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  TO NETTIE RUMSKY,

  MY MAGICAL MARY POPPINS. I MISS YOU.

  1

  SATURDAY, MARCH 3

  I Love Likes

  I stare at my phone, waiting.

  One second, 3 LIKES.

  Five seconds, 9 LIKES.

  Ten seconds, 12 LIKES. All for a photo of the sunrise I posted on Snappypic. On my screen, the sun glows like a pale egg as it rises over the mountains.

  Actually, I don’t love my outdoorsy shots. They’re a little boring, but it’s the kind of thing my followers think is cool.

  So I’m okay with the setting sun if it gets me lots of LIKES.

  Right now I’m hiding in the bathroom stall at my temple. And the place is packed because it’s Milton P. Daniels’s bar mitzvah. The bathroom is the only spot where I can have some privacy. Over in the pews, there are probably three hundred people.

  Fifteen seconds, 15 LIKES! A smile tugs all the way to my ears. I want to dance.

  I glance back at the phone. It’s been two minutes, and I’m up to 45 LIKES. Yes! This calls for a celebration with Floyd. (That’s my phone’s name.)

  I peer back down at my phone. But . . . wait. I’m holding steady at forty-five. Where are all my LIKES? I refresh the page. And . . .

  Nothing.

  I shake my phone as if that might help.

  Still nothing.

  This doesn’t make sense. I used the filter that everyone else on Snappypic is really into. It makes everything seem dreamy. But with only 45 LIKES, the sun is losing its brilliance and looks lonely and unloved.

  Maybe I need to turn it off and on?

  I turn off my phone and restart it. I text Ella Fuentes: Did you see my photo? I add a smiling emoji.

  No response.

  I know Ella’s up. It’s late morning. She’s my best friend. Maybe she’s reading or drawing, but she’s definitely up.

  If she wasn’t doing something else, I’m sure she’d LIKE my photo. I try a couple other girls I know. Nothing. It’s late Saturday morning and all my followers have to be up by now.

  As of 11:07 a.m. today, I have 12,032 followers on Snappypic. My followers are pretty much all the kids at Merton Middle School and a bunch of other middle schools around Portland. But I have two middle schools in Mission Viejo. That’s all the way down in Southern California. I didn’t know where it was until I checked it out in Google Maps. Usually between four hundred and nine hundred followers give me a thumbs-up on anything I post. So yeah, I get more LIKES than anyone I know at school.

  Sometimes I have to pinch myself that this is happening to me. Last year in sixth grade, I didn’t even have an account. People pretty much ignored me. Back then, I was too awkward. Too tall. Too loud. And generally uncool.

  Taking a deep breath, I swipe through Snappypic and start LIKING everything my followers have posted. This is a way to get LIKES coming back.

  You’ve got to give to get.

  My thumbs rifle through close-up selfies, the self-portrait shots that are so close-up you can almost see nose hair, and photos of ugly jeggings and food shots, including one of mini chocolate cupcakes with buttercream icing.

  I LIKE it all, even though most of it looks like a thousand other shots.

  More LIKES roll in for my sunrise photo.

  Thirteen more.

  Seventeen more.

  Phew, the numbers are going up. A happy, bubbly feeling percolates inside me.

  Time flies by as I continue LIKING more photos.

  Heels clack into the bathroom. A nearby stall door clicks shut.

  My phone pings. I glance down and see that Bailey Jenners has LIKED my sunrise photo. And she has messaged me!

  Bailey Jenners, Queen Bee of the seventh grade.

  Bailey has written: There’s something I want to ask you. It’s superimportant. My heart thuds in my chest as I picture Bailey, head down, birdlike and small, typing.

  I want to cry with joy. Bailey LIKES my photo and has messaged me! I know it’s silly. But now, even with all my followers, sometimes I’m still surprised that people like me. Especially in real life.

  I type: What? oh-so-casually, like my heart isn’t a bass drum. What could she want? Bailey, who is the center of everything in seventh grade, has never messaged me before, although she has LIKED plenty of my photos. Well, everyone at Merton Middle School pretty much has by now.

