Instafamous

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  About the Author

  Counterparts Sample Chapter

  Instafamous

  Marcus Herzig

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and trademarks are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. The use of any trademarks within this publication was not authorized by, nor is this publication sponsored by or associated with, the respective trademark owners.

  Instafamous

  Copyright © 2017 by Marcus Herzig

  Cover photograph by arminstaudt @ 123RF Stock Photo

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Marcus Herzig

  244 Madison Ave.

  New York, NY 10016-2817

  http://www.marcus-herzig.com/

  https://www.twitter.com/Marcus_Herzig

  ONE

  I tried to catch Ben’s eye during lunchtime. I always did, because his eyes were beautiful and warm and hazel, and they made me feel all fuzzy inside when they looked at me. Which pretty much never happened. By the time Ben would enter the cafeteria, I’d usually be sitting at my regular table in the corner, munching away on whatever the dish of the day was and pretending not to care that whoever else was sitting at my table usually kept a seat or two between me and them empty. The only person who wouldn’t mind sitting right next to me was Jordan, except Jordan preferred to sit across the table from me. It made it easier for him to cast surreptitious glances at me. I always pretended I didn’t notice how he would peek at me through his dark, shaggy bangs without raising his head whenever my eyes were grazing the cafeteria to catch glimpses of Ben.

  Ben was always late for lunch because he couldn’t walk ten feet without being stopped by people who wanted to shake his hand, exchange a few words, and bask in his glory. Being a straight-A student, star pitcher of the baseball team and everyone’s best bet for valedictorian come our graduation in a few months, he never had trouble finding a seat in our crowded cafeteria. People would dutifully get up and offer him theirs. They didn’t have to do that. There was always an empty seat next to me, but even in his wildest dreams Ben was never going sit with crazy Noah Simmons, the scrawny, hoodie-wearing, friendless weirdo, or even acknowledge my existence with a nod or a smile because that’s not how high school dynamics worked in this town.

  Today’s dish of the day was lasagna. Ben loved lasagna. I knew that because I knew a lot about him. It’s surprising how much you could learn about a person by spending just a few minutes a week with them. I knew things about him that no one else knew, and so I wasn’t at all surprised to see him pass on the lasagna today, grab a sandwich, and excuse himself to his disappointed entourage before making his way toward the exit. On his way out, finally, he turned his head to find me, and when he did, our eyes met for the briefest of moments. On any other day I would have found the look in his eyes chilling, perhaps even menacing, but today I knew better. There was a fine line between anger and fear, and today Ben’s expression, uncharacteristically, sided with fear.

  When Ben had left the cafeteria and I turned my head back, I caught Jordan quickly averting his gaze—not from me but from the door through which Ben had just left. Our eyes briefly met, but neither of us said anything. After I had finished my lasagna, I got up, disposed of my lunch tray in one of the used-tray racks, and made my way to the exit, keeping my eyes on the floor. There was no one else whose gaze I wanted to catch. There never was.

  Leaving the buzzing cafeteria behind, I entered the deserted hallway. Passing the lockers, my hands buried deep in my pockets, I turned my head every other couple of steps to make sure no one was following me. I took a right turn onto the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. When I reached the second floor, I looked both ways down the hall. There was no one there. I hurried across the hall and slipped into the bathroom, carefully trying to avoid any noise. After I had closed the door behind me, I held my breath and listened for a few seconds. Nothing. Good.

  The second floor bathroom had six urinals on the right hand wall and four stalls on the left. I approached the first stall and gently pushed the door with my hand. It swung open and revealed an empty stall. Same with the second and third. I was about to put my hand on the fourth stall door when it was torn open and a hand grabbed my collar and pulled me inside. Before I could say anything, Ben closed the door, locked it, and pushed me against the wall. Both his hands on my collar, his lips just inches from my nose, he hissed, “The fuck is wrong with you, Noah? Don’t be slipping notes in my locker in the light of day! What if someone sees you?”

  His sweet, warm breath tickled my nose, making my heart race and my cheeks glow with heat. Fighting the temptation to lean forward and press my lips on his, I said, “Relax! No one saw me. I did it during class when I went to the bathroom. And besides, I wouldn’t have to slip notes in your locker if I had your phone number.”

  “We’ve been through this,” he said. “If I give you my number, you’ll be sending me embarrassing texts all day long, and if my parents find them I’m dead, you understand?”

  Soon we’ll both wish we were dead anyway, I thought, but I just said, “Shit’s going down. I thought you might want to know.”

  There it was. His angry glare turned anxious, frightened, and all the blood drained from his face within a second as he finally let go of my collar. “How?” he said, his voice shaky and lacking all the confidence he was so well known for.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Your Instagram account accepted my follow request.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not my account! I don’t do Instagram.”

  “Well, you know what I mean. The account under your name.”

