Internet Famous Page 3

  “A blogger? What’s that supposed to mean?!”

  He shrugged “I … I don’t know. You’re just not what I expected.”

  Madi drew herself up to her full height, vibrating with anger. “Sorry to disappoint you, but there are lots of people who look lots of ways—”

  “But I only meant—”

  “—and bloggers come in all shapes and sizes—”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “—and MadLibs has a HUGE fan base! Hundreds of thousands of visitors come to my site each month. I’m eighteen years old. I’m an entrepreneur. I’m not some—some kid, or something!”

  Laurent recoiled from the screen, his face blanching. “Ah, non! Ce n’est pas le cas! I—I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I messed up. I didn’t think—I—I—Pardonnez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Je ne veux pas vous ennuyer.…” His words tumbled out faster and faster, disappearing into a blur of anxiety-ridden French.

  And that was the moment when Madi knew she was going to fall, and fall hard, because nothing was more romantic than a language you couldn’t understand and a young man who was anything but American who was spouting apologies and wringing his hands. (That doing it on-screen made him look like a matinee idol from some brooding French film was an added bonus.)

  “It’s fine,” Madi said. “And it’s good to actually meet you, Laurent.” The masculine version of his name sounded strange. “It really is. No problem.”

  “I’m sorry about what I said before. When I get flustered, I tend to say whatever pops to mind. That’s not always a good policy. I had a picture in my mind and you weren’t that, and I spoke without thinking.” He covered his heart with his hand. “I’m so very sorry, Madi. That was awful of me.”

  “I have the same problem with saying whatever pops to mind.”

  “You do?”

  The corners of her mouth curled mischievously. “It’s gotten me in serious trouble more than once, I promise.”

  “Oh-ho! This sounds good.”

  “It is. But it’s a story for another time.”

  Laurent’s smile changed. Madi couldn’t exactly say how, only that she suddenly felt warmer. His eyes were intense—gold-green darkening to hazel at the edges—and she had the sudden urge to look away. She couldn’t.

  “I want to hear your story,” he said. “Please tell me.”

  Madi bit the inside of her cheeks to try to control the grin that seemed determined to flash back again. The heat of her bedroom jumped ten degrees.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll tell you eventually. I can’t seem to keep a secret for the life of me.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s another issue.”

  “Any way I can lure the story out?”

  “I’m sure at some point I’ll spill the beans.”

  The smolder in Laurent’s expression winked out, replaced by confusion. “Spill the … beans?” The heartthrob was gone, awkward tourist in his place. Madi watched as he pulled out his phone, the long-sleeved tee he was wearing pulling back slightly as he lifted it. A complex Japanese-style tattoo of fish and water appeared on his right forearm. Madi stealthily leaned across her keyboard and tapped PRINT SCREEN. (She’d check that out later!)

  As if sensing her waiting, his gaze flicked up. Another jolt of awareness hit Madi, a spark of electricity arcing from his computer to hers. “I just need a minute to look that up: Spill. The. B—”

  “It means I will tell you,” she said with a nervous giggle. “But not right now, Laurent. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He set the phone down and the sleeve dropped, fish disappearing. “But if you’re not spilling the beans now, then I’ll expect you to spill the beans later.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll be wanting all the beans at that point. No holding back your beans. All right, Madi? I will want all the beans.”

  The wide smile she’d been holding in popped back. Laurent’s non-American earnestness was so endearing she didn’t have the heart to tell him how dumb he sounded.

  “All the beans.” Madi laughed. “You got it.”

  3

  “I’m making this up as I go.”

  (Raiders of the Lost Ark, 1981)

  Madi grimaced at the laptop screen, her eyes gritty from glare. Too excited after chatting with Laurent to sleep, she’d tossed and turned, wondering if the click she felt with him online would translate into a real-life connection. Only one way to find out: talk to him in person. Blushing at the imagined meeting, she returned her attention to her newest blog post.