  My phone pings again. That’s got to be Bailey responding, letting me know what she needs to tell me.

  Someone bangs open the restroom door. A familiar jasmine-y scene wafts into my stall. “Karma? Are you in here? You’ve been in here for thirty minutes!” That’s my mother’s voice. She sounds out of breath. And she sounds very, very annoyed. “Karma, you missed it!” she yells.

  Oh no! Missed what?

  I stuff my phone back into my purse and slowly step out of the stall.

  “Right before the service ended, they called your name. To go up to the front.” Mom folds her hands in front of her dress. The sequins glimmer under the light. Then she wildly points to the door, like maybe I’ve forgotten how to get out of a bathroom.

  UGGGH! I did totally forget about the thing. All the boys and girls who are having upcoming bar and bat mitzvahs were being called to help Milton P. lead a song. I blew it big-time. A bar mitzvah is a mega celebration for Jewish kids when they turn thirteen. It’s almost like a wedding. But not. It’s the day you officially become an adult. You do this by learning how to read Hebrew and getting up in front of everyone at temple. You have to write a speech and do a community service project. Afterward, there’s a big party. I know all about it since my big day is coming up soon.

  Mom glares at me, her lips pursed, her hands on her hips. “What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?”

  My stomach twists into a knot. A lot of kids went up and I didn’t think they’d be calling us by name. Argh.

  I step to the sink and wash my hands, trying for a normal bathroom-y activity. “Sorry. I don’t feel that great.” I dry my hands on a towel.

  Mom lets out a long sigh. “Honey, you should have told me.” She puts her palm on my forehead to check for a temperature.

  The door to another stall flings open. Neda Grubner, temple president, clicks toward the sink in her high heels. She pouts her bright orange-y trout lips. “I see you’re finally off your phone.”

  “Off the phone?” Mom looks at me with her very disappointed face. Her lips sag down, her forehead furrows.

  Neda squirts an extra dollop of lotion onto her hands. Then she pats down her shellacked gray hair. “Oh, I heard the pings, all right.”

  How can she be such a tattletale? And how does she know about what the pings mean?!

  Mom motions me toward her. “Karma, were you on your phone?”

  “Just for a second,” I mumble.

  Mom motions me toward her. “Let me see it.”

  What? No! She can’t. I think now I’m actually going to be sick.

  “Karma. Now!” Mom’s eyes look determined. Uh-oh. That look means business.

  Moving as slowly as possibly, I pull my phone out of my purse.

  I don’t think I like what’s about to happen.

  My stats:

  133 notifications

  12,032 followers

  3,456 people I’m following

>   99 LIKES on my posting known as "Sunrise Photo"

  Mood: Very extra worried

  2

  SATURDAY, MARCH 3

  Out of Air!

  “Mom, it’s not how it looks,” I plead.

  “Oh, really?” She scrolls through Snappypic. “Haven’t been on your phone, huh? You’ve been on it constantly since”—she peers up at the time on the screen—“the moment you woke up this morning. This. Is. Not. Acceptable.”

  Heads turn in our direction. From the sink, Neda raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Then, with a satisfied smirk, she escapes the bathroom.

  “But I—”

  “No more excuses.” Mom’s voice is a screechy whisper. She motions me toward the door. “I’m taking you home. You’re grounded. Let’s go tell Dad we’re leaving.”

  Grounded? We’re missing the entire lunch? Does she have to announce this to the entire congregation? To everyone in Portland?

  My stomach twists as she drags me into the social hall. It’s loud. The guests chat and laugh. Clumps of hungry people crowd around the food tables. Heaps of olives, wedges of cheese, crackers, and freshly baked challah sit on silver trays. From the looks of things, the main course will be sesame bagels and mounds of lox, the most delicious smoked salmon ever. But I will not taste a crumb of bagel or a morsel of lox.

  Mom rushes toward Dad as if she’s got a train to catch. Dad, in a blue suit, stands next to tray of pita, munching away. Normally he’s in a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt.