  A week ago, someone had set up an Instagram account with the name BenHynes01, including a profile pic of Ben that had been copied from the school’s website, and started following pretty much everyone in our school. However, the account was set to private, and up until now, none of the presumably hundreds of follow requests had been accepted. Ben was popular, and people were excited, honored even, to have him as a follower, but every day, girls would stop him in the hallway and ask him with big, sad eyes why he wouldn’t accept their follow requests. “I’ll get to it,” was his standard response which obviously didn’t help the situation at all because the same people would ask him the same question the next day, and the next day, and the next.

  “I’m the only follower,” I said. “So far. But he says he has close to five hundred follow requests, so … you know. Anyway, there’s only one post.”

  Swallowing hard, Ben kept staring at me without saying a word
as if he were paralyzed by what he knew he was about to see. I pulled up the Instagram post and handed him the phone, watching him closely as he looked at the shaky 30-second cellphone video that showed him from above, in the very bathroom stall we were in right now. In the video, he was standing in front of the toilet bowl, his pants and boxers down to just above his knees. I was sitting on the closed toilet lid, his hands on my head as I was slowly moving back and forth. You could hear his silent moans and the long, deep breaths I was taking through my nose. About halfway through the video, Ben briefly averted his eyes in anticipation of what was going to happen next. He raised his head and exhaled. When he looked back at the screen, he saw himself putting his head in his neck, panting heavily, his eyes closed as he was approaching the climax. But then he opened his eyes and looked right at the camera. The camera was quickly lowered, and that’s where the video ended.

  Shoving the phone back into my hands, Ben took a step back. He leaned his back and head against the stall divider and started rubbing his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears, but that was not the kind of person he was, not even in a situation as fucked up as this. He finally opened his eyes again and looked at me, the back of his head still leaning against the divider. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why post this to a private account that no one can see?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You haven’t even read the comment, have you?”

  “Comment? What comment?”

  I handed the phone back to him, our video still running in a continuous loop. He took the phone and read the comment.

  BenHynes01: Pretty naughty, u guys. A nice little secret u got there. Would be a shame if something happened to it. I got 472 pending follow requests, so play nice. First of all, Ben, make an account & send me a follow request. If I don’t have ur follow request by noon tomorrow I’ll accept the 472 others instead. Btw, sorry ur username is already taken. Should have made an account much sooner.

  “What the fuck!” Ben fumed. “I don’t even do Instagram. I only have Faceb—”

  “Dude,” I said, scowling. “This is how you wanna play it? Do I have to teach you how to download and install a goddamn app on your phone or something?”

  “Fuck,” he said again. Worried he might toss my phone into the toilet out of pure frustration, I snatched it from his hands.

  “Download the damn app and follow the account, or he’ll go public. This is not rocket—”

  We both jumped and jerked our heads around when the door to the hallway was pushed open and we heard footsteps. Ben looked at me, his eyes wide open in terror. I put my finger on my lips and motioned him to sit on the toilet seat. Then I climbed onto the seat and crouched behind him so whoever had just walked in wouldn’t see two pairs of feet through the gap under the door. To keep my balance, I wrapped my arm around Ben’s neck. He turned his head to protest, but I raised my eyebrows in warning and put my finger on my lips again.

  When the footsteps stopped, we heard a zipper being unzipped, followed by a stream of urine hitting a urinal. Motionless, I held on to Ben, my nose so close to the back of his head that I could smell his hair that, oddly, smelled of pine cones. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, thinking about what it would be like if instead of being awkwardly huddled up on a toilet seat, we’d be lying on my bed, naked, spooning, my arm wrapped around his torso, my nose buried in his mop of brown, wavy hair. What would it be like to engage in tender hugs and kisses instead of our usual raw, plump groping and rubbing?

  What was the difference between sex and sensuality, between lust and love anyway? Was one a prerequisite for the other, and if so, which one? I knew, or at least I was being told, that love could lead to lust. In fact, love was supposed to lead to lust, at least for those who were clinging to the ancient concept of no-sex-before-marriage. First you got married, then the bedroom action somehow fell into place. But things seemed to have changed, and as far as I could tell, nowadays people had sex with a whole bunch of people until they found the one they wanted to marry. What intrigued me, though, was the question whether great sex ever not led to love, and if so, why? Not that I knew a whole lot about great sex. I knew about quick and dirty bathroom sex, and it was the greatest sex I’d ever had because it was the only sex I’d ever had. I suspected there had to be something better out there, but maybe that was just me being hopelessly hopeful. Life was always going to find a way to disappoint me, wasn’t it?

