Free Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle by Katie Coyle Page A

wrong?”
    â€œâ€˜You may be wondering why I am writing this blog post,’” Harp reads in pinched tones, pushing an invisible pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose. Then in her normal voice, she says, “Come on, Viv. It isn’t an assignment.”
    â€œYou
literally
assigned it to me!” I exclaim. “Why can’t you do it?”
    Harp makes a face. “I can barely spell, Viv.”
    â€œI’ve read your texts; you spell fine.” I stand, stepping away from the desk. “You’re the interesting one. You’re the one with two working hands. Why don’t
you
try?”
    Harp stares at the laptop. After a moment she settles uncertainly into the chair. Her fingers hover over the keyboard for one long beat. She looks up at me.
    â€œI don’t know how to do this! It’s going to sound dumb!”
    But I don’t even need to encourage her. She turns back and begins to type. I watch the words fly easily onto the screen.
    Â 
What up, America!
    Probably you’re wondering what the deal is with those two teen girls on the Church of America’s news feed. Probably you’re like, “Better them than me, ha ha ha!” as you and your family shiver like little baby chicks in your homes trying to pretend you believe in the word of Frick so that the Church doesn’t come to your door to slap the stale bread crusts out of your kids’ hands and burn your wives at the stake for their prostitutely ways. COOL LIFE, BRO! But guess what: I am one of the girls on the Church of America’s news feed, and I’m about to tell you how they straight-up faked that motherfucking Rapture.
    Â 
    Harp pauses and reads what she’s written. I see a little gleam of satisfaction in her eyes when she glances at me. “Too aggressive?”
    I laugh and shake my head. “It’s perfect, Harp. Seriously perfect.”
    Harp beams and keeps typing. I watch as she weaves our story: she begins with the Rapture’s Eve party, then the tense days immediately following our parents’ collective disappearance, Raj’s death, my return to Pittsburgh, Peter, every stop we made on our journey across the continent. It’s funny and quick, and I begin to feel a sudden sureness blazing through my veins, because who’d read this story and doubt the girl who wrote it? How could anyone who read it not
want
to believe her? Maybe the blog won’t keep the militia’s attack from happening—I’m still not sure I want it to—but at least, for now, it makes us feel less voiceless. I feel like more than a face on the feed for the first time since the Church published my picture—I feel like a human being again.
    Â 
Picture us, sweet reader: three bold and—dare I say—stunning (you saw the feed, you know we look like the stars of a romantic high school vampire soap opera; we are
babes
) American youths, standing there in front of Beaton Frick, who has just admitted to poisoning a(n unclear) percentage of the so-called Raptured. We are not pleased. We’re pretty much tearing through the seven stages of grief at warp speed, and my sweet buddy Viv (once a timid valedictorian type, now an increasingly fearless vixen and newly crowned make-out queen) is faster than anyone. She hits anger way before I do and how does she handle it? SHE STRUTS OVER TO FRICK AND BREAKS HER FUCKING HAND ON HIS CRAZY OLD MAN FACE.
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    â€œI didn’t break it!” I protest. “It’s only a sprain!”
    â€œPoetic license, Viv. ‘Sprains her fucking hand’ doesn’t sound nearly as good.”
    She types on, describing the Three Angels ( Mulvey, Blackmore, and a TBD creep, all of them in some seriously weak-ass angel costumes, like literally they’d just wrapped themselves in sheets; it was embarrassing ) and our escape. She doesn’t share her doubts about Peter; maybe just for my sake she paints him as steady and