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T H E iPHONE STAND I’d bought from Amazon was crap. It was meant to stand firm on any surface, a collapsible tripod with a wiry neck like an octopus leg, designed to twist and swirl so you could take a picture from any angle. An ideal accessory for any serious influencer, the brand packaging informed me, except the plastic nubs keeping the tripod stable were too nubby, and the octopus leg wasn’t grippy enough to hold my phone in place, and so each time I finally positioned it perfectly, my phone would clatter loudly to the floor when I started to chop the first carrot. If I wanted it to stay put, I had to wedge it into place with two cookbooks on either side. Usually that did the trick.
It was five-thirty in the morning. I’d been up for two hours already. I’d blown out my hair and then plaited it into a carefully messy, obscenely voluminous braid. I’d spent twenty-five minutes putting on my makeup; I’d recently mastered a YouTube tutorial on how to achieve a Nakedly Gorgeous complexion. As I chopped the vegetables, I kept my expression blankly pleasant, reminded myself not to turn my body toward the cutting board, and focused all my energy on breathing. These were hard-won lessons. In my first attempt at a cooking video, weeks earlier, I’d recorded about seven hours’ worth of bread content before realizing my face looked pinched and sour. I could practically hear Ashley Ann’s cloying whine: Not very likable, Natalie!
Try again!
It had been just over three months since that bearded man featured my account on his show. We now had a million followers. Whoosh. The shift in growth had been so steep that it actually felt like the air at Yesteryear Ranch was now thinner than it was before. Like we physically rose in elevation from all the eyeballs on our little corner of the universe.
Why me?
This was the question that rang through my mind each morning when I woke up and prepared to face down an audience the size of a small nation; when I realized they wanted video content in addition to images; when I learned that my video content was nowhere near up to snuff; when I put the children to bed and then stayed up until three in the morning reading tutorials about how to get it right; when I spent hours scrolling through the internet, looking for a recipe to crib; when I reminded myself again and again that failure was not an option. Why me?
Well. It was like Doug said: a good politician doesn’t change his policies, just the messaging.
A good influencer doesn’t change herself, just the packaging. And while Tammy Lane and Cassidy and Ashley Ann and Robin and all those other idiot women hadn’t understood the key to perfect packaging, the bearded man certainly had. The day he did that livestream, he offered a crash course in marketing that was literally priceless: he taught me how to market myself, and as a double whammy, he taught the audience how to love me.
Which made me think of something I’d read long ago, back in college, the night after my date with Caleb at the Italian restaurant. The cold glasses of water, that truffle pasta. The strangest flavor I’d ever encountered. Terrible yet mouthwatering. “Trust me,” Caleb had said, when I noted my confusion aloud. “You’ll develop a taste for it, and then you’ll be obsessed.” Back in
my dorm room that night, I went online and learned about the pigs who were trained to seek out those delicacies in the wild. The smell was so intoxicating to them, it nearly drove them mad.
People aren’t so different from pigs, apparently. Once they learn a rotten thing can be eaten, they will eat it, and then they will become addicted to it.
They will let it drive them mad.
That bearded man? He was the first person to smell the rot of our farm and label it a delicacy. Those homesteading folks over at Yesteryear Ranch, with the tired young mother and the grinning doltish cowboy? They were, as it turned out, not rotten at all, but a perfectly fermented vision of America.
Delicious, the bearded man announced, and everyone else rushed toward me with their forks.
Why does she talk like that? seriously tho when does this woman sleeepppppp i am so obsessed with you i can’t believe so many people are buying the crap this woman is selling I wish my life was half as perfect as hers!!!!!!
—
The goal of an influencer is not to be lovable, and it is not to be unbearable.
The goal is to be both at once. In other words: addicting.
—
That was just the first of many lessons I’d learned since the day I went viral.
