Page 6 - My FlipBook

Minnesota Avenue is awash with pink as a horde of wed-
ding guests hustles past with umbrellas in varying shades of it.
I snap a picture and post it to my Instagram with a caption:
This storm is a downpour of peonies.
Now that the image is cemented into my stream, I think
maybe I should have looked more closely before I posted it.
I see my own reflection in the glass in the picture: my black
beanie, adorned with the logo of my favorite band and shoved
atop my chin-length waves, the smudge of mascara under my
left eye . . . not to mention the mirror-image of the coffee shop’s
name, hand-lettered on the window before me, spanning across
my reflection’s forehead.
I don’t usually post pictures of my whole face.
Maybe if I were one of the Sophias, I wouldn’t worry that
people might find my image not good enough . . . my hair too
frizzy, my eyeliner too thick. But being me, I worry about these
things. The last thing I want is for someone, somewhere to dig
up an old image of me, an old opinion I once posted, and decide
who or what I am.
I open the diary app on my phone and jot down what I’m
feeling—on display, judged.
A second later, my phone pings as my usual supporters on
Instagram chime in with little heart icons, validating me. It’s a
great world we live in where one’s self-esteem is boosted by some-
thing so incredibly unimportant as likes on social media, right?
My older half-sister, Hayley, weighs in with virtual hugs.
One good thing about the world’s obsession with putting our
lives online: it’s like Hayley’s still involved in my daily routine,
even though she’s all the way across town at DePaul, a safe dis-
tance from the turmoil our family life has become since Mom
and Dad ceased all civil communication.

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