To Be Popular

• Aliya Feng, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2019

“OMG Vicky you’re soooo freaking gorgeous!”
“I love you babe! xx”
“Most beautiful woman I’ve ever met... @Vic_Hill”
“Damnnn gurl ur sxy... wanna go out w/ me 2nite?”
“Looking hot baby!”
“Nice butt and boobs ;)”

The notifications pop up on my phone like a never-ending strand of harassment. I cringe with every new banner, trying not to focus on the borderline-creepy comments. For the millionth time I mentally swear at myself. Victoria Hill, how pathetic are you?

I open Instagram and click into my profile. The comments are still flowing in - I can’t even bear to think about what they might be saying. Almost regretfully I tap my latest post, quickly replying to everyone with a meaningless “thanks, I love you” complete with heart emojis.

I study my post more carefully. A girl wearing a semi-transparent bikini stares back at me, framed by a background of sparkling blue water. Flawlessly tanned skin, mile-long legs, perfect facial features, wavy golden hair. She was sitting at the edge of the pool, bare legs propped up at exactly the right angle, one hand casually toying with her bikini strap and a seductive smile plastered on her lips. Her eyes twinkled with playful invitation, enough to make any guy fall head over heels in one second. She is, in one word, exactly as how they described her. Sexy.

Only, it was all fake.

The girl spent 20 minutes finding the perfect photo spot, and another 20 perfecting her posture. Legs up. Chin high. That smile, that angle - what’s supposed to convey “natural” took years to master. Then, when the photo’s finally taken, one hour of “adjustments” with an editing app - enlarging her eyes, getting rid of the miniature leg hairs, making her skin that perfect shade of flawlessness. 30 minutes cropping out anything unwanted in the background and applying ten million different filters. Another 15 minutes coming up with a caption that goes with the post.

All this, just to maintain my popularity record.

Self-hatred wells up inside me, but I force it down. It’s me who yearned to be popular. It’s me who created a public account. It’s me who’s in these photos. Haven’t I gotten what I wanted? Everyone at school wanting to be my friend. Confessions from more guys than I can be bothered to count. Tsunamis of comments under every post. A four-digit number of followers.

I’m popular, all right.

But I don’t want to be anymore.

I click on another profile - someone I’ve been secretly observing, although I’d rather die than admit it out loud. The school nerd. She has about 100 followers. But her posts were... her. Happy. Genuine. No filters. No makeup. No pose. Just random photos of her submerged in books, or lying on the grass laughing. And still, people like and comment.

I feel like my ego suddenly fell into a hole and died. Taking a shaky breath, I click on “send message”.

“Hi! Can we be friends?”