Another lesson? The Angry Women, as Caleb had dubbed them, were overworked and underpaid. This, I had learned after many nights of sleepless demographic research, in which I would click through hundreds of accounts
that followed me, noting where they lived, what they posted about, who they claimed to be. What I had learned: nearly all these women had crappy jobs and snotty kids and loser husbands. Alternatively, they were single and whiny and depressed. Either way: these women wanted their content to be every bit as mindless and pleasurable as their lives were not. These women wanted— no, they needed—perfection from me. After all, the tighter the stitching, the more soothing it is to pick apart at the seams.
At the same time, the Angry Woman claimed to want honesty, or at least a working illusion of it. Which meant, in practice: a perfect woman making a perfect meal and occasionally spilling a little flour along the way, oopsie!; a doting mother approaching a baker’s dozen of children smiling with blissful exhaustion as her daughter dragged a finger through a bowl of frosting, so darling; a patient wife rolling her eyes with bottomless adoration for the man who tracked dirt onto the freshly washed floors, who beat her or chastised her or spoke over her until she trailed off into silence. Me-ow! Hubby!
seriously do her kids ever complain
@YesteryearRanch where did you get that dress from????
I can’t decide if her husband is a psycho or not lol
—
A third lesson: the less a woman speaks, the better. That one, I’ll admit I already knew.
—
On cue, I glanced at the camera and offered the lens a private, tired smile. I finished chopping the vegetables, swept them into a big ceramic bowl, and let
out an exaggerated sigh of accomplishment. I paused in that position for three long seconds. Mississippi, Mississippi, Mississippi. This made for easy video splicing. It also allowed for a brief relaxation of the face, a moment for the expression to drop and the eyes to go dark. Like walking off the lactic acid in between sprints.
I consulted the recipe for the twelfth time, then closed my eyes, running through a series of quick math equations, the cup of flour times the iPhone recording me divided by the moment my children were set to wake up. My brain whined happily beneath the pressure. What a relief, to feel the galloping strain of my own intelligence again. I felt like I was back in high school—no, I felt like I was a child again, a baby, doubling my inventory of instincts on a near-daily basis. Developing a computerlike knowledge of cooking and baking and producing. Each sleepless night brought me closer to a full mastery of—myself, I supposed. The performance of me. Of her.
After the vegetables came the beef shank. First, the twine. I pulled open the silverware drawer, then the cooking utensil drawer. No twine. Where the hell was it? I slammed the door shut.
—
“Caleb. Wake up.”
Caleb rolled over on his side, squinted up at me in the darkness. “W’time is it?”
“It’s six,” I whispered. I was sitting on the side of our bed, shrugging on a new sweater. It was a soft lilac cashmere and had cost six hundred dollars, the most I’d ever spent on a single piece of clothing. The color expert I’d met virtually a month earlier had sworn by this brand; she’d said their style was so on-brand for me. “I need to go get twine,” I said, cuffing the sleeves like she’d taught me to. “I’ll take Jessa with me, but you need to get Clementine,
Samuel, and Stetson up and dressed and fed. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.
Forty, tops.”
“Twine,” he mumble-repeated. “Get ’em up. Forty minutes. Why?”
But I was already out the door.
—
Inside the car, I set the camera mount up on the dash, checked my hair, and then pressed record. “Morning, y’all! Another busy day at the ranch. I thought I got twine yesterday, but I can’t find it anywhere, so now I need to go to the grocery store and get some—which means today is going to be another very busy day. But luckily I have my favorite coworker with me for the ride.” I shifted the phone to capture Jessa, six months old and fast asleep in her car seat. Then I pressed the end recording button, turned the car on, and hit the gas.
—
My phone went off as I pulled onto the highway. Doug was calling. “How’s my most famous daughter-in-law?”
“I’m fine, Doug—how’s the campaign trail coming along?”
Doug was practicing a few new campaign strategies in advance of the big run. A presidential push in eighteen months.
“Oh, fine,” Doug said, echoing me. “Busy. You know.” He cleared his throat, and I sighed. I knew what was coming next. It was the only reason Doug ever called me, though he liked to pretend otherwise. “So listen,” he began casually. “I know we’ve discussed this before, but I was thinking you might take some time in the next few weeks to—”
“You know I can’t get political on my page, Doug.”