  Madi loved writing and she knew what she wanted to say, but with the mixture of bone-deep exhaustion and hormonal excitement, the words simply would not flow. She closed her eyes as Laurent’s laughing face appeared in her mind’s eye. Tired or not, she wouldn’t have given up their late-night chat for anything. Laurent was amazing! Any anxiety she’d had about going to New York on Friday to meet the MadLibbers was gone. She couldn’t wait!

  With a happy sigh, she looked back to the laptop screen. Her smile faded. It was the ending of the Starveil rewatch that was throwing her. She twirled a long strand of black hair around her finger as she reread. She deleted two sentences and switched a third.

  “Better,” she muttered, then scrolled to the stats screen.

  Would I rewatch this? Not a chance. Too much angst.

  She deleted her original answer, and typed in a new reply.

  Would I rewatch this? YES, but only after a break.

  No use provoking the die-hard fans if you didn’t have to. There were far too many Starveil minions in the world. She turned her attention to the final paragraph.

  And with a final blare of John Williams–esque trumpets, Starveil V came to a rather dismal ending. I expected—I don’t know—something else, I guess? A hint of closure? Instead, the millions of viewers who worshipped the series were left to absorb the fact that their favorite character was dead. There was no reason for the sacrifice (except maybe for the little kid he saved, but I still think they both could have fit into the escape pod). Leaving Spartan to die was a rip-off. I didn’t cry when he died—sorry, MadLibbers! You always get the truth here—but I definitely choked up. And I’m certain if I were a true Starveil fan—not a blogger moonlighting as one—the ending would have broken me.

  Here are my final stats.

  Series Rating: 8/10 Mad!Cows, with definite Mad!Love going out to the early B-movie stylings of SV1 and SV2. Loved those films!

  Movie Rating (for SV5 specifically): 6.5/10 with a side of disappointment for obvious fridging. No reason for that!

  Would I rewatch it? YES, but only after a break.

  And thus ends the MadLibs for the Starveil saga, which means … *drumroll, please* … the comment box is open for suggestions for my NEXT MadLib. Remember: It’s your job to keep me funemployed. (And on that note, the more you clickety-click on those ads, the more likely I’ll get to order pizza for dinner, so thanks for that!)

  *musical accompaniment rises*

  *exeunt*

  MadLib

  * * *

  Comments enabled.

  Tags: #MadLibs #StarveilV #Madi watches things and then blogs about them #Funemployment

  Madi grinned as she reached the end. “And there we go.”

  A rush of excitement filled her as she clicked POST. Attending online school allowed her the freedom to write whenever she wanted, and today she wanted to write! When she was doing other things—schoolwork, chores, exercising—Madi had to work to keep herself interested. Writing was the opposite. Finishing a blog always left her more “full” than empty. She leaned back in her rolling chair and pushed, feeling the telltale pop of released vertebrae from the hours of typing. She checked the time on her phone.

  “Twenty minutes to the bell,” she muttered, climbing from the chair. “Time to go.”

  These were the last hours of “normal” before her parents told Sarah about her mother’s departure. After that, it was anyone’s guess as to what would happen. If only they’d told her alr
eady.… But wishing changed nothing.

  Delay tactics were well known in the Nakama household, and Madi wondered if they’d wait to tell Sarah until the very last second. If anything threw off Sarah’s schedule, then her whole day was off, and if her whole day was off, then school—even with support—wasn’t going to happen.

  She flicked the laptop into sleep mode and slid her feet into flip-flops, heading for the stairs. A guilty smile crossed Madi’s face. Friday afternoon was D-day, but she’d be on the train into New York long before the bomb dropped.

  In ten minutes, Madi had walked the six blocks to Millburn Academy, the private high school Sarah attended. She waited outside her sister’s classroom. The hall was mostly deserted, but Madi didn’t dare leave her post until Sarah arrived, another structure to her sister’s timetable that kept everyone’s life on an even keel. Madi leaned her head against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as she remembered Laurent on-screen the night before.