  Mom grabs his elbow so hard he spills a lump of hummus on his tie.

  Dad brushes it off with a blue napkin that’s stamped MILTON P. DANIELS. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, honestly.” Mom cleans the tie with the side of her hand.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Dad.

  Mom pops a single pecan into her mouth and chews angrily. “Take a guess.”

  “Karma, were you on QuickiePic?” His eyebrows rise in a question.

  “Snappypic,” I correct. “Um, kind of. Maybe. Just a little.” Across the room, my little brother, Toby, and his friends giggle as they blow on the pink foamy stuff from the punch bowl. Suddenly I wish I were seven again.

  Dad puts his water down on the table. “Snappypic? Karma, really?” He groans as if someone has pinched him, hard.

  “It’s not that bad.” A group of ninth-grade boys pass by and snort. My parents really want to embarrass me in front of everyone.

  “Not that bad?” Dad wipes his mouth. “How many times have we talked about this?”

  I don’t think I’m supposed to answer that. The Steinbergs, an elderly retired couple, smile and come up to us. Mrs. Steinberg clasps my hand. “Karma, you must be looking forward to your big day. Your bat mitzvah’s coming up soon too.”

  “Very much so,” snaps Mom. “So sorry,” she murmurs, “but we need to leave. A little family emergency.”

  Emergency? Me being on Snappypic is suddenly an emergency? On the opposite wall, a fire extinguisher hangs in a glass box. Now that’s for real emergencies. Snappypic? Most people would be happy their daughter is that well-liked.

  “I’m sorry to hear you have to leave.” Mrs. Steinberg pats Mom’s shoulder sympathetically as if a relative is sick or something.

  Dad tells Toby that he’ll be right back, and soon enough, the three of us are in the entry hall, standing next to a basket full of programs. My parents glare at me as if I just robbed a bank.

  Floyd pings inside Mom’s purse. Another text or maybe a message on Snappypic. Maybe from Bailey. A few people chat on the other side of the entryway.

  Dad gestures to the front entrance. “Let’s go outside.”

  Mom opens the door and I go to follow them, but Dad shakes his head. “We need to talk alone. Just for a bit.”

  Through the glass doors, I see them conferring on the front patio. The sky is ice blue. A cool breeze makes the leaves on the bushes rustle, but there are no rain clouds in sight. Grimacing, Mom tucks her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ears. Their heads are bent down together, whispering furiously. What can they be saying? Mom turns and motions for me to come outside too.

  I push open the door and join them. All at once, they sigh deeply, as if an unspeakable tragedy has just occurred.

  I send out calming vibes. “What?” I ask.

  My parents study me in this scary way, and I know I won’t like what is coming next.

  “You lied, Karma.” Mom’s voice rises. “Are your . . . ‘fans’ this important?”

  “Followers. They’re called followers,” I correct her. “Not that it matters,” I add hurriedly after seeing her face.

  “This is what I know.” Mom slaps her hands on her hips. “You’ve lost our trust.”

  Dad’s face scrunches. “Karma, it was the middle of a bar mitzvah. You’re going to be up there soon. And even if you weren’t . . .” He trails off.

  Mom shakes her head. “Your behavior is unacceptable. We’ve gone over this before. Many, many times.”

  Dad ticks off a list on his fingers. “You’re on Snappypic when you’re supposed to be asleep. You’re on it at dinner. You’ve been caught three times in class. We’ve given you lots of chances.”

  “A thousand,” says Mom. “You don’t pay attention to your brother anymore. You obviously weren’t paying attention today, and—”

  “Was too. Ask me anything about the bar mitzvah. I’ll prove it.” I glance up at Dad, hoping he’ll take my side on this. But he frowns, and his frown turns into a scowl as Mom’s purse pings from my phone getting another message.

  I wonder if that’s Bailey again. I’m dying to find out what she wants.