  The guy on the other side of the door took forever to empty his bladder. My curiosity was getting the better of me, so I put my hands on Ben’s shoulders and slowly rose to peek across the stall door. By his strawberry blond hair and slender frame I recognized Troy Bostick. He played short stop on the baseball team and belonged to Ben’s regular entourage. Ben turned his head to cast me an angry look as he tugged on my sleeve, so I crouched down again. When the sound of trickling urine finally subsided and a zipper was being pulled up, I felt Ben’s body relax, but I held on to him until the footsteps moved away and the door to the hallway opened and fell shut again.

  “He didn’t wash his hands!” I whispered in Ben’s ear.

  Writhing out of my embrace and standing up, Ben said, “Really? That’s what’s bothering you right now?”

  “I’m just saying,” I said, shrugging. “Anyway, you might wanna get that Instagram account if you don’t want to be a famous porn star by tomorrow.”

  The school bell signaled the end of lunchtime.

  “I’ll do it later. I gotta get to class. You stay put until I’m gone.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know the drill.”

  “Good,” Ben said as he unlocked the door and left me behind, still awkwardly perched on the toilet seat.

  I descended my throne, waited a minute or two, and finally made my way to calculus.

  “Constipated?” Jordan said as I plopped down on my chair next to him.

  I frowned. “What?”

  “Just kidding,” he said, looking at his watch. “That took, like, ten minutes or something.”

  “Oh, yeah, no,” I replied, waving my hand dismissively. “I was just … never mind.”

  “All right,” he said, but from the corner of my eye I could see him eyeing me suspiciously a little too long for comfort. It made me wonder if Jordan knew anything he wasn’t supposed to know or if he at least suspected something. I knew that if he did, he wouldn’t tell unless I asked him and maybe not even then. But did he know I was never going to ask?

  TWO

  Initially, I hadn’t even realized what was going on until Ben had abruptly pulled himself away from me because, well, I had my eyes elsewhere. As he scrambled to pull up his pants, hissing curses under his breath, I heard a pair of feet hit the floor in the stall next door. The door was torn open so forcefully that it slammed into the stall divider next to me with a loud bang, followed by the squeaky sound of sneakers running across the tiled bathroom floor. Meanwhile, Ben had pulled up his pants and fastened his belt. He opened the door of our stall as far as he could before it hit my knee, sending a stinging pain up my leg.

  “Move!” he said, so I turned my legs to the side, allowing him to open the door wide enough to slip through the crack and run outside, leaving me behind all distressed and confused. At that point I didn’t even know we had been filmed. All I gathered was that someone must have watched us as we engaged in one of our occasional, clandestine bathroom meetings that occurred two or three times a week. Just being watched would have been bad enough, even without the involvement of a camera, but it took almost twenty hours until I found out what had really happened. After Ben had left me behind in the bathroom, I waited a few minutes for the bell to clear the hall before I left the bathroom and made my way to class. That’s how we always did it. We couldn’t be seen leaving the bathroom together or in close succession lest people became suspicious, and it was always Ben who left first and me who got to be scolded to be late for class, never the other way around. He had a reputation to live up to. I had one hardly wor
th defending.

  I didn’t see Ben again that day, even though we had history class together after lunch. When he didn’t show up, I got mighty worried that he’d done something really stupid like slay whoever had been watching us, or jump off the roof of our school. But it turned out he’d simply skipped school for the rest of the day so he wouldn’t be tempted to do something really stupid like jump off the roof of our school. He wasn’t going to slay anyone because he didn’t know who’d been watching us.

  “The hallway was, like, totally crowded,” he said to me when we met up behind the school gym the next day. “I asked a bunch of people if they’d seen anyone leave the bathroom right before me, but all I got was shrugs and blank stares.”

  “Right,” I said. “Did you catch a glimpse of him at all?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. He pulled his head down the moment I opened my eyes. All I could see was the phone.”

  I frowned at him. “The phone? What phone?”

  Ben glared at me for a few seconds, then he said, “Jesus Christ, how thick are you, Noah? That son of a bitch had his goddamn phone pointed at us!”

  He never used profanities in public. To hear him use swear words felt strangely alluring, if only it weren’t under such unfortunate circumstances. “Well, excuse me,” I said, “I didn’t even see anyone or anything. I was focusing on other things.”

  “Well, he did have a phone, all right?”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Oh, you think?” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’re lucky if he only took a shaky, grainy photo of us before I looked up. But if he took a whole video …” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He exhaled and said, “We’re so fucked.”

  I looked at him, my hands deep in my pockets, unsure what to say. I was still trying to process that new information, but I found Ben’s demeanor extremely distracting. Like everyone else, I’d only ever known him as the boisterous, overly self-confident star pitcher and straight-A student who always knew what to say or do and whom everyone loved to turn to for advice. I didn’t know where that Ben had gone, but he wasn’t here today. I’d never seen him frightened, and I’d never seen anyone as frightened as Ben seemed to be. That, in turn, frightened me, which totally wasn’t fair. If his self-confidence never rubbed off on me, then why did his fear have to?