“I’m not asking for anything crazy! Just, hell, I don’t know…” He trailed off theatrically, as if he was really trying to think of examples off the top of his head. As if he wasn’t looking at a list written by an intern at that very moment. “Maybe you repost a video of me from that Senate Judiciary hearing. Or—how about this, your latest grocery bill. Read through it, line by line. And you can’t believe how expensive things are getting, and you’re worried about your kids staying afloat twenty years from now—”
Doug was desperate to reach the youth.
“I’ve told you what I’m comfortable with,” I said firmly. “And that is showing up at your campaign stops, sharing photos of myself and the kids at your rallies. Making it a family affair. That’s where it starts, and that’s where it ends.”
Doug laughed tightly. “You know we’re rapidly approaching a crossroads in this country, Natalie. The next election is going to be big.”
“Why? Because it’s going to be yours?”
Doug laughed. This is what my social media account had provided me: I could challenge Doug now, and when I did so, he had to laugh. “I’m just reminding you how important all of this is. It’s not just, or rather it’s not only…” He trailed off here, so suddenly frustrated by my refusal to play ball that he seemed perplexed. “Listen. We’re making this complicated. I’m just asking you to write a simple little post saying that I’m a great leader. That’s it. This isn’t complicated, Natalie. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“I didn’t say it was complicated,” I said, my tone still lemon-bright. “I said I wasn’t doing it.”
“You know, Natalie: I don’t like to talk about money.”
Bullshit. Doug loved to talk about money.
“We gave you a lot of money. We helped you build that ranch.”
“I’m aware. I’m very grateful for your support of me, and your son, and
your grandkids.”
“Well, what if the world found out just how much money I gave you?”
I paused. Doug had never tried this tack before. “Are you threatening me, Doug?”
“Of course I’m not! I’m just—” He exhaled slowly and loudly into the phone. “Listen. A war is coming, Natalie. A major war. And it won’t be me who has to live through the consequences of it.”
“So I’ve been told.” Civil war was all the rage in the forums, these days.
Caleb had talked about it nonstop for a while, waxing on each evening about the inevitability of a national schism, the imminent need for local militias and homemade weapons, until finally I turned to him and said, “Well, at least now you’ll get to be a soldier and a blacksmith, just like you always wanted!”
That shut him up quick.
“Listen, Doug,” I said. “I’m pulling into the Whole Foods parking lot.
Let’s discuss this later.”
He went on, speaking more quickly now, like a game show candidate chasing the clock. “Civil war, Natalie, do you hear me? Whether you acknowledge it or not, it’s coming. Lines will be drawn. It will not be pretty.
We have to get our act together as a nation, and quickly, unless you want a, a, a civil war for your children, and your children’s children—”
“Mhmm, I know. Civil war. Very scary. Listen, I’m at the grocery store.
Can we pick this up at another time?” I hung up before he could respond, then checked my notifications quickly.
My brain is breaking like how does she do all of this
Hey everyone, local farmer here, just want to say their farming practices are totally unethical
dude mark my words this woman is miserable
The first week after I went viral, comments like these had destabilized me to the point that I could barely walk in a straight line. Now I could practically
write them myself.
And then I scrolled past a name I recognized. I paused, then clicked on the message request.
Hey Natalie! It’s Reena Magliotti from college. Random, but I’m an intern at America News now and I didn’t know if you would ever do a Q&A with me? I know you haven’t done any interviews yet, but it could be a fun reunion! LMK.
I let out a little huff of amusement. Poor thing. She must have really swallowed her pride to write that message. And to be an intern at twenty- seven—yikes!
—
Inside the grocery store, I moved quickly, grabbing two balls of twine and then adding a few more necessities to the cart. Brussels sprouts, green juice, active yeast. As I was checking out, the woman behind me tapped my shoulder. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry, but: Are you Natalie Heller Mills?”
I paused.
I hadn’t thought it would happen today. Which was silly. It could happen any time I left the ranch, but still— I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three.
—
This, right here, is the strangest part about becoming famous online: you can have millions of followers and still not have a single in-person interaction with a fan for months.