  Mom yanks Floyd out of her purse. She holds it in her hand like it’s a hot potato. “I’m shutting this thing off.” My eyes pause on my screen. I can almost see who the text is from.

  Almost. But Floyd is backward. My insides tighten. If I were a rubber band, I’d snap and whizz across the parking lot.

  My raspberry blingy case glistens in the sunlight. Mom turns the phone off. I swallow hard. “Mom! You don’t understand—”

  “No, it’s you who doesn’t understand.” Mom’s mouth becomes a hard line.

  “So we’ve come up with a new punishment,” says Dad. “Something that will get your attention.”

  Dad looks at Mom and Mom looks at Dad, and I can tell that they are a united front against me. “We’re going to close your Snappypic account,” states Dad.

  “What?” My stomach dips as if I’ve just dropped from the highest part of a roller coaster. I want to flop against the nearest car in the parking lot. “You can’t do that. It’s my account. It’s private. You can’t.” Every day I get smiley faces and hearts and balloons and LIKES. All of the time. Waking up and not being able to see what my followers are up to? Being totally cut off like that? My parents might as well send me to Antarctica because I’m going to be frozen out of everything. “This must be some kind of hallucination,” I say. “The parents I know would never do this to me!”

  “Karma, I’m sorry,” says Mom. “But I think you are overreacting. You knew the rules.”

  “Please.” I clasp my hands together. “Please, please. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll babysit Toby as much as you want. I’ll clean the house every single day. I’ll make dinner. I’ll—”

  “It’s a final decision,” says Dad.

  “But I’m like . . . a professional. I have more followers than some companies.”

  “Exactly our point, Karma,” says Mom. “You’re not a company. You’re our daughter and still a kid. And I don’t really love this obsession of yours.”

  The parking lot is practically spinning. “You just don’t want me to grow up!” I fling up my arms. “Please,” I beg. “Don’t do this.” My eyes water. In the past, my parents have taken away Floyd for a few hours, an afternoon, and even a weekend. But closing down my account? That’s just plain cruel. “I need it! I have over ten thousand followers,” I plead to Dad, but he folds
his arms in front of his tie and jacket.

  I stare at Floyd as Mom grips him so hard her knuckles are white. “We’re also taking this away.”

  “What?!” I reel back. “How can I live without a phone? That’s not fair!”

  “We had an agreement, Karma,” Dad reminds me. “You got all As and Bs on your final report card last year, so you got your new iPhone. And you got Snappypic. But that also meant following rules. Like putting away your phone after nine. And no phone at the table, and . . .”

  “It’s not just about today,” adds Mom. “It’s just gotten out of control. All you do, day and night, is go on that QuickiePic.”

  “Snappypic!” I swallow hard.

  That’s when Toby pads into the parking lot, his tie totally askew.

  “Toby! What you are doing here?” Mom says. “Please go back in there.” She points to the synagogue.

  “I don’t like being by myself,” he squeaks. By himself? There are hundreds of people inside.

  “We’ll only be a minute,” says Mom. “Go back inside and find your friends.”

  “Honey, go back in the there,” says Dad. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  Mom kisses Toby on his forehead beneath his mess of curls. Toby reluctantly meanders back into the temple. Even outside, I can hear people cheering, applauding. They sound so happy.

  They sound deafeningly happy, and I think I’m about to cry.

  “Please, please! I’ll do anything.”

  Mom bites her bottom lip. And for a moment, she looks like Cool Mom, who once in a blue moon buys me not-on-sale shoes. She rubs her forehead and sighs. “For emergencies, we’ll buy you one of those pay-as-you-go phones.”

  “A flip phone? You’ve got to be kidding me!” Now the tears flow. Don’t my parents get how rare it is at my age, at any age, to have 12,032 followers? Do they want me to go back to being Unknown and Unliked Karma, otherwise known as Bad Karma?

  Mom stalks toward our car, gripping my phone so tightly in her hands it looks like it’s about to liquefy. “This is going into hiding,” she calls out. “If you have good behavior, we’ll consider giving it back to you sometime in the future.”