  They’d been laughing about something she could no longer remember, when Laurent sighed and said: “I should go. It sucks, but it’s late.”

  “You probably should.…” Madi smirked. “I mean, if it’s your bedtime and all.”

  He snorted. “Not my bedtime, no, but I have school in the morning. Have to do homework, too. What time is it, anyhow?” He glanced at his phone. “Shit! Have we been talking that long? Forget homework. I need sleep.”

  “Not sure you’ve heard, but I’m kind of a bad influence.”

  “Don’t believe it.”

  “My squeaky-clean looks are the perfect cover.” She giggled. “I’m the last person you’d ever suspect.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Still don’t believe you. “

  “Is that a challenge, Laurent?”

  “Maybe.” He flashed her a sucker-punch smile she couldn’t help but return.

  “Then challenge accepted. Forget this nice-guy-exchange-student thing you’ve got going. I’m bringing you down!”

  “Bring me down? Down to what?”

  “Complete and utter reputation destruction!”

  And for some reason that had sent the two of them into gales of laughter so loud Madi had had to muffle her face in her pillow to keep from waking her parents and sister.

  At the end of the hallway a door squeaked and Madi’s lashes opened. She smothered a yawn behind her hand as a teen with short red hair and a wide smile appeared. He was a classmate Madi remembered from her freshman year of high school, and though they’d been in several classes together, Madi could no longer remember his name. His parents owned the Colonial Inn.

  “Hey, Madi,” he said. “Nice to see you around again.”

  “Mmph,” she mumbled in agreement. What was his name? Ron? Rob? Rupert? No, that’s the kid from the Harry Potter movies. Madi’s sluggish brain wouldn’t provide the answer other than “Gingersnap,” and she was certain he wouldn’t appreciate a reminder of the schoolyard taunt.

  “You here to pick up your sister?”

  “As always.”

  “Thought maybe you decided to rejoin the rest of us drones.” His voice dropped into a robotic monotone. “We are the borg. You will be assimilated.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Resistance is futile.”

  “Unless you do online school.”

  His smile drooped at the edges. “Wish my parents were as cool as yours. I begged them for weeks after you took off.”

  “Er … yeah.” He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, but she wasn’t sure what. A few uncomfortable seconds passed.

  “Well, it was good seeing you again,” he said.

  The nameless boy waved as he disappeared into a nearby classroom, and Madi felt herself relax. Interactions were so much easier online.

  A minute passed.

  Then two.

  At the five-minute mark, Madi was once again dozing against the wall, eyes closed, when the sound of clicking heels warned her of an adult’s arrival. She opened her eyes to discover a steely-haired teacher making a beeline to her side. The woman peered at Madi from behind thick rectangular glasses.

  “Hallway pass?”

  “Oh, I’m not in a class,” Madi said sleepily. “I’m just here to—”

  “I know you’re not in class,” she interrupted. “That’s why you need a pass. All students are provided passes for rest breaks. Where is yours?”

  Madi pulled herself up to her full height (barely reaching the woman’s shoulders), trying to look alert. “But you see, ma’am, I’m only—”

  “I need your pass,” she said irritably. “Hurry, please. I have a meeting and don’t want to be late.”

  “But I don’t need a pass,” Madi insisted. “I’m here as one of the guardians for my sister, Sarah.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose until they almost met her tightly curled gray hair. “You’re her guardian?” she said uncertainly.

  “I am.”

  “But Mr. Wattley teaches an Advanced Sciences class.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. She pulled a pen from one jacket pocket, a small pad of paper from the other. “What’s the name of your sister? I need to check into this. There’s a protocol for pickups, you know. The school can’t just have anyone wandering in off the street.”

  The way she said anyone riled Madi. “It’s Sarah,” she said. “Now may I ask your name, ma’am? Because every teacher in this school knows I pick up Sarah from school. I’ve done it every day for the last two years.”