—
“Hi!” I said. “Yes, I am. Do we know each other?”
This is the response I had decided to have. Friendly, yet relatable. Stars: they’re just like us!
“Oh my gosh, I am a huge fan of your account!” She seemed delighted at how on-brand the ingredients in my cart were. So organic. Such vibes. Go ahead and take a picture, I nearly said. “I’m sorry,” she said, and laughed. “I can’t believe how pretty you are in real life.”
“You’re so pretty too!” I said immediately. This was going well, actually.
What had I been so afraid of? This was fun!
“No, no, no.” She was blushing now. “I just ran out the door this morning to get some eggs. I’m sure my hair is whackadoo.”
“Well,” I said lovingly, “I’m sure you’ll do it better next time.”
The woman frowned. Bad, Natalie. Awkward. I swallowed a sudden rush of fury at myself, a fury which only doubled in power when the woman glanced back at me, her expression now colored with uncertainty.
“So you—you live in the area?”
“Not really. I mean, technically yes, but not in town or anything.”
There was a stirring in the air between us. My response had been all wrong, not just in content but in the style of my delivery: heavy when it should have been light, condescending when it should have been grateful.
Had I mistakenly implied that living in town was low-status? I couldn’t tell.
Now a familiar discomfort filled my chest, a bodily awareness of the uncanny horror filling this woman’s mind: I was not the same Natalie she loved so much. At best, I was close. Nearly there. A clone, or a robot. The twin sister no one knew about. Natalie-adjacent. Sharper in tone. Not as tall as she’d imagined.
In short: I was still me. Which meant I was nothing like her: the Natalie who lived online.
—
This was, truthfully, why I hadn’t accepted a single interview request yet, even though I’d received dozens: I simply wasn’t ready.
—
“Well,” the woman said. “It was so nice meeting you.”
“You too,” I said, a bit too warmly, as I handed the cashier my card.
“Thank you so much for following.”
—
I walked quickly across the parking lot, my grocery cart rattle-clacking loudly over the pavement, my gaze trained firmly on the brake lights of my own car.
I was putting the grocery bag into my trunk when I heard that woman again.
“Hey! Natalie! Just a sec.”
A tremor ran through me. I considered pretending not to hear her, then decided against it. By the time I turned around, the woman was standing there, smiling expectantly.
“I just realized I never thanked you.” She gave a nervous laugh. “That was why I wanted to talk to you: to thank you. I gave birth recently, and it was—” She paused, glanced up quickly at the sky, blinking rapidly. Oh, God: she was trying not to cry. “It was really hard.”
I wondered what my expression looked like right now. If I was conveying the correct measure of understanding and concern.
“It’s been a really long few months,” she went on. “Just—really dark. I haven’t been myself. But when I came across your account, I just—I was so inspired. You seem like an amazing mother.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s—that’s so kind of you to say.” At that moment, a squeal came from the back seat, and the woman nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh,” I said, “don’t worry! That’s just my little girl, Jessa.”
She looked at the car, then at me. “Did you leave your baby in the car
while you were shopping?”
Oh.
Oh no.
No no no no no no no no no no no— My body flooded with cortisol. My vision blurred. I could barely hear what I said next. Something about being a very quick shopper (wrong answer). Something about raising our kids like they did in the olden days (worse answer). Through the fog of my panic, I could just see the shape of
this woman’s expression.
Disturbed. She looked disturbed.
Somehow the conversation ended. Somehow I was driving home. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I could feel them, but I wasn’t crying. I was smiling. Wasn’t I? Smiling?
—
What I wished I had said to that woman: I was disturbed, too. In fact disturbing was the only word to describe the vast chasm of space between who I needed to be and who I currently was. I’m working on it, I wanted to say. I am working day and night on this issue. Customer service is aware of the reported blackout. We are working to get service back online and running shortly!
—
As I drove through the winding mountain roads back to the ranch, humming softly to keep Jessa’s hunger snuffles at bay, I tried to visually map out the rest of my day. By the time I got home, the children would all be awake, the two boys smashing wooden blocks over each other’s skulls while Caleb had his daily thirty-minute-long homeschooling lesson with Clementine. God made dinosaurs! Skyscrapers give you cancer! Clementine’s shirt would probably be inside out; Stetson’s diaper would probably need to be changed.
