My phone goes off at 6:55 a.m. I’ve put it under my pillow and the vibrating wakes me up. I can do that. It’s Friday. You can sleep all day Saturday. It’s Lauren, and she’s crying. “I’m SO sorry,” she wails.
“No, I’m really sorry,” I say. And I’ve never meant anything more. I am.
“I saw the vlog, Millie—last night. I wanted to come by immediately, but Dad wouldn’t let me. I’m so sorry.”
“No! It’s me,” I shout. “I’m sorry!”
And Lauren and I say sorry for the next five minutes because we both are, even though my sorry is more important than hers.
Lauren then starts giggling.
“It’s weird, isn’t it? You did that vlog, and it was really just for me. So sweet, and yet it’s gone viral and everyone in the world has seen it. I could tell that you hadn’t planned it. It was perfect. An apology, some good advice, and COMEDY GOLD.”
I nearly choke on my tongue.
“What?!”
“It’s gone viral, Millie! Didn’t you watch it before you uploaded it?”
“No!” I shout. “It said everything I wanted to and I didn’t care! I just wanted to make a point about you. I actually, GENUINELY wasn’t thinking about shares or follows.”
“Go and watch it, Millie,” Lauren says. “It is really funny. Like properly hilarious.”
“It’s not meant to be funny.” I feel quite offended.
“But it is,” Lauren replies. “It’s EPIC!”
I hang up and watch the vlog. I see a very upset and clearly emotional me saying things I really mean, but I do sound a bit like a teacher. In the vlog, I’m so involved in what I’m saying that I completely fail to notice Dave, who has slinked up behind me and spotted Granddad’s wading bird calendar, which is lying on the bench behind me.
Dave doesn’t like birds. And she really doesn’t like ringed plovers. Even paper ones.
When she spots the ringed plover, Dave decides to lift herself up on two legs and dance hypnotically from side to side. She’s better than the “Thriller” cat, like she’s been trained by the world’s best choreographers. She then starts diving up and down on top of the plover, licking the plover, head-butting the plover, and twizzling her bum on the plover.
Someone has already relabeled the video: “INSANE Cat Goes Mad Behind Seriously Upset Girl.” That version has over 75,362 views already.
There are loads of comments. Mostly about Dave.
Cat is EVERYTHING
Need Dave. NOW.
Sitting in my pajamas. School starts in four hours. Worth it.
Fake
THAT CAT IS INSANE
Get cat on Dancing with the Stars. Want to see her samba and argentine tango.
Cat needs own channel
Like if you’re watching this when you should be asleep!
(This comment has 612 likes.)
Like if you’re watching this and you’d like to lose 20lbs on the guava diet!
(This comment has no likes.)
Finally, I’ve gone viral.
For potentially all the wrong reasons, but it’s actually very sweet that some people enjoyed the message and not the sight of a cat doing the rumba while attacking something that looks like it’s wearing a feathery balaclava. So maybe Dave’s gone viral and I’ve …
I’ve also got … more than 5,680 new subscribers!
I scream! Teresa rushes in and wants to know what’s happening. I tell her that I’ve gone viral. Teresa opens up the window and shouts, “MILLIE IS VIRAL. HEAR HER!!”
Granddad yells from downstairs, “Is it contagious?! I can’t risk it. I had shingles two years ago.”
The postman shouts from the street, “I’m thrilled, but I can’t deliver with this cat threatening me. There are laws against this, you know.”
Me and Teresa jump up and down on the bed for a few minutes, then reality slaps me.
The problem is I know that my going viral will lead to the following things:
1. TOTAL laughs at my expense. I will never be able to move on from this, and it will become legendary.
2. Danny deciding that I am just about the worst example of girlfriend material that there could ever be.
3. Granddad getting angry that Dave has trashed his calendar.
4. Mum thinking that something terrible is about to happen to me.
5. Erin …
Erin. I check Mr. Style Shame.
The entire account has been deleted.
It must have been Erin. I saw right through her, and she went for the safe self-destruct option. I can’t quite believe it.
My phone vibrates.
It’s Bradley. He doesn’t even say hello.
“You know what you need to do, don’t you?” he almost yells. Enthusiasm is unheard of from Bradley (except when it comes to lifts).
“Yes. I’m thinking of moving to Paraguay and changing my name.”