  The woman’s heels clattered as she stumbled back a step. “Well, I never!” She sucked in a breath through pursed lips. “There’s absolutely no call for rudeness. There are rules to pickups. Now, if you’ll come with me—”

  “Oh, I can’t go anywhere! Sarah will be out in two minutes and—”

  At that moment the door opened and Mr. Wattley appeared in his usual bedraggled state. Hair sprang from his head in tufts; his white lab coat was misbuttoned. “Oh my! Mrs. Preet. You’re…” He glanced at Madi. “You’re here early.”

  “Mr. Wattley,” she said stiffly, her double chin rising in authority. “I was just having a discussion with Miss…” She glowered down at Madi.

  “Nakama,” Mr. Wattley said. “Sarah’s sister. She picks her up a few minutes before the bell goes.”

  “Nakama?” the woman repeated. “As in Charles Nakama?”

  Madi winced. Millburn was a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Since Charles Nakama’s popular “Down Home” column headed the Tri-State Herald, the largest-distributed paper in New Jersey, Madi’s father was practically a celebrity. His photograph accompanied each post. “Down Home” included topics that highlighted family values and traditional beliefs. It was serialized in papers across the US. Everyone who read it knew and recognized Madi’s father. By proxy, everyone knew her. She hated that.

  “Yes,” Mr. Wattley said. “Madi’s a senior here, but her sister, Sarah—”

  Mrs. Preet’s attention swiveled back like a hawk on a mouse. “I thought you said you weren’t in classes.”

  Madi’s phone buzzed, but she forced herself not to look. “I’m not. I mean, I am—but only online.” She crossed her arms, wishing she were anywhere but here. She was too tired for verbal gymnastics. “I’m not a regular student. I do Millburn’s off-campus program.”

  “The online high school?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Preet nodded and scribbled a note into her book. “I’ll have to check into that.”

  Madi let out a frustrated sound somewhere between a laugh and cough. “Check into what? I’m just here to pick up my sister.” In her exhaustion, all the annoyance at her parents came surging back. She pointed into the classroom to where Sarah was engrossed in organizing her backpack. “It’s part of Sarah’s program. I do this literally every day.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Mrs. Preet said matter-of-factly. “I just hadn’t been told. I pride myself on
knowing what’s going on at my school.” Her attention turned to Mr. Wattley. “I assume you’re ready for our discussion.”

  “Of course. Just let me send Sarah off.”

  She strutted into the classroom, leaving Madi and Mr. Wattley staring after her.

  “I, er, I should have warned you,” he said. Sarah arrived and headed down the hallway without pause. (Schedules were schedules, and Sarah’s didn’t vary.)

  “Warned me about what?”

  Mr. Wattley gave a nervous smile. “That is Mrs. Preet. She’s taken over for Mr. Palmer as the new assistant principal. She’s very interested in efficiency and organization.” He coughed. “And rules.”

  Madi wilted. “Thanks for the warning, Mr. Wattley,” she said as she shouldered her pack. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  *   *   *

  Phone in hand, Madi scrolled through her dashboard as she and Sarah walked home. Sarah had launched into a rehash of today’s topic from physics class, and as much as Madi wanted to be interested in string theory, there was no way she was going to keep up with her sister’s train of thought. Sarah’s monologue continued, unabated, street by street.

  Madi rolled her thumb up the screen and a new post appeared. She giggled.

  Sarah’s speech fumbled, and she glanced over at Madi. “What?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. You laughed at something.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  “Fine,” Madi said. “It’s this post. See?” She turned her phone’s screen so her sister could see. “It’s about Starveil.”

  Sarah frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “The Starveil series is about a rebellion.”

  “I know that.”

  “And Captain Spartan’s the ‘OTC’ in ‘CJOTC.’ Like, the one true character.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the song’s by Arcade Fire,” Madi explained. “And there was the big explosion on Io when the rebels were betrayed.”

  “So what?”

  “The title is ‘Rebellion Lies.’”

  “I still don’t get it.”