Erin Breeler is not what you need first thing on a Monday morning. She is officially the worst start to the week since I had tonsillitis at Christmas.
She glides up to both of us like she’s on demon fairy wheels. Miranda, her fluffy best friend, is by her side. Erin towers over us, and we press our backs against our lockers. She is tanned and made-up brilliantly. Her lashes flutter like a flock of butterflies. Do butterflies come in flocks? They do on Erin’s eyes. Seriously, if I didn’t hate her so much, I’d be completely impressed. I try to keep calm, but inside, I feel the fear. My palms are sweating and leaving big print marks on my math book.
She purrs at us. And it’s not a Dave-style purr. “All praise the Wardrobe Queen!” She laughs. “What a clever use of a piece of exercise equipment. I’m impressed, Millie. Really.”
“Er … yeah,” I say. This is RUBBISH. Why can’t I think of something better? It’s like that time Dad wrapped Aunty Teresa’s head in Scotch tape. She couldn’t say or do a thing. JUST LIKE ME NOW.
“I really did think it was good,” Erin continues. “An unexpectedly funny, smart post.”
I’ve still got mental tape all around my brain and body, so I just say, “Thank you.”
“It was so good,” Erin carries on, “that I thought it could do with a little bit of … improvement.”
Suddenly, something in my head springs back into action.
“And what form would that ‘improvement’ take, Erin?” I sound a bit hard but not too ridiculous.
“It’s no big deal, Millie. It’s just about knowing what you’re doing on Instagram. I mean, what you did was great, but you can’t hope for too big a reach without … upping your game.”
Now my tummy isn’t full of Erin’s butterflies. It’s full of buffalo—galloping through fields, trampling everything in their path. My stomach is just a mass of HOOVES.
“And how is that?” I just about manage to get that out despite the total-body stampede.
Erin smirks her perfect smirk. She pulls out her phone, tosses it lightly in the air, and catches it perfectly. It’s Cirque du Soleil with the latest Samsung. “Using good filters. Posting at the right time. Decent hashtags. The right audience for the content. That sort of thing. But it’s okay, Millie, because I like to help if I can.”
Feeling ever so slightly like I’m going to throw up, I ask her what she’s done.
“Oh, don’t let me tell you, Millie. Just go look. Look … and LEARN. Oh, and Lauren, I thought those heels were fab. It’s just a shame how some people can’t cope with real fashion, but I’m sure you’ll get there eventually!” Then she flounces off down the hallway with Miranda, who just smirks and nods like a smirky, noddy thing.
I grab my phone and go straight to Erin’s account. When I see what she’s done, I want to go off like Gary when he’s spotted pink mold in the shower.
Erin “TOTAL EVIL” Breeler has reposted my photo to her account and given it a different—and YES, much better—filter, and it got hundreds of likes in under an hour. What’s even worse? She captioned it:
Don’t fancy working out? Don’t worry, girls, here’s a great hack from @MilliePorter. If you’re not a #GymBunny, you can always use your gear as a wardrobe instead. Remember: If you want to make high-street fashion last, take care of your clothes.;) #Glow #BudgetFashion #LifeHacks
Erin looks back at me from down the hall and sees that I have seen her evil. “It’s a great message, Millie,” she shouts. “I like helping people. You’re helping them, too. We did it together. It’s like…” And she pauses and does that face of MAXIMUM MINX. “It’s like you and I, for that tiny minute, were a team.”
Then she walks off. She’s a trap, and I just stepped right into her.
We can’t speak. We don’t say anything for about three hours. It might be less than that, but it feels that long. Lauren just stares at me and finally says, “How does she manage to always be … right?”
I sigh. “She’s clever. This is a whole new world of terrible, Lauren. Even when you do good stuff, she finds a way to make you feel terrible about it. Now all her followers will think I’m a complete idiot and troll me to death.”
“What do you think we should do?” At times like this, Lauren assumes I have the answer, and usually I do. But not this time.
“Well, there’s nothing that we can do—we’ve just got to take it and…”
“And?” Lauren puts her arm around me.
“I need to think,” I say.
Actually, I need to think for a very long time.