brigitte Blanchette? Did she post, too?” I hear Aiden tapping on his phone, finding the answer. “Okay, honey, you’re in the zeitgeist!”
I scoff, seeing as I’ve just told him the zeitgeist is not where I want to be.
He covers. “And like I said, the zeitgeist moves fast!”
But now I’m barely listening to my twin because Brigitte is speaking directly to the camera:
“Okay, so everyone’s asking me about the Variety shoot and whether it’s queerbaiting.
Here’s my take–how do we ever really know if it’s queerbaiting when we’re talking about individuals?
Like, we can’t see into someone’s heart or bedroom, right?
But what I will say is that using queer aesthetics for clicks when you’re not actually about that life?
Not cute. Especially when there are actual queer people in entertainment fighting for visibility. ”
The video cuts to another featured shot of me and Aarti laughing, clearly in our own world, as Brigitte reappears above us.
“But hey, maybe they’re just really good friends who happen to look like they’re desperately in love. We’ve all been there.” She winks at the camera. “Anyway, stan authentic representation. Peace.” She blows a kiss.
The comments are actively exploding, including people asking for my Gramsta handle. Thank goodness I’ve never been anything but a lurker with an incognito username.
I watch in real time as the likes flood in. 100K, 200K, 500K . The share count climbs.
“This can’t be good,” I whisper.