Page 13 of Someone Just Followed You

‘It’s the Freedom Festival’s baby contest today,’ Mom explains. ‘It’s the first Independence Day celebration in the calendar, and they’ve asked me to judge the twins’ category. I feel very honored, of course, even though it means missing church, which you know I hate to do. But I need your help.’

I screw my nose up. ‘Babies? How is that going to help my profile?’

‘Oh, Maple honey. I actually love how self-absorbed you can be; it’s an important trait in our world. But this time, it isn’t about you.’

I bunch my fists. ‘Mom, what are you talking about?’

‘I thought it would be obvious,’ she says with a sigh of disappointment. ‘I’m taking Ash and Aspen with me because I want to create a film of them playing with each of the sets of contestants. Honestly, it will be so cute. But I’ll be too busy judging to film the content, which is why I need you there.’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, I can’t. I need to get ready for Dylan arriving tomorrow, and I’ve got my own content to create. That’s what you keep saying, isn’t it? That if I want to make it as an influencer, I have to post, post, post.’

‘Which is why I got you up early enough to film a “get ready with me” video before we leave,’ Mom says, without missing a beat. ‘They are so popular right now – I’ve noticed Bella Tells is doing three a week – and you haven’t done one since Tuesday. Oh, and I have a new lip gloss for you to promote, shea butter and caramel. Honestly, it’s so good. And it’s discounted at Walgreens this month, so it’s time-sensitive too. Come on.’

She hands me a pink tube, and for some crazy reason, I take it from her. I even feel an urge to put it on my lips. And this fucked-up impulse seems to have some major g-force, because it also powers me out of bed, out of my room, and into the shower.

Chapter 17

Maple

Less than two hours later, Mom has edited and uploaded my ‘get ready with me’ video to YouTube and created a teaser from it for Instagram and TikTok. She has persuaded the twins to dress in red, white and blue (luckily, I escaped that) and has still found the time to look amazing herself. I should be impressed, but it’s this crazy work rate that makes my life so exhausting.

We climb into her Lexus. Me in the front, the twins in the back. Dad has already left for church, as though him going early to help set things up might absolve the rest of us for the sin of not attending.

‘Watch your skirt, Aspen,’ Mom calls backwards. ‘Don’t rip that tulle on the seatbelt.’

‘I don’t know why I can’t wear my stars and stripes shorts,’ she grumbles. ‘I hate skirts.’

‘The skirt’s prettier, sweetie,’ Mom says, peering through the rearview mirror. ‘It’ll look better in the photos.’

‘I like my shorts,’ Ash offers. ‘But this shirt is super itchy.’

Mom tuts. ‘Will you quit complaining, please? It’s only three hours and then we’re going to Nana and Papa’s for lunch, so you can choose what to wear for that. Deal?’

‘Three hours?’ Aspen wails.

Mom presses a button on her steering wheel, and Taylor Swift bursts into the car. It’s loud enough to drown out any more complaints, and I spend the rest of the journey staring at the mountains. Ten minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of Hillcrest Park community center. There are red, white and blue balloons around the door, and already loads of buggies lined up.

Inside, it’s manic. There are toddlers dressed as soldiers, and firefighters, and (I think) cows, racing around the hall. Chubby babies wearing old-fashioned outfits are pulling at the straps of their bonnets and screaming, and there are a few skinnier, smaller babies wrapped in stars and stripes blankets, somehow fast asleep. The adults are mainly in twos, moms and dads here to prove their child is the cutest in Provo, while sweating under the photographer’s lights.

A little boy zooms past me on a wooden tricycle, then clips Mom’s ankle, which makes me smile. A pacifier drops from a baby’s mouth onto the floor, and she lets out a howl.

Aspen’s eyes light up. ‘Maybe this isn’t so bad,’ she says. ‘Come on, Ash!’

‘Hey, wait,’ Mom calls after them. But it’s too late.

‘Mrs. Clark?’

We both turn toward the voice. It belongs to a woman with badly dyed hair and chipmunk cheeks.

‘We are so excited that you accepted our invite to judge the twins’ category,’ she says in a fake-posh voice. ‘A real celebrity mom. Can I show you to the judge’s chair?’

Mom beams at her, then hisses, ‘Find the twins,’ at me, and floats off after the waddling woman.

As I scan the room for Ash and Aspen, my eyes land on a man holding a baby. He’s got longish hair and is wearing slouchy jeans and a white T-shirt that looks grubby from sweat, or milk, or baby puke; it’s hard to tell. His face is wearing a stupid grin and he’s staring at me. I shift my gaze away, but still catch him passing the baby to someone else, his wife I guess, then start walking toward me.

I turn away, but not in time, because his hand lands on my arm.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You’re Maybe Maple, right?’