Caleb, meanwhile, would be itching to head out to the barn; most of his favorite livestreams got going around midmorning. And so he would leave me with the kids, and I would ask Clementine to watch Samuel while I took care of Stetson and Jessa, swapping out both diapers, applying rash creams, breastfeeding Jessa, giving Stetson a warm bottle of milk. By this point all the children would be desperate to go outside, to have outdoors time, and so I would stand in the grass watching them roll and play and laugh. That would be a good moment for me to be able to plan out the recipe. And then we would have lunchtime, and then nap time, and everyone but Clementine would sleep for two hours, at which point I could set her up with a book on the couch and tell her it’s Mama’s quiet time. Two hours, plenty of time to film. And then the children would wake up and need to be fed and diapered and entertained all over again, but yes, as long as I took advantage of nap time and didn’t make any mistakes with the recipe, I could be finished with filming by four, maybe five at the latest—
—
“Natalie?”
I turned around. It was nighttime. Caleb was in the doorway, holding a bucket and an ice pick. At the same time, we said, “What are you doing?”
A long silence unfolded.
“Clementine came to the barn,” Caleb said. “She said she hasn’t eaten.”
As if on cue, Clementine stepped forward from behind Caleb. Bitch, I thought before I could stop myself, followed immediately by: No, of course not, just a child, just your child. I was so tired.
“You forgot to make them dinner again, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t forget.” I gestured at the roast in front of me. “It’s right here. It’s almost ready.”
Caleb looked genuinely concerned. “It’s nine at night.”
I blinked. The floorboards slanted. I rested a hand on the countertop to keep from falling forward. I gazed helplessly around the room. Stetson and Samuel were asleep in the playpen, stretched out on their bellies. One look at the baby monitor showed Jessa in her crib. Thank God, I thought, before I could censor my own thoughts. Thank God I put her in the crib. “I must have lost track of time.”
He looked incredulously at me. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I,” I said. “I—I—”
“Natalie,” Caleb said fiercely. How rarely he said my name aloud.
I paused. Then I said something awful, something I’d been thinking for weeks: “I think we maybe need…a nanny.”
“Our children don’t need a nanny,” he replied immediately. “They need a mother.”
Checkmate. No acceptable counter to that. I nodded, properly chastened.
He was right, of course. What kind of mother couldn’t take care of her own children?
“No nanny,” Caleb repeated. Then my husband’s expression softened, and he also placed a hand on the counter, as if to steady himself, and I realized he was exhausted too. Giving himself a moment to recover from his own constant performance—not of the role I had thought he would take on
(hello, cowboy!), but of something much subtler and therefore more demanding: that of a hardened Christian man. He didn’t play with the children anymore, not in the same way he used to. Sometimes I caught him looking at them wistfully, especially toddler Stetson or baby Jessa, but he never actually acted on his longing anymore. He couldn’t. Real men didn’t do things like that. “We can have a full-time babysitter, I think,” he said tiredly, rubbing one eye. “Babysitters are fine.”
Clementine was standing by the baking dish now, quietly eating a roasted carrot. I crossed the room toward my husband and wrapped my arms around him. Our first hug in years. Then I began to cry.
—
The woman in the videos, with her flipbook of smiles? That was Online Natalie, and she was designed to be good at being alive. Nothing was hard for her: not motherhood, nor marriage, nor building a business, nor serving Him.
All of it appeared to her as a series of tasks to be accomplished each day, at the right time, in the correct chronological order.
Online Natalie started each morning by giving thanks for all the Lord had given her. She greeted her children lovingly each morning. She had sex with her husband every night. She was tired all the time, but it never made her ugly or angry or bitter. It only ever made her more beautiful.
And she was right there, wasn’t she? Standing, smiling, beckoning. Any day now, I would wrap my fingers around her neck and pull her forward. Let her topple into me.