Page 14 of Someone Just Followed You

I take a breath and turn back. Remind myself that this is the price of being famous. ‘Yep. My mom’s a judge here, so …’ My voice drifts off. ‘And you? You’ve brought your baby along?’

‘What?’ He starts to laugh. ‘No, she’s not mine. I’m here with my sister. And my niece. I’m too young for kids. And single – I should add that.’ He smiles again, and it’s like he’s flirting with me. I feel a retch build in my chest. He’s doesn’t have the intense stare of the guy in Vegas, or the freaky excitement of the creep with the chocolates. But he’s still old, mid-twenties at least, and smells of cigarettes.

‘Any chance I could get a selfie?’ he asks.

The thought brings another wave of nausea, but I swallow it down. Remind myself that I should be celebrating getting noticed, not gagging. ‘Sure.’

He wraps his arm tight around my shoulder, then butts his head against mine and stretches out his other hand, his phone held between nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Smile!’ he calls out, and somehow, I do. Then his hand drops down my back, and it brushes my ass before he pulls away. Vomit reaches my mouth.

‘I better go,’ I blurt out, stumbling backwards. But there’s nowhere to go in this big box of a community hall. So I take the only option I can think of, and walk outside.

Chapter 18

Maple

I feel giddy with a sense of freedom. It’s crazy – I’m in a dusty parking lot in Orem – but it feels like I’ve broken out of jail and the cops don’t know about it yet.

I walk fast, out onto the main road. Getting far away from that gross flirty guy, and those crying babies, and Mom’s constant demands. And with every step, I feel better.

I can go anywhere I want, and no one will know.

But the only place I really want to go is home, to be in my house without my mom following me around with a camera and a schedule, or the twins squealing, or Dad shuffling from room to room not noticing me. I want to swim in my pool, lie on the couch with my sneakers on, eat a snack without having to record the moment.

I check the walking route, then set off down University Parkway. The sun is warm but not hot, the air is dry, like always – no frizzy hair in Utah – and the UV is only three today, so my skin isn’t even aging. It’s weird, because I have a lot of stuff going on right now, but I think this might be what contented feels like. I can literally feel my shoulders dropping.

Yeah, Mom will be mad when she gets home. But what will she do? Confiscate my phone? Send me to my room? Right now, both those things feel like bliss.

Google Maps takes me off the highway and past a couple of fast-food places I recognize. I think about grabbing some fries, mainly because Mom hates me eating fried food in case I get too fat to be photogenic. But the only bank card I have on my phone is my mom’s, and she might get a notification when it’s used. I don’t want to risk this feeling by getting caught, so I walk on instead.

The road is quieter now; I can even hear birdsong. I look up at the mountains ahead of me and get a bit mesmerized because sunshine is reflecting off their peaks. They’re such a permanent feature of my life that I rarely notice them. But it’s nice to have some time to properly look. To appreciate how majestic and special they are.

‘Maple!’

I close my eyes, like it might block out my dad’s voice. But I can hear the familiar groan of his truck too. Slowly, I turn toward him. ‘Hey, Dad. I thought you were at church?’

‘I was,’ he says, emphasizing the past tense. ‘Now get in.’ His arm is hanging outside the open window, and he knocks his hand against the metalwork twice, like a rider tapping a horse with his heels to make it run faster.

‘I was on my way home,’ I say, resisting, trying to make it sound legit. ‘And I’ve got stuff …’

‘Mom messaged me,’ he interrupts. ‘Told me to find you and get you back to the baby contest. I missed most of the sermon, so please don’t put up a fight.’

His expression is something between desperate and angry. I push out a long sigh, then climb, defeated, into the truck. Dad’s old Ford is the opposite of Mom’s Lexus – noisy, polluting, exposed metal edges – and I have to yank the seatbelt to get it to move.

‘So you ran out, huh?’ he says, his expression clearing now he knows he has me trapped.

‘I was going home,’ I correct. ‘And I’m fourteen. I’m allowed to make decisions about my own life.’

‘You also have responsibilities,’ he reminds me, unimpressed. ‘Like helping Mom out when she asks.’

‘But I’m busy,’ I counter. ‘I don’t have time to film babies.’

He nods, quiet for a while. ‘I saw some photos of Vegas,’ he eventually says. ‘The whole glass box thing, and that Cadillac, wow. It must have been an amazing experience.’

I smile, my mood lifting an inch. ‘Yeah, it was fun.’

‘And Mom said they adored you?’

My smile grows. I can’t help loving it when Dad takes an interest in what I’m doing. For as long as I can remember, my family has been split by an invisible line: me and Mom on one side, Dad and the twins on the other. Maybe it’s a legacy from our Mom & Maple channel when Dad was working long hours as a ranger in Wasatch Mountain State Park. Or it might be because Aspen, the most adventurous and outdoorsy of the three of us, gravitated toward Dad, and Ash followed. But whatever the reason, any attention Dad gives me is so rare that I feel the need to treasure it.