@TheMelissaFayBrr had picked up 349 new followers since William’s shout-out. She put her phone into the back pocket of her Natasha Lynn Chao cutoffs, then took it out again.
361 new followers.
Melissa didn’t anticipate a problem staying awake. She was totally wired from Red Bull and disbelief. William had actually done it, and soon they’d be hitting the road in that gorgeous car, untethered from their Fremont Hills lives, free from summer’s last gasp of parental oversight. Her thoughts were tinged with the flashy brightness of a movie poster, a summer blockbuster, all sexy chrome curves and lens flares. It was as if Autonomous was driving through her mind, sweeping her thoughts along in its wake, memories of high school and the anticipation of NYU swirling in its hot exhaust.
She clicked a nail against the window. Daniel’s black-dots-on-crimson design made it look like an unfinished ladybug. His nail-art suggestions were an inside joke between them that they both found mildly exciting, like the G-rated version of Daniel picking out underwear for her, which she’d allowed him to do exactly once and then never again.
387 new followers.
She opened her music library and cast a song to her bedroom’s wireless speakers: Carina Tyler’s “Not Tonight.” The song took her back to her first few months with Daniel, when he would come to her locker before homeroom and lift her up in a giddy, spinning hug. The kind of greeting you’d give someone you hadn’t seen in years, delivered every morning by Daniel Benson in the orange-locker wing of Fremont Hills High, where the F through J names lived.
Halfway through the first verse, Carina Tyler’s candy-coated belting jangled her nerves. She switched to wordless synthy washes, the electronic soundtrack to the movie Saracen Heights.
392 new followers.
She turned away from the window and went to the studio in the corner of her bedroom, separated from her living space by a sectional sofa. Two fabric-draped busts flanked a sewing table like absurdly decorated guards. The table was piled with samples: muslin, taffeta, chiffon, denim. Just beyond the table was a wheeled clothing rack where her latest rompers hung in order from practice attempts to perfected designs.
411 new followers.
Part of the space was devoted to her YouTube channel, which she planned to launch as soon as she edited hours of raw footage into a series of brisk, helpful videos that didn’t make her want to claw her face off. There was a camera set up on a tripod aimed at an Eames chair. Her tutorials were modeled on Food Network shows, in which she’d lay out the elements of a dress in stages, ending with a finished product she’d already completed, so she could film the final segment wearing it. Her latest practice video, “From the Beach to the Boardwalk,” involved a cheery sundress with an asymmetrical hemline—perfect for the boho maxi crowd and girls who liked to keep it simple and playful. She’d been working on it right up to the moment the Derby began, and her studio was in disarray. The fabric piles on her sewing table were like sediments in an archaeological dig. She set her phone down and plucked a frilly piece from the pile at random. She’d been experimenting with it around mid-March, thinking ahead to summer designs, lacy cap-sleeved tops that had never quite come together.
March had been a busy month, with simmering tension on the Prom Committee reaching Cuban Missile Crisis proportions thanks to Charlene Delmonico’s teeth-grinding incompetence. Melissa had allowed herself to become distracted.
Not for the first time, she wondered if going to college would be an even bigger distraction. What if during the time she spent on pointless classes, some other girl ascended to YouTube superstardom with a similar concept?
Jessa Park had launched her channel at sixteen.
If Melissa’s channel started to take off, she would probably drop out. Her parents would be pissed, but what could they say if she was pulling down YouTube advertising dollars and launching her clothing line and initiating her long-term strategy for multi-platform dominance? Since she wasn’t planning on asking her parents for a dime of start-up capital, the answer was nothing. She would be living in New York City, completely self-sufficient, and in control of her destiny.
427 new followers, including a popular influencer, Tyrone Cain, who’d quit his job to travel the world taking pictures of waterfalls and amassed 986,000 followers of his own. Melissa felt a little jolt shimmy up her arm. These kinds of connections were essential for the growth of her brand.
Her phone chimed with three distinct tones, a little melody that quickened her heart. She used Epheme for chatting with one specific person, and when she logged in, his message was waiting for her.Ash:You promised me a new one.SewWhat:Crazy night! One sec.Ash:Can I at least get some hold music?SewWhat:La la la la
Melissa sifted through the clothes hanging from the rack beside the sewing table. She changed into a two-tone romper, shorts the color of tarnished brass joined at an elastic waistline with a top made from genuine fuligin, the only material darker than black. With her bedroom wall as a backdrop, she took nine selfies. In the best one, she was glancing at something just out of frame, lips slightly parted, as if she’d just recognized someone on the street and at the same time realized she didn’t want to get his attention after all. She studied her eyes and confirmed that she was properly smizing. Then she sent the pic.
A patch of the CB Lounge rug sported what looked like spiky peaks of gelled hair. Melissa had done a