“I don’t think you need to do that. All you need to do is make a vlog called ‘Cats Happen,’ where you explain that life, like cats called Dave, is completely unpredictable and you’ve got to roll with it and get on with it and not worry too much. You can still give great advice. Get Dave in on it. I think it would be really funny. Laugh with the people laughing at you, Mills, and BUILD ON IT.”
“Oh, because that’s so easy to do—especially with Dave, the biggest cat diva ever!” I say. Bradley gets my inner sarcasm like no one else.
“No,” he replies. “It’s not easy, but it’s the right thing. Seriously. The video is really funny, and you know what? You are…”
And I can hear Bradley really thinking about what he is going to say.…
“You are really cool in it and kind. And if you read all the comments, it’s not just about Dave. It’s about how you sound like a genuinely lovely person.”
When I start groaning loudly, Bradley shuts me up. “No—you do! You do! Seriously. Millie, this is a real opportunity now. Everyone will be wondering what you’re going to do next. So do something brilliant. Make people realize … how special you are.”
At that moment, I can sense that Bradley feels like he may have gone a bit too far.
“Anyway,” Bradley says, “just do it and see what happens. See you soon. Bye … superstar.”
And Bradley is right. I need to swallow the feeling inside of me that makes me just want to escape by paddling to Paraguay on an inflatable novelty doughnut (Teresa has one), and do a vlog to end all vlogs. But what do I do about Bradley? I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I think I really fancy—
Danny. No, he’s not Danny, but Danny is calling.…
“Lady viral sensation! How is life?”
(What is it with men not saying “Hello” today?)
“It’s interesting,” I say calmly. “I’ve been totally upstaged by a cat.”
“The world loves it. I love it. I think you and Dave are both quirky in that really good British way that’s actually sort of Canadian, really.”
I’m feeling the patriotic sass. “Didn’t we have it first, as actually we did technically invent you?”
Danny pauses. “Okay, well, it’s probably the Chinese bit of you. OR the French part of you, which is the really cool bit—La Millie-Millait.” (He says it like a really sexy French boy.)
I have no idea what he means, so I just say, “Bon,” which, apart from le stylo and la chaise, is the only French word I can remember.
“Why I’m calling,” Danny sort of stutters, “is … Would you like to meet me and talk about whatever YOU want to talk about?”
Things have officially got BIG. SERIOUS. MASSIVE. SCARY.
“What about Erin?”
“We’ve been hanging out a bit,” Danny says, and he sounds like he’s telling the truth. “When I first met her, I thought she was really friendly and cute, but she’s got hidden depths. If I’m honest, it’s the same way a rattlesnake has got hidden depths.”
That’s what I love about Danny. He’s Canadian and naturally knows lots about horrible, dangerous, exotic animals.
Danny carries on.
“But I wanted to tell you, Erin told me yesterday that she runs Mr. Style Shame. I saw your comment. You guessed correctly. After that post last night, I pretty much knew it could only be her. It was dumb of her, really. Honestly I don’t really want to be associated with someone who runs an account like that. I just think it’s nasty. She’s got a really nasty streak. I don’t like that. And her Instagram was a bit much as well. Not that I’m Mr. Gorgeous or anything. I’m not, but she was … she is … jealous of you, because she knows I think you are funny and … cute.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t quite believe all this is happening.
“Anyway,” Danny says nervously, “would you like to do something on the weekend? Say on Saturday afternoon? We could get ice cream from that little Italian place on the high street? I read a great blog post about it.”
I surprise myself by what I say.
“Danny, that sounds lovely. I’d really like to, but I’ve just got to sort a couple of things out first. Can I message you later about it?”
“Sure,” he says. “Speak to you in a bit.”
I feel sensible again. I feel like I just need … time. Time to work this all out.
I take a big breath. I need to get ready for school, or I’m going to be really late, but I also want to see what Erin has posted on HER account recently. Yes! I know. I should get over it, but I can’t.
Erin’s most recent post is an Instagram photo of her in kitten ears. AGAIN.
These are the sort of cats I like. They don’t shed hair everywhere. They are easily controlled and they make you look really cute.
She hasn’t got that many likes. People must have realized that SHE was the person making their fashion lives HELL. If they don’t, everyone will know at school in about two hours this morning.
I think a nonhuman may have finally beat Erin. Dave the cat. YouTube superstar. Rebel. Icon. Mess maker. SLAYER OF THE BREELER.
I’m not stupid. Erin will be back and probably worse than ever. This is real life, and real life is complicated. Bad girls sometimes win, but … I think I’ve won this part of the war. Well, Dave has, technically, but I am her commander in chief.